Wink broke into his thoughts. “You know how hard it’s going to be to explain why we couldn’t get back to the ship on time when we were supposed to be thirty miles away?”
“We’ll make it,” Woods replied.
“You know that the next launch begins in five minutes and we’re in the middle of Israel?”
“And we’re supposed to be the first down,” Woods said as the Tomcat bounced down the taxiway toward the end of the runway, receiving stares from ground crew and pilots alike. “We should be in the overhead pattern right now, circling at two thousand feet, looking cool with our wings back and our tailhooks down.”
“We’re not even off the ground, and we don’t have enough gas to go back very fast. You realize that?”
“We’ll land with a little less gas than usual, Wink.”
“A little? We’re already below what we usually land with,” he said, watching the fuel gauge with horror. “We’ll be lucky to get on the deck before we flame out.”
“I know.”
“You know how hard it’s going to be to explain why we needed to tank before we land, when we’re coming back from a simple air intercept hop?”
“We’ll be okay.”
Woods stopped at the line separating the taxiway from the runway. Big taxied up next to him and stopped. Wink looked at Sedge and gave him the signal to report his fuel state — 4.5. Four thousand five hundred pounds. The amount they should be landing with. Five hundred more pounds than Wink and Woods. “This is gonna be colorful,” Wink muttered.
A section of F-16s landed directly in front of them. Woods looked at the control tower, dying inside. He saw the green light the controller was shining at him and looked quickly left to see if anyone else was landing. Clear. He taxied to the left side and turned to point down the runway, ready to take off. Big taxied to the right side, just behind Woods. Woods turned two fingers quickly next to his ear, and the Tomcats ran up their engines to full military power. They didn’t need afterburner — they were light. They couldn’t afford the gas anyway, no matter how much they’d like to impress the Israelis, which was a lot. Woods didn’t even hesitate. He did a cursory check of his instruments, skipped his usual check of the flight controls, dropped his hand to point forward like signaling a first down, and released his brakes. Big released his as soon as Woods’s jet moved. They rolled down the runway together and lifted off in a formation takeoff after nine hundred feet. They raised their gear and flaps together and turned toward the Med, leveling off at five hundred feet.
Woods looked at his clock — 0845. The second launch of the day was starting. The first plane of the second event on the Washington was being shot down the catapult right now. The Air Boss was no doubt leaning over by his window looking up, wondering where the Jolly Roger Tomcats were. All the other planes from the first launch were either in the overhead pattern, or making their way there. Soon, people would notice their absence. He advanced the throttles to full military power and headed straight west.
“What heading?”
“Don’t know,” Wink replied. “We’re too low to pick up the TACAN,” he said watching the needle spin aimlessly on the compass dial. “The only thing I can say is where the boat was when we left. Could be off by twenty miles or more.”
“Use it if it’s all we’ve got,” Woods said.
“Head 265,” Wink said. “We really should head northeast of the ship, so we’re at least coming back in from the right direction when we check in.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Woods said.
Wink watched the airspeed indicator climb through four hundred fifty knots. “We can’t burn gas like this, Trey! We’ll flame out!”
“You got any other ideas? You want to come strolling in after the recovery and answer a lot of questions about where we’ve been?”
“No. We’ll never make it! I sure as hell don’t want to go swimming! You know how much gas we burn at five hundred knots on the deck!”
“We’ll make it. I’m sure.”
Wink didn’t answer. He knew it was useless. Their speed climbed through five hundred fifty knots. They flashed over the coast highway and the beach, and were quickly over the water, where they were most comfortable.
As soon as he thought it appropriate, Wink called the carrier on the radio, about fifty miles out. “Gulf November, this is Bright Sword 211, flight of two, 020 for 20 inbound.”
“Roger, 211, don’t have you, continue inbound, report see me.”
“Wilco,” he replied.
“Why don’t you climb to two thousand feet. It’ll put us at our orbit altitude and we can pick up the TACAN sooner.”
Woods pulled back on the stick and the Tomcat climbed quickly to two thousand feet as their airspeed passed through six hundred knots. They flew west, minute after minute, the TACAN needle spinning, heading generally in the direction of the ship. Wink turned his radar on and scanned the sea for the big target and the airplanes above it. But there were a lot of big targets: tankers, cargo ships, and other military ships.
As if on cue, the needle of the TACAN settled and fixed on the carrier, and pointed steadily five degrees to the left. The DME — Distance Measuring Equipment — which showed how far they were from the ship, began to spin, then settled on thirty-three miles. Woods turned left to put the needle directly on the nose, and checked his clock — 0850. The launch was probably half over. The Air Boss had to be wondering where they were by now. If they were much later than now, questions would be asked. The officer from VF-103 who had the Pri-Fly watch, standing right behind the Boss in case there were any F-14 emergencies or questions, would be asked some very hard questions about the performance of his squadron mates, which the Boss would order him to pass on to the Commanding Officer of the Jolly Rogers. All very awkward.
“211, see you,” Wink transmitted.
“Roger, 211, still don’t have you, switch frequencies.”
“You see the ship?” Woods asked, amazed.
“No, I just didn’t want Strike to be looking for us too hard.”
“I think I see it,” Woods said. “I’m showing fifteen miles, that should be just a couple more minutes,” he said, looking down at his clock. He glanced over at Big, who was flying tight formation on him.
Wink turned on his IFF so the ship would see them. The tower frequency was silent, as it usually was on day recoveries. He looked for other airplanes, but didn’t see any yet.
“I’ve got the ship,” Wink said. “Just to the right. Looks to be heading 300 or so.”
Woods came right, and headed for the carrier, five miles ahead.
“211, see you,” Wink transmitted.
“What are you doing?” Woods yelled at Wink.
“Calling Boss, say again?”
Wink knew he had screwed up. “Sorry, Trey. I blew it.” He realized he had called the ship on the Air Boss’s frequency, something you didn’t do. He had lost track. He sat silently hoping the Air Boss would let it pass.
The radio was silent as Woods and Big screamed toward the USS George Washington in tight formation. Woods reduced throttle to slow down from six hundred knots to three hundred fifty. They came up the side of the ship and looked at the deck. The last plane for the second event, an S-3 Viking antisubmarine plane taxied onto the bow catapult. The landing area was clear.
Woods glanced at Big, brought his right hand to his mouth like an Italian chef, and kissed him off. He threw the stick hard left and broke in front of the carrier. He pulled hard, five Gs, and took the Tomcat downwind. As they leveled their wings Woods lowered the landing gear and flaps, and went through the landing checklist with Wink.