26
Breathing more rapidly than usual, Denby Kaywood concentrated on listening to the carrier’s air traffic controllers as they vectored him to final bearing. His pulse quickened as wisps of smoke began drifting past his crash helmet. Without warning, the horizontal-situation display flickered a few times and then grew dim. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, then toggled the intercom switch. “Ah… yo, Houston, we have a problem.”
“No shit,” Chet Hoffman said excitedly as a yellow tongue of flame curled from beneath his instrument panel. “I’ve got a fire goin’ back here! Turn off the port generator!”
Kaywood complied with the request. “Is it out?”
“No! I’ve got flames comin’ out from under the instrument panel!”
“Hang on a second,” Kaywood said as he shut off the emergency generator. Using a flashlight to illuminate a standby gyro that was good for less than ten minutes, Kaywood felt his neck and shoulders becoming tense. He turned his head toward Hoffman. “Is the fire out?” Kaywood shouted.
“No!” There was no mistaking the edge of panic in his voice. “We’re gonna have to jump out!”
“You gotta be shitin’ me.”
“Slow this sonuvabitch down!” Hoffman demanded as the snakes of fire started crawling into the cockpit.
Kaywood yanked the left throttle back and started slowing the Tomcat in preparation for a controlled ejection. Cold fear gripped both men, robbing them of their logic and instincts.
“Wait — wait a second!” Hoffman exclaimed as the flames suddenly disappeared from the wire bundle. “I think it’s out! Yeah, it’s just smoldering — keep truckin’.”
“We’re almost there.” Kaywood swallowed hard as he eased the left throttle forward and brought the emergency generator back on-line. The instrument lighting came on as Kaywood dumped the cabin pressure, then selected RAM air to clear the smoke and fumes. “How we lookin’?”
“Good to go. Let’s get back on deck.”
“I have the ball,” Kaywood said.
He made a minor throttle adjustment as the approach controller in the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center calmly talked to him.
“One-Oh-Seven,” the controller said slowly and clearly, “on line slightly right, three-quarter mile, call the ball.”
“Diamond One-Oh-Seven on the ball, three-point-nine.” Kaywood had the bright orange “meatball” centered, and his fuel state was 3,900 pounds.
CAG Paddles, the landing signal officer, quickly responded. “Roger ball, fourteen knots. You look a little fast.”
Kaywood’s lineup was good and he was beginning to feel more confident. Almost home.
The ball began descending, prompting Kaywood to add a touch of power. “Come on, stay on it.”
“Powweeer,” the LSO called. “Let’s get some power on.”
Kaywood shoved the throttle forward and concentrated on the meatball, lineup, and angle of attack. “Easy… easy.”
“You’re fast,” Hoffman advised.
“I know.”
Something didn’t feel right to Kaywood. The ball rose to the proper position and continued to rise. He tweaked the throttle back and made a slight lineup correction.
“One-Oh-Seven, paddles. Check your gear down.”
In astonishment, Kaywood noticed the flashing WHEELS light as he slapped the landing-gear handle down. “Shit!” Terrific.
“Keep it together,” Hoffman coached. “You’re doin’ fine.”
“Yeah, I’m cookin’ now.” Kaywood fumed. “Sterling performance.” Distracted by his embarrassing mistake, he glanced at the gear indicator and allowed the Tomcat to drift left as it slowed and settled below the glidepath.
“Power,” the LSO said firmly. “Powwweeer.”
Lowering the starboard wing, Kaywood inched the throttle forward as the airplane began to drift back to the right.
“Lineup.” Reverting to body English, the senior LSO instinctively attempted to control the movement of the airplane by moving his body in the desired direction. “Watch your lineup.”
Approaching the round-down, Kaywood began focusing on lineup and ignored everything else as the F-14 settled toward the water.
“You’re low — slow!” Hoffman warned, reaching for the ejection handle between his legs. “Take it around!”
“Powwweeer,” the anxious LSO demanded. “Power-power-power!”
Shoving the throttle to military power, the left turbofan began to spool up as Kaywood worked to keep the wings level.
In despair, Paddles pushed his pickle switch and the wave-off lights flashed on. “Wave off, wave off, wave off!” he chanted.
It was too late.
“Holy Mother of Jesus!” Paddles shouted as he and his assistants dove into the safety net beneath the windswept LSO platform.
For a fleeting moment Kaywood thought they were climbing away from the dark flight deck. He was wrong.
Hoffman gripped the ejection handle and closed his eyes. “We’re goin’ into the spud locker!”
“Stay with me,” Kaywood exclaimed.
Yawing from asymmetrical thrust, the staggering Tomcat slammed into the round-down in a nose-high attitude. The horrifying explosion turned night into day as huge flames engulfed the remains of the demolished airplane. Severed from the rest of the fuselage, the cockpit skidded up the angle deck and plunged over the side of the ship.
Dazed and disoriented by the twenty-G impact, Kaywood and Hoffman didn’t attempt to eject until after they hit the water. When the cockpit rolled on its side and began sinking, Hoffman pulled his ejection handle. The two men were shot sideways through the water, but quickly surfaced and began struggling to keep their heads above water.
In a state of high anxiety, the young captain of the Iranian gunboat placed the radio microphone in its bracket and turned to the senior rated sailor in his crew. “Fire the missiles.”
Without hesitation, the slender, dark-bearded man shouted orders to the frightened sailors who were responsible for launching the C-802 antiship missiles.
“Fire missiles! Fire missiles!”
In a matter of seconds the Silkworm cruise missiles were rocketing straight toward Washington.
Seven miles on the other side of the carrier, another Combattante II gunboat fired two C-802 missiles at the giant flattop, then raced away at flank speed.
With Admiral Coleman standing in the background, Nancy Jensen watched helplessly while the helmsman executed a maneuver to swing Washington’s stern away from Kaywood and Hoffman. The SH-60F Seahawk rescue helicopter was over the flight crew in a matter of seconds. As the pilot stabilized the helo in a hover, a rescue swimmer jumped into the water to help the struggling fliers.
At the same time the air warfare officer aboard the Aegis guided-missile cruiser heard the warning alarms go off. The other warships also sounded warnings and took evasive action.
“Missiles inbound,” the carrier’s 1MC barked. “This is not a drill!”
Jensen gripped the arms of her chair as the battle-force ships began launching Sea Sparrows and firing Close-In Weapons Systems.
More warnings were being sounded from the Combat Direction Center when Captain Jensen saw a flash in her peripheral vision.
“Take cover!” a high-pitched voice said over the 1MC. ‘Take cover!”
Jensen momentarily froze when two of Washington’s powerful CIWS defensive systems opened fire. Spewing twenty-millimeter shells made of depleted uranium, two of the CDC-controlled Phalanx “Gatling gun” cannons put up a curtain of steel between Washington and the incoming missiles.
I don’t believe this, Jensen thought while each of the six barrel cannons howled at 3,000 rounds a minute. Her nerves went tense when another CIWS opened fire from one of the escort ships.