As one of his majors gave the preflight briefing, Mother was distracted — watching the PLAT screen darken, watching the minutes melt away, again waiting for deliverance. He signed for the jet in maintenance controclass="underline" his Gunny said 301 was parked on the bow, dammit, and his shoulders tensed up. He donned his g-suit and harness in the paraloft — the others walked ahead of him — and ignored the young sergeant who handed him his helmet, its clear visor freshly polished to better see at night.
You don’t have to do this, Mother thought as he headed forward down the passageway, carrying his helmet bag that scraped along the bulkhead and off stowed fire hoses and against shoring timbers and electrical junction boxes and all the crap the swabs stored in every passageway on the damned boat. Mired in his inner hell, he ignored the greetings of junior aviators passing him the other way. He would fly to the Spratlys tonight and shoot down any Prick fighter that came up, he’d roll in on anything they wanted him to hit. Just don’t make him launch in this shit, damn near zero-zero, with a full combat load at near max gross weight with little margin of error on defective cats! He wasn’t afraid of any man, certainly not any Chinese pilot. It was the machine, the machine dammit, and complex machines like combat-damaged catapults can break. In his nightmares, they had broken 999 times.
Winds were light as Mother stepped onto the dark flight deck from a forward catwalk hatch, but a howling F414 engine undergoing a maintenance turn added to his tension. All he could see were dim shadows amid the piercing whine of the jet at idle power. He struggled for breath as waves of kerosene exhaust enveloped him. Stumbling over a power cable, he searched for his jet, or one of his flight deck Marines to direct him to it. After moving further up the bow he found it, the last jet parked on Cat 1, over the shuttle and wedged into the blackest and most desolate corner of the flight deck.
Once again, Mother forced himself to climb the ladder and stow his gear in the cockpit. He avoided looking over the right side of the canopy rail into the endless chasm of darkness. His legs shook from fear as he then descended the ladder, step by deliberate step.
He kept one hand on the nose as he ducked under it, mere feet from the bow as the carrier ploughed ahead into the black abyss. His breathing picked up, and his heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t take another step. Keeping his hands on 301 so as not to fall off his narrow crevice and over the cliff, he ducked back under to the left side of the jet. He ignored his preflight checks, unable to continue them mentally or physically.
At the base of the ladder, Mother made one of the most courageous decisions he had ever made. You don’t have to do this!
Mother climbed the ladder again, and this time kept his eyes in the cockpit, experiencing some relief as he settled into the ejection seat. His corporal plane captain followed him up to help strap him in.
“Skipper, are you going to blow up the Chinese?” the excited Marine asked him.
In another time and place, Mother would have given the young Marine what he wanted, an answer full of swagger and bravado. Fuckin’-A right, I’m going to blow up the Chinese! But not tonight. In his cockpit prison, it was all Mother could do to grunt a “yeah.” As the relentless salt air pummeled his right shoulder, he hooked himself up by feel.
The plane captain descended to the flight deck, and soon Mother heard the Air Boss on the 5MC. Then someone flashed a light in his eyes. He winced and shielded them in furious reaction before he realized it was his corporal signaling for engine start. “Sonofabitch!” he muttered, feeling as if he were about to explode.
Somehow he got the APU and the engines started, and, by rote memory, energized the avionics. He was now trembling, mouth dry, and what little saliva he had tasted metallic. When a yellow shirt appeared, he knew what was next: taxiing out of this pit to the gallows of the catapult to then be shot into the void — and death. Yes, death would touch him tonight. His number was up! He was the CO and he had to lead, to face fear, but he was paralyzed, hyperventilating now, and could not believe that he gave the director a thumbs up to signal he was ready.
Mother’s feet were pushing on the brakes as hard as he ever had, and he could feel the tension course through his lower intestines. In front of him was black, only feet from the rounded deck edge with nothing to stop him. He had his hand on the parking brake… and the yellow shirt signaled him to release it.
Mother’s mask dangled in front of him as his chest heaved to inhale at full expansion. He was overcome: He couldn’t taxi forward, but, in a moment of courage, forced himself to do so. The Hornet inched ahead, but Mother immediately slammed on the brakes. With vigorous gestures, the yellow shirt motioned him forward to then turn him aft. Gripped by fear, Mother was petrified, unable even to shake his head no — not that anyone could detect that in the darkness. He was physically unable to taxi another inch. Mother realized he really did not have to do this, and in the most courageous decision he ever made, decided he would not tonight. He could not.
A group of sailors and Marines gathered on 301’s left side, wondering what was wrong with the pilot. Some pointed their wands at him until the flight deck staff sergeant forcibly pulled their arms down. He could see Skipper Tucker was frozen and not responding. In his own courageous move, because the jet was not secure, the sergeant ducked under the nose on the deck edge and plugged his headset into the jet to speak to his CO on the intercom.
“Skipper, you okay?”
Mother didn’t answer at first, second-guessing himself, his last chance to avoid the abyss of stepping down for the abyss of black water next to him.
“Sir… Colonel. You up?”
Mother brought the mask to his face. He would say it.
“The jet’s down. I’m getting out here.”
“Sir, can they taxi you aft and we’ll troubleshoot? What’s the problem?”
“The jet’s down, dammit. It’s down…. I’m down.”
As a tractor chugged up to Mother in 301 to tow him off the catapult and aft, he was surrounded by yellow shirts and troubleshooters speaking into their helmet headset boom mics: 301 was not going to make the launch. Coming down from his pinnacle of fear and still strapped into the ejection seat, Mother surprised himself as his shoulders heaved and he broke down in tears.
Once off the flight deck, Mother went straight to his stateroom and washed his face. His bloodshot eyes betrayed him, and he rubbed them hard in a failed attempt to remove evidence. He was exhausted, spent, and ever since he had climbed down 301’s ladder a feeling of dread had come over him. What have I done?
His Marines did not know what the CO’s gripe was with 301, and his answers on the flight deck were vague. He just wanted to get out of there and off the flight deck… with the Chinese over the horizon! They knew their CO was a man’s man, a Marine through and through. Was he afraid of the Chinese? Impossible, but the scuttlebutt flew through the Panther maintenance shops: The Skipper got out of the jet.