Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Roger, clear deck,” he said, and immediately returned his attention to the familiar FA-18 light pattern manifested by 406 .

Shakey picked up the handle of the visual landing aid system and showed Sponge a centered ball. The rain was coming down harder now, pelting them in their exposed position. They both straddled the coaming, with one leg each placed on the flight deck. We’re probably going right into a squall, thought Shakey. Subconsciously, he pulled the collar of his flight suit up to cover his neck. Dutch, right next to him, cared much less about the weather than the fact that his squadronmate Sponge was in that jet.

Dutch saw Sponge drift left, as did CATCC. “Four-zero-six, one mile, drifting left of course, on glide path.”

“Four-zero-six.”

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

“Four-zero-six, Hornet ball, point-niner.” Sponge sounded calm.

Shakey did, too, when he responded. “ Roger ball, Hornet , working thirty-seven knots down the angle. Deck’s movin’ a little, yer ooon glide slope.”

Dutch sensed the escort ship on the horizon slide left. “Ship’s turnin’ right!” he shouted to Shakey, who immediately informed Sponge.

“Ship’s in a turn, come left… on glide slope… come left … yer goin’ high… on center line.”

“Talk to him!” Stretch called out.

Shakey keyed the handset microphone and held it depressed while he raised the MOVLAS handle higher. “Yer high! Easy with it.”

Sponge made an aggressive correction, just as the ramp pitched down. He was uneasy with his steep view of the deck and felt as if he were right on top of it — and already past the cut point. He lost the ball due to the barricade stanchion and his eyes became glued to the deck and the bewitching movement of the barricade strands. I’m going to hit the top loading strap! he thought. Reflexively, he pulled power and bunted the nose down, dangerously steepening his rate of descent.

On the platform, Shakey and the others immediately sensed disaster. The Hornet was high and fast, and at a quarter mile Shakey heard the strike fighter pull power to correct. The deck was coming up now, fast, and Sponge was in danger of overcorrecting and flying through glide slope. If he did, he could impale himself on the ramp , the opposite of hitting the top loading strap of the barricade.

“ Pickle him!” Stretch screamed.

Shakey squeezed the wave-off switch and shoved the handle to the bottom. “Wave off! Wave off!” Within the next couple of seconds, the rate of collision between Sponge and the ramp or Sponge and the barricade picked up considerably. He must have been way back on the power! thought Shakey as he screamed, “BURNER! BURNER! BURNER!”

Dutch and Stretch shouted the same into their handsets. As a result, they saw the afterburners stage and the white burner plume leap from the tailpipes as the engine pitch changed to a booming roar. The Hornet continued to settle and the ramp continued to rise, with the red glow from the wave-off lights now reflecting off the bottom of the aircraft. Sponge had stopped his rate of descent and was now safe from collision with the ramp. The LSOs, however, were horrified as they watched the plane head for the top loading strap.

If Sponge hit the strap, the aircraft would smash violently onto the deck. The potential results were ominous: Sponge might be knocked out; the ejection mechanism might be crunched; the aircraft might explode into a mass of twisted metal and fire; or the wreckage, whatever its condition, might slide off the angle into the dark sea.

Shakey froze as he focused on Sponge’s hook point, time seeming to slow as the Hornet thundered over them. Oh, God, please, he prayed, and turned his body left.

Dutch shouted, “Holy shiiit!”

Traveling at over 130 knots, the hook point nicked the top loading strap. The hit started an undulating motion that quickly moved from the heavy steel cable to the stanchions. At that instant the burner plume passed over the barricade and shook it violently, the plume igniting a small grease fire at the top of two nylon bundles.

The LSOs, stunned by what they had just witnessed, watched the small fire struggle with the wind and rain. Sponge climbed out ahead of the ship at a steep angle, burner cans still white.

Dutch had the presence of mind to call “Out of burner!” That would help preserve what remained of Sponge’s fuel.

“Clean up,” added Stretch.

I can’t believe it didn’t break! Shakey thought, as the Boss yelled over the 5MC for sailors to put out the fire on top of the barricade.

Sponge was still climbing ahead of the ship, and CATCC directed him back for another pass. “Four-zero-six, take angels one-point-two. When level, turn to the downwind three-zero-five.”

Shakey knew Sponge didn’t have the gas to turn downwind for even a four-mile hook-in to final.

As the crash and salvage tractor drove out to the centerline to douse the small flames still flickering on the loading strap, he took matters into his own hands. “Four-zero-six, Paddles contact. Turn downwind now. Level off at cherubs six.”

“What’re you doing?” Stretch cried.

“He doesn’t have the fuel. We’ve gotta get him back here now! Watch him, guys!”

Sponge breathed heavily through his mouth and fought the urge to remove his mask. Holy shit! he thought. He had pulled the throttles out of burner when Dutch called to him, but what did Shakey want? Level off and turn downwind?! Another first! A night pitching deck barricade out of a day visual pattern! A look at his fuel, though, confirmed Shakey was right. Five hundred pounds left!

He pushed the nose over and banked left. To keep from becoming disoriented, he concentrated his attention on the instruments. In less than three minutes he was either going to be on that ship or in the water next to it. Sponge took a series of deep breaths to remain calm. One step at a time.

A sudden bolt of lightning in the downwind turn made Sponge flinch. His shoulders ached. They had been under strain for the last 40 minutes, ever since he had pushed out of marshal. And he could smell the adrenaline; the smell was stronger than ever, and it seemed to seep right out of his skin. Concentrate!

Shakey called to him again. “Cherubs six, no lower.”

Sponge was concentrating so hard to maintain his tight turn, he didn’t even answer. He was at 800 feet, and would descend to six once on downwind. As he leveled off, he took a glance at the ship, which looked about level with him to his left. He saw one helo close on the starboard quarter and another nearby. He almost wished the ship would just tell him to punch out. The rain was picking up too, another unwelcome sensory.

“Damn, this sucks!” he shouted into his mask.

Wilson and the others in Air Ops watched the raindrops bounce on the deck in front of the PLAT camera embedded in the centerline. Wilson was incensed. He couldn’t believe that, after witnessing the near catastrophe, the ship was going to attempt another barricade recovery. What else can go wrong tonight? he thought.

O’Shaunessy, who had lost the bubble, was on the phone to somebody but overwhelmed by the crushing demands put on him by the Captain, the elements, the scheduled track, and the air wing tankers. And Shakey had now turned Sponge downwind for a day pattern on a shitty night like this! Saint just stood off to the left and watched the PLAT. He offered no answers whatsoever.