One of the advantages of the S-3 airframe as a tanker was it was an exceptionally aerodynamic platform. All the S-3’s series liked to fly and did it easily. They had exceptionally long endurance, and their stable, aerodynamic characteristics made them an excellent choice for tankers.
Tombstone finessed the control surfaces, allowing the MiG to gain altitude almost inch by inch. She was more than glad to accommodate him, and seemed to understand exactly what he was trying to do. When he attained the correct altitude, with his refueling probe lined up on the basket, he tapped the throttles forward ever so slightly.
The MiG bolted forward. Tombstone swore, and pulled back, dropping well behind S-3.
“Easy, big boy,” Rabies warned, and Tombstone could hear the tension in the pilot’s voice. “You got all the time you need to do this right — but no time to do it wrong.”
“Roger, she’s a little too loose on the throttle,” Tombstone acknowledged.
“Try doing it with control surfaces instead,” Rabies suggested. “I saw them doing it at an air show once.”
Still at the correct altitude, Tombstone adjusted the control surfaces and then compensated with the throttle. The MiG slowed noticeably and he tapped the throttles so that he was keeping the correct distance from the tanker. Then he eased off the speed brakes ever so slightly, allowing her to drift forward. The distance between the two aircraft closed slowly.
“That refueling probe — you sure it’ll fit?” Rabies asked.
“I think so. It’s supposed to.”
“All right, let’s do this.”
Attitude, attitude. Watch your line up. Keep your eyes on the basket. That’s right, slow and easy. You can do this.
But it didn’t feel right. The probe was closer to the cockpit than it was on the Tomcat, and was set slightly farther back. He would be perilously close underneath the KS-3.
“They must use a longer tanker probe, and trail the basket back farther,” Tombstone said.
Tombstone slid the MiG forward, almost holding his breath. It looked like he was going in smoothly, but then he heard a thump and a shiver ran through the MiG.
“Off center,” Rabies said. “Slide back a bit and try it again. And, remember, that refueling probe is off to the right a bit, not midline.
Tombstone pulled back slightly, readjusted his speed, and tried again.
Come on, baby. You can do it. Now!
The refueling probe slid into the basket smoothly and locked into place. A green light appeared on Tombstone’s control panel. “We got a lock.”
“Roger, concur lock. How much you want?”
“Four thousand pounds.”
“That much?” Rabies said, doubt in his voice. “I thought you were heading in for landing.”
“Yeah. But if you think refueling for the first time was tricky, imagine the trap. I want to be a little heavier, have plenty of time for a couple of go rounds.”
“Roger, you got it.” Another green light on the panel lit up, indicating fuel was flowing. “You sure you know how much she holds?”
“That is one of the things I do know,” Tombstone answered.
The MiG proved to be an exceptional refueling platform once he figured out how to plug into the basket, and the aircraft gulped down the fuel quickly. Within a few minutes, Tombstone was able to reduce speed and drift away from the tanker.
“Thanks,” Tombstone said. “I’ll see you on the boat.”
“Roger. If you have any problems with a trap, I can give you some pointers.” Rabies voice was smug. He was known as a hotshot who rarely missed a perfect three wire trap.
“I think I can manage.” Tombstone chuckled.
“Some kind of fun,” Greene said from the back. Except for a few quiet comments during Tombstone’s lineup, he had been silent during the entire evolution.
“Yeah. You can try it next time.”
“Wonderful.” Again Tombstone detected a note of surliness in the younger pilot’s voice.
“Now, let’s see if we can get back on board.” Tombstone switched away from the coordination frequency back to the tower frequency. “Home Plate, this is Stoney One. Request permission to come on board.”
“Roger, green deck, and you have priority in the stack. We’ve recalculated your weight to account for the fuel you took on and we’re ready for you.”
“Roger, I’d like to make two passes over the deck before I actually try it. And put the Hornet LSO back there, would you?”
“Roger, you got it.”
Tombstone descended and slowly turned, getting a feel for the handling of the aircraft now that she was fully fueled again. He came in behind the carrier at five miles, lined up on her and proceeded to the two-mile point, intersecting what his glide path would be for a Tomcat, then commenced his descent.
“Stoney One, call the ball,” the controller said.
“Roger, call the ball,” Tombstone acknowledged. Moments later, he saw the Fresnel lens. “Stoney One, ball.”
“Stoney One, LSO. First for both of us, sir. Looking good at this time, on path, on altitude. Say needles?” the calm, professional voice of the LSO requested.
“No needles,” Tombstone said. “We’ll do this by visual.”
“Roger, copy no needles. Disregard needles, well, fly visual, Stoney One.” The LSO reflexively fell into the standard patter he used with an approaching aircraft.
“Disregard needles, aye,” Tombstone answered.
For a few moments, he simply let the aircraft fly, his hands light on the controls as he made his approach. The MiG was so much lighter than the Tomcat he was used to and he was sure that would shortly play a major factor.
Astern of the aircraft carrier is a mass of roiling, disturbed air, and every aircraft approaching for a landing runs smack into it. This area, known as the bubble, makes it difficult to hold on glide path, particularly in an unfamiliar aircraft. For his first approach, Tombstone would approach intentionally high, avoiding ramp strike.
“Stoney One, you’re above glide path, on course,” the LSO said. “I understand you’re doing a fly by?”
“Touch and go,” Tombstone said, feeling confident with the way the MiG was handling. He would touch wheels to the deck well forward of the arresting wires, continue maintaining full power, and take off again immediately over the bow. “Two touch and goes, and then we’ll do it for real.”
“What are your tires rated for?” the LSO asked.
Tires. Another spec we didn’t cover. But there’s only so much you can absorb in two days. I think they’ll take it, but I don’t remember. Maybe I should just try it. Tombstone groaned. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “But, to be on the safe side, cancel the touch and goes — we’ll do a fly by instead.”
So, no actual contact with the deck prior to the trap, he thought. “You ready for this?” he asked Greene.
“Yep. We’re in command eject, and I got my hand on the bar. We run into trouble, I’ll have us out of here.”
That worried Tombstone a bit. Would Greene panic and punch them out unnecessarily?
“It’s going to feel different,” he said. “A lot harder landing than it would be in a Tomcat.”
“Don’t worry — I know what to do.”
And now the boat was coming up at them quickly, a massive steel tower, its deck cluttered with aircraft and people. He saw sailors lining up outside the green line, staring up in wonder at the sight of a MiG flying over their deck. Vulture’s Row, the observation area on the weather decks at the 0–10 level, was also crowded. A few people waved as he went by.
He flew down the length of the deck, then pulled up sharply and peeled off to the left. “Nice pass, Stoney One,” the air boss said.
“One more, and we do this for real.”
Tombstone circled around and this time intercepted the flight path at just over two miles from the boat. He lined up again, eased her in, and followed the LSO’s directions, getting used to the sound and rhythm of the LSO’s coaching. This time he took her down even closer to the deck, so close that in a Tomcat his wheels would have been touching. Again, he continued his pass on down the deck, then peeled off to the left. Behind him, Greene muttered a word of encouragement.