Kevin Miller - Raven One

The PLAT showed the Hornet stop and drop the hook to the deck. The hook runner, a sailor with a long steel crowbar, ran underneath the aircraft and pulled the cable clear of the hook, which was then raised again. Once untangled, the Hornet advanced the throttles to taxi forward and get clear of the landing area. The jet’s exhaust blasted the water on the flight deck into another cloud that tumbled aft. The PLAT switched to Sponge Bob, the undercarriage of 402 visible as it taxied forward over the camera.

“Four-zero-six, on and on, three quarter mile, call the ball.”

“Four-zero-six, Hornet ball, four-oh.”

“Roger, ball Hornet , deck’s movin’ a little, you’re on glide slope.”

Wilson watched the deck status light indication flashing foul in the top of the screen as Sponge drew closer. “It’s gonna be close…” he said to no one in particular. Shakey continued to guide the pilots with his calming voice, as if there were no worries. “You’re on glide slope… onnn glide slope,” he called to Sponge, keeping a careful eye on him but conscious that the deck was still foul since 402 had not yet cleared the landing area. Seconds from the decision point, the deck motion subsided for a moment. With the deck still foul, though, Shakey had to wave him off.

“Wave-off, foul deck,” paddles called, just as the deck went clear.

Damn , Wilson thought. His XO caused the wave-off by retracting his hook too early and not waiting for the yellow shirt signal.

O’Shaunessy turned to him. “ Raven rep, your flight lead shit-in-the-gear caused that.”

Wilson nodded and said, “Yes, sir.” O’Shaunessy kept his narrow eyes on him for a count and turned away. While Commander O’Shaunessy could be a dickhead, he was at least fair , taking on peers like The Big Unit to his face, or Saint behind his back, as well as lower ranking squadron department heads. The Irishman always looked pissed off, and who could blame him? He had to orchestrate the tension of carrier recoveries night after night after night, while the captain up there watched his every move and ripped into him when the airborne ballet was less than perfect. If air wing pilots were fouling up his pattern, they were going to know it, and screw ‘em if they didn’t like it.

Wilson looked at the status board with a grim face. This recovery was not going well, and no wonder! Varsity pitching deck, high gusty winds, rain and thunder in all quadrants, barely enough gas airborne on a dark night… and the divert fields practically out of reach, the best one of them closed.

Spartan 104 then trapped on a lucky four wire, and CATCC came on the radio to Sponge: “Four-zero-six, turn left to downwind. Fly heading three-five-zero. Report abeam.”

“Four-zero-six,” answered Sponge.

Wilson thought that Sponge Bob sounded cool. Despite his relative inexperience as an aviator, and despite a baby face that resembled the cartoon character, he could handle this. Maybe this experience will be good for him , thought Wilson. He needs to add a few lines to that face. CATCC was sending more aircraft to waiting tankers overhead. O’Shaunessy called to launch the alert 15 tanker, a Super Hornet . “Tell ‘em I need it in ten minutes,” he said.

Ding ding, ding ding… ding. The 1MC bells sounded again… 1830. Wilson turned his attention to a Hawkeye lined up left on the PLAT and watched it settle on a one wire and roll out on centerline. The familiar whooumm of the turboprops at full power penetrated the space. That sound was followed by a deep whhaaa as the prop pitch reacted to the throttle setting on deck. Now, there were three Hornets and a Viking left to recover, and Sponge was first in line.

On departure frequency, Wilson heard “ Cutlass three-zero-five, report plugged and receiving.”

“Three-oh-five, wilco .”

Wilson glanced at The Big Unit, whose eyes remained locked on the PLAT. Both watched the flickering strobes of Sponge on final at three miles, but Wilson knew he, too, had to be listening to the departure frequency transmissions and thinking about the young Buccaneer pilot struggling behind the basket overhead.

All the aviators in the room had been there. In their minds, they climbed off the bolter with the pilot, raised the gear, switched frequencies to receive instructions, activated the radar and commanded it to automatically acquire the assigned aircraft. Even as their eyes joined the pilot’s eyes in search of the tanker, the idea of being in a low-state aircraft far from land lurked in the corners of their minds…

There it is! That cluster of lights at 2 o’clock high . The pilot levels off at 2,000 feet and holds 250 knots, on altitude, controls the closure, and gets on bearing line. The pressure is on to join up and plug on the first try. As the pilot draws near, the flashing strobe lights illuminate the outline of the tanker, and the basket suddenly extends out of the refueling store. With his left hand, the pilot reaches down from the throttle and extends his refueling probe. With his left foot, he feeds in some bottom rudder to align the fuselages. Stabilized on the tanker’s left wing, he sees the tanker pilot make a circle with his flashlight — the signal to plug.

The pilot slides into position and, with no horizon to reference, attempts to line the probe up behind the basket. Rigid with concentration, and “ squeezing the black out of the stick, ” the pilot attempts to anticipate the movements of the basket, which is constantly buffeted in the airstream. He adds a little power to ease forward, misses low, pulls a bit to back out, and lines up again for another stab. Hurry back , stabilize, now easy, easy… He takes a lunge with throttle and stick to slam the probe into the basket. The hose buckles from the impact before the take-up reel returns tension. The pilot pulls some power, but not so much that he backs out. As he maintains that position on the tanker, he watches the status light on the store, willing it to go from amber to green.

Green . Good flow. Life blood enters the aircraft. Time enters the aircraft. A split-second glance at the fuel page on the multifunction display, followed quickly by another glance, confirms the increase in fuel. Yes, yes . Even as his eyes scan for the first hint of relative movement on the tanker, he relaxes a bit and exhales deeply, his mouth open against the mask’s microphone. Another chance, more time to live.

Air Ops let out a collective sigh of relief when the Cutlass came up on the radio. “Three-oh-five, plugged and receiving.”

“Roger, three-zero-five, take three-point-oh.”

“Three-oh-five.”

Wilson heard The Big Unit murmur. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Four-zero-six, two miles, going slightly below glide path.”

“Four-zero-six.”

O’Shaunessy assigned one of the tankers, Spartan 102 , to keep their eyes on — or “hawk”— Sponge. As Wilson watched the PLAT, he could see the familiar strobes of the Super Hornet high in the screen. They crossed from right to left across the screen as the tanker passed behind the ship and into a position to catch Sponge if he needed their services. The final controller called to Sponge with “Four-zero-six, on glide path, slightly right of course, one mile,” and followed that with “Four-zero-six, on and on three quarter mile, call the ball.”

“Four-zero-six, Hornet ball, two-seven.”