“Yes, sir,” said Wilson.
“Mister Wilson, what the hell is going on?”
“Sponge couldn’t plug because the tanker was sour, fuel streaming from the hose. The other tanker was dry from tanking all the bolters and wave-offs. They’re gonna barricade Sponge.”
“Did you recommend that?”
“No, sir… the Captain made the call. I recommended they trap him normally in these conditions. He’s got two looks.”
“And if not aboard he’s out of gas. Then what?”
“Controlled ejection alongside,” Wilson replied, keeping his face expressionless as he held the XO’s gaze.
Saint looked down at the deck with tight lips steadying himself on a desk as the ship took a roll. The overhead creaked under the strain. He snapped his head up, eyes narrow with contempt.
“I expected more from my Operations Officer.”
“Sir?”
“Why is that nugget out there in these conditions? I expect my Ops Officer to write a schedule that reflects the expected weather. But I don’t expect him to then go and countermand an order of a Captain more than twice his seniority! Unsat.”
Wilson felt his upper body tighten.
“Sir, the Skipper signed the schedule almost 24 hours ago — before we knew what we would be facing tonight, before we knew we would be over 200 miles from any divert. Any senior officer in Air Wing Four could have broken the chain today with a recommendation to stop flying.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Any flight lead could have ensured his wingman came down with sufficient fuel for any contingency instead of showing up here at minimum fuel. Any flight lead could have sent his lower-state wingman down first. And any pilot could have gotten out of the gear clean so his wingman could trap.”
The XO’s eyes narrowed even more, and he forcibly exhaled through his nose. Wilson knew right away he had overstepped several boundaries. Back-talk to commanders, even when justified, was never career-enhancing. He waited for the blast. When Saint just glared at him, apparently unsure of how to counter, Wilson decided to change course.
“I didn’t countermand anything, sir. I made a recommendation. Sponge has to fly a solid pass, and if he doesn’t hit the barricade clean, he probably doesn’t get a chance to punch if he needs to. My recommendation is made and noted. Our squadronmate is in trouble, and I made a call. Now I have to get back — unless you want to take over, sir.”
At that moment the familiar sound of an S-3 catching an arresting wire filled the space, and through the armored steel of the flight deck, they heard the muffled voice of the Boss on the loudspeaker. “Rig the jet barricade. We’ve got a low-state Raven! Ready Cat 3 for the alert Texaco! Get movin’!”
The overhead fluorescent light shone down on the Raven pilots as they looked at each other, unyielding and firm. Either one apologizing for the exchange was unthinkable.
“Get up there,” Saint finally said.
At least he kept his eyes on me, Wilson thought, before his thoughts turned back to Sponge. As soon as he returned to his place next to The Big Unit, but before he could sit down, O’Shaunessy motioned Wilson over to the console and handed him the radio handset. “Tell Jasper we’re gonna barricade him in about five minutes. Do you guys have a procedure for that?”
CHAPTER 10
Sponge breathed deeply as he flew away from the ship eight miles aft. Two thousand pounds… I’ve got a little over 20 minutes at this fuel flow. He wondered why they were vectoring him out here and keeping him at angels two. When he looked over his left shoulder, he could make out a cluster of lights in the distance… Valley Forge… and home. He desperately wanted to be aboard her. A bolt of lightning flashed nearby and for an instant the ship was illuminated in a bluish light, before darkness surrounded it again. During Sponge’s short aviation career, he had already become accustomed to being at low fuel states. Judging from their ready room conversations, the old guys like Flip and Weed loathed them as much as he did. Sweating fuel was part of life when a Hornet pilot was at sea.
So this is my night in the barrel, he thought, a sea story he could tell at the O-Club just like the heavies did when they held court there. Each story, it seemed, involved a black night, a tanker, and a low-state trap. However, if this was his rite of passage, he would gladly decline. Damn XO! Sponge had seen Saint’s aircraft taxi over the foul line just before Sponge got the wave-off on the first pass. If Saint had gotten out of the gear sooner, Sponge would probably be aboard right now, drinking a cup of water in the ready room. He was thirsty, so he pulled out the plastic canteen from the left pocket of his g-suit and unscrewed the top. He then popped a fitting on his oxygen mask so he could drink.
Just as he took a gulp, the approach controller’s voice filled his headset. “Four-zero-six, fly heading two-one-five. Take angels one-point-two. Stand by for your rep.”
Sponge screwed down the canteen top and shoved it back against the left console. After fumbling for the mask, he brought it to his face and keyed the mike. “Four-zero-six.”
“Four-zero-six, rep,” Wilson called to him.
“Go ahead,” Sponge replied, glad to hear Wilson’s familiar voice. He then adjusted the mask against his face.
“Four-zero-six, the airborne tankers are dry or sour. We’re starting one up on deck but still haven’t been able to get him airborne. We’re rigging the barricade.”
Rigging the barricade. Sponge sat motionless as the message sank in.
“Four-zero-six, you copy?”
“Affirm” Sponge responded. “I’m still headin’ away from mother.”
“Roger, Sponge. Mark your father with state.”
“I’m on the two-six-five for niner, one-point-niner.”
“Roger, we’re gonna hook you in soon, but first I’m goin’ to go over the barricade checklist… Do you have any ordnance?”
“Negative.”
“Roger, OK… We’re gonna punch off the drop tanks. See anything underneath you?”
Sponge dipped his wing to the left, looked below, and saw nothing but black. “Negative,” he said.
“Roger, then emergency jett your tanks. Big switch on the upper left… hold it in till they’re gone. Let me know when you’ve done it.”
Sponge placed his left thumb on the switch, looked at the tank under his left wing, and pushed. He heard a ka-chunk and felt a twitch as small explosive cartridges pushed away the empty 300-gallon drop tanks from stations on the wing and fuselage. He watched the left drop fall and disappear into the darkness.
“I’m clean.”
“Roger, Sponge,” Wilson answered.
The final controller followed immediately and said, “Four-zero-six, turn left fly heading zero-five-zero.”
“Four-zero-six, left to zero-five-zero,” responded Sponge.
Wilson proceeded with the checklist.
“Sponge, Paddles is going to come up in a bit and give you the barricade brief, but as you get lower in fuel, remember, no negative g. You have a fuel low light yet?”
“Not yet.”
“OK, but when you do, the airplane still flies. Just don’t horse it around.”
The amber color of the master caution light suddenly illuminated the cockpit. The impassionate voice of the aural warning tone, which the pilots called Trailer Trash Tammy, sounded a warning in Sponge’s headset. “Fuel low. Fuel low.”