The
ball starts falling towards the center but it’s moving too fast,
he’s going to shoot through the glideslope, he can hear the LSO key the
mike, and he knows that “Paddles” is going to scream for
“POWER” so before that can even happen he plugs the throttle into
blower (just a bit? a bit more? how’s that?) and when the LSO finally does
call “POWER!” on the radio what seems like an eternity later the
pilot mentally shrugs, thinks to himself, you bet, that’s all I’ve
got and there’s nothing at all left over, and he feels strangely calm
knowing that he's done what he can do and there’s no card left to play.
The ball sags below the datum lights and he hears the LSO key the mike
again…
The radio speaker crackles, "304, Hornet ball,
2.7, single engine" and up in the tower, the lieutenant junior grade, having
done all that he can do but stand by and await events, looks up from his
performance charts to scan the landing area. The deck is all clear, and the four
arresting wires and their massive under-deck restraining engines are in battery
to catch eighteen tons of a half-flap Hornet moving at 160 mph on a hot day,
their readiness signaled by the green deck status lights right aft on the
fantail. The JG looks up to the pilot landing aid television, or PLAT to watch
the pilot's approach and landing. With its centerline mounted micro-cameras, the
PLAT, with its cross-hairs showing glideslope and line-up errors, will be more
accurate than his own vantage point in the tower.
Captivated as he is by the drama
playing itself out just beyond the tower's thickly fortified glass, the JG
doesn't hear the heavy blast hatch open and close behind him, and is not at
first aware that the voice asking about 304's status is that of his squadron
commanding officer, joining him. Without turning back, he murmurs, "He's on the
ball." In a moment, the heat rises up his collar and he feels his ears turning
pink as he recognizes the voice at last, casting an anxious glance of
confirmation behind himself before appending, "Sir." The Air Boss is transfixed
with the approach as well, and ignores the exchange
entirely.
Their eyes are drawn
irresistibly to the PLAT display, and as one, the three of them frown slightly
as the jet on final goes high and fast - a hard correction to make on a hot day,
harder still when single engine. As they see the jet stop it's upward vector and
start to head back down to glideslope, the left hands of the Air Boss, squadron
CO and even the JG all tighten on unseen throttles as they urge 304 to catch it,
catch it! The radio crackles again, with urgency this time as the LSO calls for
"POWER!" and the three of them wince slightly as though they had been lashed.
Kestrel 304 looms large in the TV screen with unsettled dynamics and each of
them realizes that it will all be over one way or another in the next few
moments. Each feels the unwelcome (and to the JG, all-too-familiar) sensation of
being out of control of events and unsure where the next few seconds will take
them, a feeling of dreadful potential bordering just on the edge of disaster.
The radio crackles again, the LSOs
again, talking together, almost tripping over each other: "Easy with it!" "Right
for line-up," and "A little attitude," as they strive to get the FA-18, now
starting to flatten out its descent again under the application of all remaining
throttle, safely on deck and in the "spaghetti." At the moment of truth (the
wire cannot tell a lie) the tail hook snatches the number three cross-deck
pendant on the fly and the jet heaves and bucks as the wire pays out, slowing
the Hornet down, stopping it, the lone motor screaming like a wounded beast, the
20 foot-long flame of a fully staged afterburner streaming behind like Vulcan's
blowtorch.
The radio crackles again,
and it's the ship's CO, who like hundreds of other people throughout the massive
flagship has only now realized that he was holding his breath, keys his handset
and says, "Nice job, 304 - welcome back." The Air Boss changes a switch setting
on his belt control to change his mike from external radio to internal
communications and says with evident relief in his voice, "Super job paddles. On
the flight deck we've got two more to catch, lets get 304 chocked and get a tow
bar on him. Move people."
Flight deck
crewman swarm out to 304, still holding power up against the wire to keep his
hook from spitting it's grip until the brown shirts can get chocks beneath his
wheels, get a tow tractor attached, pull him clear. Sweat runs like rivers down
their faces, between their shoulder blades and down their legs as senior petty
officers shout and swear - two more to catch, get moving, let's
go!
