Kevin Miller - Raven One

A groan went up from O’Shaunessy as he reached for the phone once more.

“Two-one-zero, we didn’t see a rudder wipe out. Let’s try it again,” the Mini-Boss radioed.

“Yes, sir,” the young marine pilot answered.

O’Shaunessy turned to the peanut gallery, his eyes searching for any pilot with a high and tight representing the Marine Hornet squadron. “ Red River rep, you catch that from the Boss?”

“Yes, sir, he’ll be debriefed,” the major responded.

“Good, and you can apologize to the Spartan rep sitting next to you if we don’t catch one-oh-three,” said O’Shaunessy as he glared at the major. Just then his phone buzzed, and he turned to answer it. “Roger,” he spoke into the receiver, and raised his voice for all to hear. “Take one-oh-three over the top.”

With a sheepish expression the major whispered, “Sorry, man!” to the Spartan pilot who sat next to him, who then took it as an opportunity to extract payment from the Moonshadows .

“I think, when we get to port, a beer for the one-zero-three aircrew will make amends, and a beer for me having to stay here in this pressure cooker longer than I should have, and a beer for the maintenance department for keeping one-oh-three airborne on this shitty night, and for the CO for general purposes. Hell, just buy the whole squadron a beer, and we’ll call it even.”

“We ain’t that sorry!” the marine chuckled.

The PLAT screen shifted to the approach view and looked aft into space. Three aircraft showed on the screen as twinkling bundles of light set against the black. Two FA-18s followed 103, which was the largest bundle. They were all three to the left of the crosshairs, the lines in the middle of the screen that signified heading and glide slope. The ship was now on a 115 heading in the never-ending quest to put the winds down the angle.

As the pilots in Air Ops suspected, after what they had seen on the screen, the voice of the approach controller came over the radio loudspeaker with new coordinates: “One-zero-three, discontinue approach, maintain angels one-point-two, fly heading one-one-zero.”

“One-oh-three, roger, one-one-zero.”

As the Hornet on Cat 4 was placed in tension, Wilson heard the sardonic voice of “Saint Patrick ” as he commenced his approach. “Four-zero-two commencing.”

“Roger, Raven four-zero-two, take speed two-seven-five, say state.”

“Two hundred pounds less than when you asked me two minutes ago ,” Saint replied. Wilson cringed at the unprofessional sarcasm in his XO’s voice.

When he heard this exchange, O’Shaunessy, whose attention had been on the situation regarding the deck status, turned his head and said to no one, “Who the fuck’s in four-oh-two?” He answered his own question by looking at the status board. He shook his head in disgust when he read “PATRICK” and turned to search for a Raven flight suit patch among the pilots seated behind him.

“If your XO would make proper voice calls, we wouldn’t have to ask him for his state.”

All Wilson could do was acknowledge him with a chastened “Yes, sir.”

“ And give him a speed change because he can’t hit his marshal point on time,” O’Shaunessy added. The room was silent except for the clipped radio exchanges from the final approach controllers and pilots.

The Big Unit leaned over to Wilson and whispered “ Bad hair day …” Wilson nodded but wondered if he was talking about O’Shaunessy or his XO.

The marshal controller queried the Raven XO a second time. “Four-zero-two, say state.”

Wearily, Saint responded, “Six-point- one .”

Next, Wilson’s ear was attuned to Sponge Bob’s voice over marshal frequency as he began his approach. “Four-zero-six commencing out of angels thirteen, state five-two.”

“Roger, four-zero-six, five-point-two.”

Wilson did some fuel calculations in his head. Sponge had enough for a few looks at the deck before he hit tank state. The ship had two tankers overhead, a Rhino with 6,000 pounds to give and a Viking with 4,000. Outside the wind blew at 36 knots down the angled deck, most of it natural as the ship was making nothing more than bare steerageway. Glancing at the PLAT, Wilson saw a flash on the horizon. Thunder in all quadrants, varsity pitching deck, rain and dark, with the nearest open unfamiliar divert field 250 miles away. Why do we do these things to ourselves? He turned his attention to the Hornet above the crosshairs on the PLAT.

“Two-zero-one, three quarter mile, call the ball.”

“Two-zero-one, Hornet ball, four-eight.”

“Roger, ball, workin’ thirty-five knots, MOVLAS.” Wilson recognized the voice of Lieutenant Commander Russ “Shakey” McDevitt. He was the new Air Wing Four LSO who had reported aboard just before cruise.

Conversation stopped as everyone in Air Ops looked toward the PLAT. The first aircraft of the recovery, Red River 201 , flown by a marine captain on his second cruise, was coming in. The light cluster grew larger and the external strobe lights on the Hornet blinked every half second as the aircraft approached the ship at over 140 knots.

“You’re goin’ a lit-tle high,” Shakey said in his characteristic LSO bedroom voice. Wilson thought 201 looked way high, but Shakey was going to talk him down. He added a pitching deck call. “Deck’s movin’ a little, you’re high… coming down. You’re a lit-tle fast.”

Wilson felt the ship take a lurch and saw the crosshairs drop suddenly on the PLAT. As the Hornet reached the wave-off decision point, Shakey finally made the decision by squeezing the “pickle” switch. “Wave-off, pitching deck,” he radioed. At once Wilson saw the Hornet add power and disappear out of the top of the screen as it passed over the deck, much of the sound penetrating the flight deck into Air Ops.

“Oh for two,” The Big Unit said softly.

Wilson’s guys were next. Saint was at one mile, and despite the deck motion, appeared low and lined up left, as he was for most of the approach. Wilson shook his head imperceptibly. He just accepts being off , he thought.

“Four-zero-two, slightly below glide path, slightly left of course, three quarter mile, call the ball.”

“Four-oh-two Hornet ball, five-one.”

“Roger, ball, thirty-five knots.”

After the “ball” is called, radio communications are limited to the LSO only, and at that signal, the dozen pilots in Air Ops also ceased their whispered conversations. Instead, they watched the light cluster loom larger in the glide slope crosshairs. Saint was holding left, and Shakey, on the LSO platform, saw it, too, and coaxed him back to centerline. “You’re lined up a lit-tle left… Lined up left… Deck’s movin’ a little. You’re on glide path.”

Wilson saw Saint correct for line up, and as he did, he carried too much power and drove himself high. Wilson thought, for sure, his XO would bolter, but suddenly the aircraft took a lunge to the deck.

“ATTITUDE! PO-WER !”

Raven 402 slammed into the deck hard, and the sound of the Hornet at full power, straining against the number one arresting wire, filled Air Ops.

“ Saint wasn’t going around,” murmured The Big Unit. Wilson heard him, but kept his eyes on his XO in the landing area. As the arresting wire was pulled back, the arresting hook was retracted too early and fouled the wire between the hook and the fuselage underside. Wilson knew why it happened… Saint raised the hook before the yellow shirt signaled him.