He could see it now, the glint of green and red on the port side of the carrier. He made the call. “Tomcat 203, ball.”
The LSO answered immediately. “Roger, 203. Ball. Looking good, sir. A little high—203, say needles.”
Tombstone glanced down at the needles, crosshairs which indicated his relationship to the glide path. “Needles high and to the right,” he said.
“Roger, sir, fly the needles,” the LSO answered, indicating that Tombstone’s cockpit indicators gibed with his own assessment of the Tomcat’s approach.
Tombstone eased back off the throttle, decreasing his airspeed slightly, letting the Tomcat sink down through the air as gravity overcame his forward speed and lift. It always seemed so slow at this point, a gentle descent down to the deck. At least so far.
Then he hit the bubble, the wake of roiled air immediately astern of the carrier, created by the passage of the massive ship through the atmosphere. The Tomcat bounced around, and he made minor corrections to hold the aircraft on glide path.
“A little high, sir, that’s right. Nose up a little bit more, looking good, looking good, attitude sir, attitude sir, power now, power now, looking good,” the LSO sang as he coached him in through the final stages of the approach.
The deck loomed up at him, massive and spacious this close to it. The stern flashed by under him, and Tombstone slammed the throttles forward to full military power in case he missed the four wires spanning the deck below him. The Tomcat was barely airborne right now, sinking fast and approaching stall speed of 100 knots. Without full military power, he wouldn’t have enough speed to take off the end of the deck if he boltered.
The wheels slammed down hard on the deck, the hydraulic shock absorbers taking most of the force. A controlled crash, that’s what it always felt like. The impact slammed Tombstone forward against his ejection harness straps. The noise inside the cockpit crescendoed as the powerful engines sucked down air, mixed it with fuel, ignited it, and blasted out power.
“Three wire, sir,” the LSO said. “Good trap.” That meant Tombstone’s tail hook mounted on the undercarriage of the Tomcat had caught the third wire from the stern of the ship. The three wire was considered the goal on every landing.
Tombstone kept one hand on the throttles, pouring the power on. Wires had been known to break, and only a fool took power off before he was directed to do so.
A yellow shirt walked out in front him, and made hand signals for decreasing power. Only that moment, when a member of the flight deck crew felt confident enough that the Tomcat was stopped that he was willing to step in front of the powerful aircraft himself, did a pilot risk his own life by easing off on the power.
The yellow shirt moved one extended arm in an arc underneath an outstretched arm, indicating that Tombstone should retract his tail hook. Tombstone did, and felt the Tomcat roll forward slightly, now free of the restraining wire. He taxied past the first yellow shirt, who handed him off to a second one. Tombstone was directed to his spot on the deck, and slid the Tomcat smoothly into his assigned slot. The second yellow shirt was still standing in front, making the signals now for engine shutdown. Tombstone complied, running through the shutdown checklist as he did so.
“Good trap, Admiral,” Gator said. He was already powering down his own equipment and unsnapping his ejection harness after safing the ejection seat itself. “It’s something you never lose, is it?”
Captain Coyote Grant, now commanding officer of USS Jefferson, was standing at the bottom of the boarding ladder, waiting to greet him. Coyote was one of Tombstone’s earliest friends in the F-14 community, just a few years his junior.
Coyote had followed Tombstone and Batman up the ranks, and had taken command of Jefferson just a few months earlier. It had been an easy relief process, since Coyote’s previous assignment had been as Batman’s chief of staff for Carrier Battle Group 14.
“Welcome aboard, Admiral,” Coyote said. “Admiral Wayne’s a bit tied up — he asked me to meet you and invite you down at your earliest convenience.”
Tombstone held out his hand. “Nice to be back, Coyote.” Salutes were never rendered on the flight deck, since headgear other than flight deck cranials was prohibited during flight operations. “We’ll head down to flag spaces now.” As they headed for the hatch that led into the island, Tombstone asked, “So how’s it going?”
Coyote laughed. “Guess you’d be the one to tell me that, sir.”
Inside the skin of the ship, they descended two ladders and ended up on the 0–3 level, the passageway which housed the flight spaces. Tombstone followed Coyote into the admiral’s cabin.
“About time,” Admiral Wayne grumbled. “Figured you’d show up sooner or later, Stony.”
“Never pass up the chance at some stick time,” Tombstone answered. Batman grunted an acknowledgment.
“So what’s all this about, Tombstone?” Coyote asked, discarding the formalities now that they were in private. “All I know is I get a message telling me you’re flying out en route an assignment in Greece. Might you tell me what’s up?”
This was an old friend, one Tombstone trusted, so he gave him the full story. Everything — the details about his trip to Vietnam and Russia, the subsequent displeasure of naval leadership with his activities. He concluded by saying, “So be careful where you drop bombs, Coyote. I almost got taken out by my own former squadron.”
“It’s that serious, then?” Batman asked, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve seen the messages, of course. And there are always contingency plans. But now you’re talking about bombing runs… where? And how soon? I need to get my people started on this.”
“I don’t know yet,” Tombstone said. “But it looks like the UN is coming down solidly on Greece’s side. At least if you read between the lines. They’re going to try for peaceful settlement, of course.” He spread his hands, indicating the futility of that. “You know how likely that is to work.”
Coyote nodded. “Indeed, I do. So what can you tell us?”
Tombstone shifted slightly in his seat, uncomfortable with having so few answers. “For now, it’s a question of what you can tell me. How is Jefferson? How ready are you? And if you’re not one hundred percent, what do you need to get there?”
Coyote frowned, apparently slightly offended. “We’re always ready, Admiral. Just like we were when you were in command here.”
“Don’t give me that crap, Coyote.” Tombstone made an impatient gesture. “Okay, okay, your position is that the Jefferson is one hundred percent combat ready. Now that we’ve made that a matter of record, tell me the truth. What do you need?”
“A couple of spare parts, Admiral. That’s really about it. They’re already on high-priority replacement, so I’m not sure what else we can do to get them here. The main thing I need is for everyone and his brother to stop tapping me for liaison officers. I got enough people to man my squadrons, to fly and fix my aircraft, but I can’t be sending my best people off the ship to join staffs.”
Tombstone laughed, recognizing the eternal dilemma of a battle group. “That includes mine, I take it?”
Coyote grinned. “I would never say that, Admiral.”
“You don’t have to.”
There was a moment of silence, then Tombstone said, “Formal briefing tomorrow morning?”
Batman nodded. “Are you out of here tomorrow afternoon?”
“Yep, unless I can figure out a way to get some more stick time,” Tombstone said. To his surprise, Batman said, “We could make that happen, Admiral. I can move the briefing up to this evening and Coyote can get you in on the first cycles tomorrow. If you take a pilot with you, CAG will even loan you an aircraft so you can fly yourself to your final destination. In fact, Bird Dog should be back on board in a few hours. I’ll toss him in your backseat, let him bring the bird back. How about that?”