"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."
This script breaks the oppressive, heat-hammered
silence on the flight deck and is followed hard
bya
flurry of hand signals from broiling plane captains to suffocating aircrew -
start auxiliary power units. The APUs are small jet engines carried internally
by the FA-18's and used to spin the main engines, the larger General Electric
F404s. The APUs themselves are kicked over by hydraulic accumulators which have
stored energy from the previous flight, or God forbid in this heat, laboriously
pumped up by crimson-faced plane captains. Of all the aircraft on the flight
deck today, only the EA-6B Prowler still needs a "huffer," a kind of low tow
tractor with its own windmilling starter engine, hooked up by a telescoping hose
to the Prowler's belly.
The low,
almost ghostly moan of the Hornet APUs starting across the flight deck breaks
out first here, then there, and then together in a kind of eerie, keening
chorus. As they come to full speed, the pilots signal to the plane captains,
"Start 2" - starboard engines power the jet's brakes, and thus are always the
first one's brought on line, followed quickly by the number 1, or port, engine.
As soon as the pilots have both engines on line, they close their canopies to
capture bleed air-powered air conditioning airflow, in the plain if stoic view
of the plane captains, for whom no comfort will be found until their charges
have left the deck in half an hour or so. For now the PCs follow around the
aircraft's exterior, somehow immunized to the deafening maelstrom of idling jet
engines, as the pilots exercise their primary and secondary flight controls, the
stabilators, ailerons and rudders, the flaps and speedbrake. Tailhooks and
launch bars are tested for function, as are the inflight refueling probes, even
as the pilots warm their radars and internal electronics, align inertial
navigation system, entering critical latitudes and longitudes, double checking
their position for validity on the digital map projected on a display between
his legs. The pilots will verify that their external ordinance registers
properly on the weapons display, and enter delivery and fuzing programs into the
stores management system. It will be a very busy 15 minutes inside plexiglas
cockpits that, for all the howling of the air conditioning, are only slightly
less brutally hot than the air outside. Their cockpits will not really cool down
until the aircraft are airborne, engines operating at full efficiency and
climbing to an altitude that even the oppressive Arabian sun cannot blast and
bake. In fifteen minutes though, all cockpit tasks are complete for aircraft
that have no malfunctions, and the pilots of these jets either loll their
helmeted heads on their hands, elbows braced on canopy rails, or else
compulsively check and recheck checklist items, depending upon their personal
disposition.
Around one or two of the
on-deck fighters, a flurry of activity breaks out as faulty systems are
identified, and repairs attempted. White-shirted squadron trouble-shooters, the
best technicians of their rate and looking for all the world like helmeted
gunslingers, swarm the affected areas with nothing but the tools they carry in
low slung waist pouches, years of experience and a competitive desire to make it
happen. These same enlisted men will serve as final checkers for the jets as
they make their way to the catapults, looking for any sign of materiel defect,
leaking hydraulic or engine oil - anything out of place. They are far removed
from the pilots in life experience, years and pay grade - a nearly unbridgeable
social gap - but if the "shooters" call the jet down for maintenance, no one,
not even the squadron commanding officer, will overrule them. If they say you're
down, you're not going anywhere for a
while.
Close at hand in other jets with
engines turning are the spares, manned by lean and hungry pilots who have
briefed with the "go" aircrew, but will not ordinarily launch. They wait
wolfishly if patiently - having gone through all the pain of flight preparation
of briefing, and manning up on a broiling flight deck, they stand by against the
chance that one of the go-birds breaks and cannot be repaired in time for the
launch. The spares don't exactly hope for the go-pilots to go down, but they are
anything but disappointed if this in fact happens: You go through the pain, you
want to go flying - it's only human
nature.
The yellow-shirts, the aircraft
directors, lords of the flight deck strike casual attitudes in the blazing sun
and then at some unseen signal, consult closely cribbed launch sequence cards
and make their casual way towards selected aircraft. The squadron XO, as the
close air support event lead, will be the first to taxi if his jet is up. He
looks up from his weapons display to see an angular yellow-shirt standing in
front of his fighter's nose with arms thrust forward, shoulder high, thumbs
pointing inward towards each other from within clenched fists, like some Roman
emperor at the point of deciding whether the gladiator should live or die. The
XO quickly gives the yellow-shirt a thumbs-up, and sees the yellowshirt first
repeat his signal, and then, arms now below his waist, passes a signal - as
though alternately brushing dirt of first his left, then his right forearm,
followed by the heels of his fists together, thumbs now pointing outward, fists
now separating laterally - to the waiting PC and blue-shirted chocks and chains
men: Off tie-down chains, pull chocks. They swarm under the jet and the XO
raises his arms above the canopy rail for the yellow-shirt to see: Visual proof
that he will not either intentionally or accidentally actuate any of the
aircraft control surfaces while there are men underneath his jet. These control
surfaces are powered by a 3000 psi hydraulic system, and actuation by mischance
could easily maim or kill the unlucky maintenance-man who gets caught up in
them.
