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Back aboard the carrier, a squadron duty
officer receives a phone call from the Air Boss in the tower. He listens much
more than he talks, replies, "Yes sir, right away," and hangs up. He looks
around the ready room quickly - no one here but a nugget lieutenant junior
grade, the same guy who's been having so much trouble getting aboard at night.
Well, the SDO thinks, it'd be better if I had someone more experienced to send
up to the tower, but this doesn't require any skills the kid doesn't already
have. He'll have to do until I get someone else to relieve him. He calls the JG
over: "I need you to grab a pocket checklist and hump it up to the tower.
Three-oh-four had a basket slap on the tanker and is coming back early, single
engine. The Air Boss wants a squadron rep in the tower to handle the phone
calls. You're it."
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The JG starts in his chair, thinks, Oh, great -
one more chance to excel, asks the SDO aloud, "Isn't there someone, you know...
more senior?"
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"Go."
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The JG grabs the checklist and heads out the door
at a run and immediately collides with a portly civilian tech rep who blusters
for a moment before considering the dynamics of the situation and getting out of
the way. The JG continues his weaving way to the ladders going up to the tower,
some six decks above the ready room, moving at a pace as close to a run as is
appropriate aboard an aircraft carrier at sea. It's a kind of frantic shuffle,
as he vaults knee-knockers every few steps, head weaving and bobbing away from
air ducts and overhead piping, hips dodging the many things that project out of
naval bulkheads on either side: power junction boxes, valve fittings and the
ubiquitous firefighting gear. To these fixed objects are associated moving ones
as well, Sailors in the passageway. These last are familiar with the look they
see in his eyes, familiar with urgency and its reasons even if not of the
specifics. Most of all, being men who use the sea, they are aware of costs and
consequences. They throw themselves against the bulkhead to get out of his way
and the passageway rings with their shouts of "Make a hole," as they inform
others to clear a path. The JG is junior enough to be momentarily surprised at
this treatment - no one has ever cleared a path for him before - but even as
grateful as he is, he does not hesitate to express his gratitude.
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Around the ship, phone circuits are buzzing. The
ship's Captain is on the line to the Air Boss in the tower, who is in turn on
conference call with the Air Operations officer down in the ship's air traffic
control center, and the Aircraft Handling Officer down in his cubicle off the
flight deck. The Air Ops officer is in communications with 304 and his wingman -
at their current distance from the ship, they are still in his airspace. The
Handler is pleading with the Air Boss to take 304 last, after the launch for
God's sake, if he's ever to have a chance of getting the next launch off the
deck at all. The alternative is to clear the flight deck landing, now spotted
with the better part of a dozen aircraft awaiting the next launch, by means of
an emergency pull-forward: Harassed flight deck crews would run tractors to the
aircraft spotted aft and yank them out of the landing area, with every focus on
speed of movement, none of the usual deliberation and safety procedures. After
the work he's already done this morning recovering the alert launch, a second
perturbation runs the risk not merely the usual "crunches" as jets are pulled
aside in random order, nor even of the occasional personnel injuries that such
haste sometimes engenders, but also the one thing that all Handlers live in fear
of: A locked deck. A locked deck is a a kind of flight deck gordian knot:
Aircraft, tractors and tow bars flung together in such cross-grained disorder
that nothing can be done, not launches, not recoveries, not even a proper
re-spot. A locked deck will characteristically take far more time to sort out
than the dwindling reserves of airborne fuel in the waiting recovery overhead
the carrier will support. A locked deck can happen in a moment, and would be the
Handler's ultimate disgrace. A locked deck haunts his dreams.
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The JG arrives in the tower gasping for air having
taken the six steep ladders at an all-out run. The Air Boss notes his squadron
patches as he arrives, knows why he's here and passes him a radio handset while
still balancing a phone in either ear. The Air Boss's eyes linger for a moment
on the single silver bar embroidered on the JG's shoulders, his insignia of
rank, and purses his lips. His eyes drift down to the JG's name patch, and of
their own accord narrow in recognition, and at the associated memory of the
circus show behind the ship the night before, that long, long night. He looks up
now into the JG in the eyes themselves, and cocks his head as if in evaluation.
He notes the new shade of crimson layering itself upon the JG's face, itself
already flushed from his earlier exertions. The Boss shrugs mentally: "304 -
talk to him, find out what he's got, what he needs, get me a fuel state. I need
to know how long he can wait before recovering."
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In short, rapid bursts of communications, the JG
talks to 304 and his wingman, gets a sense of the larger issues: Single engine,
right motor out, but landing gear are down and locked. Flaps are set at half,
that's approach flaps for single engine recovery, good. Stacked up flight
control cautions due to the lost angle of attack probe, but handling qualities
seem adequate. Insufficient thrust with the wheels down to maintain level flight
without using afterburner on the remaining engine, which, even apart from the
effects on fuel consumption has deleterious effects on Vmc - minimum
controllable airspeed in single engine flight. The JG sorts the information he
has received in this rapid exchange into internal priority bins - this is a task
at which he excels - and correctly relays to the Air Boss the most critical
piece of information: "He can't maintain altitude on the left motor, not with
all the trash he's hauling. He'll have to jettison his external stores - the
bombs at a minimum - but he's over 50 miles from the designated bomb jettison
area, and it's in the wrong direction anyway."
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The Air Boss nods, turns one phone down against
his shoulder, speaks to the Captain on the other one. He pauses, listening.
"Roger that, skipper." Turning to the JG, the Boss says, "The CO says to have
304 jettison right where he's at, but check the area clear below him - No oil
wells, ships or dhows."
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The JG speaks into the handset, relaying this to
304 and his wingman. Listens. Replies, "That's great, good news. Say your
state." He consults his checklist, running his finger down the single engine
performance curve, cross-checks against temperature and density altitude. Lets
out a low whistle. He turns to the impatiently waiting Air Boss: "He jettisoned
successfully, and the bombs didn't go off high order - good splashes. He says he
can maintain level flight now at military power and he's got nearly 9000 pounds
of gas."
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"What time does that put him on
deck?"
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"Should be good to go for a recovery at..." the JG
pauses, running the math again in his head, rechecking the performance charts -
got to keep in mind that he's dirty: gear and flaps down will increase fuel
consumption, "No more than 45 minutes or so, to be on the safe side. Put him on
deck with three-point-oh."
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"Three point oh? Doesn't give him much of a margin
for error!"
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"That's about the max he could make an attempt
with, as hot as it is. Any more than that and he won't have single-engine
wave-off capability. It'll be tight as it is."
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"Man," the Air Boss exclaims, "This just keeps
getting better and better." He turns and picks up a phone again, buzzes the
Captain.
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