Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Four-zero-six, four and a half miles, right of course correcting. Mother’s in a starboard turn. Expected final bearing one-two-six.”

“Four-zero-six… Jus’ got a fuel hot .”

“Roger, four-zero-six, right of course and correcting. Turn right to zero-niner-five to intercept final.”

“Four-zero-six, zero-nine-five.”

On the platform with Dutch standing behind him, Shakey held the headset to his left ear. He had his right arm tucked under his left elbow and looked aft into space. As he watched, the lights of Sponge’s Hornet and those of the escort ship behind the carrier drift left. We’re in a fucking turn! he realized. He listened to the exchange between Flip, CATCC and Sponge and was impressed by the calm in their voices. He felt anything but calm, but maintained a stoic exterior. The dull tension at the base of his skull spread to his shoulders and was intensified by the isolated raindrops that splattered on his back and head. His mouth felt like cotton, but he had to sound confident on the radio. Fight it! he thought.

He took a deep breath, glanced at the wind speed indication, and willed his voice to be calm as he keyed the mic. “Workin’ thirty-four knots… Barricade’s up.” He exhaled deeply and put the handset down to rub his shoulder. A bolt of lightning flashed from somewhere behind him.

“How ya doin’, Shakey?” Stretch asked.

“I’ve got it… Just picked a bad day to quit sniffin’ glue!”

The tension broken, Dutch chimed in, “Yeah, I’ve never waved a barricade either, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night.” Although it was somewhat forced, the officers on the platform laughed. It was a welcome relief from the strain of the recovery.

A radio call from the final controller brought them all back to the task at hand. “Four-zero-six, approaching glidepath. Slightly right of course correcting. Expected final bearing, one-two-eight.”

“Four-zero-six.”

Stretch shouted over gusting winds to the controlling LSO. “Shakey, after the ball call, jump in early. Lip-lock him the whole way down if you have to.”

“Roger that!”

To minimize the danger to the others on the platform, Stretch shouted, “Guys, let’s clear the platform. Primary and backup LSOs, myself and the phone talker stay. Rest of you guys go below and hang out in Ready 8 until he’s aboard. Sorry.” Four of the LSOs nodded and walked to the catwalk ladders.

The J-Dial circuit buzzed, and Stretch answered it. “Lieutenant Commander Armstrong, sir.”

“Stretch, Boss… Captain wants you to call him.”

“Yes, sir,” Stretch answered. He killed the connection and then dialed the Captain’s chair on the bridge. After one ring, the Captain picked up the receiver and growled, “Cap’n.”

“Lieutenant Commander Armstrong on the platform, sir.”

“Paddles, time to stop screwing around and get this guy aboard. Now! Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Stretch said, then swallowed. “Will we have winds down the angle? Because…”

Before Stretch could finish the Captain boomed. “I’LL TAKE CARE OF THE WINDS! Now you do your job !” The Captain slammed the receiver down.

Stretch looked aft into the dark. He had received blasts from the Captain in the course of predeployment training. His temper was legendary, and over time Stretch had built up a mental layer of protection. Same shit, different day, he thought, trying to reassure himself about tonight’s display of temper.

“Stretch, who was that?” Shakey shouted to him.

Stretch smiled. “It was the Boss. Says barricade’s set. Actual weight 27,000. The bridge is workin’ on the winds. We’re good to go!”

Sponge concentrated on his instruments but took a peek at the ship off to the right of his HUD. He was curious… Will I be able to see the barricade from three and a half miles? When he looked over his nose, he saw nothing but the outline of the landing area, the drop lights, and the tower sodium vapors… a cluster of yellow lights surrounded by black.

One thousand pounds of fuel remaining… this is it.

“Four-zero-six. You’re on course, approaching glide path,” the controller said.

“Four-zero-six.”

He watched the glide slope indication steadily descend from the top of his HUD. He focused on obtaining the best possible start to the approach and let everything else — the fuel quantity, the aircraft cautions, the weather, the barricade stretched across the deck — become secondary to flying a night carrier approach. The tension left him as he entered a mental realm that took all his attention.

Most pilots made use of this type of compartmentalization. It allowed him to sit still in the ejection seat, with his hands making tiny corrections to the stick and throttles. His eyes rapidly scanned his HUD instrumentation, primarily centered on the needles. As he approached the glide path inside three miles, he pushed the nose over and pulled some power, and then reset it to hold the steep 800-foot per minute rate of descent.

“Four-zero-six, up and on glide path, begin descent,” said the CATCC contoller.

Sponge keyed the mike. “Four-zero-six.”

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

Sponge corrected with deft movements of the throttle and stick. Once the plane was back on the four-degree glide slope, he reset power. This steep approach angle, where he was just able to see the ship over the nose, gave him the impression of peering down into a void from the opening of a well. He could see he was lined up right of course and nudged the stick to the left. Suddenly, the needles jumped left. The ship must be in a turn , he thought, a fact confirmed right away by CATCC.

“Mother’s in a starboard turn, turn left five.”

“Four-zero- six ,” Sponge replied, with some exasperation.

Here, on the pass of my life, the ship jinks on me— inside three miles . He quickly put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on the HUD display. He slid his velocity vector to the left then recorrected once on course.

The sound of raindrops increased and beat on the canopy in great sheets. The rain also reflected light from the ship as it streaked aft on the smeared windscreen. The white noise of the rain added to his tension and caused his breathing to deepen and his hands to tighten on the controls. He worked hard to stay on glide slope and on centerline. Through the sheets of rain attacking his windscreen at over 150 miles per hour, he looked out at the ship and sensed he was lined up left, but the needles showed him on-and-on. Trust the needles! he reminded himself. His fuel indicator showed 930 pounds.

“Four-zero-six, on and on, one-point-five miles.”

“Four-zero-six,” Sponge acknowledged, and then he saw it.

The barricade was raised perpendicular to the landing area and looked almost like a solid swath of amber as it reflected the floodlight from the tower. It felt like a dive-bombing run, a dive-bombing run into the side of a chalky yellow cliff spread across the deck. He fought the urge to stare at it. The rain subsided a bit as he concentrated on maintaining glide slope, but his breathing rate picked up speed.

On the platform, the LSOs watched in grim silence as 406 approached. The wind velocity increased to 38 knots, and the plane guard destroyer aft on the invisible horizon seemed to float in space, up and down with the changing pitch of Valley Forge’s deck.

“Barricade set two-seven, Hornet! Clear deck!” The phone talker shouted for all to hear.

Dutch glanced back into the landing area out of habit to ensure it was clear and was mesmerized by the barricade, where the high winds buffeted the thick nylon strands. Through the strands he could see shadows on the island weather deck galleries. Dozens of sailors were gathered there to watch the approach from the aptly named, “Vulture’s Row.”