Finally the PC and blue-shirts
are clear, and the director signals the XO, "off brakes," and "come ahead." The
XO gets that sudden spike in heart rate that comes with first motion towards the
cat - a welcome excitment in the daytime, often much less so at night - and
carefully eases out from between the two jets on either side, mere inches away.
As he starts to roll, he reaches down with his right hand and arms his ejection
seat, simultaneously glancing up automatically: Good - no overhanging antennas
or island structure - if he had to, he could safely eject without being
immediately murdered by interfering equipment. This is always a relief. Pulled
out thirty or forty feet, the yellow-shirt gives him, "hold brakes," followed by
"spread wings" and "tailhook down." The XO cools the seeker on his Sidewinder
missile as the wings come down to spread, and red-shirted ordnancemen verify
that the 'Winders are functioning properly (the XO probably won't need them),
while the trouble-shooters check his tailhook for smooth operation (he'll
definitely
need that). He checks trim, flaps radar and altimeter warning setting: Take-off
checklist complete, holding on the wings.
All satisfied, he folds his wings and
raises the hook again on the director's signals, and starts forward again. The
yellow-shirt, still taxiing the fighter forward, looks back over his shoulder,
and seeing the Fly 2 yellow-shirt standing amidships with one hand held high,
turns back to the XO, points to him, and then makes a deliberate and exaggerated
throwing signal forward, like a forward pass. He is in fact passing aircraft
control to the midships director, who "catches" the pass, and immediately starts
giving directions to taxi the XO up to catapult three. The carrier starts a
broad, arcing starboard turn, and the XO now leans left in the cockpit as the
100,000 ton aircraft carrier heels over to
port.
Passed off again to a
yellow-shirt standing athwart the catapult track, wisps of steam rising between
his legs. A blue-shirt shows him the weight board, 42,000 pounds - the XO
grimaces inside his mask, swallows a curse, raises his hand, palm up: 43,000.
Again: 44,000. The XO shoots a thumbs up, and the weight board is turned to the
center-deck catapult operator for final calculations: Weight, wind over the
deck, temperature, air density, catapult elongation. Precise, agonizingly
precise movements are now required, and the XO, while fixated now on his
director's signals with passionate intensity, is aware at some almost
precognitive level of the other aircraft maneuvering around his own in the tight
space of a first-launch flight deck, aware of trouble-shooters ducking under his
jet, running their hands down the panels, moving away. The catapult shuttle
comes running back from its parked position right forward on the cat track,
passes quickly beneath the cat director's legs, runs under the fighter's nose
like a mouse running into a hole. "Brakes on," followed by "launch bar down" and
finally "spread wings." The XO watches the wings come down, locks them down,
finishes his take-off checklist, nods. "Come ahead," and "slowly." "Hold
brakes." "Full power - take
tension."
The XO feels the jet squat as
the catapult shuttle, attached to his launch bar, makes war with the holdback
fitting on his nose landing gear. He hears the scream of the GE engines winding
up to full power, begging to be released. Check: Engine instruments - all in the
green. Flight controls: Wipe 'em out, don't forget the rudders. Re-check: Seat
armed - good to go. Looks outside, sees that the yellow-shirt has passed control
to the Catapult Officer, waiting impatiently for the XO's signal - the XO
salutes the Cat Officer, who salutes back, looks forward, aft: All clear. He
kneels and strokes the deck with his outstretched hand:
Launch.
The XO braces himself in the
ejection seat with his right arm locked on the canopy bow towel rack, left arm
braced against the rail, holding the engines at full power. He puts his head
back against the seat, peeks to his left at the deck-edge cat operator and
catches him just as he fires the catapult. The XO bites down on a scream of
mingled primal joy and physical strain as jet bounces up and down the long
catapult stroke. His body is pressed against the seat by the g-forces as even
his eyeballs flatten, making the flight instruments in the HUD momentarily
unreadable. But after a long moment, it is over and his heavily laden fighter
wallows, rather than springs into the air on this hot day in an Arabian Gulf
summer.
"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
