Sure enough, the nose was way high, at or above the angle it would use when landing on the carrier. That wasn’t what Carson had in mind, though, because the wings were still folded back in high-speed mode. If he’d reverted to the training he’d gotten, the wings would be extended—or maybe not; he would have learned on modern airplanes, which didn’t have variable geometry.
Twang! went the first retarder.
The nose-high airplane caught the air inside the bay. It rose and kept rising, meeting the beams of the overhead with a shower of sparks and a crash that reverberated down the bay.
Having the wings back, and a little luck, saved two lives. As it rose the Tomcat pitched nose-down, catching one of the crossbeams just aft of the rear cockpit, shearing the vertical stabilizers off clean with a Hell of a screech but sparing the canopy and its occupants the same fate. It then fell to the deck with another reverberating crash and skidded down the bay, leaving long scars in the nonskid and spraying yellow fire. It didn’t take telepathy for two hundred and forty-eight humans to share variants of the same thought: No fuel, thank God, no fire, thanks be to God in His mercy.
Kraewitz got there first and yanked the escape handle. Explosive bolts sent the canopy sailing, and the backseater’s bubble tumbled after it. The canopy coamings were still above their heads, which caused a delay that was probably fortunate. Peters cat-scrambled up the side, jamming the toes of his boondockers into the slots provided for that purpose, but the action gave him time to think a little. Without the threat of fire they could take time to make sure there were no broken necks or backs before moving the flight crews, instead of snatching and grabbing in a pile of slippery foam while praying that the ordnance didn’t cook off.
There weren’t any scars on the NFO’s helmet, and the straps seemed to have held; Lieutenant Carson seemed to be in about the same shape. Cunningham was reaching for his straps but stopped when Peters hissed, “Wait for the medics.” The other Second Class backed off, content to observe if a little itchy. A shout of “Make way, there!” from below gave Peters just time to swing over and crouch on the intake before the corpsman was swarming up to take charge. Another was heading for the front seat, obliging Cunningham to perch insecurely on the canopy edge.
SPEYR, LTJG, it said on the NFO’s helmet, with a single bar and a design of red stripes like stylized ram’s horns. The corpsman felt around the base of the man’s neck, then undid the snaps of the oxygen mask and worked the helmet off, revealing a sweaty disheveled face. He handed the helmet to Peters and began to expertly palpate the officer’s neck and upper back. “Bear a hand here,” he said when he seemed satisfied, not a request.
He and Peters got the straps undone, fumbling a little because despite training neither of them had done it often. By that time the officer was able to cooperate, managing to stand up in the cockpit with a little help and swing his legs over onto the maintenance stand somebody’d had the wit to bring up. “Thanks,” he said faintly. “I think I’m okay.”
“No, sir, you ain’t okay ‘til the doc says you are,” the corpsman said firmly. He and Peters got the officer to sit, head down between his knees, until a litter was passed up. They got him on it and the straps tight; another sailor took one end, and he and the medic worked it down the steps and set off across the bay, with Carson just behind in his own litter.
Peters clambered down more slowly, shaking with reaction, and sat on the deck, bracing his back against the crumpled port engine nacelle. He pulled off his helmet, dumped it, and put his own head between his knees, breathing deeply to come down off the adrenaline high. Sailors were crowding around, but Warnocki’s bark of “Clear away there!” started them moving off, and the Chief came over to Peters. “You okay?” he asked. “What happened?”
“He was nose high. You seen the rest.”
“Yeah,” Warnocki said sourly.
Peters was relaxing on his bunk, deep in the tenth volume of the long-running saga of Orberig the Sailor, when someone pounded on the door. “Come,” he said shortly.
“The results of the board are in,” Howell said without preamble. “Simple negligence.”
Peters nodded, wondering why the First Class had taken the time to pass the word. They’d learned to get along, but they’d never be friends. “‘Bout what I expected. When’s the Court?”
“There won’t be a Court,” Howell said, keeping his mouth in a tight thin line.
“That don’t sound right,” Peters observed, not quite correctly. An Accident Investigation Board finding of “gross negligence” on the part of an officer generated a Court-Martial as a matter of course; “simple negligence” could be handled more simply. “What’re they doin’ to Carson? Limited duty and a note in his 201?”
“You got it. He’s off flying status and gets a note in his file, and that’s it.”
“Well, at least he’ll be out of our hair.”
“Not precisely,” Howell advised. “In fact, not at all. Which brings us to the best part. The Board in its wisdom has ruled that a contributing cause to the accident was, quote, ‘failure of poorly-trained and poorly-supervised enlisted crews to properly operate important safety equipment’. That means thee and me, Peters, not to mention Kraewitz and Bannerman. We get love letters in our 201s too.”
“Mighta known,” Peters observed disgustedly. “Well, I didn’t really want that third chevron anyhow.”
“Oh, you’re all right. You, Cunningham, and Kraewitz get letters commending you for ‘prompt, effective, and appropriate action in a situation with lives at stake’. No doubt they’ll staple the two of them together and shove them to the back of the file, just call it push and pull.” Howell regarded his sleeve sourly. “Me, I don’t get any such letter, so I can kiss any chance of a rocker bye-bye.”
“You know well’s I do it don’t work that way,” Peters pointed out. “Takes ten attaboys to cancel one aw-shit, and I reckon this here’s more of an aw-fuck, myself. I ain’t never gonna get enough attaboys to cancel that, especially with me and the Master Chief not gettin’ along.”
“Hmph. Which brings me to what I looked you up for. Having received this news, the Master Chief has decreed extra drill for us ree-tarded operators, starting right after next chow. In full gear. With adult supervision.”
“Well, I reckon from their point of view that’s the next thing on the program,” Peters offered judiciously. “Hunh. How’re we gonna drill effectively? It ain’t like we had anything resemblin’ a simulator.”
“Cross that bridge when we come to it. First session will just be review of procedures, which is to say, teaching our new boss which switch turns the lights on.”
“Yeah… What’s this about supervision? Is Chief Joshua gonna come down and look over our shoulders?”
“Oh, no, that wouldn’t do at all,” Howell opined with mock-solemn cynicism. “No, the Chief stays where he is. Us, we get a real grownup. Following the Board’s recommendation, Commander Bolton has assigned us an LSO.”
“An officer? How’re they gonna do that? All the officers are flight crew, barrin’ the Doc.” He looked Howell in the face. “Oh, shit. You ain’t tellin’ me—”
Howell nodded, with a bare-toothed grin containing not one iota of amusement. “You got it. Seeing as how he’s been relieved of flying duties, and is therefore without a current assignment—”