“Trench, can you squawk emergency?” she asked him.
“Trying — fumbling with the switches because I can’t see them.”
“What’s your state?”
“Don’t know. Was in burner a long time to get away from the water. I think it’s around four-K.”
Annie thought, Four thousand pounds, with over 30 minutes till the ship was in a position to recover aircraft. Trench would be on fumes by the time he even had an opportunity to trap, and Annie needed to know if the ship was working on a plan to do that.
“Strike, three-zero-five. Is a Firebird rep working this problem in air ops? Once we find three-zero-two, we can guide him back for a Mode I approach. Recommend emergency pull-forward.”
Yes, Trench thought. A Mode I “hands off” approach was the only way he was going to get aboard — unless his sight reappeared in the next thirty minutes. He hoped his auto-throttles, flight control computers and data link were all up to the task. But first, the XO and Jake needed to find him. His mouth was bone dry from fear, and he reached down into his g-suit pocket to grab his water flask. He didn’t know how high he was and, for a moment, was afraid to unhook his oxygen mask. Screw it, he thought and removed his oxygen mask, allowing him to take a long drink from his canteen.
“Three-zero-five, Strike. We’ve passed your recommendation.”
“Three-zero-five, roger,” Annie answered. She needed to get Trench to squawk emergency to help everyone find him.
“Trench, Annie. Can you select IFF? Under the UFC, second pushtile from your left.”
With his XO’s helpful reminder, his thumb found the IFF pushtile—of course! — and Trench pushed it. With his peripheral vision his saw the display illuminate, and then punched in 7700 on the keypad by feeclass="underline" left row, bottom, seven, twice; center row, bottom, zero, twice. Out of habit, and by feel, his mind guided his thumb to hit ENTER.
“Ridgeline three-zero-two, Strike. Radar contact on Mother’s one-six-five for seventy two.”
Roger, Strike. Say my angels!” Thank goodness, a relieved Trench thought. They’ve got me!
“Three-zero-two, you are at seven thousand, three hundred feet.”
“My heading?”
“Three-zero-two, you are heading zero-five-zero.”
Annie realized that Trench was moving away from them. “Strike, three-zero-five. Can you get him to turn north toward Mother?”
Trench could turn the aircraft left, and maybe use the sun overhead to gauge a general heading, but he needed help until Annie showed up. He still didn’t know his airspeed — he felt like he was fast — so he pulled the stick into him a little. When he felt a few g’s on his body, he figured he had at least 300 knots. Annie called to Strike again.
“Strike, three-zero-five. Bogey dope to three-zero-two.”
Strike responded that Ridgeline 302 bore 160 degrees at 65 miles, and gave them a heading of 140 to intercept. They still needed to get 302 heading north.
“Three-zero-two, Strike. I’m going to call your turn. At a standard rate turn, turn left.”
Rolling left, Trench did his best, by feel and what sense of the horizon he had, to hold 30-degrees angle of bank. He waited for Strike to tell him to roll out, using a procedure he had learned in flight school and had never used since. He was beginning to gain confidence despite blinking his eyes hard to snap out of the loss of sight. Nothing.
“Stop turn.”
Trench did as he was told. “What’s my altitude now?” he asked.
“Angels six-point-eight,” replied the controller. Trench added power and eased back on the stick to stop his shallow descent.
C’mon, XO! Get down here! he cried to himself as his panic returned.
CHAPTER 25
Wilson sat in the back of the ready room with the briefing guide open on his lap as he led Ghost through the conduct of their upcoming flight. Killer, the duty officer, walked up to them with a grave look on his face.
“Sir, Air Ops says Trench in three-zero-two is reporting he’s blind and trying to find his way back.”
Wilson was incredulous. “Blind? He can’t find the ship?”
“No, sir. They say he can’t see.”
Jolted again, Wilson absorbed the news in shock. After a moment, he stood and headed for the door.
“I’m going to Air Ops,” he told them both.
Looking at Killer, he added. “Find Olive and get her up there, too. Call CAG Office and inform them to get the word to CAG if they haven’t already.”
Glancing at the status board, he saw Annie and Big Jake were also airborne. With thirty minutes to recovery, Wilson knew they were low on fuel.
He flung open the ready room door, startling a passing sailor, and bolted for Air Ops some 20 yards forward. Air Operations was the nerve center of the air traffic control functions involving Coral Sea’s aircraft, of which fifteen were airborne at the moment.
As he strode past sailors and over the knee-knockers, his mind raced. Blind? How? Where? How do we get him back? Can Annie find him? Can we bring him aboard hands-off?
Wilson opened the hatch to Air Ops and stepped inside the darkened space, relieved to find CAG and Lieutenant Commander Mike “Rat” Fink, the air wing Landing Signal Officer, conversing with Commander Chris Maher, the Air Ops Officer. CAG saw Wilson approach.
“Flip, what’s the story?”
Unsure himself, Wilson responded. “Sir, I’ve just learned one of my guys is blind. What’s going on down here?” Maher answered for CAG.
“Strike is in contact with James about 60 miles south and vectoring Schofield in three-zero-five to intercept him. How much gas do you think he has left?” All of them knew the answer to this question would narrow the options available.
Wilson glanced at the digital clock mounted on the bulkhead “Little over an hour. Maybe. Has he reported a fuel state?”
“Strike says he can’t read it to tell them,” CAG replied, then turned resolute.
“Okay, I’m going to call the Captain and recommend we scrub this launch and pull all the jets forward. We need to get three-zero-two aboard ASAP. Chris, suggest you get the alert tanker airborne as a backup and recommend you get with Strike to bring everyone airborne back now. I think we have less than an hour for Annie to find him, guide him back if she can, and set him up for a hands-off approach. Do you have your best approach controller ready to go?”
“Yes, sir,” Maher replied.
CAG then turned to Wilson. “Flip, what was he doing?”
“Sir, he was on a post-maintenance check flight — flight control actuator. Routine, and Trench is experienced.” CAG nodded his acknowledgement.
“Sir,” Wilson said. “I want to talk with him, or at least listen to what’s going on over Strike frequency.”
“Yeah, let’s go over to CDC,” agreed CAG. When Olive entered the room, Wilson motioned her over.