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.
1115 - On the flight deck, what appears to the
unschooled observer to be a an experiment in multi-colored chaos (with
airplanes) continues in a heat that has gone from merely suffocating to
near-murderous as the carrier races downwind. Everyone on the flight deck
sweats profusely, continuously sipping water from their camelbacks, by now
resigned, almost philosophical - they know that in the next several hours it
will only get worse. The yellowshirts bark orders back and forth at their
retinue, emphasizing with hand signals; the tractor drivers towing the fighters,
the blue-shirted, tie down chain-carrying wing walkers whose job is at this
moment to ensure safe clearance from parked aircraft on either side, the
broiling, brown-shirted plane captain riding brakes in the cockpit. Red-shirted
ordnancemen, the "BB stackers," stand listlessly by the aircraft's intended
parking place, waiting to finish the final checks of bombs and missiles. The
directors blow police whistles blow from zone to zone above the wild animal
scream of the straining tractors, signaling for "brakes on," bringing entire
combinations of aircraft, tow bar and tractor into a trembling balance, acted
upon now too by the urgent thrust of the ship through the greasy, rolling cross
sea of the Arabian Gulf.
Up in Primary
Flight Control, or Pri-Fly, the Air Boss watches the spectacle unfold below him,
looks at his wristwatch for the fifth time in the last four minutes, knows that
the pilots for the 1200 launch will start to appear from the various flight deck
access points at any minute, helmeted, bulky in their flight gear, strolling the
decks like modern day gladiators - which were the heavily armed ones? Ah, yes -
the mirmallones, he thinks. They will swagger the deck looking for their steeds
and when they find them still being towed aft, unchained, themselves unable to
preflight, he knows they will look up the island structure to his glassed-in
aery with questioning, pointed glances. He looks at his watch again. Close, it
will be so close.
In the CO's At Sea
Cabin, the ship's Captain, still wearing his coveralls, has thrown himself
across his rack for the first of the handful 10-15 minute naps he will use to
get himself through the day. It is a survival technique of necessity, one
learned after one after another night of too few hours of rest, too often
interrupted. The Navigator had watched him leave the bridge with sad, tired eyes
as the bosun mate of the watch's shouts his obligatory of "Captain's off the
bridge!." The rest of the deck watches breathe out a collective sigh, a kind of
ever-so-slight relaxation of the rigid formality of watch aboard a warship at
sea. He'll be back soon - time enough now to flex one's knees, shift the weight
from side to side, exchange silent glances with ones neighbor - even, perhaps -
exchange words in hushed tones. Private words unconnected to the safety and
navigation of the ship. A luxury.
Well
below the instantly sleeping Captain, on the O-3 level, in an eight-man junior
officer berthing, a young lieutenant junior grade wakes up bleary eyed,
unfocused, wondering where he is: Ah, yes. The ship. He grimaces, thinking of
the circus show he'd put on the night before, trying to get aboard - four
bolters, two wave-offs (including one for technique) and two trips to the tanker
made him the last fixed-wing pilot aboard, apart from the tanker crew who'd
spent half the night "hawking" him. A regular old "night in the barrel," and
wrestling with the thoughts of it afterwards kept him awake until 4 A.M. He
frowns privately at the thought of it, of the
shame.
He wonders what people are
saying behind his back, behind their sympathetic smiles and well-intentioned
offers of flying advice. He'll have another chance to excel tonight, he thinks,
realizing suddenly that his right hand is clenched against his thigh. He makes a
conscious effort to relax it. Too soon to start stressing, he thinks. Plenty of
time for that later. He's young, and affable and inexperienced and so far the
combination has kept him off the griddle, but he's painfully aware that landing
aboard the ship at night is a core competency of a naval aviator, and that he's
not doing it very well. The more he thinks about it, the harder it's getting to
be and lately he's been thinking about it a lot. From the thoughtful glances he
gets from the senior leadership, he knows they are thinking about it too. He
knows that he is under a kind of cool, unemotional assessment. He knows that
ultimately, perhaps in the not-too-distant future, a decision will be made that
will affect the rest of his professional life, and that this decision will be
neither revocable, nor subject to appeal. The lieutenant junior grade has
succeeded, even excelled at every thing he has ever tried in life, and can't
imagine how it has come to this, that he find himself standing on the brink of
failure.
