His wingman was led to Cat 1 and spread his wings on yellow shirt command. Mother was trembling. He was the Commanding Officer, expected to lead, in good and bad, at all times, and, as Conrad said, with no escape.
Mother was being led to the edge of the angled deck, black nothingness beyond, when, with a sudden shot of cortisol to the heart, he realized he wasn’t strapped in! He stopped as the yellow shirt signaled for a turn and forced himself to hook up, first his leg restraints and then his Koch fittings. He sensed the unwanted attention outside as lights flashed on his canopy: What is the matter with 301? He rammed the fittings home, feeling he was hopelessly behind the jet—What else am I missing? — and knew he had mere seconds to make a decision. The fear that held him fast was stifling; if he could just get past the cat shot! He felt like throwing up and sensed pains in his midsection he had never experienced before. Better to die than look bad was a saying Mother had repeated in jest many times over the years… but dying could really happen on this pitch-black night with two suspect catapults. His JO in 305 was up there on the cat and showing courage! Or maybe he was too young to know the risk. Nevertheless, if he could do it, Mother could… so he thought. Or could he? Would he? He struggled alone for an answer with only the greenish glow from his instruments and displays to keep him company, tension and fear building. Fear of admitting fear.
He then heard a muffled 5MC announcement through the Plexiglas canopy and, a moment later, saw 305 fold his wings as he sat on Cat 1. What’s going on? Mother was directed to turn aft and was taken back down the angle. A reprieve!
Mother couldn’t believe it! They must have cancelled the alert launch. Yes! Relief washed over him. He wouldn’t have to make that horrible and irrevocable decision tonight, wouldn’t have to face the smug condescension of CAG Wilson and the other limp-dick Navy COs. Or that ugly dyke in the Snipers. He’d make sure he wasn’t available to stand another night alert, and Mother figured the odds were on his side that he could avoid them. Hell, if he could fly them ashore, Mother would take his Panthers and blow away a Prick sand bar or row boat for these Navy weenies and end this. In the daytime! Let the bastards come up, engage us, and watch us kill them. Up close.
As Mother was led all the way aft, he became concerned. Where are these idiots taking me? he wondered. His yellow shirt was standing at the edge of the ramp with black nothingness beyond. What the fuck?
The yellow shirt, with careful movements of his yellow wands, led Mother ahead, knowing full well that the asshole CO of the Panthers was piloting it. All the directors knew when they were controlling Lt. Col. Tucker. Outside, high winds cascaded down the flight deck amid the piercing whine of Mother’s jet engines as the yellow shirt assessed distance and closure to begin his turn. Inside the cockpit, Mother’s fear spiked again.
The director commanded Mother forward, and his jet inched ahead only under the vigorous motion of the veteran petty officer. Over the nose was nothing, and Mother was looking almost straight left at the director who had one foot on the deck edge. Mother’s hand was on the parking brake, but, if he lost brakes here, it would be too late. He was now so jittery he was afraid to put his hand on the ejection handle where it could do some good with a split-second reaction time. Ejecting into the black here would be followed by sudden immersion into the cold, roaring rapids of the ship’s wake, with churning rip currents to drag him under. Turn me, dammit! Turn me! Mother fumed.
The yellow shirt directed a left turn, and, at once, Mother stomped on the left rudder pedal. Too much, the director signaled Mother to slow down, and then coaxed him ahead. After another quarter turn, Mother’s right main was inches from the edge, without even coaming as a last ditch defense from sliding off the deck — everything black, everything tense, everything fucked up. Once parked, Mother was going to find this yellow shirt and ream his ass big time, CAG and the Captain be damned.
He was led to the starboard shelf and maneuvered so he could be pushed back into place. Being inexperienced Mother wasn’t sure what was happening—who knew on this floating insane asylum! — and, in the darkness, he could not tell that a dozen sailors were ready to push the aircraft back into position. He was ordered to release brakes and felt himself go in reverse. Fuck me! he cried in terror as he stomped on the brakes. The incensed yellow shirt motioned in wild gestures to release brakes, dammit! Once again, Mother was pushed back toward the deck edge by manpower, his asshole sucking up the seat cushion as it had all night.
As Mother was chained down, he flicked his mask off, once again gasping for fresh air, smelling his perspiration, smelling his fear. He hated this. He hated everything about it: the confinement, the foreign signals, missing the fight, and the indignity of being surrounded by thousands of swabs, including this cocksucker who was screwing with him. Navy losers always fucked with Marines, and it was going to end right frickin’ now.
After he shut down, Mother popped open the canopy and signaled to his plane captain to come up the ladder. “Who was that bastard yellow shirt? Get him and bring him here!”
“Sir?” the surprised corporal answered.
“The yellow shirt who was controlling me! Get him!”
The corporal descended the ladder, and, after a minute, Mother’s flight deck gunnery sergeant appeared next to him on the aircraft’s leading edge extension. “Sir, is there a problem?”
Mother, his nerves shot and patience gone, exploded. “Gunny, fucking forget it! No problem…. Get off the damn jet!” The yellow shirt in question was long gone, melded into the other shadows. He couldn’t expect his Marines to find him and an impromptu inquisition would just call attention to his problem.
“Yes, sir,” said the puzzled Gunny before he descended the ladder.
Mother put his head back and checked his watch. Another three hours before his relief showed. He felt the sudden urge to sleep, and dozed for a moment.
When he awoke, he saw the angle was clear and the lens was on. He looked left over his shoulder and saw an airplane in the groove, no noise, with wingtip lights indicating a long wingspan. It came closer, and he heard a strange noise, a whoop sound. As it crossed the ramp, he could make it out and heard the whistling engines spooling. A squid jet… What is it? Oh, yeah, an S-3.
Another S-3 Viking appeared in the groove and trapped aboard with engines that sounded like a vacuum cleaner at full power. But it wasn’t a Viking. Upon closer inspection, the two aircraft had strange antennas and blisters that were barely discernible on the darkened deck and not familiar to Mother. He didn’t know, but Wilson and Blower did: These ES-3 Shadows were signals intelligence aircraft, kept hidden and ready for emergency deployment for over a decade, and they were going to surprise the PRC. The Americans also had other reserve assets in theater.
So, however, did the PLA. At that moment, some 2,000 miles to the west, from the same interior Sichuan and Hunan bases that had launched the aircraft that found and attacked Hancock over a week earlier, more unmanned aircraft were made ready for flight. Hundreds more, and arming crews were busy.