“We can’t radiate, but maybe we’ll get lucky. Search another five?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking,” Zavitz said. “I’m going to bring us east. At least we won’t be moving further away from Adak.”
“Roger that,” Rogers answered. To the others next to him, he said, “Keep your eyes peeled.”
The E-2 turned into Toth, and he maneuvered to stay in position. “We gotta go, sir,” Chu said over the ICS
Petty Officer Battistini chimed in. “Can’t see anything but water back here, sir.”
In the E-2, Smith showed an open hand, then clenched his fist. “Is he kissing us off to go to Adak?” Chu asked. Then Smith patted his shoulder and repeated the open hand and clenched-fist signal as he nodded.
“No, they want us to stay with him for five more minutes,” Toth said as he nodded back to Smith and added a thumbs up. “Hit the timer. Five more minutes. Look outside and find the damn ship like your life depends on it.”
Because it does, Maggie Battistini thought. These pilots better get us aboard.
At the scheduled recovery time, Wilson was with Admiral Johnson on the flag bridge, one deck below Blower. All three were scanning the horizon. The flag bridge was empty except for two high-backed barber shop chairs at either end. With Hancock in EMCON, there was no tactical picture for the admiral and his staff to monitor, and, as in days before radar or satellite tracking, Johnson was looking into the same gloom as the ship captain and wing commander. Wilson checked his watch.
“Sir, it’s 1600, and we’re 38 miles east of PIM. What are you thinking?”
Johnson rubbed his face as he considered courses of action. They knew when the aircraft had departed Midway, which should put them in the vicinity — unless they encountered strong headwinds. He could break EMCON and risk detection, which would give the PLA(N) time to meet him before he was in a position to strike.
“What do you recommend, Flip?”
Wilson looked at Olive in her FA-18E, Gun Fighter 101, parked aft on Elevator 4. Her engines were turning and her canopy was down with a yellow shirt nearby. Once the decision was made to launch, she could be airborne in minutes.
“Sir, we’ve got Olive Teel in that Rhino tanker on El 4 and two plane guard helos already airborne ahead of us. Let’s shoot Olive now and have her search west; they might see each other and Olive can lead them back here. Or they might see one of our helos and eventually find us.”
Johnson could barely see a Sierra ahead of them at three miles and was skeptical of success, but he didn’t have a better option.
“How do we communicate with her once airborne?”
“She’s a big girl, sir. She’ll mark her inertial nav position on the cat. But it looks like we are going into some stuff up ahead. Recommend we turn on the nonprecision needles.”
Johnson weighed the cost of that decision. Wilson watched him struggle, but knew they had no time to discuss all the options.
“Sir, I’m going to run down there and pass her a message. Recommend we shoot her ASAP.”
Unable to slow down the pace of events, The Big Unit could only nod as he picked up the phone and dialed the bridge. “Blower, Admiral. Launch one-zero-one.”
“Aye, aye sir, and we just received a GPS download from a P-8 that the E-2 and C-2 are reporting they are down low on station, low fuel, about forty miles ahead of us.”
“Roger, will pass. Out here,” Johnson said as he cradled the receiver and turned to Wilson.
“Okay, a P-8 reports the E-2 and C-2 are on station and low fuel. Not sure how old that is, but get that to Olive.”
“Aye, aye sir.”
Wilson stepped out of the flag bridge and bounded down the ladders to Flight Deck Control. As he did he thought of the message he wanted to give Olive. Once inside the space a Chief recognized Wilson and shouted, “Attention on deck!”
“Seats!” Wilson barked as he grabbed a nearby sheet of paper and pulled his pen from his flight suit pocket.
“What can we do for you, CAG?” the Handler asked him as Wilson began to write his message. Keeping his head down as he wrote, Wilson answered.
“Need to borrow a float-coat and cranial, Handler. Going out to one-zero-one to deliver this message.”
“We’re pulling him out to shoot him now, sir.”
Wilson nodded and smiled as he finished. “Please don’t shoot her until I deliver this.”
“Aye, aye sir,” the Handler answered.
Wilson stuffed the message into his pocket and pulled on the float-coat a sailor handed him. He took the cranial helmet, cinched the strap, and lowered the visor. He then yanked up the handle to a hatch that led to the flight deck.
The piercing whine from Olive’s jet cut through the high winds swirling around the helicopters parked next to the island. Wilson, in a grimy blue float-coat and yellow cranial, strode across the angle as a Romeo lifted from Spot 3, balancing himself against the gusts from its rotor wash as green shirts prepped Cat 4 for launch. Blue shirts were removing the tie-down chains from 101 as Olive pushed her mask bayonet fittings in place in preparation to taxi.
The sailors around 101 looked at Wilson with confusion as he approached. Who is this guy? Catching Olive’s attention, he pulled out his message and held it tight in his fingers against the 45-knot wind. She nodded and opened the canopy as Wilson stepped closer to her Super Hornet.
Only feet from the screaming jet intake on the windswept flight deck, he raised the paper high as Olive reached down from the cockpit to grasp it. Once he felt she had it, Wilson let go. Olive pulled her arm in and lowered the canopy. Wilson stood off as he watched Olive read:
OLIVE, E-2/C-2 REPORTED DOWN LOW AT EXPECTED REC POSIT 45N 177W. FIND THEM AND EXPECT A READY DECK HERE. EXPECT CHAN 19 TO BE UP.
NEAREST LAND ADAK ISLAND 355 DEGREES FOR 396NM. GOOD LUCK!
Olive finished reading the note and nodded to Wilson. He gave her a thumbs up before returning to the island.
Olive taxied to Cat 4 and stood on the brakes as the ship took a roll to port, her nose pointed at the catwalk with icy water below. The visibility was deteriorating; she figured it to be no more than three miles, and sundown was less than an hour away. The deck pitch was increasing, and Olive could see the catapult track lead down into the whitecaps before the ship lifted it high into the air.
Once aligned with the cat track, she inched forward toward another yellow shirt who was straddling the cat track as he signaled. She spread her wings, locked them, then gave a thumbs up to the sailor holding up the weight board to verify her gross weight, and dropped the launch bar when directed. The yellow shirt wasted no time. Olive’s engines soon roared to life when she brought the throttles up to military power. She cycled the controls, then, with her finger on the Nav Display, activated the push tile for MARK several times so her system knew where it (and the ship) was at launch. She could expect that Hanna would be inside a 20-mile circle from her MARKs after an hour airborne. Or not. With the ship, one never knew.
She saluted and waited, and the sudden force of the catapult firing drove her back into the ejection seat as the deck edge sped toward her as a swell underneath the ship pushed and heaved it up. Fighting against the g force of the stroke, she crammed the throttles to MAX as the jet bounced down the track to attain flying speed.
With a lurch, the g stopped as the Rhino jumped into the cold North Pacific air. Olive commanded a gentle left turn as she swatted the gear handle up and raised the flaps. Leaving the throttles in burner, she decided to keep herself at 500 feet to get out to the recovery position fast and stay below any aircraft she may encounter. Low to her left, a Sierra searched ahead of the ship, also heading west. She adjusted her cockpit mirror and checked to see if she could still see the ship. When she couldn’t, she twisted in her seat and craned her head back as far to the right as she could to see behind both vertical stabilators. Nothing.