“Lieutenant Commander Armstrong on the platform, sir.”
“Paddles, time to stop screwing around and get this guy aboard. Now! Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Stretch said, then swallowed. “Will we have winds down the angle? Because…”
Before Stretch could finish the Captain boomed. “I’LL TAKE CARE OF THE WINDS! Now you do your job!” The Captain slammed the receiver down.
Stretch looked aft into the dark. He had received blasts from the Captain in the course of predeployment training. His temper was legendary, and over time Stretch had built up a mental layer of protection. Same shit, different day, he thought, trying to reassure himself about tonight’s display of temper.
“Stretch, who was that?” Shakey shouted to him.
Stretch smiled. “It was the Boss. Says barricade’s set. Actual weight 27,000. The bridge is workin’ on the winds. We’re good to go!”
CHAPTER 13
Sponge concentrated on his instruments but took a peek at the ship off to the right of his HUD. He was curious… Will I be able to see the barricade from three and a half miles? When he looked over his nose, he saw nothing but the outline of the landing area, the drop lights, and the tower sodium vapors… a cluster of yellow lights surrounded by black.
One thousand pounds of fuel remaining… this is it.
“Four-zero-six. You’re on course, approaching glide path,” the controller said.
“Four-zero-six.”
He watched the glide slope indication steadily descend from the top of his HUD. He focused on obtaining the best possible start to the approach and let everything else — the fuel quantity, the aircraft cautions, the weather, the barricade stretched across the deck — become secondary to flying a night carrier approach. The tension left him as he entered a mental realm that took all his attention.
Most pilots made use of this type of compartmentalization. It allowed him to sit still in the ejection seat, with his hands making tiny corrections to the stick and throttles. His eyes rapidly scanned his HUD instrumentation, primarily centered on the needles. As he approached the glide path inside three miles, he pushed the nose over and pulled some power, and then reset it to hold the steep 800-foot per minute rate of descent.
“Four-zero-six, up and on glide path, begin descent,” said the CATCC contoller.
Sponge keyed the mike. “Four-zero-six.”
“Four-zero-six, going below, below glide path, two-point-five miles.”
Sponge corrected with deft movements of the throttle and stick. Once the plane was back on the four-degree glide slope, he reset power. This steep approach angle, where he was just able to see the ship over the nose, gave him the impression of peering down into a void from the opening of a well. He could see he was lined up right of course and nudged the stick to the left. Suddenly, the needles jumped left. The ship must be in a turn, he thought, a fact confirmed right away by CATCC.
“Mother’s in a starboard turn, turn left five.”
“Four-zero-six,” Sponge replied, with some exasperation.
Here, on the pass of my life, the ship jinks on me—inside three miles. He quickly put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on the HUD display. He slid his velocity vector to the left then recorrected once on course.
The sound of raindrops increased and beat on the canopy in great sheets. The rain also reflected light from the ship as it streaked aft on the smeared windscreen. The white noise of the rain added to his tension and caused his breathing to deepen and his hands to tighten on the controls. He worked hard to stay on glide slope and on centerline. Through the sheets of rain attacking his windscreen at over 150 miles per hour, he looked out at the ship and sensed he was lined up left, but the needles showed him on-and-on. Trust the needles! he reminded himself. His fuel indicator showed 930 pounds.
“Four-zero-six, on and on, one-point-five miles.”
“Four-zero-six,” Sponge acknowledged, and then he saw it.
The barricade was raised perpendicular to the landing area and looked almost like a solid swath of amber as it reflected the floodlight from the tower. It felt like a dive-bombing run, a dive-bombing run into the side of a chalky yellow cliff spread across the deck. He fought the urge to stare at it. The rain subsided a bit as he concentrated on maintaining glide slope, but his breathing rate picked up speed.
On the platform, the LSOs watched in grim silence as 406 approached. The wind velocity increased to 38 knots, and the plane guard destroyer aft on the invisible horizon seemed to float in space, up and down with the changing pitch of Valley Forge’s deck.
“Barricade set two-seven, Hornet! Clear deck!” The phone talker shouted for all to hear.
Dutch glanced back into the landing area out of habit to ensure it was clear and was mesmerized by the barricade, where the high winds buffeted the thick nylon strands. Through the strands he could see shadows on the island weather deck galleries. Dozens of sailors were gathered there to watch the approach from the aptly named, “Vulture’s Row.”
“Roger, clear deck,” he said, and immediately returned his attention to the familiar FA-18 light pattern manifested by 406.
Shakey picked up the handle of the visual landing aid system and showed Sponge a centered ball. The rain was coming down harder now, pelting them in their exposed position. They both straddled the coaming, with one leg each placed on the flight deck. We’re probably going right into a squall, thought Shakey. Subconsciously, he pulled the collar of his flight suit up to cover his neck. Dutch, right next to him, cared much less about the weather than the fact that his squadronmate Sponge was in that jet.
Dutch saw Sponge drift left, as did CATCC. “Four-zero-six, one mile, drifting left of course, on glide path.”
“Four-zero-six.”
“Four-zero-six, slightly left of course, on glide path, three quarter mile, call the ball.”
“Four-zero-six, Hornet ball, point-niner.” Sponge sounded calm.
Shakey did, too, when he responded. “Roger ball, Hornet, working thirty-seven knots down the angle. Deck’s movin’ a little, yer ooon glide slope.”
Dutch sensed the escort ship on the horizon slide left. “Ship’s turnin’ right!” he shouted to Shakey, who immediately informed Sponge.
“Ship’s in a turn, come left… on glide slope… come left… yer goin’ high… on center line.”
“Talk to him!” Stretch called out.
Shakey keyed the handset microphone and held it depressed while he raised the MOVLAS handle higher. “Yer high! Easy with it.”
Sponge made an aggressive correction, just as the ramp pitched down. He was uneasy with his steep view of the deck and felt as if he were right on top of it — and already past the cut point. He lost the ball due to the barricade stanchion and his eyes became glued to the deck and the bewitching movement of the barricade strands. I’m going to hit the top loading strap! he thought. Reflexively, he pulled power and bunted the nose down, dangerously steepening his rate of descent.
On the platform, Shakey and the others immediately sensed disaster. The Hornet was high and fast, and at a quarter mile Shakey heard the strike fighter pull power to correct. The deck was coming up now, fast, and Sponge was in danger of overcorrecting and flying through glide slope. If he did, he could impale himself on the ramp, the opposite of hitting the top loading strap of the barricade.