The squadron XO finishes
suiting up in the parachute riggers shop. G-suit went on first, over the flight
suit. Harness atop the g-suit and across the chest. He saws the straps from side
to side, tightening all down, feeling it in his thighs, across his shoulders.
The survival gear zips closed in front of his chest, atop the harness. Finally,
he shoves the unloaded 9 mm in between the harness and survival gear, trying
vainly to secure it for flight - the Navy has never developed an adequate
holster for pilot-carried weapons, he thinks. The image of an out of control
ejection and the heavy, hard-edged pistol breaking free during parachute opening
shock, only to tear at his helmet and face flickers into the forefront of his
consciousness briefly before he stuffs it away again with a
grimace.
He checks that his water
bottles in his right g-suit pocket are full, then checks to ensure his piddle
packs are in place in the left g-suit pocket. Can't have one without the other,
not on a four hour mission. Time to
go.
It's already hot inside the air
conditioned passageways, but as the XO approaches the outer hull, the
temperature rises perceptibly, and he feels the first bead of sweat roll down
from under his helmet, down his collarbone. He reaches the outer hatch, opens
it and almost reels backwards from the heat that hits him like a dull, flat
hammer. His body breaks out in an instant of itching as every pore opens and he
wonders, as he has for the last three weeks on the line, how the flight deck
sailors can possible survive in such an environment, much less do hard physical
labor. He'll be strapped in and turning in 15 minutes, with his fighter's air
conditioning system already running at full capacity. The deck apes will be here
all day, scarcely a break. Impossible, he thinks, even while knowing that they
keep doing it anyway.
He finds his jet,
happy to see that his at least is chained and chocked in an appropriate spot for
the launch. He performs his preflight inspection almost automatically, eyes
flickering from spot to likely spot after thousands of hours in this model. He
doesn't touch any exposed surfaces though - too hot, far too hot to even think
of touching with one's bare hands, and the XO doesn't wear gloves. The 500 pound
GBU-12, a laser guided bomb is under the port wing, in the shade, and even had
it been hot, he'd have still forced his hands to run over the fuzing wires and
suspension gear, however. He casts a gimlet eye over the 1000 pound JDAM, a
joint, direct attack munition on the starboard wing. The JDAM is GPS guided and
exceptionally accurate, but he hates the weapon cordially. An LGB requires a
skilled pilot to find the target on his forward-looking infrared system, using
funnel navigation from larger features to smaller as he approaches the target.
An LGB requires a kind of master. The JDAM, on the other hand, is nearly
pilot-proof, designed that way. It's not a very long walk from the JDAMs to the
Home for Retired and Obsolescent Fighter Pilots, he thinks. His preflight done
in minutes, he looks up at the open cockpit with something as close as possible
to loathing for a professional pilot who loves his work. Imagines the pain of
sitting down on that burning seat, puts away half-humorous thoughts of frying
bacon, sizzling in a pan. Hits the boarding ladder with a grunt, climbs up and
settles in. Damn, that's hot,
ow-ow-ow!
In Pri-Fly the Air Boss
shrugs. Well, we almost made it. We can shoot the catapults and clear the deck
that way. Not perfect but good enough - can't wait any longer. He reaches for
his belt mounted mic switch, clears his throat, begins his accustomed speech:
"Ooooon the flight deck, aircrew are
now manning for the 1200 launch. All unnecessary personal must clear the flight
deck, everyone remaining on deck must be in a full and complete flight deck
uniform: Life vests on and securely fastened, helmets on and buckled, goggles
down, sleeves rolled down. Take one last good look around the flight deck for
loose gear and FOD, stand clear of all prop arcs, intakes and exhausts. Stand
clear of huffer exhausts, tow bars and tie-down chains. Let's start the go
aircraft, start 'em
up."
"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
