In the other F-14 Woods and Wink were enjoying the rocket ride into the Mediterranean darkness. “That ought to do it,” Woods said. “Think they saw us?”
The radio jumped to life. “If that was you, you’re dead.” Vialli didn’t even have to say who he was talking to. He was using the radio in the front cockpit, reserved for squadron use, set to the squadron’s private frequency. Woods was the only other squadron airplane airborne on this, the night’s last flight. It was 0145.
Woods could hear the anger in Vialli’s voice and realized he might have miscalculated. He keyed the radio with the switch on the throttle. “Yeah, we overshot. Let’s knock it off. See you at marshall.”
“You thumped us,” Vialli said furiously as he climbed the F-14 out of the clouds and leveled off.
“See you on deck,” Woods replied.
Sedge answered, “We’re switching. See you guys in marshall.”
“I think they’re pissed,” Wink said as they flew straight up away from the earth.
“They’ll get over it. Got to be ready for anything.”
Wink switched the frequency on the digital display of his radio. “Victory 207 checking in. We’re on the 268 at 40, state 7.3.” They were forty miles from the carrier and had 7,300 pounds of jet fuel.
“Roger, 207,” said the controller, the same one who was there every night, the one who mispronounced the same words every night, saying “Roger” with a long “o” and available with an extra “i,” “availiable.” His consistent mistakes had come to be highly regarded by the aircrew as signposts of the ship and a comforting familiarity.
“Contact, Victory 207. Stand by for your marshall instructions.”
“Victory 207,” Wink replied. Unlike Woods, he enjoyed marshall. It was where all the carrier’s planes went before landing aboard the carrier at night, a finely choreographed holding pattern where they circled twenty or more miles from the carrier until their time came and they began their descent to the dreaded night landing.
“Want to go up on the roof?” Woods asked Wink.
“Sure. We’ve got time,” Wink replied as he searched for a card on his knee board. “As long as we’ve got the gas.”
“We’ve got it,” Woods replied.
“Victory 207, Marshall at the 240 radial at 22 miles, angels 7. Your push time is… stand by.”
“Passing thirty,” Wink said to Woods as they passed through thirty thousand feet.
“Push time is 04.”
“Victory 207–240 at 22, angels 7, push at 04, roger,” Wink replied. “Passing forty.”
Woods started the nose of the Tomcat back toward the horizon. “How high do you want to go?”
“If we go above fifty we’re supposed to wear a pressure suit. Wouldn’t want our blood to boil.”
“Forty-nine, aye,” Woods said. He leveled off at forty-nine thousand feet and set the plane straight and level, heading in the direction of their assigned marshall location where they would begin their descent to the carrier for their landing. Their push time, when they were to begin their descent to the ship from a very specific spot, was four minutes after the hour — twenty-four minutes away. “Ready to darken ship?” Woods asked.
“Affirm,” Wink replied. They both moved their hands around the cockpit expertly adjusting the lights, consoles, and switches that gave off any light at all, leaving faint indications of critical information, and turning off or dimming everything else. They lowered the radio receiver volume so they couldn’t hear the other pilots checking in to marshall. Wink switched off his radarscope and PTID screen even though the radar stayed on. There were no reflections off the clear Plexiglas canopy which reached over their heads and down below their shoulders.
Woods adjusted the trim of the Tomcat so it would fly straight and level with his hands and feet off the controls and turned on the autopilot to hold their altitude and heading. As a last step he switched off the flashing red anticollision lights, which could be seen for miles and warned other planes of their presence. Tonight, there was no one else up that high and no risk of colliding with another airplane. The Tomcat blended in with the night, invisible to everyone but God.
Woods put his arms on the railings of the canopy and looked up at the stars. As beautiful as they were from the ship in the middle of the sea on a clear night, nothing compared to sitting on the roof, on top of the world, in a darkened airplane. Woods studied the patterns of galaxies and stars, the vast number and density of them. He loved to fly as high as he could go over the water, or anywhere else, for that matter. Even on top of the highest mountain, the view couldn’t compare to the clear sky over the sea from fifty thousand feet — above the highest mountains, the highest clouds, the highest storms, and the highest airplane traffic. There was no sensation of movement at all. It was like sitting in a planetarium. But even the view in the best planetarium would pale in comparison to this. The planets had actual size. The stars were closer, clearer, and brighter. The ones he could see pointed to the ones behind them, dimmer but clear, and the ones behind them, dimmer still. They were gathered in groups, or clusters, so numerous he couldn’t even count them in one section of the sky. God’s living room.
Woods thought of the other Navy pilots flying their racetrack patterns aimlessly in marshall, waiting for their time to descend and land on the carrier, to go below and watch a movie, or eat ice cream, or do the never-ending Navy paperwork, all without ever looking up.
He leaned back and closed his eyes to moisten them. The oxygen leaking out of the top of his oxygen mask had dried them out. He opened his eyes again and looked toward the eastern horizon where the moon would be coming up in forty-five minutes. He could see the faint glow of white as the moon gathered its energy to rise and illuminate the night.
Wink broke the silence. “Two more months and we head back to Norfolk, Sean.”
“Yep. But some good port calls before then. Like Israel.”
“Never happen. Too much going on. They’ll never let us go.”
“I’ll take that bet. I was on board last cruise when we stopped at Haifa. Same kind of deal.”
“They’ll probably blow somebody up and we won’t get to go. We’ll end up in Naples again.”
“Roger that.”
Woods sat for another minute breathing the pure oxygen. Real air was stale and warm compared to the Tomcat’s pure oxygen, which seemed to rejuvenate him whenever he put on his mask. He didn’t want to go to marshall and just drill around, waiting. They were supposed to get there early enough to set up their speed and arrive at their push time within ten seconds. He liked to get there as late as he could and still make it. Somehow they always made it. Maybe it was just his way of putting off the inevitable — landing aboard the carrier.
The mere thought of landing aboard the ship at night with no moon and an overcast caused his palms to sweat. He had never gotten used to it. He was good at it; one of the best in the squadron — but it was still an unnatural act. Woods turned up the instrument lights and switched on the anticollision lights. He rolled the F-14 over on its back and headed for marshall. “Let’s do it.”