Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Roger, ball, workin’ thirty-six knots, slightly axial.”

O’Shaunessy turned to Wilson with an amused look and, referring to Sponge’s below tank fuel state, said, “At least he’s honest.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilson said and smiled. He appreciated the small break in the tension and stood up to take full advantage of it. He heard Shakey assure Sponge of his position on glide slope just as the PLAT crosshairs moved up, then down. The screen displayed a sudden pitch of the ship’s deck, one they also felt in their stomachs. The chance of catching Sponge on this pass was very low.

O’Shaunessy picked up the phone. “If he doesn’t get aboard, send him to one-oh-two for two-point-five.”

C’mon, Wilson thought, trying to control the motion of the ship. Settle down. Sponge was in close. Maybe he can make it…

“Wave off, pitching deck,” Shakey said as he depressed the pickle switch. Sponge added full power and maintained his proper landing attitude as he flew away.

“Dammit!” O’Shaunessy sighed, and spoke to CATCC. “Tank him.”

Seconds later, they heard approach call to Sponge. “Four-zero-six, your signal is tank, clean up, take angels one-point-two, Texaco is at two o’clock, angels two, report him in sight.”

“Visual,” Sponge responded.

“Four-zero-six, roger, take angels two and switch departure button two.”

“Four-zero-six, angels two, button two.”

After a short lull in the action, and while he was chatting with The Big Unit, Wilson heard Sponge’s voice on the overhead speaker.

“One-zero-two, there’s a heavy stream of fuel coming out of the basket.”

Wilson’s head snapped to the status board and looked at Sponge’s fuel state… 2.5 two minutes ago. He then looked at O’Shaunessy, but he appeared not to have heard the transmission.

“Roger, we’ll recycle,” the tanker pilot answered.

“Commander?” Wilson called to O’Shaunessy, who turned to him and cocked his head.

“I just heard four-oh-six say there’s a heavy stream of fuel coming out of the basket.”

O’Shaunessy whipped around and picked up the phone. “Get me a status on four-oh-six.”

Sponge watched the basket retract into the refueling store and glanced at his fuel: 2,300 pounds. Roughly, he had 20 minutes. A wisp of cloud flew past; then they were in the clouds. He edged closer to the tanker to keep the position light on the red wingtip of 102 in view.

The Spartan tanker pilot pushed down to get out of the clouds, and Sponge saw a minor stream of fuel emitting from the back of the store as the small generator prop on the store turned. Minor, yet disconcerting . He hoped it was just residual fuel from an earlier stream and, for an instant, when the basket started to move out of the store, he thought all was well. When it opened, however, a solid flow of fuel billowed into the airstream.

“Still streamin’ heavy,” Sponge radioed. His breathing was deep, and he squeezed tighter on the stick. Departure control called to him. “Four-zero-six, update state.”

‘Two-point-three,” Sponge replied.

The tension in Air Ops ratcheted up as the focus shifted to 406 . O’Shaunessy rubbed his forehead. “What’s the status on three-oh-five?” he asked Metz. The room was quiet except for the sound that came from the air conditioning vents overhead.

“Still on one-zero-seven, sir.” At that moment the radio crackled. “Three-oh-five, tank complete.”

“Get him aboard!” O’Shaunessy shouted and looked at the status board. “What’s the story on one-oh-seven?”

“He’s dry, sir, four-point-oh,” Metz answered, his voice almost an apology.

“ Fuck! Get him back here, now! ”

Wilson figured Sponge was good for 25 minutes airborne at low altitude — if he “hung on the blades” at a max conserve power setting. The two desired outcomes of flying an approach to the ship with gear and flaps down or joining up on a hoped-for tanker for a desperate “drink” would burn up more gas. He estimated Sponge really had 20 minutes before a third outcome was required: controlled ejection.

Wilson got O’Shaunessy’s attention. “Sir, he’s got about 20 minutes.”

“I know… He’s been doing good, hasn’t he?” Wilson interpreted his question to be about Sponge’s ability behind the ship.

“Yes, sir, if the deck cooperates, he’ll get aboard.”

Sponge remained on 102 , fuel still streaming from the basket. He edged closer to see if he could plug anyway and noted a heavier flow than he first thought. The flow was solid, as if the basket was engaged and fuel was being pumped into an invisible aircraft. If he attempted to plug now, he risked getting the windscreen covered with fuel that could then be ingested into the right engine. That could cause problems he didn’t even want to imagine. When a bolt of lightning from a nearby squall exploded off their right wing, Sponge made up his mind.

“One-zero-two, recommend you stow the basket.”

“Concur,” 102 replied. He retracted the basket almost immediately.

When the prop was secured, Sponge radioed, “Good stow.” After a moment, he added, “Departure, four-zero-six detaching,” as he deflected the stick to the left.

“What’s the story on one-twelve?” O’Shaunessy said to no one, then picked up the phone and asked the Air Boss the same question.

Wilson heard Sponge ask the question. “Departure, tanker posit?”

“Four-zero-six, we have no sweet tankers airborne. Launching alert Texaco, Spartan one-zero-five in five mikes. Your signal is max conserve. Say your angels?”

“Four-zero-six is at angels two.”

“Roger, four-zero-six, take low holding.”

“Four-zero-six… Ah, you want me to go to angels eight ?”

“Affirm, four-zero-six.”

With alarm, Wilson shouted from the back row. “Sir! Commander O’Shaunessy! ”

Half expecting a vocal blast from the Commander, Wilson noticed that O’Shaunessy was shaken as he put down the receiver. He turned to Wilson as if to a friend who has a solution to his dilemma. “Yeah?”

“Sir, Departure told just told four-oh-six to take angels eight. Recommend you keep him down low so he doesn’t chew up gas in the climb.”

“Concur… because we’re gonna barricade him.”

Wilson stared at O’Shaunessy, not comprehending what he had heard. “ Sir ?”

“He’s at barricade fuel. We’re gonna catch the tankers and rig the barricade.” O’Shaunessy saw the look of astonishment on Wilson’s face and added, “Captain just made the call.” His eyes remained locked on Wilson, as if to convey he understood but was powerless to overrule the Captain.

Wilson took a breath. “Sir, this is a night pitching deck barricade with a nugget pilot. My recommendation is to bring him aboard. He’s got two more looks right now.”

“What if we don’t catch him?”

“Then a controlled ejection alongside.”

“I thought you said he was good behind the boat.”

“He is for a nugget, but why take the risk in these conditions?”

The Big Unit interjected, “Marty, I would recommend that for any pilot in these conditions.”

O’Shaunessy studied both of their faces. “It’s from the bridge. As soon as we get this Bloodhound aboard, we rig the barricade.” He turned to Metz and gave more orders. “Get four-oh-six ten miles aft, max conserve.”

“Yes, sir,” Metz answered and picked up the phone.