He remembered stepping onto that flight deck as a young first lieutenant. Night carrier landings were all that stood between him and assignment to a Fleet Marine Force squadron, to be around Marines 24/7, to be done with training and the lowlife Navy. To be qualled. Complete. Graduated. Free.
He couldn’t believe the darkness he had encountered. He had never seen anything like it, even in the dense forests around Quantico. It was darker than a well digger’s ass. Inside-of-a-basketball black? No, this was inside-of-a-bowling-ball black. To make matters worse, he could feel the deck moving underneath him, and the wind screamed around the tower and whipped at his ankles as it shot down the steel deck. His jet was spotted on the bow, far from the yellowish lights on the tower that gave off a weird unnatural glow. Shadowy figures of sailors with wands moved about as he moved up the bow into greater darkness. His jet was parked on the forward precipice. Beyond was a mysterious void with no visible horizon in an enveloping blackness. Far below was turbulent water, also unseen. Mother had never even started a jet on a flight deck before, and now he had to start one at night in spite of the panic that threatened to crush his chest. Trembling, he made himself climb the ladder, and it hit him for the first time: You do not have to do this.
Mother somehow strapped in, feeling — in the seat of his pants — the heave and roll of the great vessel and — in his heart — the blackness that gripped him. Shivering with a fear he had never known before, he managed to start the jet on brain stem power, breathing hard through his mouth and forcing himself to compartmentalize. Failing to qualify was a real fear he and his classmates had lived with during each phase of his nearly three years of flight training, but that night it was a visceral, physical fear of actually dying.
Strange lights were everywhere, yellow wands moving by unseen hands and groups of figures with reflective tape on their float-coats walking in front of his nose as he crept past parked aircraft. Unfamiliar radio transmissions, unfamiliar procedures, and all surrounding the ship was black, black, black.
Mother didn’t know how he got airborne that night, but he never forgot the black, the fear bordering on terror, of being catapulted into that ink bottle and having to fly up and away from death some fifty feet below at just above stall speed, then having to complete checklists and move switches and fly the damn airplane on instruments. He qualled that night, the LSOs talking to him most of the time. When he got out of the jet, his 26-year-old knees shook for hours despite the relief he felt and the courage he displayed. Mother had done it 14 years ago, and even though he wore gold naval aviator wings on his uniform, he had hoped to never go to sea again and had maneuvered his career to stay away from it, especially those black night cat shots.
Until now. Sonofabitch!
Tonight, Mother was The Skipper, and skippers, good ones, led by example. They didn’t whine about the conditions or dwell on their fear — fear, which for Mother, had become terror.
At the appointed time, an uneasy Mother briefed with his fellow pilots, signed for a jet… and waited. The weather had deteriorated to an 800-foot overcast with three miles visibility. The seas had picked up and Hancock developed a gentle yet noticeable roll. Ashore it was worse, with North Island reporting heavy fog. Miramar was still reporting clear, but the visibility was expected to fall as the night wore on. One hundred miles of cold Pacific Ocean separated the carrier from both shore divert fields. How Mother wished for a relaxing night in La Jolla.
His junior pilots led him — he couldn’t find it on his own — to Flight Deck Control at the base of the island, a smelly and cluttered space full of old and overweight coffee-swilling squids in colored jerseys. They talked on phones and moved little toy airplanes on an acrylic board. All looked pissed off and self-important. Through a small window he saw sailors standing around wearing their Mickey Mouse helmets amid the piercing din of jet engines. A Hornet roared past them as he heard an LSO on a radio loudspeaker transmit “bolter, bolter” as the jet thundered back into the air.
No shit, Sherlock. Don’t you think the damn pilot already knows that as he’s climbing out? Mother was irritable, nervous, and deep down fearful of looking bad — or worse.
One of the fat squids barked at the pilots sitting in full gear on a bench. “Who’s the switch pilot for three-oh-six?”
Mother raised his hand. “I am,” he growled.
“He’s next for a pump/switch in the corral.”
“What the fuck?” Mother muttered to one of his majors sitting next to him, further incensed that the squid didn’t even put a “sir” on the end of his sentence. His major translated for him.
“Sir, Turnip in three-zero-six is next to trap, and they’re gonna park and fuel him between Elevators 1 and 2, just forward of us. You can hot seat him there.”
“Frickin’ squids should just say so,” Mother groused to his major, who nodded his concurrence. Outside on deck, they heard the sudden thunder of two F404 engines at full power.
“Three-zero-six is on deck. Take him for a pump/switch in the corral!” another squid called.
The first guy sitting in a barber chair pointed at Mother. “That’s you, in the corral.”
Mother grumbled and gathered his helmet. Don’t these guys know I’m a skipper? he thought. Their disrespect was enough to make him ignore his fears, but only for a moment. After he adjusted his helmet, attached the chin strap and lowered his visor, he pulled up the bar to undog the hatch and stepped out onto the flight deck.
As the wind lashed at his flight suit, his knees began to shake. Less than fifteen feet away was the deck edge and the black nothingness beyond. The eerie yellow glow from the overhead illumination bathed everything in a dull mustard-colored monochrome. He steadied himself on the island bulkhead as he moved forward.
Mother saw 306, with his nugget Turnip inside, taxi toward the edge of the deck. With the nose of the jet over the water, the director continued to motion him forward. Inch-by-inch Turnip obeyed, and when the yellow shirt finally turned him, Mother could see that Turnip, in his ejection seat, was out over the black water below. Turnip’s main mount wheel was only inches away from the deck edge coaming as he continued to follow directions, the piercing jet whine from his intakes bombarding Mother’s ears from fifty feet away. Sailors manhandling chains and fuel hoses brushed by Mother as another jet roared to a stop on the angle.
You do not have to do this. The thought entered his mind just as it had when he was Turnip’s age.
After he was tied down, Turnip shut down the left engine, and the plane captain lowered the boarding ladder. Turnip got out and Mother climbed up and in as the thirty-knot wind mixed with hot Hornet engine exhaust gases swirled about him. Given a choice, he would not have gotten in the jet. He had no choice, even though he did.
You do not have to do this…
Turnip climbed back up and crouched on the wing extension next to the cockpit. “It’s a good jet, sir. Miramar is the divert.” He had to shout to be heard.
“What’s the weather here now?” Mother barked.
“Six hundred over, sir. I was breaking out at a mile and a half.”