“I know I’m supposed to tell you now to have a good flight, but I’m going to miss you.” Mary’s voice broke, and she collapsed back into his arms. Wilson squeezed Mary tight and kissed her forehead. They held each other for a moment before Mary let go to wipe a tear.
Wilson picked up his bag. “We’ll be off the coast for a few days qualifying everyone before we start over. I’ll try to call before we leave. Hopefully, Saturday… and I’ll need to hear all about the games.”
“Okay, Daddy,” Brittany said with a smile that looked more like a grimace on her tear-streaked face.
Mary had already walked around to the driver’s seat. As they drove away, she turned his way and Wilson blew her a kiss. In response, she gave a reflexive wave as she drove off. Wilson watched them leave as he had at the beginning of other cruises, stunned that another separation was happening and once again ashamed he was excited to go. But this one had a foreboding he had never experienced. War with China was on the horizon.
Wilson then hoisted his gear and spun for the hangar door to begin his eighth cruise.
In the VFA-152 squadron ready room, Olive was at the table poring over a chart when Wilson walked in. “Attention on deck!” one of the lieutenants barked, and as all popped to attention, Wilson raised his hand.
“Seats, please. As you were.”
“Hi, CAG,” Olive said as she walked over with outstretched hand. “The lead is yours, sir.”
“Thanks, Skipper, but you can lead us out there. Where’s the ship going to be?”
Olive motioned to the chart. “Here, sir, south of San Clemente Island. Solid marine layer overcast at 1,500 feet, seven miles vis, westerly winds. About 300 miles from here; overhead time in three hours.”
“Great. Let’s chat in your office before we brief.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilson and Olive walked down the passageway to her office. “How was the load out yesterday?” Wilson began.
“Good, sir, the trucks got out of here by noon, and they arrived in San Diego around 2200. Everything is loaded, and all my people except one are aboard.”
“Who’s missing?”
“A new airman out of boot camp. Didn’t show up at the airlift. She’ll turn up before long, and no big loss.”
Wilson nodded as she led them into her office. “How are your pilots?”
“Good, sir, we just have Jumpin’ our one new guy. He’s trainable, and the rest of the guys are cruise experienced. We’re ready.”
“How are you doing?”
Olive smiled and looked away. “Doing okay. It’s hard to explain to a three-year-old, but… that’s the way it goes. I’m focused now; leading the Snipers into combat is my job.” Wilson noted redness around Olive’s eyes. Everyone’s had a hard morning, he thought.
“All right. Let’s get down there and brief, Skipper. Proud to fly on your wing.”
Three hours later, Wilson was “welded” to Olive’s wing as she led them through the cloud layer, the gray outline of her jet just visible in the murk. At times the clouds were so thick Wilson lost sight of Olive’s left wingtip for an instant, even though he was mere feet away. On Wilson’s left, trying to hang on, was a lieutenant they called Flamer, and on Olive’s right, in tight parade formation, was the new guy, Jumpin’ Joe. As the lead, Olive concentrated on her instruments as she led the three jets through the “goo.” The water molecules slamming into the jets at 300 knots buffeted the Rhinos, increasing the difficulty of staying in position as the three wingmen tightened their grips on their flight controls.
Each pilot noted a wisp of something below them, followed by clear air, as Olive led them out of the ceiling and over the gray-blue sea 1,000 feet below. Ahead, the carrier Hancock made a healthy white wake as she headed west. A single Rhino was turning downwind off the bow.
“Marshal, Snipers see you at ten,” Olive transmitted.
“Roger, Snipers, switch tower and report with state.”
With a pump of her left fist, Olive directed Wilson and Flamer to cross under to take position next to Jumpin’ on the right. Wilson nodded and manipulated his controls with fingertip pressure to enter a graceful slide down, back, and up. Olive keyed the mike.
“Tower, Sniper one-zero-one. Flight of four, approaching initial, low state six-point-eight.”
From his station six decks above the flight deck, the Air Boss looked aft and saw the, four small dots lined up and coming at him.
“Roger, Snipers, your signal is ‘Charlie.’ Traffic is a Rhino turning crosswind.”
“Roger, Boss, visual,” Olive answered.
On the Landing Signal Officer platform, Wilson’s two Air Wing LSOs watched the four Rhinos approach in parade formation just under the bottoms of the cloud layer.
Lieutenant Commander Rick “Mullet” Krueger, senior of the two, watched next to the platform edge. “Hey, Crusher, here comes CAG with the Snipers,” he shouted over the wind.
“Visual!” his fellow LSO, and roommate, Henry “Crusher” Arnold answered. Crusher held the radio telephone to his ear and assessed the single Rhino turning off the abeam. The radio crackled.
“Snipers, Tower, hook down, hook down. Got a flight of four behind you low state!”
“Sniper, roger, hook down,” Olive answered. She lowered her tailhook, and her wingmen followed suit. Wilson wondered who was behind them low on fuel with the ship only 100 miles off the coast.
With a Rhino in the groove, the four Snipers roared overhead Hancock as they paralleled the carrier’s course.
Looking over her left shoulder for interval, Olive broke away from the others with a sharp snap roll and pull, her g-suit explosively inflating around her legs and torso. At set intervals ahead of the ship, Jumpin,’ then Wilson, and finally Flamer broke to line up in the pattern behind Olive, “dirtying up” by dropping their gear and flaps. Wilson’s FA-18E slowed as he assessed interval and abeam spacing for his trap.
Mullet watched the four Sniper jets on downwind: good interval, gear down, flaps down, hook down. He learned his CAG was in the third jet, but he and Crusher were most concerned about the new guy Jumpin’ who was now turning off the abeam. Olive rolled into the groove with a good start. No surprise given her experience.
“One-zero-one, Rhino ball, six-four, Teel,” she transmitted.
A radio call interrupted Crusher before he could respond.
“USS Hancock, Panther three-oh-three flight of four at the initial for the break.”
“On the ball! Roger ball, Sniper,” Crusher jumped in. With an aircraft in the groove, the Panther lead had committed a small breach of radio etiquette. If he could stay off the radio until Olive recovered, it could be forgiven.
But the Panther lead could not keep from speaking out of turn, and his boss, Captain Jim Wilson, was in the pattern and taking mental notes.
“Tower, Panther flight is inside the initial; are we cleared to break?” the irritated and impatient flight lead called again.
“Hang on, Panthers,” the Air Boss answered so an exasperated Crusher wouldn’t have to admonish Panther lead again.