“Five Two Two, Two Two Zero and down to One Point Two.”
“Texaco, Tanker Control, you steer Two Zero Zero and descend to One Point Two, over.”
Jake slid left and the other tanker went right. It was already streaming fuel from the main and wing-tip dumps. Nine tons of fuel would have to be dumped into the atmosphere. Too bad, but there it was.
Jake settled onto his desired course and popped his speed brakes. The nose went over. When he stabilized he looked to the right for the other A-6, which was already fading into the rain and darkness. He came back into the cockpit and concentrated on his instruments.
This little world of needles and dials illuminated by red lights had always fascinated him. Making the needles behave didn’t seem all that difficult, until you tried it. And on nights like this, when he felt about half in the bag, when he was having trouble concentrating, then it was exquisite torture. Everything he did was either too little or too much. It was maddening.
The perverse needles taunted him. You are too high, they whispered, too fast, off course, now you are low…He had to work extremely hard to make them behave, had to pay strict attention to their message. The slightest inattention, the most minute easing of his concentration would allow the needles to escape his grasp.
The controller worked him into a hole in the bolter pattern, which was rapidly filling up. The voices on the radio told him the story as he struggled to make the needles behave. The weather was worse than forecast. Rain was ruining the visibility, the sea was freshening, and one of the F-4s had already boltered twice. Nearest land was 542 miles to the northwest. There were no sweet tankers in the air.
“Ain’t peace wonderful?” Flap muttered.
“Landing checklist,” Jake said, and they went through it. They were too heavy so they dumped fifteen hundred pounds of fuel to get to landing weight. Crazy, that the only good tanker was dumping to land instead of hawking the deck to help that Phantom crew, but ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or…
At a mile and a half he saw the ship, a tiny smear of red light enlivening the dead universe.
Flap called the ball at Six Point Oh.
“Roger Ball.”
Jake recognized the Real McCoy’s voice, but just in case he didn’t the Real continued, “Deck’s dancing, Jake. Watch your lineup.”
He had the ball centered, nailed there, and with just a little dip of the wings he chased the landing centerline to the right, working the throttles individually so as not to overcontrol. The rain flowed around the canopy in a continuous sheet, but the engine bleed air kept the pilot’s windscreen clear.
There was an art to throttle-work on the ball, moving each individual lever ever so slightly, yet knowing when to move them both. Tonight Jake got it just right. The deck got closer and closer, the ball stayed centered, the lineup was good, the angle-of-attack needle behaved…and they caught a three-wire.
“Luck,” Jake told Flap as they rolled out of the landing area.
They taxied him to a stop abeam the island where a half-dozen purple-shirts — grapes — waited with a fuel hose. Jake opened the canopy as the squadron’s senior troubleshooter climbed the ladder. The wind felt raw and the rain cold against his skin.
“We’re going to hot pump you and shoot you again,” the sergeant shouted over the whine of the engines. “This is the only up tanker.”
Jake stuck his thumb up to signify his understanding.
The sergeant went back down the ladder and raised it as Jake closed the canopy. Might as well keep the rain out. The sergeant flashed a thumbs-up and went around to the BN’s side of the plane to watch the refueling operation. Jake moved the switch to depressurize the tanks.
Refueling took awhile. They needed twenty thousand pounds for a full load and the ship’s pumps could only deliver it at about a ton a minute.
He was tired and his butt felt like dead meat, yet it was very pleasant sitting here in the warm, comfortable cockpit. From their vantage point here beside the foul line they had a grandstand seat. The planes came out of the rain and darkness and slammed into the deck. The first two trapped, then a Phantom boltered, his hook ripping a shower of sparks the length of the landing area. This was the guy who had already boltered twice before.
Ah yes, this comfortable cockpit, with everything working just the way it was supposed to, the rain pattering on the Plexiglas and collecting into rivulets that smeared the light.
He was tired, but not too much so. Just pleasantly tired.
Jake unhooked his oxygen mask and laid it in his lap. He took off his helmet and massaged his face and head. He used his sleeves and gloves to swab away the perspiration, then pulled the helmet back on.
The minutes ticked by as the fuel gauges faithfully reported the fuel coming aboard.
They were still fueling when the errant F-4 came out of the gloom and snagged a two-wire. The pilot stroked the afterburners on the roll out. The white-hot focused flames poured from the tailpipes for about a second, then went out, leaving everyone on deck half-blinded.
Two minutes later an A-7 carrying a buddy store, a tanking package hung on a weapon’s station under one wing, was taxied from the pack up to Cat Two and launched. Apparently the brain trust in Air Ops wanted more gas aloft.
At last Jake and Flap were ready. Pressurize the tanks. Boarding ladders up, refueling panel closed, seats armed, and they were taxiing toward Cat Two, the left bow catapult.
Spread the wings, flaps to takeoff, slats out, wipe out the cockpit, ease into the shuttle. There, the jolt as the hold-back reached full extension, then another jolt as the shuttle went forward into tension. Off the brakes, throttles up.
He watched the engines come up to full power as he pulled up the catapult grip and arranged the heel of his hand behind the throttles, felt the airplane tremble as the engines sucked in vast quantities of that rainy air and slammed it out the tailpipes into the jet blast deflector — the JBD. Fuel flow normal, temperatures coming up nicely, RPM at 100 percent on the left engine, a fraction over on the right. Hydraulics normal, everything okay.
Jake wiped out the cockpit, glanced at the panel, ensured Flap had his flashlight on the standby gyro…“You ready?”
“Let it rip.”
He flipped on the exterior light master switch on the end of the cat grip with his left thumb.
The hold-back bolt broke. He felt it break. Then came the shot, a stiff jolt of terrific acceleration, which lasted about a quarter of a second. Then it ceased. Sweet Jesus fucking Christ the airplane was still accelerating but way too goddamn slow!
He was doing maybe 30 knots when he released the cat grip and closed the throttles. Automatically he extended the wing-tip speed brakes. He jammed his feet down on the top of the rudder pedals, locking both brakes.
They were still going forward, sliding on the wet, greasy deck. Thundering toward the bow, the round-down, the edge of the cliff…
Jake pulled the left throttle around the horn to idle cutoff, stopping the flow of fuel to that engine.
He released the left brake and engaged nose-wheel steering. Slammed the rudders to neutral, then hard right. That should capture the nose wheel and turn it right, if the shuttle wasn’t holding it. But the nose wheel refused to respond.
Still going forward, but slower. The edge was there, coming toward them…only seconds left.
He released both brakes, and engaged nose-wheel steering and slammed the rudder full left. He felt something give. The nose started to swing left.
On the brakes hard. Is there enough deck left, enough—?
An explosion beside him. Flap had ejected. The air was filled with shards of flying Plexiglas.