Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

Billy Ray “Bubba” Young had other ideas. He kept up a running dialogue of inane observations about farming, flying, and anything else that came into his head. Mercer could see his hands gesturing wildly as he talked. Only when they were ten miles out did the pilot regain his calm professionalism and get down to business.

“Control, this is Ferryman One-One-Three.” Bubba gave the flight destination. “I have you in sight.”

Mercer peered into the gloom ahead of the hurtling aircraft but it took him nearly twenty seconds to find the dim lights of the aircraft carrier which were just faint pinpricks of light like a constellation on the black surface of the sea. There was no doubt that Billy Ray possessed exceptional eyesight.

The Hornet was descending steadily, her powerful engines throttled back, her airspeed no more than two hundred knots. As they drew closer to the huge carrier, Mercer could see the lights on her stern; running lights, VASSI system lights to show the pilot his glide path, and the “ball” light that indicated the ship’s roll. They meant nothing to him, but he trusted Billy Ray to know what he was doing.

“One mile out,” the voice of the flight controller called.

“Confirmed,” Billy Ray replied casually. There was a mechanical whine as the landing gear sank from the fuselage.

The few lights on the carrier made the sea look even darker and more ominous. By watching the ship’s bow, Mercer saw she was pitching wildly. It looked impossible to land the Hornet on her deck.

“Call the ball,” the radio buzzed.

Billy Ray slewed his aircraft through the sky to match the great ship’s ponderous roll. When he felt they were aligned, he keyed his mike and said, “Bubba has the ball.”

The flight was in his hands now, the carrier closing by the second, the Hornet still flying over one hundred and fifty knots, the controlled sway of the aircraft matching the flight deck’s movement.

Three hundred yards out, the stall warning wailed — the wings were losing lift at the slow speed. Two hundred yards out, Billy Ray pitched the needle nose up at an even steeper angle; the aircraft was barely hanging in the sky. At one hundred yards the aircraft began to shudder, but Billy Ray held her up with a deft touch on the throttle. The deck was just a murky shadow ahead.

The entire situation seemed out of control. It was definitely unlike anything Mercer had ever experienced before — the wailing alarms, the mad movements of the fighter, and Billy Ray’s rebel yell.

The wheels touched with a squeal of burned rubber; Billy Ray slammed the throttles to their forward stops and activated the afterburners, but the massive power of the engines could not pull the Hornet from the arrester cable that stretched across the Kitty Hawk ’s deck. He shut down the engines as the plane’s nose dropped to the deck. The instant deceleration from 150 knots to zero slammed Mercer into his harness, bruising both shoulders painfully.

As the turbofans whined into silence, Mercer exhaled the breath he was sure he’d held for the past two minutes.

“Ay should’a warned you about hittin’ max power when we touch down. Gotta do that in case we missed the cable and need’d to take off again.”

“No problem,” Mercer said, too relieved to complain.

“Control,” Billy Ray spoke into the radio, “give me the wire.”

“You snagged two, Ferryman One-One-Three,” the controller replied.

Billy Ray shouted triumphantly. “Ah haven’t landed on a carrier in two months and Ah can still lay her down on the center wire.”

To maintain flight status, naval pilots must consistently hook into the middle of the three arrester cables that stretch across a carrier’s deck. Hitting on number one or three meant they came in too high or too low, and if they do either too often, they’re taken off active status and sent to the mainland for additional training. Billy Ray had executed a perfect nighttime landing.

As the F-18 was towed to one of the aircraft lifts by a small utility tractor, the canopy opened and Mercer breathed in the rich Pacific air. The smell of aviation fuel and the smoke from the carrier’s eight Forest-Wheeler boilers could not dampen the tanginess of the ocean. Mercer was amazed at the activity on the flight deck; men scurried from task to task, aircraft jockeyed around. An F-14 Tomcat streaked into the darkened sky, a huge helicopter warmed up nearby.

Deck crews swarmed up to the Hornet. One pushed a mobile ladder to the cockpit. Two men scrambled up the ladder and helped Mercer and Billy Ray extricate themselves from the cramped seats.

“Good to have you back, Bubba,” one of the men said. “Your squadron leader wants to see you in the briefing room right away.”

“Fine,” Billy Ray drawled. “Well, Mr. Mercer, been a pleasure.”

Mercer shook his hand and grinned. “If you say so. I’m sorry I wasn’t much company on the flight. I guess I needed the sleep.”

“Shoot, you were asleep the whole time? No wonder you didn’t answer none of my questions.” Billy Ray laughed.

Someone handed Mercer his nylon bag recovered from the ammo well. The asphalt deck felt good under his feet as he stretched his tired muscles. He realized that the ship was barely pitching, it had just seemed violent as the Hornet had screamed in on its approach.

“Dr. Mercer, Commander Quintana wants to see you,” said a crewman. “I’ll lead the way. Please stay behind me, sir, the flight deck is a pretty dangerous place.”

No sooner had they stepped away from the aircraft than the huge square of the deck elevator vanished, carrying the Hornet to the hangar below. Mercer followed the crewman to the seven-story island, the only part of the carrier to rise above the flight deck. He could make out the bridge windows and the mass of antennae that shot up into the sky. Since the Kitty Hawk wasn’t nuclear powered, she had a single funnel that cantilevered out over the starboard rail.

The wind that swept the deck pushed Mercer and his escort aft, toward the island. As they approached, Mercer saw a figure silhouetted in a doorway. When they were close enough, the Hispanic features and dark hair allowed him to correctly identify Commander Quintana. He was dressed in starched khakis, and though he seemed relaxed he held himself erect. Typical ramrod navy man, Mercer thought.

“Welcome to the CV63 Kitty Hawk . I’m Commander Juan Quintana. Why don’t we step inside out of the wind?” Quintana made no offer to shake hands and spoke as if every word was capitalized and punctuated with a period.

Mercer followed him into the ship. The unitarian gray walls and stark lighting reminded Mercer of the basement of his grandparents’ house in Vermont. The steel corridors were spotlessly clean but smelled of fuel oil and saltwater. Quintana led him up three decks and through a maze of corridors, to his office. Had Mercer not been used to the three-dimensional labyrinths of underground mines, he would have been thoroughly lost.

Quintana’s office was small, but on a ship which housed more than 5000 men, space was at a premium. The walls were covered in cheap paneling and the carpet on the floor was thin but a definite upgrade from the steel passageways. Quintana’s desk was wooden, standard government issue. In fact, it reminded Mercer of his own desk at the USGS. Since he believed that a clean desk was the sign of a sick mind, he assumed Quintana was indeed touched. The only items on the desk were a lamp, bolted to its surface, and a black, three-line telephone.

“The head is through that curtain,” Quintana pointed. “You can leave your flight suit in there.”

“Thanks.” Mercer smiled his gratitude and headed for the bathroom.