Chapter Seventeen
“You know you’re not going to be leading PO, right?” Howell demanded, his tone half sneering, half truculent. “You ain’t got the stripes.” He was a Boatswain’s Mate (Aviation) First Class, the highest rating aboard qualified on arresting gear, and claimed the lead position by simple seniority.
Peters sighed and looked around. Each of the consoles was manned by a Grallt, zerkre with blue above the waist and white below, and Keezer, her arms folded and an expression matching Howell’s on her face, stood by Number One. Sailors in deck gear stood a pace or two behind, looking over Grallt shoulders or watching the byplay, according to personality type. “No, I ain’t gonna be leadin’ PO of the retarder team,” he said. “But for right now, I know the language an’ you don’t. Keezer, yonder, is in charge, and she’d take it kindly if you’d pay attention. I ain’t nothin’ but a translator.”
“Long as that’s clear.” Howell waved. “You’ll be lead on Console Three just from your time in rate, but I’m in charge here, you got that?”
“I got it.”
“Good. You got figures we can read for this stuff?”
“Right here.” Peters had taken the numbers Vogt had given him, converted them to Grallt numerals, and written the result on slips of paper. He handed the slips over, hoping he’d gotten the transcriptions right, and went to deliver another copy to Keezer. “These are the masses of the two types of—” he looked for a word “—small ships we use. Is this helpful?”
“Necessary,” the engineer snapped. “Do you have velocity figures as well?”
“Here.”
Keezer nodded. “You will have to identify the ship types to us so that we can make the appropriate settings. —Tell that person that if he doesn’t keep his fingers away from those controls I will break them for him.”
Howell was fiddling with the console. “Ms. Keezer done said we ain’t to be messin’ with the controls yet,” Peters told him mildly. “She was kind of emphatic about it.”
The other sailor backed away. “What does that one do?”
“That’un controls the approach lights, like the meatball back home,” Peters told him. “Right’s off, center’s normal, left is wave-off.”
“That’s the LSO’s job,” Howell objected. He was right; Landing Signal Officer is one of the most responsible jobs aboard ship.
“Not here,” Peters said, and had the satisfaction of seeing Howell flinch. The Grallt who was responsible for Number One console moved back into place, pushing Howell aside with a black look. “Excuse me,” Peters told her, “I would like to show my colleague how to make the correct settings.” She looked up at Keezer, who nodded, and stepped back.
“All right, we’ll set up for a Tomcat. This knob here sets the mass. See how I wrote the numbers? These lines here are a vernier, ‘cept it reads backwards to what you’re used to. Try it.” Howell scowled and moved the knob. “That’s right,” Peters approved; the man wasn’t stupid or he wouldn’t be here in the first place. “Now the speed, the other knob. The big ‘un stays on zero, ain’t none of our folks gonna be goin’ fast enough to need it. Just the little one.” Howell got that right, too, after a bit of fumbling. “Real good. Lemme show the others, and you get your backups up to speed, OK?”
“Yeah,” Howell agreed with ill grace. Peters nodded in acceptance of the situation and went to the other consoles, showing each of the lead men how to make the setting, different at each one. At number three he brought his two backups over, but at the others he let the leads do the work.
“Ever’body’s got the right settings for a Tomcat,” he told Howell. “Now set up for a Hornet, an’ I’ll check.”
“Right,” the First Class said, still with hostility in his tone. He tapped his earbug to wake up the processor. “Retarder crews, set for incoming Hornet,” he told it, and Peters’s earbug echoed the words. “Acknowledge by console.”
“Retarder One, set for incoming Hornet,” Howell’s first backup, Christiansen, said, and the earbugs echoed that as well.
“Retarder Two, set for incoming Hornet,” Bannerman acknowledged.
“Retarder Three, set for incoming Hornet,” Jacks said.
“Retarder Four, set for incoming Hornet,” came from Kraewitz.
They repeated the setup several times, allowing the backups to make and acknowledge the settings, at the same time letting the earbug processor learn who was where so they could drop the formality. After they’d done several repeats Peters took his post on Number Three, instead of standing with Keezer, and let Howell issue the commands, including setting up for loaded and unloaded dli using figures provided by the Grallt. Keezer unbent enough to stalk along the line of consoles, checking the figures and shaking her head.
After an utle or a little more, call it three-quarters of an hour, the earbugs bleeped, and a voice came, “Officer of the Deck, aft lookout. Bogeys at six o’clock, um…” the sailor hesitated, then added, “and call it fifteen degrees down, approach course.”
Chief Joshua’s voice came on: “All hands, stand to for flight operations. All hands, stand to for flight operations. Chief of the Deck, set conditions for trap and spot.” Sailors bustled, getting things ready as best they could in the unfamiliar conditions.
The planes didn’t do an airshow approach, just set up in a wide circle around the ship to wait their turn to land. Two of them were dli, lacking communication with the rest, and those proceeded to set up their approaches, one pulling ahead. “Retarder crews, set for dlee,” Howell said, his voice sounding panicky. This was for real. “Assume fully loaded, normal approach speed. Acknowledge by console.” By the time he’d got that out his voice was under control except for being a little fast.
The Grallt who were supposed to be running things looked on, faces showing what Peters recognized as befuddlement, as the sailors made settings and acknowledged them in turn. “Peters, go down the line and check the numbers,” Howell said, clearly grudging the necessity. “This is for real. We can’t screw it up.”
“Aye,” Peters acknowledged.
“What’s happening?” Keezer wanted to know. “Your people should stand aside and let us make the settings.”
“Perhaps so,” Peters acknowledged, “but everyone learns sometime. Would you come with me and check that the settings are correct for loaded dli?”
Keezer stared, arms folded, for a long moment. “Yes,” she agreed, sounding hostile. She went down the line, Peters following, beginning with a scowl and ending with raised eyebrows. “Perfect. Not at all what I expected.”
“Thank you.” He spoke into the earbug: “Retarder crews, everybody got it right, attaboy from Ms. Keezer.”
“Retarder crews, stand to for dlee, full trap,” Howell said, sounding less panicked. “Next trap will also be dlee. Acknowledge by console.” Peters took charge of his station, joining the others in chanting acknowledgement.
The dli entered and was slowed properly, the fields making no sound but the faintest of subliminal twangs. It taxiied away, the retarder crews checked settings and acknowledged, and the second followed in the same style. Keezer and the other Grallt were gathered by the Number One console, watching and looking amazed. Possibly a little peeved, Peters thought.
“Retarder crews, set for Tomcat,” Howell said, beginning to settle down. “Unloaded, normal approach speed, full trap.” They set and acknowledged that, and Commander Bolton’s plane entered, dead center as usual, came to a stop, and taxiied away. “Trap following will also be Tomcat,” Howell told them, and they set up and acknowledged that.