The hook sometimes skipped over the wires, or the pilot came across the ramp too high and landed long. Either circumstance resulted in a “bolter.” Therefore, landing called for full power on each touchdown to ensure the aircraft could get airborne if necessary. Until it did, its hook clawed at the nonskid surface and kicked up a dazzling spray of sparks. The jet then zoomed off the end of the angled deck and struggled back into the air for a downwind turn and another approach.
Sometimes the pilot would get a “wave-off” signal from the LSO due to a poor approach or due to the deck status. Pilots liked recovering with “max-trap” fuel in these conditions. More fuel meant more options, more chances to get aboard. All aircrew sweated fuel when operating around the ship, but “blue water ops” at night, especially with a pitching deck, put everyone on edge. Sometimes pilots cheated, bringing an extra 100–200 extra pounds of fuel aboard; that extra fuel equaled one or two more minutes airborne if they needed it for another pass, to rendezvous on the tanker, or to make the divert field, even if they had to fly on fumes. That was certainly better than flaming out and ejecting 10 miles short. The fuel gauge was, indeed, the most important instrument in the cockpit at times like these.
More pilots dropped in next to Wilson in the peanut gallery: squadron department heads and COs and XOs from the other squadrons were all there to act as subject matter experts, if the need arose. He exchanged greetings or nods with most of those who caught his eye, but they were all there, like Wilson, to assess the situation facing their pilots that evening. CDR Randy “Big Unit” Johnson, the Buccaneer’s Executive Officer, sat down next to Wilson. Johnson shared the same name as the flame-throwing major league hurler, stood at six-foot-four, and had a bone-crushing handshake he had developed from regular workouts in the foc’sle weight room. He possessed the good looks of a movie star — with his thick, dark hair, brown eyes, square jaw and cleft chin — he was one of the nicest guys in the wing and a solid carrier pilot.
“Flip, ready for another fun-filled night of stupid human tricks?”
“Yes, sir!” Wilson responded, and then added, “How’s Betty doing? Heard about her long bolter.”
“She saw the elephant on that one. She said she had a ball, but she could sense the deck pitch down — it just slid out from under her. She knew she was going to bolter and just held what she had, but the deck seemed to fall further and further away. She saw nothing but water and lit the cans just as she touched down. My understanding is that she was pretty far up there.”
“Yes, sir, my gunner saw it from the de-arming hole. His eyes were big.”
“Yeah,” Johnson chuckled. “I’ll bet he could see Betty’s eyes a mile away when she was abeam on downwind! After she trapped, she came into the ready room in her gear muttering ‘Holy shit! Ho-ly shit!’”
Wilson laughed, having been there before.
Johnson continued. “You know, it always amazes me… Here we are in the middle of friggin’ nowhere, flying in these varsity conditions, which is pretty dangerous when you think about it. Yet, we go to the ready room, watch the PLAT and crack up laughing as our friends risk their lives! No one else on earth has any idea this little drama is happening. And only about 50–60 people aboard are intimately involved in it right now. That means only about one percent of the crew has a clue about how screwed up this is.”
Wilson smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And we howl laughing and critique the finest pilots in the world doing their best under tremendous stress with very little margin for error.” The Big Unit shook his head. “And before long, it will be our turn again.”
“I promise I won’t laugh at you, sir,” Wilson said with a straight face.
“Bullshit!” Johnson whispered and smiled. “We heard the Raven ready room howl from a hund’erd frames away when Betty boltered!”
“I swear I wasn’t there, sir!”
A loud roar filled the space and made further conversation difficult. A Hornet in tension was at full power on Catapult 3 above them. Two white cones of fire leapt from the tailpipes and licked at the jet blast deflector, the brilliant light washing out the camera. The sound inside Air Ops became a deep, vibrant, continuous boom. They watched the pilot select external lights—ON—and the pulsing aircraft glow illuminated the deck around him. That was the signal he was ready. Wilson watched the LED display on the clock: 17:59:49… 50… 51…. The Hornet remained stuck to the deck, burning fuel at a prodigious rate. A familiar pop and zipper sound started the Hornet down the track, its afterburner exhaust tearing at the deck. Wilson kept his eyes on the PLAT as the Hornet got to the end and went airborne. Another THUNK of the Cat 3 water brake shook the ship’s frames down to the keel.
Ding ding, ding ding. The sound of four bells played over the 1MC loudspeaker, signifying 1800 hours. Valley Forge prided itself on “launching on the bells.”
Another Hornet roared off Cat 2. Olive’s husky voice sounded over the departure frequency. “Four-one-two airborne.” Wilson watched her aircraft on the PLAT, and with a positive rate of climb, she deselected burner to save fuel to remain aloft for the planned 90 minutes. The skipper launched off the waist one minute later, and Wilson recorded their times in a log book. Seven more jets to go. Wilson had to steady himself as he wrote. The ship was still moving appreciably in the heavy seas.
The marshal frequency radio crackled over the loudspeaker as the first returning aircraft began its approach: “Marshal, Spartan one-zero-three commencing out of angels six, state seven-point-eight.”
“Roger, one-zero-three, check-in approach on button fifteen.”
“One-zero-three, switching fifteen.”
CHAPTER 7
The recovery commenced. Each minute, as one aircraft, with the hook down for landing, pulled power and pushed the nose over, another pilot or aircrew entered a precision realm of absolute concentration. Airspeed, heading, and rate of descent were monitored to maintain position in an exact sequence as the aircraft lined up behind the ship. More than anything else, the fuel state of each aircraft dominated everyone’s thinking.
The instrument scan, the voice calls, the procedures were rote, all trained into each pilot to become second nature, even to Sponge Bob at the beginning of this, his first deployment. Also common to all the aircrew was a level of tension that, at times, bordered on fear. Wilson knew tonight was going to be one of those bordering-on-fear nights; everyone faced low overcast with sporadic rain, a pitching deck, and unfamiliar divert fields that were over 200 miles away.
At sea, away from the cultural lighting of shore, an overcast sky at night blocks out even the moral support starlight can offer. With no discernible horizon, the sea and the sky become a whole. Black. Inside-of-a-basketball black. Nights like these bring out the inner demons harbored within each pilot. Cold cat shots. Ramp strikes. Total electrical failures.