“As you have done so well for so many years, old man,” Weed joked.
Wilson smiled at the barb. “You were right alongside me most of those years.”
“But you are senior, and you’re a skipper now, the old man. Sorry to have to point all this out.”
“See you out there,” Wilson chuckled. Same old Weed.
With nimble steps Wilson climbed the boarding ladder and plopped himself in the ejection seat. Dubose followed. After connecting Wilson’s oxygen and g-suit hoses, he slammed home the upper Koch fittings that attached Wilson’s harness to the parachute embedded in the seat mechanism.
“Where are you going, sir?” the plane captain asked his CO.
“We’re gonna stay here and bomb the spar, that sled they’re towing behind us.”
Dubose looked over the fantail and saw a white spray being kicked up by the target sled in the wake behind the ship.
“Cool, sir.”
“You gonna watch us?” Wilson asked with a smile.
“If I can, sir,” the teenager replied. Both knew that the flight deck was not open to a lot of sightseeing.
Dubose descended the ladder and then stowed it in the LEX. Standing next to 301 at parade rest, he waited for engine starts.
Across the deck Wilson saw Jumpin in 307 and noted several troubleshooters around the aircraft. Oh, oh.
Like clockwork, at thirty minutes before launch time, the Air Boss came up on the 5MC flight deck loudspeaker to set the familiar ballet in motion with his singsong cadence:
“On the flight deck, aircrews have manned for the fourteen-thirty launch. Time for all personnel to get into the proper flight deck uniform. Helmets on and buckled, goggles down, sleeves rolled down, life vests on and securely fastened. Check your pockets for loose gear and FOD. Check chocks, chains, and loose gear about the deck. Stand clear of intakes, exhausts, prop arcs, rotor blades and tail rotors. Let’s start the go aircraft! Start ‘em up!”
Dubose lifted his arms to signal ready, and Wilson gave him a thumbs-up to proceed. Dubose, like the other dozen Hornet plane captains on deck, signaled for Auxiliary Power Unit start, and Wilson lifted the switch to energize the APU that would soon provide starting air to the jet engines.
The jets scattered about the flight deck cranked to life, a whirring growl of machinery, and with the APU’s online, the plane captains led their pilots through engine starts in practiced order. A whoosh of air entered the engine bays to start the turbines as the pilots ignited fuel in what soon became a screaming, high-pitched whine of jets. The hummmm from the E-2 turboprops and the whirrr of the MH-60 Sierra plane guard filled in the background. Sailors in multicolored jerseys scurried about with varied tasks, flight deck tractors weaved among the aircraft, chiefs identified by their khaki trousers walked about supervising the young sailors like Dubose. Arguably the most dangerous work environment on earth was aroused to conduct another “routine” launch and recovery.
A warm breeze circulated among the aircraft as the ship moved through the gentle swells, the sun high overhead and the afternoon buildups gaining strength. To the west were two small rainclouds dumping gray sheets of water on the sea, and high on the tower mast the Stars and Stripes flew above the white and red signal flag for flight ops, FOXTROT.
With his canopy down to drown out the din, Wilson flicked on avionics and radios and punched in the frequencies and waypoint coordinates he would need for this flight. He did love it down here and, by the look of the flight deck, the crew did, too. As they went about their tasks in the warm sunshine, they knew that, if the ship went into the squall, many could find a reason to go below.
Wilson and Dubose went through the post-start checks in familiar sequence, and when complete, a nearby yellow shirt hurried over to take control of 301. Dubose and two blue shirts scurried underneath the jet to remove the chocks and tie-down chains, and when Dubose reappeared, the chains were draped around his neck, adding another layer of flight deck grime to his already filthy brown float coat. He pointed to the yellow shirt and saluted Wilson, control of 301 now in the able hands of the young flight deck controller.
Obeying the yellow shirt’s hand signals, Wilson eased out of his spot, passing dozens of sailors tending other jets waiting their turn. He was passed off to another yellow shirt who took him along the foul line past the island. It seemed Wilson was being taken to the bow behind Weed, who had taxied ahead of him.
Weed was positioned on Cat 1, and, as the Jet Blast Deflector slowly rose out of the flight deck, Wilson stopped behind it, mere feet from the steel shield. Troubleshooters ducked under the jets and walked along the fuselages, making last-minute checks of their charges with practiced eye and loving hands.
The Hawkeye was shot early off Cat 2 with a resonating whooommm. After a short lull, and with the other aircraft positioned behind them, the catapult crews began hooking up the jets to the shuttles. Red-shirted ordnancemen pulled pins to “arm” the practice ordnance and the 20mm cannons of the fighters. Off the waist, a tanker-configured Super Hornet roared into the air to take position overhead Coral Sea to transfer fuel to thirsty jets.
The crew waited through a five-minute break for the Air Boss to give a green deck. The goal was to shoot the first airplane at exactly 1430, to the second. Circling overhead, small formations of aircraft from the previous event waited for their turn to land and watched the progress of the launch so they could enter the break as soon as the angled deck became clear.
The ship steadied on launch heading — with the squall now right in front of it. Concentrating on the dangerous task set before them, the sailors didn’t seem to notice the foul weather ahead — which would soon drench them.
On the other side of the JBD, Weed added some power, and Wilson knew that soon his friend would be placed in tension. Seconds later the twin F414 engines of the Rhino thundered to full strength. The waves of kerosene exhaust pounding on the JBD caused everything in the vicinity to vibrate. Wilson was buffeted in place and would have been blown over the side were it not for the JBD.
Wilson saw Weed’s rudders and stabilators move and watched the edge of his friend’s helmet in the canopy. Wilson saw Weed salute to signify ready, and seconds later Weed roared down the track and into the gray gloom of the squall. The JBD lowered, and the catapult crew turned their attention to 301.
Big raindrops began to pelt Wilson’s canopy, and then sheets of rain beat down on the flight deck, giving a welcome fresh water wash down to everything on it. In his dry cocoon, Wilson taxied as his yellow shirt directed him, lining up on the cat.
“Flip, Jumpin,” Kessler called to him on the tactical frequency.
“Go.”
“I’m down, sir.”
As he lowered his launch bar, Wilson absorbed this information. Jumpin’s jet was down for some maintenance malfunction and would not be launching. Wilson was now “alone” for this flight.
“Roger, see you later,” he transmitted.
Wilson came up on the power to tension the holdback and seat the launch bar in the shuttle. The rain obscured visibility ahead of the ship, and near the shot line he saw some teenaged sailors laughing at the absurdity of their drenching shower. Then, through the squall, he saw sunlight on the water.
Dripping wet, the yellow shirt gave Wilson the take-tension signal. The rain subsided as quickly as it had started, and Wilson shoved the throttles to military power and cycled the controls. With all well, he popped a sharp salute to the catapult officer and held on, waiting to be shot. Seconds later, he blazed down the track kicking up billowing clouds of spray. The warm Caribbean air would soon act as a 25-knot blow dryer for the sopping sailors remaining on the flight deck.