Tombstone could feel his heart pounding in his chest, as it always did during a night trap. The meatball wavered above the line of green, then below. Damn! The thing was all over the place. The black hulk of the Jefferson swept up to meet him.
He was low. "This doesn't look good," he said to no one in particular, aware of the strained silence from the backseat as his RIO held his breath.
Tombstone checked the meatball again as he corrected. It was dangerous to fasten all of your attention on the Fresnel lens, especially in a night landing. He was still low. "It's no good."
Bumer Craig had flown F-14s for five years and had served as VF-95's LSO since the cruise began. He stood on his platform just forward of the Fresnel lens system, behind a HUD and console, complete with TV screen, speaker controls, and telephone, that was raised behind a windowed barrier for landing operations. A small crowd had gathered around him, other LSOs and LSO trainees who had come to watch.
He ignored them, his attention divided between the lights of the approaching aircraft and the TV, which was tuned to the ship's pilot landing aid television. The PLAT could see in the dark and showed more detail of the approaching F-14… but like all experienced LSOs, Craig preferred his own eyes. The TV image was two-dimensional and could fool you; eyes were hot-wired to instincts and were far more reliable.
Mentally, Craig kicked himself after he told Tombstone he was looking good. Aviators were a touchy breed, and there was an inborn love-hate relationship between every Navy flyer and his Landing Signals Officer.
The LSO's primary responsibility was to grade each landing. "Okay" was best, followed by "fair." A "no grade" was dangerous to the pilot or his and other aircraft, while "cut" meant the approach could have ended in disaster. In peacetime, each pilot's standing relative to all of the other pilots in the wing was a matter of fierce pride and fiercer competition, and the aviators' frustrations could often be directed at the LSO who'd marked them down for some minor deviation on their recovery. Pilots could be incredibly defensive about their standings… and about any criticism at all, real or perceived, of their abilities.
Tombstone was an old hand and a pro, with no need for an I'm-okay-you're-okay talk-down. The best I can do, Craig told himself, is keep quiet and let the man do his Shit! The Tomcat was low… way low! "Power up," he snapped into his microphone. His fingers tightened a bit around the control box in his hands, the "pickle" which would light up the red wave-off display around the meatball and tell the pilot to go around for another try.
The roar of the Tomcat's engines rose in pitch and the aircraft's running lights seemed to float higher… higher…
No! Too high! Craig's finger closed on the pickle. "Wave off! Wave off!"
Tombstone swept in above the carrier's roundoff, knowing he'd missed. A circle of red lights flashed on, a ruby bulls-eye with the meatball in the center. "Wave off!" the LSO shouted in his ear. "Wave off!" His wheels hit the deck, but too far forward for the arrestor hook to snag any of the four cables stretched across his path.
Tombstone rammed the throttles forward, going to full burner as he fought to build up airspeed once more. For an instant he was aware of the carrier's deck lights on either side of his cockpit, of the shadowed island streaking past his right wing. Power roared, shoving him back in his seat.
Then he was in the open sky once more, the carrier's deck lights a dwindling glow on the black face of the sea behind him.
"Tomcat Two-oh-five, bolter," he heard in his headset. There was nothing wrong with missing a trap, save the embarrassment and the ribbing he'd take from the other members of his squadron, but the extra stress on top of what he was feeling already rose like a storm cloud in Tombstone's mind.
He felt an odd sensation in his right hand, the hand holding the Tomcat's stick, and he looked down. His hand was trembling, shaking, and there was nothing in the world he could do about it.
Craig chewed at the end of his mustache as he watched Tombstone's second approach shaping up. He wasn't so worried about the pilot's pride now as he was about simply getting the man and his RIO down intact.
He'd been aware of Tombstone's moodiness during the past few days, ever since Coyote and Mardi Gras had bought it. That sort of thing was especially hard when it was your buddy who cashed in. And now, with four more people in the drink this afternoon, plus French's crash-and-burn on the deck…
"Come on, Tombstone," Craig said over the radio. He knew others were listening in, CAG and the Air Boss and anyone else tuned into the PLAT channel, but his words were for Tombstone alone. "No sweat. Silky smooth, just like a virgin's ass."
"I'm okay." Tombstone sounded tight. His red and green navigation lights hovered off the stern of the carrier, three miles aft.
"Call it, son. Call the ball."
"Tomcat Two-oh-five. Ball. Two-point-seven."
"You're lined up great. Bring her on in!"
The lights descended, wavered, corrected. He held his breath as they began to drop. Too fast! Craig felt a sinking sensation in his gut. Again, he stabbed the switch.
If he'd been embarrassed after his first bolter, Tombstone felt stark terror now. Jefferson's stern looked like it was all over the sky as he raced toward the carrier at 150 miles an hour. The red bulls-eye around the meatball lit up again and he heard the shouted command to abort. "Wave off! Wave off!"
He rammed the throttles forward. With a shattering roar they skimmed above the flight deck, not even touching this time as they whipped past the island. Damn!
"Hey, Stoney, this isn't looking too good."
Tombstone guided the Tomcat into a gentle left turn. "You want to get out and walk? I can do without the backseat driving!"
The next several minutes passed in silence. Tombstone focused all his concentration on controlling the ship and himself as he circled a few times. Finally, he began circling back toward the break, lining up for another pass.
"Tomcat Two-oh-five, this is Two-three-two," a familiar voice said. "What's the story, Tombstone?"
"I keep missing the goddamned carrier." He swallowed behind his mask, trying to control his twisting gut. "I think they're moving the bastard on me."
"Well, shitfire, you know what I think? I think you just don't want to face me tonight when I talk about my two kills. You don't want to admit that I'm the new hotdog of the squadron. What do you say to that, fella?"
He recognized the banter for what it was, an effort to break the tension, to get him to laugh at himself long enough to get the Tomcat down. As psychology it was a bit primitive, but Tombstone laughed. "If I land this bitch, you'll eat your words, old son."
"Okay, Tombstone," Craig's voice said. "Let's do it this time! Call the ball!"
Tombstone swallowed a hard, cold lump. The carrier's lights wavered in front of him, tiny in the dark and the distance. His hands were sweating. "Two-oh-five. Tomcat ball," he said mechanically. "Two-point-one." Another pass and he'd need to retank before trying again. Don't let me screw it up! Not again!
Not with Batman watching. Not with his uncle watching! He realized that the trembling, strength-sapping fear had been replaced by anger. This bitch isn't going to beat me! Not now! Not when I'm goddamned through!
The lights swelled in front of his cockpit. "Real slick, man," Snowball said, but Tombstone scarcely heard him. His hand was no longer shaking.