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On the carrier's flight deck, yellow-shirted
flight deck directors stand idly by airplanes packed inboard of the landing
area, clear of the foul lines. The yellow shirts are at the pinnacle of
achievement for an aviation bosun's mate - each of them is The Man. He gives
orders to pilots, orders the officers must follow. He works day after day in one
of the most dangerous environments imaginable, one full of great noise, apparent
confusion, and great forces acting in trembling opposition. They collectively
know that they are a brotherhood, like many others in the military, an elite:
The flight deck elite. They also know that no other 22-year old people in the
world routinely has so much responsibility for lives and lucre. They are all of
them young, tall and tubular. They are also entirely self-confident,
well-trained, almost arrogant - they seem to casual observers to be the rough
equivalent of modern-day
gunslingers.
Although each aircraft
has its wheels chocked, and is tied down with chains at three points, each one
also has a tow bar hooked up ready for instant use, once the jet is "broken
down," released from chocks and chains. The 3 1/2 acre flight deck is divided
into three zones, Fly One on the bow, Fly Two amidships and Fly Three aft.
Across the deck the low growl of tow tractors starting, gunning engines to an
animal scream, then idling before shutting down alternates from zone to zone.
Apart from that, there is a deceptive quiet, a fraudulent listlessness. While
feigning a kind of tropical malaise in the rising summer heat, all are a
tip-toe: They are awaiting the recovery of the alert launch, so that they can go
to work spotting aircraft for the 1200 go. It will be a rigorous challenge to
move the twenty-odd aircraft in an hour's time, especially moving them on the
cramped real estate of an aircraft carrier at sea - they will be moving multiple
aircraft in different directions, and moving them very close to one another in
passing. The aircraft must not touch - a touch is called a "crunch," and the
aircraft is down until rigorously inspected. There is nothing worse for a yellow
shirt than to be directing an aircraft in a
crunch.
In combat, the third class
operations specialist scans his scope once more for new threats. Seeing nothing
but the engagement joined to the east, of which he is no longer any part, he
pushes back into his chair and away from his console with a weary, amused
detachment. He has done his bit and stood his watch. He gets relieved in thirty
minutes and is simultaneously both ferociously hungry and brutally tired. He
can't remember when he didn't feel that way. He can't imagine a time in the
future when he won't. When he's on watch, he thinks of his rack. When he's
asleep, his dreams are filled with this radar
scope.
In the War Room, the morning
flag meeting has broken up, with many of the principals going into TFCC to watch
the air picture develop - the wheel has been spun, the ball is in motion, and
some unknowable result is a-borning. They hope that the training they have had
is sufficient, that the guidance they have given is adequate. Mostly, they
quietly hope that everything works out. They are aware that despite their
seniority, experience and position, that so much is now beyond their control.
Commanders, captains and admiral - all have become unwilling spectators to an
unfolding drama.
At 10,000 feet, five
miles behind the Iranian Phantom, 18 miles behind his wingman, 50 miles from the
carrier, the lieutenant's brain is on fire. He must do something. He must not do
the wrong thing. There is very little to distinguish between the two, and none
of this was in his training. Except for this: He is a fighter pilot, and naval
aviator. Since the mere mechanical skills of flying can be taught to anyone in
time (they are broadly known, in fact, as "monkey skills") he has been selected
not so much for
what
he has learned as how
quickly he has learned it, how quickly he
can adapt to changing circumstances. He is also at a curious, almost magical
intersection of his profession: A place where his increasing store of
professional experience intersects at a peak with the declining advantages of
youth: aggressiveness, perfect vision, flawless reflexes and unassailable
self-confidence. As his brain races, he realizes that he is out of the training
and experiential box, and that the solution will necessarily be unorthodox.
It never occurs to him that there is
not a solution.
He selects the
AIM-120 AMRAAM (advanced, medium range air-to-air missile) on his weapons
control switch, and takes a single target track on the radar - all radar energy
is focused on the receding F-4. He is still in range for a shot, although the
range to target is still opening: That will not do. He rams the throttles up to
maximum afterburner, what he thinks of as "max grunt," and bunts the nose to
gain airspeed. He knows that he must, at least, stop the bleeding. His finger
caresses the trigger, eyes flickering on the shoot-light flashing on the canopy
bow. It would be so easy...
But no -
he can't, not yet. The rules of engagement. Lawyer's twaddle, he thinks, cursing
silently. Still...
Suddenly inspired,
he changes weapons mode to the AIM-7 Sparrow, and waits for the radar to
automatically change to accommodate the older missile's guidance requirements.
It does not, and he is momentarily non-plussed before remembering: the armament
system is armed, but he's not carrying any AIM-7s. Just AIM-120 and AIM-9
Sidewinders. The system won't force a missile mode not required by the
aircraft's loadout. He groans, mentally slaps himself on the forehead, reaches
up and safes the jet. He selects the simulation mode on the armament system and
once again selects Sparrow: Yes.
He
prays that the Phantom is equipped with a radar warning receiver. He cannot
remember from his intelligence briefs if it is. He curses himself for not
remembering, vows that he will learn from this, remembers Sun
Tzu:
If you know the enemy and know
yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know
yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a
defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every
battle.
Do something, daddy. Do it, he prays. Do it
now.
He is rewarded: The Phantom jock turns forty
degrees left, no more: He's checking his six o'clock, aware now of a potential
threat, "spiked at six." The lieutenant can imagine the narrowing eyes of the
Iranian crew, pilot and weapons officer, heads straining over their left
shoulders as they attempt to evaluate this new information, give it context. But
the lieutenant is unsatisfied: Forty degrees is not enough. At this range, forty
degrees won't make it happen. He strokes the throttle-mounted expendables
switch, thumbing out an IR decoy, a flare. He hopes it draws their attention to
him. He hopes it looks like a missile launch. He hopes he has done the right
thing...
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