Olive trapped without incident, and the “nugget” pilot Jumpin’ was next. The Air Boss directed traffic.
“Panthers, continue,” the Boss said.
The seas were light and the deck steady as Jumpin’ made his approach. Wilson followed him but concentrated on his own instrument approach, noting only an occasional whitecap below. Jumpin’ crossed the ramp and trapped without any calls from Crusher.
As Wilson rolled into the groove, he was startled when a flight of four Hornets blasted 100 feet over him in a sharp left angle of bank. He figured they were going about 500 knots as they rolled out over the deck, the wingmen struggling to maintain parade position at that high speed. What the fuck?
“Panthers at the numbers,” the lead called, another faux pas radio call suited for the field, not the ship.
“Roger, Panther, your interval is abeam,” the Boss responded.
After he called the ball, Wilson slid across the wake to the extended centerline and put everything but flying his jet out of his mind.
“Here’s CAG! Clear deck!” Crusher sang out. He watched the minor movements of Wilson’s wings and nose, pilot and LSO each concentrating on the approach. A muttered comment from Mullet interrupted his concentration.
“You gotta be shittin’ me…!”
Crusher wanted to know what Mullet was looking at but ignored it as he watched Wilson cross the ramp. The screaming Rhino flew past and picked up the two-wire as Wilson shoved the throttles to military by instinct. Amid the thunderous roar of engines at full power, and within little more than the length of a football field, the Super Hornet was wrestled to a stop.
“What?” Crusher turned to ask Mullet.
His partner pointed to the sky off the port beam. “Look at the Panthers.”
Crusher saw four Hornets on downwind, bunched up too close to one another, too close for all four of them to trap aboard in order. They would have to wave off at least two of them for interval, gumming up the pattern and burning more fuel.
Crusher groaned and returned his concentration to Flamer who was rolling in the groove. “Boss isn’t gonna be happy,” he volunteered to Mullet and the other LSOs on the platform. He was right.
“Panthers, Tower, say low state,” the Air Boss transmitted.
“Tower, dash two has three-point-two, and the rest of us have about four-K.”
This radio exchange caught Wilson’s attention. What? The number two Hornet had little over 30 minutes of fuel, just enough for one attempt to trap before he would have to fly an emergency fuel profile back to his base at Miramar — some 100 miles away. Now parked on the foul line with his nose pointing into the landing area, Wilson had the best seat in the house to watch this little drama unfold.
As Flamer crossed the ramp, the lead Panther jet was racing through the 90-degree position, still too fast and trying to slow with the low-state number two jet right behind. It was obvious to all there was not enough space to get both aboard, and number two had fuel for one attempt. After Flamer rolled to a stop, Wilson heard the Boss on the 5MC flight deck loudspeaker.
“Paddles, take the second jet. He’s trick-or-treat.”
Wilson noted Crusher and Mullet on the platform lift a thumbs-up acknowledgment to the Boss in the tower as the Panther jets bunched up through the 90-degree position behind them.
“In the groove, wave off, foul deck,” Crusher transmitted, directing the lead to take it around for another attempt. To his dismay, the lead and number two initiated wave offs. The displeased Air Boss jumped on the radio to untangle the mess his landing pattern had become.
“Panther lead, continue ahead, and I’ll call your downwind. Number two, what’s your side number and fuel state?”
“Three-zero-four, sir. Three thousand pounds.”
Now all four Panther FA-18’s, all low on fuel, were directed by the Boss to wave off and allow the second jet, 304, flown by their newest and least experienced pilot, to get one more attempt before he had to execute a “bingo” emergency fuel profile through bad weather to his shore base.
Wilson shook his head at the amateurish display.
Panther 304 turned downwind. The deck was clear, waiting. On the platform, Crusher and Mullet conferred about the human being flying 304.
“Who’s in three-zero-four?” Crusher asked.
“Their new guy, Howell. Goes by Turnip. At the field he tended to be high and fast.”
“Roger…. I’m going to have him extend off the abeam to give him more straightaway. Clear deck, 25 knots!”
With his wingmen flying ahead of the carrier for the moment, 304 was now first to land, and the nugget pilot had the full attention of the hundreds of personnel aboard Hanna engaged in flight operations.
“Three-zero-four, Paddles, extend off the abeam. I’ll call your turn. Workin’ twenty-six knots down the angle!”
“Roger, sir,” the young pilot answered.
Wilson looked forward of the ship and saw Panther 303 turn downwind before he was told. The Boss saw it, too.
“Panthers, continue upwind. I’ll call your turn!”
“Boss, three-zero-three. I’m getting kinda low on fuel here and need to turn in.”
Incensed, the Boss snarled into his microphone, “Three-zero-three, I said, continue upwind!”
When he had a chance, Crusher jumped in. “Three-zero-four, turn in now. Recheck hook-down.”
“Yes, sir,” the young pilot answered as the LSOs watched him turn back to them for his approach.
“Three-zero-three, turn downwind now,” the irate Boss commanded.
Wilson saw 303 turn without answering. In this carrier flight pattern realm, the Air Boss was the unquestioned “boss” who did not accept — in public no less! — backtalk from pilots any more than he would have his instructions ignored. Everyone who was listening got the meaning of the snub 303 had delivered, and all checked the status board to see who was flying it: the Panthers’ Commanding Officer, who reported to CAG Jim Wilson.
The young pilot in the low-state Hornet rolled into the groove, and from his vantage point on the foul line, Wilson saw he was high and fast. Crusher did, too.
“You’re high… got a ball?”
“Three-zero-four, Hornet ball, three-oh, Howell.” Crusher sensed the nugget was nervous, and so did Mullet.
“Talk to him, Crush!”
Keeping his eyes on 304, Crusher nodded and keyed the handset mike. “You’re high… Coming down, power to catch it… You’re goin’ high.”
Turnip in 304 saw he was floating high again. Near the carrier’s ramp, he bunted nose down to correct — a no-no. Crusher was right on it.
“Attitude! Power!”
The nugget pilot over controlled his Hornet and, with the nose too high and not enough power, the jet came down hard on deck next to the LSOs before it taxied into the one-wire. Turnip rolled out with his engines in afterburner as his jet strained against the cable and stopped mere feet in front of Wilson on the foul line.
“We gotcha, three-zero-four. You can throttle back,” the Boss radioed.
Once 304 taxied clear, attention was focused on 303, the squadron CO, who was turning through the 90-degree position, and also low on fuel. Wilson sat in his ejection seat with hands on the canopy bow taking more mental notes. He would have to have a talk with the CO, not the kind he or the CO would want to start the cruise.