Satisfied for the moment, the Air
Boss at last looks behind him to see the JG staring thoughtfully at the flight
deck and the swarm of effort surrounding 304. In turning back the Boss sees the
squadron CO attempting to catch his eye: The CO raises one inquiring eyebrow and
tilts his head towards the JG, silently asking, "How did he do?" As silently,
the Boss purses his lips thoughtfully and nods his head affirmatively - "He did
well." Both senior aviators turn their glances on the JG now, eyes narrowing
thoughtfully, the age old machinery of leadership calculation grinding, sifting,
weighing. Aware finally of the weigh of their collective attention, the JG turns
to look at them. At first he blushes again and looks way, embarrassed by the
attention. But only for a moment before he turns silently back to them, and
returns their gaze directly. Although he is not aware of it, his chin is
infinitesimally upthrust and his shoulders squared, his entire carriage
displaying what is only just barely on propriety's side of the naval definition
of defiance. The JG knows that this, at least, he has done well. Both of the
older men hold his gaze for a moment thoughtfully, eyes narrowed, before nodding
silently and turning away.
The CO
undogs the massive blast hatch and steps out of the tower and onto the weather
deck, the JG following after. Stepping out of the air conditioned tower, the
mid-day sun slaps at them with a blow of almost petulant physical brutality, and
their pores stream open, itching. Just before the blast hatch slams shut, the JG
catches the Air Boss's eye, hears him say, "Well done. See you on the ball
tonight." The JG turns to follow his CO, momentarily gratified to have received
such praise from a man not known for giving any. His pleasure gives way to mild
dismay as he reflects that with a hundred pilots in the air wing, it is
unfortunate that the Boss should not only know him by name, but also know that
he'd be flying again that night. He sighs, shakes his head, dogs the hatch and
goes below.
Racing down the ladders
with the careless athleticism of youth, he catches the CO two ladders down and
holds back a respectful difference before deciding on a whim to change
destinations and await 304's pilot on the flight deck, rather than heading
immediately back down to the ready room. It's only 110 degrees in the shade
behind the island as the last two aircraft recover, engines screaming, but the
sweat pours off him even as he lurks guiltily, aware of the fact that he should
be wearing flight deck protection but not caring for the moment. After a few
minutes, 304's pilot walks wearily aft and the JG joins him in the starboard
side catwalk, heading below deck and inboard. Once inside the skin of the ship,
to temperatures that drop 10 degrees with every hatchway they traverse, the
pilot turns to the JG, mops his face with a bandana and says, "Thanks, man. You
really helped up there today. I was as busy as a one-legged man in an
ass-kicking contest, and you made a huge
difference."
"Oh, it wasn't anything,"
the JG replies, nevertheless pleased - praise has been hard to come by lately -
"But that was an awesome job you did getting her on deck - single engine, hot
day, flight control cautions, single AOA.
Wow."
"You think so?" the pilot asks,
"I felt like I was killing snakes in the cockpit. And anyways, you don't win any
Air Medals for good landings after self-inflicted damage. Is the skipper
pissed?"
"At you? I don't know. I can't
read the man. But seriously man, great work - how did you do it, what were you
thinking about?"
The pilot stops
thinking about the trouble he's in for a moment and looks at the JG, evaluating
what he's asking against what he really wants to know:
"Why is it that you can you do this
with your jet all messed up, when it seems that I can't do it
all?"
Three-oh-four's
pilot doesn't consider himself given much to introspection, far less to rah-rah
coachifying. But he also knows that the JG has been suffering recently, has
watched the nightly circus show, sees the strain in the younger man's eyes,
shrugs: "Dude, look - when you're all messed up - especially when it's your own
fault? - all you can do is try your best and believe in yourself. Because you
know what? That's not enough to make it happen, not by itself. But if you don't
do that? You haven't got a chance. You've got nothing. I know you're trying.
Trying is good, but you've got to do more than try. You've got to
believe."
"Easy for you to
say."
"And hard to do, I know. But you
aren't the first guy ever to struggle at this. Most people do. It's
hard,
man. Sometimes it's harder than Chinese algebra. But it's like: The moment you
think you can't do it? You can't. Flip side is that the moment you believe you
can, you will. If you didn't have the monkey skills, you wouldn't have gotten
this far. You've just got to, you know: Take the
leap."
The JG looks into the pilot's
eyes warily. If only it was so
easy...
Just inboard of them, behind
the vault-like doors of the carrier intelligence center, or CVIC, a first class
intelligence specialist monitoring a chat room in the Multi-Source Integration
cell reads a few lines of text and sits bolt upright. "Sir," he says, calling to
one of the targeteers, "I think you'd better have a look at
this."
The targeteer, an intelligence
officer with the rank of lieutenant lets out a low whistle, beckons for a
runner, "We need to convene the TST cell." He then picks up a red radio handset,
keys the mike and says, "COPS, MSI - stand by for words on a time sensitive
target."
"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
