Those who bolter or receive low state wave-offs are given vectors to a tanker located overhead in the gloom. Those pilots, sometimes near a state of desperation, must try to find it without becoming disoriented, without losing control of the aircraft, and without letting a moment’s inattention cause them to collide with the tanker.
Pilots who experience brake failure on deck must make a frantic pull of the ejection handle before the aircraft goes over the side. The seat blasts them out of the cockpit and then blasts them again into a parachute. They have no more than a second after the disorientation of the opening shock (OOMPH!) to get their wits about them and to prepare for water entry.
Inflate! Pull at the toggles. Raft! Reach for the release.
Immersed in frigid seawater, they struggle to get free of the chute, conscious of the great ship parting the waves mere feet away. As the wake breaks over their heads, they get tossed about, get sucked under, gag constantly and spit out mouthful after mouthful of salt water. They must feel for their raft in the blackness, as icy cold numbs their fingers. Above all else, they hope the plane guard helo sees them and puts a swimmer in the water now. Please, God, help me!
It gets worse. If a pilot can’t get aboard or tank, he may be directed to divert ashore. This requires that he transit alone over miles and miles of open ocean. If disaster strikes then, and the jet is no longer flyable, the pilot makes a desperate Mayday! call, giving his range and bearing before he ejects into black nothingness and a shivering cold descent. Added to that is the dreaded knowledge that no human being is within 100 miles! And even if a rescue helo is sent immediately, it won’t get on scene for nearly an hour, and the pilot is in the cold water that whole time, fighting shock and hypothermia. They hope to muster the strength to signal for the helo if it, by miracle, finds the “needle in the haystack” of the black and limitless sea.
Wilson and the others were well aware of the sudden and violent ways aviators could meet their end. Episodes like this were quite rare. The Navy, as a whole, often went many years between such incidents. Their training was superb and they knew how to handle any situation placed before them. But the nightmares did happen on occasion, and deep in their minds — in the darker than night place where the demons lived — they knew that some gloomy night fate could choose them.
The external lights of a Hornet at full power came on, a signal to the deck crew the pilot was ready for launch. In the corner of the screen, however, Wilson noted the squadron troubleshooter with wands crossed over his head, the signal for suspend. He watched the Cat crew go through the suspend procedures and heard the Mini Boss make the radio call.
“Two-one-zero, you’re suspended.”
“Roger,” the pilot replied. Another first-cruise aviator, he kept his left arm locked in order to hold the throttles forward until given the signal to throttle back.
A groan went up from O’Shaunessy as he reached for the phone once more.
“Two-one-zero, we didn’t see a rudder wipe out. Let’s try it again,” the Mini-Boss radioed.
“Yes, sir,” the young marine pilot answered.
O’Shaunessy turned to the peanut gallery, his eyes searching for any pilot with a high and tight representing the Marine Hornet squadron. “Red River rep, you catch that from the Boss?”
“Yes, sir, he’ll be debriefed,” the major responded.
“Good, and you can apologize to the Spartan rep sitting next to you if we don’t catch one-oh-three,” said O’Shaunessy as he glared at the major. Just then his phone buzzed, and he turned to answer it. “Roger,” he spoke into the receiver, and raised his voice for all to hear. “Take one-oh-three over the top.”
With a sheepish expression the major whispered, “Sorry, man!” to the Spartan pilot who sat next to him, who then took it as an opportunity to extract payment from the Moonshadows.
“I think, when we get to port, a beer for the one-zero-three aircrew will make amends, and a beer for me having to stay here in this pressure cooker longer than I should have, and a beer for the maintenance department for keeping one-oh-three airborne on this shitty night, and for the CO for general purposes. Hell, just buy the whole squadron a beer, and we’ll call it even.”
“We ain’t that sorry!” the marine chuckled.
The PLAT screen shifted to the approach view and looked aft into space. Three aircraft showed on the screen as twinkling bundles of light set against the black. Two FA-18s followed 103, which was the largest bundle. They were all three to the left of the crosshairs, the lines in the middle of the screen that signified heading and glide slope. The ship was now on a 115 heading in the never-ending quest to put the winds down the angle.
As the pilots in Air Ops suspected, after what they had seen on the screen, the voice of the approach controller came over the radio loudspeaker with new coordinates: “One-zero-three, discontinue approach, maintain angels one-point-two, fly heading one-one-zero.”
“One-oh-three, roger, one-one-zero.”
As the Hornet on Cat 4 was placed in tension, Wilson heard the sardonic voice of “Saint Patrick” as he commenced his approach. “Four-zero-two commencing.”
“Roger, Raven four-zero-two, take speed two-seven-five, say state.”
“Two hundred pounds less than when you asked me two minutes ago,” Saint replied. Wilson cringed at the unprofessional sarcasm in his XO’s voice.
When he heard this exchange, O’Shaunessy, whose attention had been on the situation regarding the deck status, turned his head and said to no one, “Who the fuck’s in four-oh-two?” He answered his own question by looking at the status board. He shook his head in disgust when he read “PATRICK” and turned to search for a Raven flight suit patch among the pilots seated behind him.
“If your XO would make proper voice calls, we wouldn’t have to ask him for his state.”
All Wilson could do was acknowledge him with a chastened “Yes, sir.”
“And give him a speed change because he can’t hit his marshal point on time,” O’Shaunessy added. The room was silent except for the clipped radio exchanges from the final approach controllers and pilots.
The Big Unit leaned over to Wilson and whispered “Bad hair day…” Wilson nodded but wondered if he was talking about O’Shaunessy or his XO.
The marshal controller queried the Raven XO a second time. “Four-zero-two, say state.”
Wearily, Saint responded, “Six-point-one.”
Next, Wilson’s ear was attuned to Sponge Bob’s voice over marshal frequency as he began his approach. “Four-zero-six commencing out of angels thirteen, state five-two.”
“Roger, four-zero-six, five-point-two.”
Wilson did some fuel calculations in his head. Sponge had enough for a few looks at the deck before he hit tank state. The ship had two tankers overhead, a Rhino with 6,000 pounds to give and a Viking with 4,000. Outside the wind blew at 36 knots down the angled deck, most of it natural as the ship was making nothing more than bare steerageway. Glancing at the PLAT, Wilson saw a flash on the horizon. Thunder in all quadrants, varsity pitching deck, rain and dark, with the nearest open unfamiliar divert field 250 miles away. Why do we do these things to ourselves? He turned his attention to the Hornet above the crosshairs on the PLAT.