In TFCC the Battle Watch
Captain turns to the admiral and says, "Well, that seemed to go pretty
well."
"Just about
textbook," the admiral
concurs.
In Combat, the
third class operations specialist looks at his relief with a gimlet eye, passes
down the status of the air systems, threat and weapons posture. Turns the
console over and walks away without saying good-bye. Port and starboard watch -
he'll see the guy again in six hours. Hungry. Hungry and tired. Wonders which
one he'll work on first. Maybe a bite to
eat.
On the bridge, the
Captain calls down to Air Ops: "Where the hell are those alert fighters and the
E-2? Sure would be nice to have them on deck so that we can finish the
re-spot."
In a squadron
ready room, the executive officer concludes his briefing, releasing the close
air support crews to do their individual and crew briefs on their own. They'll
walk in 30 minutes.
It's going to be a hot
day...
1030 - the mercury is rising on the flight deck,
both literally and metaphorically as the yellow-shirted directors, the Air Boss
and the Captain visually scan the skies overhead for the alert launch. The
landing area is open for their recovery, and with such a small launch airborne,
there's not much other room on the flight deck besides. No room to move jets on
the bow. Next to nothing on the waist - just room enough to stuff the fighters
as they land - the E-2 will be pushed back into the "Hummer hole" aft of the
island.
A hot breeze runs down the
angle deck, offering little in the way of comfort to the assembled flight deck
crew. Finally, a rising thunder astern, and there: Four miles aft, a flight of
two arc down from overhead holding to the extended centerline of the landing
area. The two are locked in tight parade formation and making good time - at
least 500 knots. On the LSO platform, port side aft, the air wing landing signal
officer grimaces slightly, shakes his head. They've been on the line long enough
for the pilots to get confident, and attempt "shit hot" breaks to downwind for
landing. All well and good if they do it right, but easy to pork away if the
crews get complacent, or exceed their capabilities. Over the course of his years
on the LSO platform, he's had many opportunities to use LSO shorthand to grade
hot breaks thusly: "B - JWIB SPIG," which translates in people-speak to, "Bolter
- John Wayne in the break, Slim Pickens in the Groove." The LSO looks up and
feels a rivulet of sweat run down from his head into the upturned collar of his
flight deck jersey. Going to be a
scorcher.
The lieutenant checks the
HUD: 500 knots, 600 feet. Cool - good thing they got some gas off the alert
tanker. He's two hundred feet lower than the pattern altitude, but this allows
him to be "louder" in the break, as well as keeps him from needing to bleed off
another 20 knots or so in a post-downwind descent. He's going fast, but in the
turn he'll slow down fast. He needs to lose 250 knots just to get to gear speed.
His heart is thumping in his chest with the excitement, knowing that a good
break will earn him an "OK" grade, no matter what wire he lands on, while
knowing that a bolter or unsafe approach will only earn him ignominy. But he
wasn't particularly satisfied with the way the F-4 intercept went earlier in the
day, and he thinks he needs this. Anyway, it was an empty landing pattern. Time
to have a sack. Better to die than look
bad.
Over on his starboard wing, his
wingman is holding on for dear life, squeezing the black juice out of her
control stick. Low - low and fast, much faster than she'd like to go. She's
junior to the lieutenant, and lacks his brashness. She keeps her eyes glued only
to the lead aircraft, no time to look outside, no room to check her engine
instruments: Keep the starboard missile seeker on his ejection seat headbox,
square off the exhaust pipes, try to relax - wiggle your toes. At least she's
going second, she thinks. She'll have 19 seconds after he breaks to motor
upwind, slow down and regain her
composure.
The lieutenant watches the
fantail disappear under his nose, waits a moment, then flicks the fighter up on
the left wing , hauling aft on the stick, simultaneously pulling the throttles
to idle and deploying the speedbrake between the tails. It's seven g's he's
getting, and he has to hold the switch aft or else the speedbrake logic would
lower it back out of the breeze. The engineers built this jet to fight, knowing
that a pilot who's pulling high g's is always bleeding airspeed and almost
always resenting it. They didn't build the speedbrake logic for a "shit hot
break." They are engineers.
The
lieutenant can only pull that hard for 90 degrees of turn or so, otherwise, with
the FA-18's turn radius he'll be far too close abeam the ship to make a safe
approach once the gear and flaps are down. In order to make it look good, he
eases his angle of back just a bit to catch some lift, and pushes on the top
rudder to hold the fighter's nose above the horizon. He's still doing 325 knots,
still too fast - when he's close to his abeam distance, he applies another hard
pulse
aft
on the stick, and his wings are clouded by vapor as the airspeed bleeds
instantly away under the high angle of attack. There: 250 knots, gear and flaps
full, landing checklist, quick-quick, keep the turn in, don't overshoot. On the
gauges, no peeking, still too fast: feather the speedbrake aft again, counteract
the pitch bobble with a bit of forward stick, not too much. Checklist complete,
still fast, damn, high out of the turn and floating, a full ball and a half
high, got to get it on speed, got to get her down. There it comes, catch it, oh
God, the engines won't spool up, been at idle too long, please!
