Fuel. What’s my freakin’ fuel?! He then realized with more shock and horror that the burners were still plugged in! With a frustrated cry, he pulled the throttles to a midrange setting.
The clouds! He was heading toward the clouds. If he went into one, what little peripheral vision he had would be gone. He would be in complete blindness!
I need help! his mind screamed as he rolled left to stay clear of the cloud. Without depth perception, he was unable to determine how far away it was.
Knowing the XO and Big Jake were airborne on this event, he keyed the mike on the Comm. 2 squadron tactical frequency.
“Any Ridgelines up? This is Trench in three-oh-two! I can’t see! I can’t see!”
Silence.
He then keyed the Comm. 1 radio to call the ship. “Strike, three-zero-two!”
After a short delay, the Strike controller answered. “Go ahead, three-zero-two.”
“Strike, three-zero-two is south of Mother. I can’t see! I’m blind! I need someone to join up on me and guide me!”
After an eternity of silence, the controller answered. “Roger, three-zero-two, mark your posit.” The routine request for position sent an already stressed Trench over the edge.
“Strike, dammit, I CAN’T SEE to tell you my position! I’m south about eighty miles. I think I’m heading north.” Even in his panicked state, Trench could sense the controller on the other end of the radio transmission had never heard a call from a pilot with this problem. Willing himself to calm down, Trench fought to remain patient with the only lifeline he had.
“Ridgeline three-zero-two, Strike, looking… can you squawk seventy-seven hundred?”
In front of Trench at the top of the instrument panel was the Up Front Control, a keypad for all his avionics. This included his IFF transponder that broadcast a code that controllers could use to identify specific aircraft with course, speed, and altitude. Without it, Trench’s Hornet was just a mark on a scope. His left hand moved to the UFC to change the code as he had done hundreds of times before — and he froze. The IFF pushtile under the UFC was marked, but he couldn’t focus on it!
Which one is it?
Once again, Trench felt the frustrating dread of not being able to do the simplest of tasks. In the back of his mind, he considered ejecting.
“Strike, three-zero-two, stand by.”
Annie in 305 and Big Jake in 307 were forty miles west of Coral Sea, low on the water and playing with the bathtub toys they had found in their personal playground.
In combat spread formation at 360 knots, they were approaching a fleet of about ten fishing trawlers spread over a few miles of ocean. They were small craft, no more than forty feet long, all painted white, some with outriggers deployed. On the northern horizon she picked up the silhouette of an unusual looking vessel, a large ship with a huge crane-like object aft. Once they finished with these little fishermen, Annie would lead Big Jake north to check it out.
As they came upon the fishing fleet wallowing in the swells and appearing dead in the water, she concentrated on one of the boats as she thundered over it. She and Big Jake were freelancing after dropping their practice bombs on smokes they had laid down, killing time as much as honing their skills before the scheduled recovery in thirty minutes.
“Three-zero-five, Alpha Sierra.” Annie was surprised to get a call from the ship surface search controller.
“Alpha Sierra, three-zero-five, go ahead.”
“Are you in touch with three-zero-two?”
This was an unusual question. Trench is in 302. Is he okay? she thought as she keyed the mike. “Negative, but I can be. What’s the difficulty?”
“Three-zero-five, Alpha Sierra. Three-zero-two is reporting he’s blind.”
Annie let the fishing fleet pass underneath as she let the message sink in. Blind?
“Alpha Sierra, is he lost-plane?” Trench had a combat cruise under his belt, and Annie was incredulous that Trench could be lost and unable to find his way back to the ship, especially on this gorgeous day.
“Negative, three-zero-two reports that the pilot is blind, cannot see, and needs assistance. He’s talking to Strike.”
Stunned, Annie began a climb, and on the tactical frequency transmitted, “Annie’s, go squadron tac.” On Comm 1 she told Alpha Sierra they were on the way. “Alpha Sierra, Firebird three-zero-five flight switching Strike.” For Big Jake’s benefit, she added, “Annie’s, go button three.”
“Two,” her wingman responded.
As if pushing preset buttons on an automobile radio, nimble fingers flew over the UFCs in both cockpits, punching in the new frequencies. After a few seconds on Strike frequency, Annie keyed the mike. “Annie check?”
“Two,” Jake replied. Satisfied her wingman was up the proper frequency, Annie keyed the mike again.
“Strike, Ridgeline three-zero-five flight with you on Mother’s two-six-zero for thirty-five, passing angels five. We understand three-zero-two needs help.”
Miles away, Trench heard the exchange. Overjoyed when he recognized the calm and welcome voice of XO Schofield coming to his rescue, he keyed the Comm. 2 mike.
“Annie, Trench. You up tac?”
“Yes, got you loud and clear, Trench. We’re comin’ to ya.”
The three Firebird pilots were all up the same two frequencies, and the chances of “stepping on” each other when transmitting were reduced. However, the ship was not monitoring the squadron tactical frequency, and before Annie could respond to Trench, they called.
“Three-zero-five, Strike, radar contact. Ridgeline three-zero-two reports he’s blind approximately eighty miles south of Mother. We are looking and have several aircraft in that vicinity.”
Big Jake was now close enough to Annie to use hand signals as she led them up. Using triangulation geometry — thirty miles west to eighty miles south — she figured a heading of 150 would put them on a vector to intercept Trench and banked the formation right. Both she and Jake had their radars searching in the 80-mile scale to find their stricken squadronmate.
Blind? She wondered how this could have happened to Trench. A popped blood vessel under g- force? Unseen chemical in the cockpit?
Like all carrier pilots, she was mindful of fuel, and through hand signals with Big Jake learned they had about 6,500 pounds each, some 45 minutes with a bare minimum cushion for the recovery. How much did Trench have? And where was he going to land, even if he could see to do it? The nearest land was Kingston, Jamaica, over 200 miles northeast… from the ship! For Trench, the nearest land at the moment was Colombia, which was some 250 miles south of Mother. Both options were bad: it was going to be the ship for Trench or nothing. All they could do was hope some semblance of sight returned to him, but before they could do anything, she needed more info.
“Trench, what’s your angels?” she asked him.
After a moment he answered. “I can’t tell… think between five and ten.”
Leveling at 15,000 feet, she accelerated to the southeast. Big Jake held his position on her in a loose cruise formation so he could also work his radar. She heard Strike ask Trench to squawk emergency in an effort to find him now.