Turning back to the ship, he double-checked the course-line, touched the hook handle to ensure it was down, and fiddled with the HUD intensity. He had any number of minor cockpit tasks to distract him. Night, pitching deck barricade in the middle of fucking nowhere! After his moment of self-pity, he realized he was the only pilot in the airplane. You can do this, he told himself.
As he removed his kneeboard and set it in the map case for a possible ejection, CATCC called again. “Four-zero-six, dirty up.”
“Four-zero-six,” Sponge acknowledged as he slapped the gear handle down and moved the flap switch to half. The aircraft ballooned with the increased lift, and the landing gear caused a dull roar behind him as it extended into the airstream. He countered the increased lift with a nose down bunt and retrimmed the aircraft. He tried to concentrate on flying the airplane so he would not think about the barricade.
A few moments later, though, he glanced at the ship to see if he could see it.
CHAPTER 12
“Tower, one-zero-five, we just lost nose wheel steering.”
“WHAT?! Dammit!! Mother-f…!” Marty O’Shaunessy was not having a good recovery. He needed the alert tanker to launch immediately to get more gas in the air, and instead he gets this. He shook his head in disgust and grabbed for the phone.
“Roger, one-zero-five. Stand by,” the Boss said.
Wilson heard O’Shaunessy plead with the Boss. “Can you put a tractor and tow bar on him? Push him to the Cat! We need that gas airborne!” Wilson knew there was no time even for that desperation measure, maybe not even time for 105 to taxi to the catapult normally.
Sponge was expected at the ramp in minutes.
“Fuck!” O’Shaunessy said, as he slammed down the receiver.
When Air Ops next heard the flight deck loudspeaker through the deck, it was the Air Boss. “C’mon! We’ve got a Hornet at five miles! Chop! Chop!” Things were obviously not going well on the roof.
The Boss was not happy with the barricade progress. The nylon netting was laid out on deck and was attached to the two barricade stanchions embedded into the deck. However, the heavy strands were tangled and bunched together, and some of the plates were not yet in position. The Flight Deck Officer and Bos’n were everywhere. They shouted orders, grabbed sailors, jumped over nylon straps, and checked the connections to the stanchions. While Shakey and the other LSOs watched, they were joined on the platform by a new LSO. It was Stretch.
“Are we havin’ fun, guys?” he said with a grin. Stretch was a perpetual optimist.
“Hey, glad yer here,” Shakey answered. “We’re set. Just briefed him. He’s about one-point-five now… See him out there?”
“Yeah… I’m not night adapted, so you and Dutch wave him. You’ve been doing great out here tonight. And remember, if he’s not set up, pickle him early.”
“Roger that,” Shakey said.
The Air Boss exploded again on the 5MC microphone. “All right, get out of there! Raise the barricade on signal!”
From the platform they heard more shouting as dozens of sailors scurried away into the catwalks and behind the island. Moments later, the Flight Deck Bos’n gave the signal and watched as the barricade assembly rose into the air, carried aloft by the two large stanchions.
In the subdued Air Ops space, Wilson and the others watched the barricade ascend, its heavy vertical nylon straps fluttering in the wind, into the PLAT’s field of view. In the distance, on the left side of the picture was Sponge, represented by the pulsing external lights of an FA-18. Saint was still there in Air Ops and still in his flight gear. He sat off to the side and concentrated on the PLAT.
A radio call from CATCC broke the silence. “Four-zero-six, lock-on six miles, say your needles.”
“Fly up and left,” Sponge replied.
“Concur, fly your needles,” the controller commanded. Wilson recognized the approach controller’s voice and thought, They’ve got their best guy controlling him.
“Four-zero-six, update state.”
“One-point-two.”
Damn, Sponge is cool tonight, Wilson thought as he returned to his place. At least cooler than I feel right now with all these eyes on me. And Saint over there adding zero value. Wilson wished Saint would just leave and watch from the ready room. Was he here because he cared about Sponge, or was he thinking about having to answer questions at the mishap board? That meeting would surely be convened tomorrow morning, no matter what happened right now.
“Four-zero-six, four and a half miles, right of course correcting. Mother’s in a starboard turn. Expected final bearing one-two-six.”
“Four-zero-six… Jus’ got a fuel hot.”
“Roger, four-zero-six, right of course and correcting. Turn right to zero-niner-five to intercept final.”
“Four-zero-six, zero-nine-five.”
On the platform with Dutch standing behind him, Shakey held the headset to his left ear. He had his right arm tucked under his left elbow and looked aft into space. As he watched, the lights of Sponge’s Hornet and those of the escort ship behind the carrier drift left. We’re in a fucking turn! he realized. He listened to the exchange between Flip, CATCC and Sponge and was impressed by the calm in their voices. He felt anything but calm, but maintained a stoic exterior. The dull tension at the base of his skull spread to his shoulders and was intensified by the isolated raindrops that splattered on his back and head. His mouth felt like cotton, but he had to sound confident on the radio. Fight it! he thought.
He took a deep breath, glanced at the wind speed indication, and willed his voice to be calm as he keyed the mic. “Workin’ thirty-four knots… Barricade’s up.” He exhaled deeply and put the handset down to rub his shoulder. A bolt of lightning flashed from somewhere behind him.
“How ya doin’, Shakey?” Stretch asked.
“I’ve got it… Just picked a bad day to quit sniffin’ glue!”
The tension broken, Dutch chimed in, “Yeah, I’ve never waved a barricade either, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night.” Although it was somewhat forced, the officers on the platform laughed. It was a welcome relief from the strain of the recovery.
A radio call from the final controller brought them all back to the task at hand. “Four-zero-six, approaching glidepath. Slightly right of course correcting. Expected final bearing, one-two-eight.”
“Four-zero-six.”
Stretch shouted over gusting winds to the controlling LSO. “Shakey, after the ball call, jump in early. Lip-lock him the whole way down if you have to.”
“Roger that!”
To minimize the danger to the others on the platform, Stretch shouted, “Guys, let’s clear the platform. Primary and backup LSOs, myself and the phone talker stay. Rest of you guys go below and hang out in Ready 8 until he’s aboard. Sorry.” Four of the LSOs nodded and walked to the catwalk ladders.
The J-Dial circuit buzzed, and Stretch answered it. “Lieutenant Commander Armstrong, sir.”
“Stretch, Boss… Captain wants you to call him.”
“Yes, sir,” Stretch answered. He killed the connection and then dialed the Captain’s chair on the bridge. After one ring, the Captain picked up the receiver and growled, “Cap’n.”