“Flip,” Lassiter greeted him over a WHOOOMMMmmm from above — the sound of another Hornet on a bolter.
“What’s the story on your event, sir?” Weed asked him.
Lassiter exhaled. “Nothing yet, we’ll walk on time. My guess is they will make a decision in the next hour. CAG is recovering on this event.”
Weed grinned. “Maybe that was him going around.”
“Hope not,” Lassiter said and smiled.
“I’m sure Paddles will no-count it for a pitching deck,” Psycho chimed in, as she shot Smoke a look.
“As they should,” Smoke retorted with a confident grin. “Paddles always does the right thing.” Psycho responded to that with her most feminine sniff.
Wilson watched the exchange and figured there might be something going on between Smoke and Psycho. Lassiter shoveled another spoonful of rice into his mouth. He kept his eyes down, as if lost in concentration about his upcoming flight, and acted oblivious to the flirting between his junior officers. Wilson knew, however, the skipper was paying attention and was probably on to them.
“Smoke” was the call sign of Lieutenant Zach Offenhausen, a blond pretty boy of supreme confidence who, in fact, was a California surfer and had been a motocross champion in his teen years. Now a second-cruise JO, he aspired to TOPGUN training once the deployment ended. Both Smoke and Psycho — despite the fact that she never shut up in social situations — were good officers and solid pilots. Fraternization was one way to destroy that good standing. Here they were, attractive young single adults, working and eating together day after day for months — and, from what it looked like, maybe even sleeping together.
Wilson got up from the table and said, “Excuse me, sir,” to the CO. Weed did the same, followed by Smoke and Psycho. Lassiter waved and nodded and swallowed a final mouthful. He and Olive picked up their trays, took them to deposit in the scullery, and hurried back to the ready room. They wanted to walk on time.
In the passageway, the JOs and Weed continued aft while Wilson ducked below to his stateroom to check for e-mail from home. The darkened room was illuminated only by the screen saver of his laptop. A note from Mary awaited him.
Dear James,
Derrick rode the bike this morning without training wheels! He did great! I just ran behind him a little and then he took off on his own. He went to the end of the cul-de-sac and turned around. I was praying he could do it. When he got back to the house though he crashed — into the Hopper’s car! Karen had just pulled up and we were standing by the car cheering him on as he rode toward us. He tried to turn away but hit the left front and fell off. He skinned his elbow and cried a little. No damage to the car, but Karen felt awful. Derrick was over it after a band-aid and a kiss. Just another day as a navy wife.
Oh, great…
Brittany was so cute yesterday in her new winter boots. She drew a picture of herself wearing them just for you, which I’ll send to you soon with some goodies. I miss you, my love.
He looked at Mary’s picture on his desk and daydreamed for a few moments. The photo, taken at the Strike-Fighter Ball, was sensational. It caught her beautiful face, her dazzling smile, which generated more wattage than all the sequins on her dress. He dreamed of her feminine shape. Thirty-three years old… and she had not changed since college.
Click, click… weeEEEEeeoowww!
The sound of a Viking recovery above brought him back to his O2 level stateroom and the realization that holding Mary was over five months away. With the Viking aboard, the recovery must be nearing completion. He checked the schedule again and verified his CATCC watch for the next recovery, fifty minutes from now.
Wilson composed a quick note to Mary and headed aft to the ready room.
CHAPTER 6
Thirty minutes later, Wilson walked into Air Ops, amidships on the O3 level. The cool, dark room was illuminated by a few small overhead lights over the work desks. The desks and two rows of Naugahyde-covered benches faced the event status boards.
Wilson was the first CATCC rep to arrive, and he took a spot on the back row. Commander Marty O’Shaunessy, the Air Ops Officer and a career naval flight officer, was hunched over his desk talking on the phone, his usual pose. Wilson knew O’Shaunessy was having a miserable night with this weather. He also knew that, as the sun sank below the horizon, the misery was going to get worse.
Wilson studied the acronyms and numbers on the status monitors for the information he needed. XO and Sponge Bob were checked into marshal, the aircraft holding pattern aft of the ship, at 12,000 and 13,000 feet, respectively. XO had 8,000 pounds of fuel, Sponge only 7,100. And that information was five minutes old. If the launch goes on time, Sponge should get here with a little over 4.0. That 4,000 pounds gave him two passes before he would need to be directed to the tanker overhead.
The ship was working “blue water ops” as normal, as if there were no divert fields in the area, but Wilson sought them out on the status monitors anyway. He needed to find a location in Oman where a divert aircraft, which required a climb and descent through icing conditions in order to make an instrument approach to an unfamiliar field at night, could land as safely as possible in the wind and rain. The ship was definitely where the pilots wanted to recover tonight… if the deck would cooperate. Wilson recalled a salty instructor pilot describe the cause of an aircraft mishap as a “box,” where the sides are closed, one by one, by poor decisions and conditions. He thought tonight’s operations had the construction of such a box well underway.
Wilson caught the eye of LT Mike Metz, the Assistant Air Ops Officer, and gave him a nod to join him. Metz glanced at O’Shaunessy, then got up and walked the few steps to the bench where Wilson was seated.
“Hey, Flip.”
“Hey, how’s it going?” Wilson asked in a low tone. “Are we going to continue?”
“Yes, sir. The weather should be improving with frontal passage. The Captain wants to fly, too.”
“Great,” Wilson muttered as he looked at the status board. “How was the last recovery?”
Metz glanced again at O’Shaunessy. “Took forever. The commander got reamed by the Captain for having too many tankers airborne. We had three sweet tankers and needed to tank four guys almost simultaneously, so we needed them. Hey, did you see that Cutlass bolter?”
Wilson shook his head. “Who was the pilot?”
“I think they call her Betty. It was really long. She went to the tanker but had to climb through some clag to find him, and she finally plugged with about 1,500 pounds. When she got back here, it looked like she trapped hard… She was determined not to go back up there again.”
“I can relate.” Wilson realized he was keeping Metz too long. “Hey, thanks, man. You have a great recovery.”
“You, too, sir,” the lieutenant said with a smile and returned to his seat.
Wilson nodded. He was right. Air Ops was the place to be at night, especially a night like this. Dozens of decisions were being made that affected the human drama of operating high performance aircraft in the close vicinity of the ship. And, for the most part, that drama centered around fuel states. Airplanes could recover aboard a carrier only if they had a certain amount of fuel. The typical requirement was half of a full load; that amount would not overstress a 17-ton Hornet airframe as it smashed into the deck at the rate of 700 feet-per-minute. During the descent, the plane looked as if it were suspended a few feet above the flight deck and then dropped. At the moment of the “drop,” the plane’s tailhook grabbed one of the steel cables stretched across the deck and wrestled the jet to a halt, slowing it from over 140 miles per hour to zero within the distance of little more than a football field.