“Let’s go,” he agreed finally. “Sounds like just the thing.”
7
“You got him, Wink?” Woods asked over the ICS.
“Yeah. I got him. He’s trying to come in out of the weeds.”
“There aren’t any weeds in the ocean, Wink.”
“No kidding. Come starboard hard to 005. Set four hundred fifty knots. He’s still descending. I show him at one hundred fifty feet doing four hundred fifty knots.”
Woods slammed the stick of the F-14 to the right and banked the Tomcat steeply, lowering the nose and starting a descent to complete the intercept. “He can’t be at one hundred fifty feet, Wink.”
“Why?” Wink replied as he worked the thumb wheel of the radar control handle between his legs.
“Because there’s a regulation against going below five hundred feet, Wink.”
“I forgot. Come port to 355. He’s made a hard right turn.”
The flat gray paint on the F-14 made it hard to see. That was the idea. Woods squinted as he looked down through the thick windscreen at the green diamond projected on the Heads Up Display. It showed where the bogey was; but Boomer was still too small a dot to see, even through the diamond that outlined his position. Just blue-gray water and blue-gray sky. “How far?”
“Twelve miles.”
“You think he’s got us yet?”
“If he does, he sure isn’t acting like it. He’s not coming up to get us. He’s just playing bogey.”
“How do you want to do this?”
“We’re going to break port in about two miles.”
“Roger.”
“Course 357 for ten miles, angels 0, slight left to right drift. He’s ten right, twenty low, closure nine hundred knots.”
“No tally.”
“Port hard,” Wink said, his voice cool. He watched the radar track on Boomer until it was sufficiently out to the right, then called, “Starboard hard,” as Woods wrapped it around in a hard right descending turn.
“Tally,” Woods said as he saw Boomer dead ahead at three miles with a shadow below him on the water.
They rolled in behind Boomer doing four hundred fifty knots at two hundred feet. “Fox two, set up another one, Tiger,” Wink transmitted.
“That’s all we have time for, 207,” Tiger replied. “Your signal is RTB, check in with Strike.” Return to Base.
“Thanks for your help. Switching button one,” Wink answered.
“My pleasure,” Tiger responded, a twenty-one-year-old OS-3, an enlisted man whose job it was to control intercepts from the carrier.
Woods checked his fuel and liked what he saw. He jammed the throttles into afterburner to catch up with Boomer quickly. He passed through five hundred knots and came out of afterburner as he approached his wingman’s F-14. Sliding out to the left, he signaled for Vialli to join on him. Boomer touched his forehead and pointed to Woods, transferring the lead to him. Woods pulled up quickly and climbed away from the ocean, the G forces causing him to grunt automatically. Wink gave Sedge a drinking signal. Sedge signaled 5,100 pounds left.
“Strike, Victory 207 checking in, flight of two, 258 at 15, angels 5, low state 5.1.”
“Roger, 207. Report ship in sight.”
“Wilco.”
He scanned the horizon where the Tactical Aid to Navigation needle — the TACAN — was pointing but couldn’t pick out the carrier from the haze and grayness. Quickly, Wink and Woods ran through their descent checklist as they passed through ten thousand feet on their way to five.
Again Wink looked ahead through the quarter panel of the windscreen where the TACAN needle was pointing and this time he saw the Washington, their home away from home.
“Strike, Victory 207, see you.”
“Roger, 207. Cleared overhead. Switch button four.”
“207, switching,” Wink said. He tuned his powerful digital radio to the Air Boss’s frequency. It was silent, as it was supposed to be for a day VFR recovery. Woods lowered his tailhook as he and Boomer entered the overhead circle at two thousand feet hawking the deck, waiting for the next launch to begin. The other planes in the air were orbiting at higher altitudes, each separated by a thousand feet. When the recovery began, they would all spiral down and land in order, thirty to forty-five seconds apart.
Woods brought his flight up the starboard side of the carrier again and watched the launch in progress. Planes taxied toward the bow cats, but the waist cats were about to launch their last planes. “What do you think?” he asked Wink.
“Next time around,” Wink said. “And Boomer’s tailhook isn’t down.”
“What?” Woods stole a look. “What the hell is he doing?”
“Beats me. I’ve been giving Sedge the signal and he just stares at me.”
Woods took his eye off the flight deck below and stole another glance at Boomer. “What’s he doing way out there? We look like a couple of damned helos flying formation in two friggin’ area codes.” He quickly keyed the mike for the front radio. “Tighten it up. Hook down.”
Boomer quickly closed the distance and dropped his hook, now ready to land aboard the carrier.
They began their gradual port turn and descended from two thousand feet to eight hundred. As they came into the break Woods signaled for wings aft. On the signal, he and Boomer swept the wings back on their F-14s simultaneously to 68 degrees and steadied out on the ship’s heading. Woods and Wink checked the deck one last time. The deck was nearly clear and only two planes were left on the bow cats. “Let’s do it,” Woods said.
They flew past the carrier, Woods watching closely over his shoulder. At just the right moment, he kissed off Boomer, threw the stick to the left, and banked sharply into the break. The F-14 lay on its side in its nearly delta shape as they pulled around to head in the opposite direction from the carrier, downwind in the landing pattern. Woods put the wings in auto and they moved forward quickly to their 20-degree position, as full forward as they could go. Woods and Wink went through the landing checklist automatically as they leveled out, checking the gear, flaps, wings, and hook. When they passed the ramp of the carrier one mile to their left Woods began his controlled turn and rate of descent. They went hot mike.
Woods was one of the smoothest pilots in the Air Wing around the boat. He routinely had the highest or second-highest landing grades in the squadron. Even though he was good at it, he never took landing aboard the ship for granted. He had seen too many guys plant it on the ramp or unable to get aboard at all.
He rolled into the groove, kept the ball centered on the landing lens, and touched down hard. The tailhook grabbed the two wire and pulled it down the carrier deck as the engines screamed against it at full power until the Tomcat was completely stopped. Boomer landed next but floated over the four wires and boltered, his hook sparking as it tried to grab something on the steel deck. The F-14 flew off the angled deck and climbed into the landing pattern. Boomer looked at the airplanes in the break and those turning downwind, and tried to pick a time to turn downwind and fit into the landing pattern.
“What the hell is he doing?” Woods asked, frustrated.
“I don’t think he’s ever boltered in the daytime before.”
“Pisses me off,” Woods said as he shut down the engines and Wink opened the canopy.
They returned to their ready room and filled out the paperwork. Ten minutes later Boomer and Sedge walked in. Chief Lucas, the maintenance chief, came out of Maintenance Control into the ready room. “Two up jets?” he asked hopefully.