Wilson glanced at The Big Unit, whose eyes remained locked on the PLAT. Both watched the flickering strobes of Sponge on final at three miles, but Wilson knew he, too, had to be listening to the departure frequency transmissions and thinking about the young Buccaneer pilot struggling behind the basket overhead.
All the aviators in the room had been there. In their minds, they climbed off the bolter with the pilot, raised the gear, switched frequencies to receive instructions, activated the radar and commanded it to automatically acquire the assigned aircraft. Even as their eyes joined the pilot’s eyes in search of the tanker, the idea of being in a low-state aircraft far from land lurked in the corners of their minds…
There it is! That cluster of lights at 2 o’clock high. The pilot levels off at 2,000 feet and holds 250 knots, on altitude, controls the closure, and gets on bearing line. The pressure is on to join up and plug on the first try. As the pilot draws near, the flashing strobe lights illuminate the outline of the tanker, and the basket suddenly extends out of the refueling store. With his left hand, the pilot reaches down from the throttle and extends his refueling probe. With his left foot, he feeds in some bottom rudder to align the fuselages. Stabilized on the tanker’s left wing, he sees the tanker pilot make a circle with his flashlight — the signal to plug.
The pilot slides into position and, with no horizon to reference, attempts to line the probe up behind the basket. Rigid with concentration, and “squeezing the black out of the stick,” the pilot attempts to anticipate the movements of the basket, which is constantly buffeted in the airstream. He adds a little power to ease forward, misses low, pulls a bit to back out, and lines up again for another stab. Hurry back, stabilize, now easy, easy… He takes a lunge with throttle and stick to slam the probe into the basket. The hose buckles from the impact before the take-up reel returns tension. The pilot pulls some power, but not so much that he backs out. As he maintains that position on the tanker, he watches the status light on the store, willing it to go from amber to green.
Green. Good flow. Life blood enters the aircraft. Time enters the aircraft. A split-second glance at the fuel page on the multifunction display, followed quickly by another glance, confirms the increase in fuel. Yes, yes. Even as his eyes scan for the first hint of relative movement on the tanker, he relaxes a bit and exhales deeply, his mouth open against the mask’s microphone. Another chance, more time to live.
Air Ops let out a collective sigh of relief when the Cutlass came up on the radio. “Three-oh-five, plugged and receiving.”
“Roger, three-zero-five, take three-point-oh.”
“Three-oh-five.”
Wilson heard The Big Unit murmur. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Four-zero-six, two miles, going slightly below glide path.”
“Four-zero-six.”
O’Shaunessy assigned one of the tankers, Spartan 102, to keep their eyes on — or “hawk”— Sponge. As Wilson watched the PLAT, he could see the familiar strobes of the Super Hornet high in the screen. They crossed from right to left across the screen as the tanker passed behind the ship and into a position to catch Sponge if he needed their services. The final controller called to Sponge with “Four-zero-six, on glide path, slightly right of course, one mile,” and followed that with “Four-zero-six, on and on three quarter mile, call the ball.”
“Four-zero-six, Hornet ball, two-seven.”
“Roger, ball, workin’ thirty-six knots, slightly axial.”
O’Shaunessy turned to Wilson with an amused look and, referring to Sponge’s below tank fuel state, said, “At least he’s honest.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilson said and smiled. He appreciated the small break in the tension and stood up to take full advantage of it. He heard Shakey assure Sponge of his position on glide slope just as the PLAT crosshairs moved up, then down. The screen displayed a sudden pitch of the ship’s deck, one they also felt in their stomachs. The chance of catching Sponge on this pass was very low.
O’Shaunessy picked up the phone. “If he doesn’t get aboard, send him to one-oh-two for two-point-five.”
C’mon, Wilson thought, trying to control the motion of the ship. Settle down. Sponge was in close. Maybe he can make it…
“Wave off, pitching deck,” Shakey said as he depressed the pickle switch. Sponge added full power and maintained his proper landing attitude as he flew away.
“Dammit!” O’Shaunessy sighed, and spoke to CATCC. “Tank him.”
Seconds later, they heard approach call to Sponge. “Four-zero-six, your signal is tank, clean up, take angels one-point-two, Texaco is at two o’clock, angels two, report him in sight.”
“Visual,” Sponge responded.
“Four-zero-six, roger, take angels two and switch departure button two.”
“Four-zero-six, angels two, button two.”
After a short lull in the action, and while he was chatting with The Big Unit, Wilson heard Sponge’s voice on the overhead speaker.
“One-zero-two, there’s a heavy stream of fuel coming out of the basket.”
Wilson’s head snapped to the status board and looked at Sponge’s fuel state… 2.5 two minutes ago. He then looked at O’Shaunessy, but he appeared not to have heard the transmission.
“Roger, we’ll recycle,” the tanker pilot answered.
“Commander?” Wilson called to O’Shaunessy, who turned to him and cocked his head.
“I just heard four-oh-six say there’s a heavy stream of fuel coming out of the basket.”
O’Shaunessy whipped around and picked up the phone. “Get me a status on four-oh-six.”
Sponge watched the basket retract into the refueling store and glanced at his fueclass="underline" 2,300 pounds. Roughly, he had 20 minutes. A wisp of cloud flew past; then they were in the clouds. He edged closer to the tanker to keep the position light on the red wingtip of 102 in view.
The Spartan tanker pilot pushed down to get out of the clouds, and Sponge saw a minor stream of fuel emitting from the back of the store as the small generator prop on the store turned. Minor, yet disconcerting. He hoped it was just residual fuel from an earlier stream and, for an instant, when the basket started to move out of the store, he thought all was well. When it opened, however, a solid flow of fuel billowed into the airstream.
“Still streamin’ heavy,” Sponge radioed. His breathing was deep, and he squeezed tighter on the stick. Departure control called to him. “Four-zero-six, update state.”
‘Two-point-three,” Sponge replied.
The tension in Air Ops ratcheted up as the focus shifted to 406. O’Shaunessy rubbed his forehead. “What’s the status on three-oh-five?” he asked Metz. The room was quiet except for the sound that came from the air conditioning vents overhead.
“Still on one-zero-seven, sir.” At that moment the radio crackled. “Three-oh-five, tank complete.”
“Get him aboard!” O’Shaunessy shouted and looked at the status board. “What’s the story on one-oh-seven?”
“He’s dry, sir, four-point-oh,” Metz answered, his voice almost an apology.
“Fuck! Get him back here, now!”