Manning the backseat of the supersonic, twin-engine strike fighter, Lt. Comdr. Clarence "Chick" Fossett went through his checklist and then gazed across the busy flight deck.
Even with the additional anxiety of night operations, Bonello and Fossett could wring the best from the Super Hornet's combination of performance and firepower. The single-seat F/A-18E and two-seat F/A-18F are evolutionary upgrades of the combat-proven F/A-18C/D Hornets. The newest night-strike fighters are able to conduct unescorted missions against highly defended targets early in a conflict.
This evening Bonello and Fossett would be flying a routine training mission with a more junior crew from the VFA-113 Stingers of Carrier Air Wing Fourteen.
Fossett, the weapons-systems officer, adjusted his oxygen mask and then looked down at a sailor holding a lighted weight board. Noting their total weight for the catapult shot was correct, he gave the teenager an okay signal with his flashlight.
"There's a confirmation on sixty thousand pounds." Chick glanced at his kneeboard. "Lookin' close this evening."
"Yeah, we'll be a little tight on gas." Feeling the normal amount of oxygen escaping from his mask, Sammy completed his takeoff checks and set the trim for takeoff. He glanced at the full moon and then looked at his instruments. "If we run short on gas, we'll hit the tanker."
"We're always short." Fossett glanced at the catapult officer. "That's what makes this so damn much fun."
Sammy adjusted his helmet visor. "If we lose an engine, I'm gonna concentrate on the HUD — you back me up.
The heads-up display could easily spell the difference between a deadly crash and a successful single-engine landing back aboard the ship. Projected at eye level on the windscreen, the HUD provided the pilot with his plane's angle of attack, airspeed, attitude, and rate of climb.
"Roger that." Fossett checked the status of their wingman. "Ham's gone into tension — looks like a go."
Casting off a momentary feeling of claustrophobia, Sammy glanced at the other Stinger F/A-18F; it belched long, jagged white/orange flames from its powerful General Electric turbofans, each producing twenty-two thousand pounds of thrust. He turned his flashlight on in case of an electrical failure — nothing like a dark cockpit when the grits hit the fan.
Shortly after Bonello saw the Hornet's exterior lights flash on, the all-weather, Mach 1.8 fighter squatted on the catapult, then blasted up the flight deck and thundered into the inky darkness.
Sammy watched the twin yellowish-orange streaks as the pilot made a shallow clearing turn and started climbing. Okay, God, it's our turn.
"I'll counter any roll or yaw with rudder and stick," Sammy said. Swirls of hazy, reddish superheated steam drifted out of the port catapult track, but Bonello's practiced routine was taking over and shoving his anxiety attack aside. "Throttles will remain at military or min burner. I'll snap the rollers up and jettison the luggage if we have a problem."
"Roger."
On cue Sammy followed the yellow-shirted taxi director as he positioned the airplane in the catapult shuttle. Following a signal from the taxi director, Bonello eased off the brakes. The catapult fires with such force that brakes would be useless in trying to stop the launch. The tires would simply explode, sending deadly shrapnel flying down the cat track.
Deck crewmen scurried beneath the powerful aircraft as they prepared the jet to be launched. Bonello and Fossett felt the Hornet squat, then, at the command of the yellow-shirt, Bonello raised the launch bar. Out of habit, he reached for the ejection handle between his thighs to make sure he wasn't sitting on it — split seconds count in the carrier business.
Seconds later, the catapult officer, known as the shooter, began rapidly rotating his lighted wand.
"It's show time." Sammy inched the throttles forward into the detent, locking his left hand on the throttle grip. The engines spooled up to an earsplitting howl as the blast deflector took a beating from the tremendous heat of the white-hot flames. The airplane shook and vibrated while Sammy completed his final cockpit checks and did a wipeout on the flight controls.
"Stick forward, aft, left, right, rudders right and left," Bonello said, verifying the movements of the major flight control surfaces. "Lookin' good, Burner."
"Hydraulics, oil, rpm, and EGT are normal," Sammy said, monitoring the exhaust gas temperature and the master caution panel. "Everything looks clean — I like it." He braced his helmet against the back of the ejection seat. "You ready?"
"Ready."
"Here we go." Bonello took a breath of cool oxygen and snapped on his external lights, indicating that he and his jet were ready to fly. Sammy reached forward with his right hand and grabbed the catapult handle to brace for the launch.
With their pulse rates increasing, Sammy and Chick anticipated the crushing G-forces that would hurl them into the dark void beyond the bow. Their destiny, whatever it was going to be, would be out of their hands for the next few seconds.
The catapult officer made one final safety check of the flight deck and then dropped to one knee. He pointed his flashlight wand toward the bow, giving the signal to launch the Super Hornet.
After a short pause the catapult fired, hurling the strike fighter from zero to 152 knots (175 mph) in 2.1 seconds. Sammy's helmet was pinned to the ejection-seat headrest as his eyeballs flattened, causing momentary tunnel vision during the impressive shot. He uttered a guttural sound as the airplane raced toward the black emptiness — the dark void waiting to trick him into taking a one-way trip to the bottom of the ocean.
Off the end of the flight deck and finally climbing, they filled the cockpit with a mutual sigh of relief.
"Good airspeed, good shot," Sammy said. His adrenaline-induced sensory overload was becoming more manageable. Thank you, God.
He snapped the landing gear handle up and immediately made a clearing turn. "How you doin'?"
"Couldn't be better — let's see how quickly Ham can get aboard."
"I'd bet about forty-five seconds," Bonello said.
While they continued to accelerate, Sammy cleaned up the Super Hornet. Trimming for a normal climb profile, he reduced power a small amount while they intercepted an arc around Lincoln. Bonello and Fossett checked in with the departure controller and contacted the strike controller while they waited for their wing-man to rendezvous with them.
Less than two minutes later, Lieutenant "Ham" Hamilton guided Stinger 303 into a loose parade position. "Dash Two's aboard."
"Okay, Ham." Bonello smoothly advanced the throttles to continue his climb. "Let's switch to Black Eagle and go upstairs."
"Roger, switchin'."
Sammy keyed his radio. "Black Eagle, Hornet Three-Oh-Seven, flight of two, state thirteen-point-eight."
"Roger, Hornet Three-Zero-Seven." The mission systems operator in the E-2C Hawkeye airborne-early-warning aircraft closely watched the two strike fighters.
The latest version of the venerable Hawkeye incorporated a mission computer upgrade for the nerve center of the weapons systems, an advanced control-indicator set that revolutionized operator interface in the combat information center, and a sophisticated navigation suite with state-of-the-art laser technology.
The Hawkeye systems operator keyed his radio. "Three-Zero-Seven, for weather avoidance recommend heading one-niner-zero.
"Okay, that's one-ninety on the heading, Three-Oh-Seven," Sammy said as the flight climbed through seventeen thousand feet. He eased into a shallow bank and scanned his instruments at the same moment the isolated thunderstorms to their right were silhouetted by a bright flash of cloud-to-cloud lightning.