Kevin Miller - Raven One

“Sir?” Wilson called to O’Shaunessy.

“Yeah?” When O’Shaunessy looked over his shoulder, Wilson saw the deep circles under his eyes.

Wilson glanced at Saint, who still stared at the PLAT. Damn, he wished the Skipper were here now, but for the moment he was the only Raven representative thinking about Sponge’s well being. He leaned forward on the bench.

“Recommend a controlled ejection alongside, sir.” Wilson said in a measured tone, eyes locked on O’Shaunessy.

Saint “woke up” with a start. “Negative!” he exclaimed. “Barricade him! Mister Wilson, I’ve got it.”

Despite the in extremis condition of 406 , O’Shaunessy and the others were astonished by this public display. After a moment, the Air Ops Officer looked to Wilson and said, almost apologetically, “He outranks you.”

Wilson sat still and said nothing, but he felt his blood pressure rising. The silence was broken by Shakey as he talked to the lone Hornet abeam. “Sponge, nice job on that one, the ship jinked for winds, but you did a good job of getting that good start. You’re real light, so keep that right hand under control and make easy glide slope corrections with power. We’re gonna get ‘cha this time… We’ve got a little raindrop here, so check windshield air… What’s yer DME?”

“One-point-four,” Sponge replied.

“Roger that, turn in level, dirty up. CATCC, say final bearing.”

The approach controller, monitoring everything, was on top of it. “Final bearing one-three-seven.”

“Roger that. Sponge, you have bullseye needles?”

“Affirm.”

“OK, use them to help get set up. We’ll show you a ball when you get in the window.”

“Roger, Paddles .”

As Sponge prepared his airplane for approach, however disjointed this one might be, his training took over and he became calm. He went through the checklist by memory: gear — DOWN; flaps — HALF; antiskid — OFF; hook — DOWN; harness — LOCKED. His hand touched each handle and knob to ensure they were all set as required. Keeping a good instrument scan and flying the ball was something Sponge could do. And, in his mind, he had resolved to wave off if one of the engines rolled back due to fuel starvation. He would then take a cut away from the ship — portside — and eject when abeam. He could do that, too.

Shakey also had a newfound confidence. Stretch, the senior partner, was letting him wave, not because Stretch wanted to avoid waving but because his vision was still not night adapted and because Shakey was handling this pitching deck MOVLAS recovery quite well. As 406 appeared and moved across the ship’s longitudinal axis, Shakey picked up the handle and showed Sponge a slightly low indication. The steady rain pelted him and Dutch as all eyes looked aft toward Sponge. Please help me, God, Shakey whispered into the rain as the wind swirled around him.

“Two-seven Hornet, clear deck!” the phone talker called out.

“Roger, two-seven Hornet , c lear deck!” Shakey bellowed back.

In Air Ops, The Big Unit leaned over and murmured to Wilson. “You made the right call. You’re on record.”

Wilson said nothing, but his eyes followed Sponge as his aircraft came into view on the right side of the screen. Shakey is doing good, he thought, taking charge out there . Wilson knew only prayers could help them now. Our Father, who art in heaven…

“Four-zero-six, got a ball?” Shakey called over the radio.

“Four-zero-six, Hornet ball, point-four,” Sponge answered.

“ Ro-ger ball, thirty-nine knots down the angle, workin’ a little low… You’re low and lined up left, come right… Come right… Approaching centerline, back to the left, you’re on glide slope… O oonn glide slope.”

The ship heaved up and rolled right. Air Ops was silent, save for the radio transmissions from the platform. Throughout the ship all eyes were on the PLAT crosshairs, and hundreds of prayers were asked of God to help the young pilot.

“Deck’s movin’ a little. You’re on glide slope, on course. Oooonn glide slope… a lit-tle power, a little right for lineup.”

Sponge lost the ball behind the stanchion and cried, “Clara!”

“Roger, clara, you’re on glide slope, going a little high, easy with it… power back on…”

“Ball!” Sponge sang out again.

“Right for line-up!” Dutch called. The deck steadied out a bit… they were committed.

Wilson saw the Hornet behind the barricade correct the drift. C’mon! he thought.

Shakey kept the calls coming as Sponge approached the ramp. “Roger ball, a little power… Now cut! CUT! CUT! CUT!”

“Right for line up!” Dutch added.

With that, the Hornet fell out of the sky, slamming on the right main-mount, followed by the left main and nose. A twisting motion sent the airframe into the barricade, which enveloped the aircraft in webbing, water and debris.

The LSOs saw the hook catch a wire somewhere in the maze of confusion, and the stress and strain of the arrestment was too much for the overstressed right main. As the main suddenly collapsed, the whole jumble slid down the deck into the centerline PLAT camera, where the wreckage and right wing dragging on deck kicked up a shower of sparks as it veered to the starboard side of the landing area.

On the PLAT image, Wilson saw Sponge’s white helmet move in the cockpit. Sponge then opened the canopy as crash and salvage sailors swarmed the nose, some of them employing foam on a small fire underneath the aircraft. A booming cheer in Air Ops released a torrent of tension and anxiety. Wilson’s air wing shipmates all patted him on the back.

“You got him!” The Big Unit said as he grabbed Wilson’s shoulders. Wilson offered a weak smile in return, feeling he had done pitifully little. Wilson’s eyes met Saint’s scowl before the commander wheeled and left for the ready room.

Sponge had never wanted so much to get out of an airplane. Leaning to the right, his hands raced over the Koch fittings and seat manual release handle that secured him in order to get free of the cockpit. He opened the canopy normally and flipped off a bayonet fitting to let his mask dangle to one side. Instead of breathing fresh air, he gagged on a cloud of CO2 from the crash crew’s attack on the aircraft. He then got splashed by firefighting foam, supposedly pointed at the fire coming from somewhere by the right intake. The foam spotted his helmet visor and obscured his vision as the rain caused it to run down the front.

A hooded sailor wearing a silver fire retardant suit, a chief by the sound of his gravelly voice, climbed up on the leading edge extension. He yelled, over the chaos, to Sponge, “You okay, sir?”

“Yeah! I’m okay!”

“Nice goin’, Lieutenant! Let’s go!”

Sponge pulled himself up and over the canopy sill. The chief and three other sailors grabbed at him as he tumbled down to the deck. He got covered in foam, and some of it splashed into his mouth. Just as he got to his feet and tried to spit out the foam, they began to both pull and push him from the wreckage. Still spitting foam, he trudged 50 feet toward a throng of sailors.

“Sir, you have to get in the stretcher!” a sailor yelled. He pulled Sponge toward a wire mesh stretcher on the flight deck.

“I’m fine!”

“Sir, orders. Get in!”

“Lieutenant, it’s procedure. Get in .” added another unfamiliar sailor.

Sponge tilted his head up and saw an older sailor under the cranial and goggles next to him— maybe an officer, a medical type. He decided not to fight. I’ve had enough fighting for one night. I’ll let someone else take care of me.