Vertigo. Spatial disorientation. His body had grown used to being in the turn and began to consider that normal. It had to do with fluid in the inner vestibular of his ears or something.
All Juan knew was that it took every ounce of concentration for him to shift his stick back to the left and get wings-level. Of course, he couldn’t talk during that effort. So there was an awkward silence before he was able to answer his boss’s question.
“You alright?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Now he was sweating profusely. It was humid, but it was more than that.
“So you’ve got three people down there waiting and an engine fire light with an unconfirmed fire. What’s your next move, HAC?” Her voice was calm, but firm.
HAC stood for helicopter aircraft commander. It was the qualification that Juan hoped to achieve after they returned from deployment. A grueling multiyear process to get there. Once achieved, he could then sign for his own aircraft as the pilot in command.
Then he would go to work every day with his name as the primary pilot on the flight schedule. Uncle Sam would lend him his very own thirty-five-million-dollar helicopter, complete with his own copilot and aircrewman. He would then be in charge of the mission. It was essentially the equivalent of reaching adulthood in the naval helicopter world. But he had to get there first.
“Well, the fire is not confirmed, so I should land as soon as possible,” he said.
“Let’s say that the fire light just went out,” said Victoria.
Juan said, “Okay. Then I’d contact the ship and tell them the situation and let them know that I will be conducting search and rescue and to make best speed for my position.”
“But with the fire light on, you would go home? You would fly back to the ship?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Even with the three people down there? And twenty minutes of fuel?”
“Uh…”
“Don’t let her trick you, sir.”
Victoria said, “AWR1, you shut your trap, please. Let the man talk. Juan, I still have you in a turn. Level off and check your speed.”
“Sorry, boss,” said AWR1.
Juan said, “Roger, leveling off. Getting back to eighty knots.” He gritted his teeth and fought his body’s telling him that they were leaning to one side. He lined up the instrument wings so that they were straight and level, got the airspeed to exactly eighty knots, and trimmed it in.
Victoria said, “So would you turn back to the boat with three people in the water and twenty minutes of fuel, with an unconfirmed fire?”
Juan said, “Yes, ma’am. If the light stayed on, I would declare an emergency and land as soon as possible on the ship.”
Victoria said, “But with the fire light out, you’d stay on station and rescue those people.”
“Yes.”
“Why? Either way, the fire is unconfirmed. What does NATOPS say?”
NATOPS. The Naval Air Training and Operating Procedures Standardization Manual. The bible for all naval aviators. It had all the checklists, emergency procedures, systems limits, and diagrams that Juan had to memorize to become qualified in the aircraft. Juan and the other copilot spent at least six hours each day studying from that manual, quizzing each other and memorizing every minute detail. For it would help them reach HAC, and potentially save their lives if they ever needed the knowledge to get out of an airborne emergency.
“NATOPS says if the fire is unconfirmed, to land as soon as possible.”
“So the fire is still unconfirmed, right?”
“Yes… but—”
“Are there ‘buts’ in NATOPS? Sorry, I haven’t been flying for very long. Explain to me when it’s okay to violate NATOPS.”
“Well… I… uh… well, operational necessity…”
“And what’s that? Don’t quote me fancy words unless you want me to ask you what they mean.”
“Well… uh… ma’am, the instruction says that operational necessity is a mission associated with war or peacetime operations that justify risking the loss of aircraft or crew.”
“That’s not what it says. Not exactly. You need to know what it says verbatim. Keep going with the problem.”
Juan said, “Is that twenty minutes until bingo or twenty minutes until the low fuel light?”
AWR1 piped up, “Ah, he’s getting smart!”
“Until bingo.”
She was being nice. Giving him more fuel — and more time — in the scenario. Bingo fuel was the point at which the helicopter had to turn back to the ship, lest it run out of fuel prior to landing.
“Alright, then. AWR1, let’s set up for SAR.”
“Sir, my rescue swimmer is all ready to go. Our checklists are complete.”
The enlisted man spoke like he had said this a thousand times. He probably had. A senior petty officer, he was up for chief this year. He had probably helped to train hundreds of junior officers as they went up for their HAC qualification.
“Cutlass 471, Farragut Control, the ship is setting flight quarters.” The radio call came from the external communications system. It was broadcast over the UHF radio from the ship to the helicopter. Farragut Control was one of the ship’s enlisted personnel who manned the radar scope and acted as a controller and tactical operations relay between the ship’s combat information center and the helicopter.
Juan responded, “Farragut Control, 471, roger.”
The ENGINE FIRE light came on again.
“Simulated.”
Juan said, “Is the fire confirmed?”
“Yes.”
“Roger, Engine malfunction in flight procedure — perform.” His tone of voice uncontrollably increased in pitch under the stress of remembering the steps of the emergency procedure.
“Go ahead.”
“Control Nr. Contingency power on. Establish single-engine conditions. External cargo/stores/fuel jettison/dump. Identify malfunction — okay, we have an engine fire.”
AWR1 said, “Ahhh, sir, it’s really hot back here.”
Juan said, “Engine power control lever of affected engine — simulated off.” He used his leather gloved finger to wipe sweat from his eyes.
Victoria placed her hand up on one of the engine power control levers. “Okay, I’m ready to take off engine number one, do you concur?”
Juan glanced up quick, barely able to see her leather gloved hand in the dark. His bulky NVG set, two black plastic tubes, protruded from his helmet outward from his eyes.
“Roger, engine number one… oh, wait! Ma’am, that’s the wrong engine.”
She had her hand over engine number two. In a real emergency she would have been pulling back the only functional engine. That would have been a pilot-induced disaster.
Victoria said, “Alright, Juan, you’re done for tonight. Good catch. Take me home. And don’t drop the pack. You’re landing and you better stick it.”
He let out a sigh of relief. He had a lot more of that emergency procedure to regurgitate. But they had been flying for almost three hours, and much of the flight had been like this. Constant training. Constant questions. He knew it would make him better, but he longed for just a quiet flight.
Now for the hardest part: landing on the back of a boat at night.
Juan repositioned himself in the seat, trying to get psyched up. They ran through their before-landing checklist, flipping switches and changing the lighting configuration. The night vision goggles became useful again as Juan began to make out lights on the horizon. The ship was still about twenty minutes of flying away. But the powerful NVGs could—
A flash of bright light in front of them bloomed out his vision through the NVGs. Lightning.
Victoria said, “Farragut Control, Cutlass 471, are you guys going through a storm?”