Trench spotted a squall up ahead and continued down to 500 feet as he put it on his nose. He knew the maintenance chiefs would appreciate a freshwater wash for 302, so he decided to bring them an “up” jet with the sea-salt and shipboard grime cleaned off by a natural, 300-knot spray hose. He leveled off under the bottom of the gray cloud… no lightning observed… and, as he entered the veil, the rain beat down hard on the canopy, drops rapidly moving aft from the slipstream. In less than a minute he was out of it, sunlight and air friction drying the water on the jet’s skin, entering an open area, his personal playground, and on the blue surface he saw what he’d been looking for… some toys to play with.
The big blip on his radar was not a gleaming cruise ship but a drab merchant heading northwest trailing a white wake, and far to the south was a white object he would check out later. Disappointed, he banked left to approach the ship from the starboard quarter. It appeared to be 500-feet long with a black hull, superstructure aft, cranes amidships. Old bulk cargo carrier. Slewing the radar cursor over the return on his digital data display, he bumped the castle switch with his right thumb to lock it. When the computer settled down, it showed the ship on a heading of 315 and making 10 knots. He scribbled the latitude/longitude numbers on his kneeboard card and noted the time: 1054.
He slowed as he crossed the wake to fly up the port side. On the stern he read the name and noted the country of registry: Panama, like most merchants in these waters. Light gray smoke trailed from a single stack, and four sets of large horizontal doors lay on the deck. As he flew past the lonely ship, Trench figured it to be a grain carrier of some sort. He looked for signs of life on the bridge or weather decks and found none. Damn thing must be on autopilot, he thought, and figured the sudden roar of a Hornet whizzing past the bridge would be the only excitement these guys would get all day.
Reversing his turn to the left, he doubled back to the surface contact to the south, and spotted the white object at 20 miles. He locked it with his radar and tracked it heading west at five knots with no other contacts around it. This one could be interesting. Remaining low on the water, Trench picked a heading to let it slide down his right canopy so he could sneak up behind it like the merchant. He commanded the radar to air-to-air and scanned the sky around him. Nobody else out here.
A wall of white buildups hovered over the eastern boundary of his playground, but he saw the silhouette of another merchant to the southeast. Checking his fuel—7,000 pounds — he had more than enough fuel and time to check out his personal contact of interest to the south.
As he expected, he soon identified a motor yacht with a pointed bow and sleek, raked lines. A smile formed under Trench’s mask. Yachts meant money, and money meant girls… and girls in the tropics are outside.
The yacht was cruising west, the dazzling sun still climbing toward its noon apex. Trench rolled easy right and peered left over his leading edge extension to check for any other airwing knuckleheads who had the same idea he did. Doing his duty, he wrote down the course, speed, lat/long and time.
Like he had with the merchant ship, he approached the yacht from the aft to surprise it, and got down to 300 feet as he came up along the boats’ starboard side. The noise from his engines would alert the people on the yacht to his presence only seconds before he roared over unless somebody happened to be scanning the horizon. Inside a mile, he didn’t see anyone on the fantail. He surmised it was about 100 feet, with a rigid hull inflatable boat hanging from davits on the top deck aft of the flying bridge. Atop the mast was a SATCOM dome and marine radar spinning around looking for surface returns.
Approaching the bow, his suspicions turned out to be true. There, Trench’s trained eye saw two bikini-clad girls lying on their backs, and one was waving at him.
Jackpot!
With heart pounding, Trench shoved the throttles to afterburner and pulled hard across the bow. He craned his head to keep sight of the yacht while he formed a plan. He would turn hard, extend for a few seconds, then pull hard again back to the yacht. He would then slow himself down to 200 knots and descend to 100 feet for another pass.
While turning back, he set the radar altimeter bug to 80 feet — if he broke 80 feet it would warn him — and paid close attention as he pulled back to the yacht. Keeping the engines spooled up, he extended the speed brake to remain slow and got as low as he dared as he crossed the yacht’s wake. The small craft continued on course, as if to beckon him to come back for a closer look. He scanned the skies again for air traffic.
He was alone.
Stabilized, he slid up next to the yacht, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun glinting off the deck. There they were! Still on the bow waiting for him, jumping up and down and pointing with excitement. Trench banked left and waved as he passed only 100 feet over the girls, getting a good look all right. Despite the glinting sun off the flying bridge, he was ready to set up for another pass when…
He blinked his eyes. And blinked again. He lifted his visor and rubbed his eyes, opening them wide. I can’t see! In horror and unbelief, he shouted into his mask, “I CAN’T SEE!”
CHAPTER 24
Terrified, Trench half-rolled right by feel and shoved the throttles into burner while he pulled back on the stick. Breathing heavily into his mask, he realized he had some peripheral vision, but when he tried to focus his eyes ahead, he saw only black. With the marginal vision he had, he sensed he was in a climb. Yes, get away from the water! He forced his eyes open, causing them to bulge in an effort to regain sight and focus. I can’t see! God help me! Please God help me!
Trench couldn’t believe what was happening and didn’t know his altitude. Didn’t know the aircraft attitude! Too steep and he could run out of airspeed and stall it, even in burner. He looked up and right, hoping what little he could see on the periphery would guide him. It was no use. He could see the green pitch lines generated in the Head-Up-Display, but he couldn’t decipher them. He sensed he was flying west and by instinct rolled to the right, easy, and still in burner. Talking to himself, he counted the seconds of his turn, as if he were back in flight school, to determine a rough heading to north — and home.
This must be a nightmare, he thought and whimpered as he breathed through his mouth, not knowing his altitude, airspeed. I don’t know where the motherfucking ship is! Dammit!
“Please help me!” he screamed in the cockpit, frantic with nerves and moaning, crying in mortal dread. This is really happening!