Kevin Miller - Raven One

Just then the Boss came over the 5MC. “On the flight deck, aircrews have manned for the 2200 launch. Time for all personnel to get in the proper flight deck uniform.” As the boss continued with the standard prestartup litany, the tempo on deck picked up as plane captains and troubleshooters moved into position in anticipation of his finish: “Let’s start the ‘go’ aircraft. Start ‘em up!”

Over a dozen Hornets scattered over the flight deck reacted to the command as the mournful sound of auxiliary power units cranked to life in order to provide starting air to the jet engines. With his APU online, Wilson gave the two-finger start signal to Rodriguez. She then approved and authorized him to start the right engine. As soon the generator kicked on and the Hornet sprang to life, Wilson’s hands flew through the cockpit and turned on displays and radios in another ingrained routine. Within minutes, the flight deck had become an ear-splitting cacophony of jet engines, and once Wilson got the other engine started, he lowered the canopy to drown out the din. He wanted to concentrate on the navigation and weapons displays he would soon need.

In a businesslike manner, after 36 hours of thorough preparation, Valley Forge was in the final stages of thrusting the “tip of the spear” into an enemy of the United States. At command and control operations centers in Manama, Tampa, and Washington, staff officers and their commanders monitored the status of Air Wing Four’s Strike 1A and counted the Tomahawk launches and tracked their progress. They also relayed the latest intelligence regarding the surface picture and enemy readiness to Admiral Smith and his staff who would pass it on to the pilots once they were airborne. National intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance assets all had their sensors focused on this part of the world in support of both the Valley Forge strike group and the Tinian amphibious ready group. Inside the great carrier, the next wave of pilots were already signing out their maintenance books and getting dressed in squadron paralofts for Strike 1B — even while others gathered in a ready room to brief Strike 1C, a strike package that would launch and recover in the wee hours.

Ten minutes after engine starts, observers on the bridge and in pri-fly watched as the first Hornets pulled out of their bow parking spots. The directors used yellow light wands to funnel them aft and guide them, with only inches to spare, down the narrow opening between two rows of fueled and loaded strike-fighters. Hundreds of officers and sailors, each with a vital job, were scattered about the flight deck. Each sailor, depending on his or her job, wore a cranial helmet and float-coat of a certain color, marked with reflective tape that showed as bright gold when illuminated by the island spotlights.

One by one the aircraft moved either aft, or forward from the fantail, to feed the catapults. By design, two Viking tankers moved into position on the waist cats. They would be shot early to take station and top off the Hornets after they launched. In the blackness, the stars rotated overhead and the running lights of the escort ship moved steadily along the invisible horizon, clues that the carrier was turning to a launch heading. The flight deck was a screaming whine of jet engines as waves of kerosene exhaust and sea air cascaded down the length of it. The aircraft began to form patterns familiar to the crew as the yellow shirts arranged the deck to launch one jet every minute off the four catapults.

Wilson’s eyes were locked on his yellow shirt director as he moved past the island and aft to a spot behind a Super Hornet . Once stopped, he checked his FLIR operational and finished his comm checks.

Cajun came up on strike common for the roll call: “Ninety-Nine Tomahawk , stand by for check-in. Hammer one-one.”

“ Hammer one-two,” Olive replied next.

Wilson keyed the mike. “ Hammer one-three.”

“ Hammer one-four,” Dutch responded, followed by the other air wing strikers answering in order until all were accounted for.

With everyone up, Cajun switched back to departure frequency and waited with the rest of them. Wilson sensed the ship steady out and looked over his shoulder as the Viking on Cat 3 hooked up to the shuttle. Seven minutes until launch. He looked over his left shoulder toward “Vultures Row” and saw that the galleries were full of off-duty sailors wanting to witness history. If Wilson could have been, he would have been pacing to settle his nerves. Buckled as he was into his little cocoon, he had to be satisfied with drumming his fingers on the canopy bow and waiting his turn. He did the combat checklist again.

The Vikings whizzed down the cat tracks in order and launched, position lights slowly receding into the black as they climbed away. Led by two Prowlers on the waist cats, this allowed the conga line of aircraft to move up. He looked over his right shoulder and saw 400 , Cajun’s jet, behind him, painted in a colorful scheme with the Raven emblem taking up the entire vertical tail. Even under these conditions, Wilson admired the sharp manifestation of squadron pride. One more minute , Wilson thought. He saw the sailors on the waist look at the island for the signal to begin.

“Green deck.”

On signal, and with a metallic shriek, the first Prowler roared to life. The pilot cycled the controls and, once ready to launch, flicked on the external lights. Seconds later, the big jet thundered down the track and into the Indian Ocean air. Almost immediately, Wilson heard another aircraft go into tension up on the bow so that, one minute after the Prowler was airborne, a Rhino followed it into the night sky. Strike 1A was on its way. The yellow shirts continued to feed airplanes to the hungry catapult crewmen who hooked them up and shot them in a practiced sequence, as if it were any other night on deployment. The airborne aircraft climbed out and began to form a jagged string of blinking lights ahead of the ship.

With eyes locked on his yellow shirt, Wilson maneuvered behind the waist catapult aircraft in a familiar succession. He saw he was being led to Cat 4, and as he taxied behind Cat 3, Raven 403 was buffeted by the jet blast from a Rhino in tension. Once the Rhino was airborne, the Hornet on Cat 4 went into tension, and this time Wilson’s jet bounced and rocked in place. Shielded only by the steel jet blast deflector mere feet from his nose, Wilson was bombarded by waves of exhaust from the white hot burner plume of the jet. At maximum power, it produced a deafening sound of deep, continuous thunder. Finally, the jet roared down the track, the fire and thunder tearing at the deck as it accelerated to flying speed in less than three seconds. When it reached the deck edge, a loud THUNK was felt throughout the ship. As the jet rose into the darkness, the pulsing heartbeat of its anticollision lights receded in the distance.

A yellow shirt straddling the catapult motioned Wilson to inch forward with yellow light wands and signaled slight turns that Wilson responded to with a gentle push of a rudder pedal, causing his aircraft to lurch this way and that. Wilson’s eyes remained fixed on the yellow shirt, dutifully following his orders. Billowing steam clouds swirled about the director and nearly obscured him from view even while the lighted wands called Wilson forward. On signal, Wilson stopped and turned the handle to spread his wings.

Cajun was next to him on Cat 3 and would be shot first. Once Cajun went into tension, Wilson watched him wipe out the controls and then, on signal, select afterburner. Wilson shielded his eyes from the dazzling twin 20-foot cones of white hot fire to his right and watched as two Raven troubleshooters crouched low. They lifted their arms high, with a thumbs up, to signal ready. Suddenly, the strike leader shot down the angle and into the sky, afterburners blazing. The observers in the tower saw the glow reflect off the water below and move away from the ship.