Panther 303 flew an acceptable pattern. When rolling out behind the ship, he barked, “Ball!”
“Roger ball, Hornet,” Crusher answered.
Wilson watched 303 approach, on-and-on, looking good. Approaching the ramp, Wilson detected a left drift. The pilot did, too, and dropped his right wing to correct it, a correction way too large close to touchdown which killed much of the lift on his wings. The Hornet developed a steep rate of descent, and Wilson cringed at the sight.
“Power!” Crusher and Mullet transmitted in unison as 303 slammed into the deck just past the round down, sparks flying behind it as the tailhook clawed at the deck before it engaged the one-wire. All on the flight deck could hear it being pulled out of its housing — the aircraft engines were at idle, a cardinal sin upon carrier arrestment.
“Power in the wires!” Crusher bellowed into his handset, and, too late, 303 went to full power.
The Panther pilot, in an impulsive and lightning quick motion he thought no one could see, flipped the bird in response to the radio blast. He did not know his Air Wing Commander was watching from the foul line next to him.
The other Panthers recovered and all were spotted on elevators one and two to receive fuel. Wilson was then pulled out of his spot and, as he complied with the hand signals of the yellow-shirted director, saw that 303 was parked just in front of the island. The canopy was up and Wilson knew why; Hancock’s captain, Captain Ted Leaf, was summoning Panther One for a one-way conversation.
CHAPTER 10
The Panthers of Marine Fighter Attack Squadron Three Three Five had a long history of combat success. Formed in early 1942, they had served at Guadalcanal flying the F4F Wildcat as part of the “Cactus Air Force.” They had switched to the F4U Corsair and saw action at Iwo Jima, Okinawa, and mainland Japan. During Korea they were aboard the escort carrier USS Rendova and by the mid-1960s were flying the F-4 Phantom, completing numerous deployments out of Da Nang, RVN. Transitioning to the Hornet, the Panthers supported Marines on the ground from Saudi Arabia in 1991, and again in 2003 from Kuwait. It was a squadron steeped in tradition and accomplishment, the pride of Fleet Marine Force Pacific.
Commanding VMFA-335—and piloting 303—was Lieutenant Colonel Ray “Mother” Tucker. At forty years old and recruiting poster handsome, Mother was an experienced Hornet pilot with over 3,000 hours. He had spent most of his career in “gun squadrons” at Marine Corps Air Station Beaufort, South Carolina—The Beaufort Rod and Gun Club—making deployment after deployment to Iwakuni, Japan. Assignment to VMFA-335 marked his first West Coast tour. And first carrier tour. Unlike their CO who assumed command only three months earlier, most of Mother’s pilots were experienced carrier aviators with combat time over Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan. None of that mattered to Mother. He was the CO, the Skipper, and he left no doubt that he ruled the roost in VMFA-335.
Mother would be the first to say that the Marine Corps was a department of the Navy — the men’s department — and, in his view, the Navy existed to deliver combat-ready Marines to fight the nation’s wars. What further need for military force was there? A Marine with his knee on the chest and a knife in the throat of an enemy of freedom sent an unmistakable message to all adversaries — and the world at large. Marines like Mother would look you in the eye before killing you, and long-range “smart” weapons carried by Navy and Air Force pussies were a waste of good money.
After he was shut down next to the island, Mother followed the Flight Deck Officer up the five ladders to the bridge. Waiting for him, Captain Leaf placed his finger in Mother’s chest and ripped into him about his unprofessional flight leadership and radio conduct in the expected one-way conversation. Dismissed, Mother smirked as he trudged down the ladders, holding Leaf and all the spaghetti-armed Navy swabs in contempt. He’d been reamed by Marine generals more than once, and no Navy captain came close to the ass-chewing a veteran devil dog could deliver.
Mother got back in the jet and managed to log three more traps to get day current. After dinner, he would brief to go at night for two traps… and two night cat shots.
Ray Tucker had never deployed in combat and had never spent time on a ship; just the way career timing worked. After all, Marine squadrons needed to deploy to Iwakuni, Japan, and to Aviano, Italy, as well as to Al Asad and Bagram. When Mother was in “gun squadrons,” he served ably as part of the United States’ forward deployed policy. Pilots like Mother yearned for action in Iraq and Afghanistan, but timing sometimes determined that others got those assignments. Both roles were important.
As the years went by, Mother was glad to avoid “the boat” where a few Marine Corps Hornet squadrons served. His total carrier experience consisted of his qual in flight school and the time he qualled in the FA-18 during initial training. For Mother, 14 years had elapsed since his first carrier landings and he now had only 44 career traps, all of them in the carrier qualification mode. In contrast, contemporaries like Olive had over 800 traps in a flying career spent on deployed carriers in combat, and Mother knew this was an area of weakness for him as a pilot. He thought he had avoided “the ship” when he was assigned to command VMFA-335, a squadron not scheduled to go to sea on a carrier during his tenure. That had changed last Saturday when his phone rang and CAG Wilson told him of the incident in the South China Sea. Damn!
Once complete tonight, he would be day and night carrier qualified, and his next launch would be on a real fleet mission.
Once complete tonight.
CHAPTER 11
Outside, as Hancock made lazy circles at five knots off San Clemente Island, cold seawater lapping at her hull, the gray skies grew darker with each passing minute. On the flight deck the breeze that whipped through the parked airplanes, although gentle, had a November chill. Plane captains polished the canopies and checked the tire pressures of jets that would be starting for the night events in mere hours. Mother Tucker now had no escape from a reckoning that would occur when the first jet taxied to the bow catapults.
Mother was a Commanding Officer of the old school, one who led from the front. He could out fly any of his pilots — to him the squid Landing Signal Officers who criticized his afternoon landing performance could be ignored — and was confident he could lead the Panthers against anything the Chinese could muster in opposition. He couldn’t wait to get over there, to write another glorious chapter—his glorious chapter — in the Panthers’ storied history.
Mother feared no man, but he did have one fear, a fear he had repressed for 14 years, a fear he could not admit even if he could trust someone to confide in. When CAG Wilson had called him at home and told him to prepare his squadron, the countdown clock had begun, and now the hour to face that fear was at hand.