There!
Don't over-correct, where's the ball? "Right for lineup!" from the LSO and he
dips his wing automatically like he's been trained, but grinds his teeth - he
must have let his scan break down just a bit. Almost there, one more cough on
the throttles and WHAM! he's in the wires and the throttles are going to full,
engines screaming and the jet kicking like a bucking bronco at all the mutually
opposed forces acting on it until it finally settles down, himself thrown
against his harness in that reassuring car-crash sensation that is the end to
every successful flight.
He finds the
director up ahead and to starboard, on the other side of the foul line, sees him
pass the "off brakes" and "hook up" signal as the arresting wire pulls him aft a
few feet to release the wire. Once the cable drops away, the director gives him
an emphatic "come ahead" signal and raises one foot in an "ass-kicking" movement
to
really
add some emphasis as the lieutenant hears his wingman's voice on the aux radio,
"Keep it moving."
She doesn't know how
she got so tight on her lead but she did, and she's rolling out on final
approach after having done a really nice job on the approach with the ball in
the center and lined up just a
little left, looks down the landing area and
sees her lead still in the wires, only now starting to move. She's got 18
seconds left to her approach, but the LSO's won't give her all of it if it's
even close, and if he doesn't scamper across the foul line, she'll get waved
off, never mind whatever wire he's only now released from his tailhook getting
reset to in-battery position. All karma now, just fly the best approach you can
and hope for the best. Wonder if the wave-off lights are going to come on?
Almost too late for them now, isn't it? "A little power," from the LSO's and she
curses softly in her mask but blips the throttles up, thinks, "That could cost
me my OK, and I've been busting my ass lately trying to make the Top Ten," and
WHAM! she's on deck and thrown against the harness and now it's all in the LSO's
hands. At least I didn't get waved off. She clears the landing area, looks aft
and sees the E-2 on final, making his approach. That can't be easy, she thinks
to herself. Props, p-factor, torque and a huge airplane to land in a narrow
spot.
She's taxied forward, run up
into the mess on the bow, "Hold brakes" and chocks and chains. Finally, "Shut
down," and she pulls the throttles to the cut-off position. Cracks the canopy
and feels hot air rush into the cockpit - is someone blowing their exhaust on
me? No - just another hot day in paradise. Wonder what's for
lunch?
The tanker pilot lands last, and
makes it look routine - none of the lieutenant's drama for him, not with five
external fuel tanks on a hot day. He's no sooner trapped than the Officer of the
Deck up on the bridge calls for a speed reduction, all engines ahead one-third,
followed by a right standard rudder order to turn 100,000 tons of diplomacy
downwind: An hour and a half to make some sea room for the next launch. The
Captain in his chair catches his eye and nods approvingly, and the OOD feels his
chest expand with a rush of pride. From this Captain, that amounts to high
praise indeed. He stands a little taller, looks around around his watches once
to make sure that everything is as it should be. He's
satisfied.
When the last jet shuts
down, the waiting yellow shirts are already swarming over the flight deck,
hooking tow tractors up to the launch bars under the "go birds" for the 1200
launch. Engines gunning, whistles blowing, the flight deck suddenly becomes like
a disturbed anthill, a boiling mass of activity which seems to the unschooled
eye to lack any coherent plan. Up in his aery, the Air Boss looks down on all
the activity and nods appreciatively. Just so. We might just make it. He turns
to his assistant, the "Mini Boss," and not for the first time says to him,
"Aren't they amazing? Just look at them, and in this
heat."
In the ready rooms below, the
crews are wrapping up their final briefs before going to the parachute locker to
strap their g-suits and harnesses on over their flight suits. The squadron XO
goes to his squadron duty officer and draws a 9mm pistol and two magazines. He
reflects upon the words his first CO told him when he was a lieutenant: "Always
carry a weapon over Indian Country. If you get shot down, the war isn't over,
it's just that the tactics have changed." He smiles briefly at the thought of
that old man, wonders where he is now or if he's even still alive - he was one
of the old breed, that CO: He was what they called "Old Navy," back before that
became a clothing brand. He burned it hard at both ends, left it all out there
on the field, no matter what the endeavor. The XO's smile fades as he looks at
the pistol in his hand, feels the purposeful hardness of it, thinks about why he
needs it. The war is supposed to be over, but it's not, and where he's going,
not everyone is
friendly.
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones
"Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra"
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche
