“Two-zero-one, three quarter mile, call the ball.”
“Two-zero-one, Hornet ball, four-eight.”
“Roger, ball, workin’ thirty-five knots, MOVLAS.” Wilson recognized the voice of Lieutenant Commander Russ “Shakey” McDevitt. He was the new Air Wing Four LSO who had reported aboard just before cruise.
Conversation stopped as everyone in Air Ops looked toward the PLAT. The first aircraft of the recovery, Red River 201, flown by a marine captain on his second cruise, was coming in. The light cluster grew larger and the external strobe lights on the Hornet blinked every half second as the aircraft approached the ship at over 140 knots.
“You’re goin’ a lit-tle high,” Shakey said in his characteristic LSO bedroom voice. Wilson thought 201 looked way high, but Shakey was going to talk him down. He added a pitching deck call. “Deck’s movin’ a little, you’re high… coming down. You’re a lit-tle fast.”
Wilson felt the ship take a lurch and saw the crosshairs drop suddenly on the PLAT. As the Hornet reached the wave-off decision point, Shakey finally made the decision by squeezing the “pickle” switch. “Wave-off, pitching deck,” he radioed. At once Wilson saw the Hornet add power and disappear out of the top of the screen as it passed over the deck, much of the sound penetrating the flight deck into Air Ops.
“Oh for two,” The Big Unit said softly.
CHAPTER 8
Wilson’s guys were next. Saint was at one mile, and despite the deck motion, appeared low and lined up left, as he was for most of the approach. Wilson shook his head imperceptibly. He just accepts being off, he thought.
“Four-zero-two, slightly below glide path, slightly left of course, three quarter mile, call the ball.”
“Four-oh-two Hornet ball, five-one.”
“Roger, ball, thirty-five knots.”
After the “ball” is called, radio communications are limited to the LSO only, and at that signal, the dozen pilots in Air Ops also ceased their whispered conversations. Instead, they watched the light cluster loom larger in the glide slope crosshairs. Saint was holding left, and Shakey, on the LSO platform, saw it, too, and coaxed him back to centerline. “You’re lined up a lit-tle left… Lined up left… Deck’s movin’ a little. You’re on glide path.”
Wilson saw Saint correct for line up, and as he did, he carried too much power and drove himself high. Wilson thought, for sure, his XO would bolter, but suddenly the aircraft took a lunge to the deck.
“ATTITUDE! PO-WER!”
Raven 402 slammed into the deck hard, and the sound of the Hornet at full power, straining against the number one arresting wire, filled Air Ops.
“Saint wasn’t going around,” murmured The Big Unit. Wilson heard him, but kept his eyes on his XO in the landing area. As the arresting wire was pulled back, the arresting hook was retracted too early and fouled the wire between the hook and the fuselage underside. Wilson knew why it happened… Saint raised the hook before the yellow shirt signaled him.
The PLAT showed the Hornet stop and drop the hook to the deck. The hook runner, a sailor with a long steel crowbar, ran underneath the aircraft and pulled the cable clear of the hook, which was then raised again. Once untangled, the Hornet advanced the throttles to taxi forward and get clear of the landing area. The jet’s exhaust blasted the water on the flight deck into another cloud that tumbled aft. The PLAT switched to Sponge Bob, the undercarriage of 402 visible as it taxied forward over the camera.
“Four-zero-six, on and on, three quarter mile, call the ball.”
“Four-zero-six, Hornet ball, four-oh.”
“Roger, ball Hornet, deck’s movin’ a little, you’re on glide slope.”
Wilson watched the deck status light indication flashing foul in the top of the screen as Sponge drew closer. “It’s gonna be close…” he said to no one in particular. Shakey continued to guide the pilots with his calming voice, as if there were no worries. “You’re on glide slope… onnn glide slope,” he called to Sponge, keeping a careful eye on him but conscious that the deck was still foul since 402 had not yet cleared the landing area. Seconds from the decision point, the deck motion subsided for a moment. With the deck still foul, though, Shakey had to wave him off.
“Wave-off, foul deck,” paddles called, just as the deck went clear.
Damn, Wilson thought. His XO caused the wave-off by retracting his hook too early and not waiting for the yellow shirt signal.
O’Shaunessy turned to him. “Raven rep, your flight lead shit-in-the-gear caused that.”
Wilson nodded and said, “Yes, sir.” O’Shaunessy kept his narrow eyes on him for a count and turned away. While Commander O’Shaunessy could be a dickhead, he was at least fair, taking on peers like The Big Unit to his face, or Saint behind his back, as well as lower ranking squadron department heads. The Irishman always looked pissed off, and who could blame him? He had to orchestrate the tension of carrier recoveries night after night after night, while the captain up there watched his every move and ripped into him when the airborne ballet was less than perfect. If air wing pilots were fouling up his pattern, they were going to know it, and screw ‘em if they didn’t like it.
Wilson looked at the status board with a grim face. This recovery was not going well, and no wonder! Varsity pitching deck, high gusty winds, rain and thunder in all quadrants, barely enough gas airborne on a dark night… and the divert fields practically out of reach, the best one of them closed.
Spartan 104 then trapped on a lucky four wire, and CATCC came on the radio to Sponge: “Four-zero-six, turn left to downwind. Fly heading three-five-zero. Report abeam.”
“Four-zero-six,” answered Sponge.
Wilson thought that Sponge Bob sounded cool. Despite his relative inexperience as an aviator, and despite a baby face that resembled the cartoon character, he could handle this. Maybe this experience will be good for him, thought Wilson. He needs to add a few lines to that face. CATCC was sending more aircraft to waiting tankers overhead. O’Shaunessy called to launch the alert 15 tanker, a Super Hornet. “Tell ‘em I need it in ten minutes,” he said.
Ding ding, ding ding… ding. The 1MC bells sounded again… 1830. Wilson turned his attention to a Hawkeye lined up left on the PLAT and watched it settle on a one wire and roll out on centerline. The familiar whooumm of the turboprops at full power penetrated the space. That sound was followed by a deep whhaaa as the prop pitch reacted to the throttle setting on deck. Now, there were three Hornets and a Viking left to recover, and Sponge was first in line.
On departure frequency, Wilson heard “Cutlass three-zero-five, report plugged and receiving.”
“Three-oh-five, wilco.”