“If it can, do you want to be the first off to test it?” Wilson asked, maintaining his composure.
“Sir, all I know is I can’t guarantee we’ll all make it.”
“Neither can they,” Wilson said as he pointed outside his stateroom, “but they’re going back to crunch their own numbers and ‘what-if’ this with their squadrons. They’ll come up with things we haven’t thought of yet, and one of them is the landing at Iwo Jima. Ever operated there?”
“Yes, sir,” Mother nodded.
“Good, because I haven’t. You are designated the air wing Iwo Jima expert, and I want you to make us smart on it and get info to the ready rooms.”
Realizing he was not getting anywhere, Mother kept his mouth shut.
“One other thing: You’re going to be the second jet off the ship.”
“Sir?”
“After me, and I’m taking one of your jets. I’m the first off in one of your thirty-year-old FA-18 Charlies, and you follow me. Sound good?”
Mother was in a corner, and he knew it. If tomorrow CAG Wilson ejected off the bow, at least he could still stop this idiocy.
“Yes, sir,” a tight-lipped Mother nodded. Wilson could tell he was not buying the program.
“Good. And I want the jet with my name on it.”
“It’s down for inspection in the hangar, sir.”
“Then get it up on the roof!” Wilson snapped, glaring at Mother. Maybe now is the time for this, Wilson thought.
Holding his finger and thumb a half-inch apart, Wilson took a step toward Mother. “Mother, I am this close to giving your squadron to one of your captains. If you cannot lead your squadron without questioning and grumbling about every task or assignment or course of action, there are others who can — and they don’t even have to be Marines. We are at fucking war, Mother, with a peer competitor. I am going to accept this risk for my air wing and you are part of my air wing. Now, if you want to step down as CO, you let me know right now and we’ll send you back to Miramar ASAP. The last thing I want today is a change of command, but just give me a reason. I want your answer, and right now.”
Without hesitation, Mother answered. “I’m on your team, CAG, and the Marines will comply. We’ll get your jet on the roof.”
“Good. Dismissed.” Wilson turned back to his desk.
Mother stepped into the passageway and closed the door, his heart pounding but alive to fight another day. Could a Navy guy relieve him? he wondered.
CAG Wilson was going to get everyone killed, and his Marines were the guinea pigs! Iwo had only one runway and Wilson was sending fifty emergency-fuel jets to it. Who knew which air wing knucklehead was going to blow a tire and foul it. Deep down, Mother knew it would probably be one of his guys — or himself.
But first he had to deck run off the ship and into a low-state emergency; all of his boys did, with the risk of sliding into a catwalk or not having enough lift to remain airborne at the end. A night cat-shot was terrifying enough, but this? Suicidal.
Mother was ready to fight the Chinese, but not like this.
CHAPTER 30
Wilson’s entire being was focused on the yellow shirt to his right who directed him forward inch by inch. Beyond Wilson’s nose was a churning gray wake with seabirds darting about the whitecaps under low clouds. With his nose wheel behind him, he sensed he was only feet from the round down, and would get a welcome right turn when he moved another foot forward.
The yellow shirt clenched his left fist and motioned ahead with his right hand. Wilson stood on the right brake and added a little power, his nose tires sweeping along the round down as his Hornet pivoted on the dangerous edge of the steel cliff. Wilson was now taxiing along the carrier’s ramp, creeping ahead for what would be another hard right turn before his deck run. He felt the ship roll left and felt gusts of wind beat on his fuselage. When the yellow shirt commanded him to turn again, squadron troubleshooters pushed on his nose to help him make as tight a turn as possible. A yellow stripe, painted on the length of the deck the night before, would help him stay aligned.
The bow was empty, and the right side of the deck was packed with jets — and people. The island was also crammed with sailors taking every available vantage point on vultures’ row to witness history, or like some at an auto race, a crash. Everyone on the ship who could find a PLAT monitor was watching, and next to Blower on the bridge stood The Big Unit. Despite knowing the risks Flip and the rest of Air Wing Fifteen were taking, he was optimistic about the outcome.
The weather was a factor. Winds were no problem, and Hanna had over forty knots of headwind, but the carrier pitched and rolled in heavy seas. Squadron maintainers were exhausted after defueling and changing the tank configurations of over fifty aircraft. All were on edge, and throughout the morning, Hancock had turned and dodged and sprinted to avoid surface contacts, everything from trawlers to merchants. Being targeted by space-borne sensors was also a factor. Overnight, American anti-satellite vehicles had nudged Chinese satellites out of their orbits and degraded their ability to localize threat warships. In essence, both belligerents were now blind in space.
To further avoid detection, Hancock was again in strict radio silence. Wilson and the rest would depart the ship and transition right into their bingo profiles, not talking or radiating. They expected to home in on Iwo Jima’s radio navigation aid; the forecast weather was clear.
Wilson’s jet did not have an accurate navigation system. With only so many alignment cables, he had given his to one of Mother’s young captains. Wilson was going to take off in “standby” mode and navigate to the island using his compass and dead reckoning. He expected to see Iwo Jima from 50 miles.
Wilson taxied into position and assessed the deck 1,000 feet ahead of him. It sank down into the sea, then lifted up past the horizon into the sky before repeating the cycle. He — and the Flight Deck Officer next to him — tried to assess the motion to time Wilson’s brake release. Wilson realized it was fruitless; the deck would do what it wanted and no one had ever timed a Hornet deck run before.
Next to the yellow-shirted officer, a sailor held a large board that she lifted over her head. The sign read:
NRST LAND: IWO JIMA
BRG: 292
DIST: 81
WX: 100 BKN 7
Wilson gave her a thumbs-up, and she spun toward Mother’s jet to hold the sign up for him to see.
After he locked the wings in place, Wilson checked the fuel out of habit: 3,100 pounds. All was unusual, and he forced himself to compartmentalize. The Catapult Officer, a pilot by background, now took control. He gave Wilson a thumbs up, as if to ask if he was ready, and Wilson nodded. The Cat Officer, the Shooter, then rotated two fingers, and Wilson pushed the throttles to 80 % and cycled the controls as he checked the engine readings. Satisfied, he saluted the officer, conscious of over 1,000 sets of eyes on them.
The Shooter returned Wilson’s salute and assessed the bow motion. As he continued to burn fuel with each passing second, Wilson watched the bow rise up and then down through a full cycle. C’mon. C’mon, he thought.