“Yeah, but — ” Lobo’s voice broke off when she could find no way to reason around the order grounding them. Their seniority and experience kept them on the flight schedule most of the time, but this wasn’t most of the time. With more aircraft, they might have had a shot at it, but there were more than sufficient aircrews to man up every airframe on board the carrier.
“So we stay up here,” Lobo concluded glumly. “That sucks.”
“And out of the way,” Hot Rock added. “That sounds like the LSO platform to me.”
Ten minutes later, after finding that there were a lot of shortcuts out to the LSO platform that they’d never learned, they stepped out onto the small platform on the port side of the ship just below the level of the flight deck. Both pilots immediately moved forward without thinking to stand next to the officer guiding the aircraft in.
“Back off,” a harsh voice said. “Jesus, what are they teaching you in boot camp these days? Don’t you know enough to stay out of the way?” an LSO snapped at them.
“What’s — ” Hot Rock began. A strong hand closed on his collar and jerked him back out of the way. “What the hell?”
“Didn’t you hear the lieutenant?” a chief petty officer asked. “Get your ass out of the way — now!”
“What is it?” Lobo asked, as they both backed out of the way.
“Pay attention — this isn’t going to be pretty,” the chief said, shouting to be heard over the noise of an approaching Tomcat. “Nugget inbound has lost his cool — he’s boltered twice and the LSO is trying to talk him in. Getting low on fuel, too, but he’s shaking so much right now he can’t even take a pass at the tanker. This is going to be ugly.”
He pointed down at the cargo netting that dropped from the LSO platform to a spot that was affixed to the hull of the ship. “Anything goes wrong, you jump for that net. There’s a hatch down there off to the side — you can make it back into the ship that way.”
Hot Rock and Lobo exchanged glances. If a Tomcat pilot was in trouble, then it had to be someone they knew. Neither of them recognized the LSO — it was from one of the other squadrons onboard — but both could now see the Tomcat inbound. The pilot was clearly having problems maintaining altitude and orientation to the deck. The Tomcat wandered around the sky like a wounded goose. Wavering back and forth off center line, sometimes too high, far off and too low.
“Man, oh, man — I’m looking at a ramp strike waiting to happen,” Lobo breathed. “Get some altitude, buddy, come on, come on…” Her voice trailed off as she realized the chief was staring at them curiously. Four feet in front of them, the LSO was repeating virtually the same words.
They both stared at the incoming Tomcat, silently willing it across the flight deck. As the nose of the aircraft passed over the stern, they both breathed a sigh of relief. At least it wouldn’t be a ramp strike, a head-on full speed impact into the stern of the ship. But just when they thought he would make it, snagging the four wire, the stern of the ship jutted abruptly up. It caught the Tomcat just forward of its main landing gear, snapping the struts like matchsticks. The tail-end of the aircraft slammed down, and the aircraft itself commenced a flat spin across the nonskid, headed directly toward them.
“Down!” the chief shouted, and he yanked both of them down to the railing and over it and into the cargo net in one motion.
They were staring in horrified fascination when the chief yanked them down. Behind them, they could hear other feet clanging on the metal deck plates, feel the hot breath of the burning Tomcat, now on fire, hurtling over their head and into the ocean.
As they hit the cargo net, they hit on their backs and rolled over to see the lieutenant flying through mid-air toward them. Just as his forward section cleared the cargo net, the shattered remnant of a landing gear strut snagged his foot. It ripped the flesh open in a thin smear of blood and hung in the air a moment. The impact slammed him hard into the side of the ship, and he crumpled into an ominously still heap in the bottom of the net.
The chief scrambled down after him. Before he even performed first aid, he stripped off the lieutenant’s headset and clamped it over his own head. Then, simultaneously making his report to the Air Boss and checking the lieutenant to see if he was still breathing, he briefed the Air Boss.
Hot Rock glanced out and could see two more Tomcats wheeling into position on final approach. He stepped forward, tapped the chief on the shoulder, then started to remove the headset. The chief clamped one beefy fist over Hot Rock’s hand. “What the hell you doing, kid?” the chief snarled.
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Stone,” he said calmly. “And this is Lieutenant Commander Hanson. We’re both F-14 pilots. Both LSO qualified. And I think you could use one of those about now.”
The chief stared at them for a moment, disbelieving, then sudden recognition dawned in his eyes. “I know who you are. Didn’t recognize you in — Sir, what the hell are you — never mind.” He ripped the headphones off, shoved them in Hot Rock’s hands, and turned his attention back to the lieutenant. “Air Boss knows what’s going on, and Medical is on the way. He said the forward part of the aircraft slid completely off and they’re checking the catapult for damage right now. May be a couple of minutes until we can launch, but we’ve got two birds inbound.” He pointed aft. “Think you can get them in?”
“If there’s no damage to the wires, yeah,” Hot Rock said.
“Keep in mind they’re going to be a little shook up.” He glanced at the two of them then said, “You know how it is. You see somebody buy it right in front of you getting on the deck, you’re going to be kind of shaky coming in. Don’t let on that you’re a replacement LSO.”
“This part I know how to do, Chief.” Hot Rock climbed back up the net and stationed himself on the undamaged portion of the LSO perch. Lobo joined him. She put her head up next to his, pulling the earpiece away from his ear slightly so she could listen in.
“Tomcat Two-zero-one, call the ball,” Hot Rock said, falling easily into the LSO pattern of coaching a bird onto the deck.
“What the hell is going on down there, LSO?” a panicked pilot’s voice asked. “Jesus, is he — ”
“Tomcat Two-oh-one, call the ball,” Hot Rock repeated, keeping his voice calm and professional. “Keep your mind in the game, mister. You’ve only got one thing to worry about right now, and that’s putting that turkey down on the deck.”
“Yeah, but — ”
“Tomcat Two-oh-one, call the ball,” Hot Rock repeated, letting the repetition cue the pilot’s mind back into the familiar pattern of the landing sequence.
“Roger, LSO, Two-oh-one ball.” The pilot’s voice already sounded calmer as he focused on the immediate problem at hand. “Four thousand pounds on board.”
“Roger, Two-oh-one, say needles?” Hot Rock asked, asking the pilot to tell him how his glide slope indicator held the aircraft’s position in relation to the ideal glide slope.
“Roger, needles show high and to the right.”
“Two-oh-one, LSO, disregard needles, I hold you on course on speed. Keep it coming in, you’re headed straight for the three wire.”
“We got a green deck?” the pilot asked, the anxiety surging in his voice again.
“Roger, that’s a green deck,” Hot Rock said. “Green deck, green deck… looking good, Two-oh-one, a little power, a little power, that’s it, watch your attitude, attitude, that’s it, that’s it…” Hot Rock settled easily into the familiar singsong patter of an LSO walking a Tomcat down the invisible slope that linked his last position on final approach to the number three wire on the deck. He could feel Lobo’s hot breath on his neck as she listened, heard her subvocalizing the same patter he was putting out over the airwaves to the nervous pilot. “Looking good, looking good — got it!” he shouted as Tomcat Two-oh-one slammed down onto the deck in a controlled crash as it crossed the three wire. “Good trap, Two-oh-one.”