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0906 -
The Bosun's mate of the watch bellows on the 1MC:
"Emergency breakaway, emergency breakaway, starboard side." Down on the
refueling sponsons, what had been yet another scene of stolid passivity as the
aviation fuel pumped gradually aboard turns in an instant to an noisy, but
ordered frenzy as instructions are shouted and relayed from supervisors to line
handlers. The refueling probes are quickly unseated, and run a short distance
back towards the oiler, where waiting crews haul back on the messengers to bring
them safely home. The high-tension span wires are slackened, and pelican hooks
tripped, as wires, cables and haul ropes return back aboard their respective
ships in an accelerated but controlled reverse of the order in which they came
over. When the last lines are in the water between the two ships and nothing is
left connecting the one
to the other, the Captain nods to a shaken
squadron commanding officer, who thanks his stars that had rehearsed this very
scenario in his head before resuming his watch:
"All engines ahead flank, indicate 129
RPM."
To which the lee helmsman will respond, as he
must: "All engines ahead flank, indicate 129 RPM, aye, sir," followed moments
later by, "Conning officer, all engines are ahead flank, 129 RPM indicated and
answered."
"Very well. Come left, steer course
three-three-five and one-half."
To which the master helmsman will respond, as he
must: "Come left, steer course three-three-five and one-half, aye, sir,"
followed nearly as quickly by, "Conning officer, steady on course
three-three-five and one-half."
"Very well."
And with such gradual course adjustments and the
rapid increase in speed, each combining with the until the carrier's fantail is
safely clear of the oiler, finally the Captain can breathe a sigh of relief. The
watch is walked from aux conn to the pilot house, where the squadron CO
gratefully turns over to an actual surface warfare officer, who briskly calls to
the helmsman, "Helm, come left, steer course three-one-nine," receiving the
obligatory responses in return as he maneuvers 100,000 tons of steel diplomacy
into the wind. The squadron CO reflects upon the watch he has just completed
with a newfound admiration for the professionalism of the surface forces - a
Nimitz-class
carrier is no sports coupe, nor anything like so nimble as a fighter - 150 feet
alongside an oiler seems very close indeed. And as slowly as it moves, it also
does so with a sense of dread finality, he thinks. Unlike aviation mishaps,
where you are often dead before you know you are in trouble, in warships there
is often time enough to lament your fate, but not enough to change it. He goes
below, relieved to be relieved.
The catapult is already manned and ready as the
lieutenant gives his yellow shirt a thumbs-up, indicating readiness to taxi. The
taxi director immediately gives him the "hold brakes" sign above his waist,
followed as quickly by a signal to the blue shirts to break down the chocks and
chains which restrain the FA-18 in place. The lieutenant looks over to his
wingman, and is grimly satisfied to see that he is still chained in place,
probably awaiting a full alignment of his inertial navigation system. That would
be safer of course, to have a full alignment. But the lieutenant rationalizes
that it is a beautiful day, the alignment will continue in the moments while his
chains are being unfastened and chocks removed, and in any case he can complete
the alignment once safely airborne. But in the back of his head he knows that if
he is beaten to the catapult by the other squadron's pilot, especially after
he'd been napping in an alert status, then he would look bad in front of his
brothers. And as any fighter pilot knows, it's better to die than to look bad.
Besides, what were the odds?
In four minutes from the time the alert was
announced on the topside 5MC and the plane captain pounded on the fuselage, the
FA-18 is moving towards the catapult. The wings are still folded with all the
parked aircraft on the roof, and it's an especially tight fit with all the
starboard side jets pushed inboard, away from the refueling side deck edge. The
lieutenant races through his take-off checklist, while keeping a careful eye on
his director in the tight maneuvering space alloted - it would not do to taxi
into another jet in his haste, and miss the launch, and yet the time to get
through the checklist is rapidly diminishing. Finally he is complete, except for
the wingspread. In moments he gets the signal, even as he is directed forward
into the shuttle. He repeats "wings, wings" over and over again to himself, to
remind himself to check that they are in fact locked down before giving the cat
officer a salute. With a moment to himself as the launch bar goes home, he
visually verifies that the wings are down and locked, and runs his hands around
the cockpit one more time, one last check of all switch positions. With a curse,
he recognizes that the ejection seat arming handle was in the up, or "safe"
position. He was only moments away from the cardinal, and perhaps even mortal
sin of going flying on an unarmed seat. It might be better to die than to look
bad, but the lieutenant snatches his eyes away from the impatient gesturing
yellow shirt to do one more formal trip around the cockpit on the take-off
checklist - there: Now he was truly ready.
Seconds later his engines are at full power,
screaming behind him. The jet squats down as the tensioned catapult shuttle wars
against the restraining holdback fitting. Feet off the brakes, he salutes the
catapult officer, who salutes in turn and gestures to the deck edge cat
operator. The cat fires and the lieutenant rattles down the deck and into the
morning air, whooping with the savage joy of an alert launch in a tactical
environment, of a good, hard catapult shot, of being first airborne, of flying
fighters, of being young. The Air Boss clears him to cross the bow, and he
reverses his from his left hand clearing turn
("Right off the bow cats, left off the
waist"), raises the gear and flaps and
deselects the afterburners: No sense wasting fuel on the front end.
The E-2 ACO is awaiting him on tower frequency and
takes control: "Hobo 404, hot vector 045, take station Casper, Hot Dog Red at 35
miles."
On the bridge, the CO checks his watch, and nods.
Very well done. He calls down to the TAO in Combat, "Probably ought to spin up
the alert tanker, while we're on this course - work it through
TFCC."
Around the corner from the TAO, the third class
operations specialist turns his gouge card over and proceeds to his next
warning: "Unidentified aircraft 20 miles south of Bushehr, speed 500 knots,
heading 250: You are approaching U.S. naval warships operating in international
waters. Your identity is unknown, your intentions are unclear. You are standing
into danger..."
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