Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Then, Weed had finished them off.

The submersible had lifted one end out of the water and had sunk like the Titanic in her death plunge. Then Weed had strafed the spot it went down. Had Weed seen people struggling in the water? My gosh! We’re the Americans and, we pick up survivors. Wilson followed that thought with another that was just as disturbing. In an action of this type, witnesses — like Wilson had become — could pose problems.

Wilson remained troubled as he went through the motions of his practice bomb delivery on the wake. In a gentle dive he placed his string of Mk-76’s “behind” the spar as it dragged through the water 1,000 feet behind the ship. As he then went off to hold for the recovery, his mind unable to concentrate on anything except what he had seen.

As the recovery neared, he dropped his tailhook and joined the aircraft holding above Coral Maru in lazy circles. All were waiting for the aircraft on deck to launch and be clear of it for their recovery. Fuel was on everyone’s mind, and the aircraft maneuvered to fly over the ship in practiced sequence.

Wilson entered the circle at angels three, 3,000 feet. Below were two flights of Rhinos from the Raiders and Hobos , and across the circle was a section of two Hunter FA-18Es. Weed was also flying a Hunter aircraft, and Wilson searched for him. Wilson would have joined up on him and come into the break together, like the old days, when they were friends — like they were a few hours ago. But what had transpired one hour ago, and without one word being spoken between them, seemed to change that. Wilson feared the harm to their friendship was irreparable.

Wilson saw Weed’s jet enter the circle from the opposite side. After 180 degrees of turn, it was apparent he was not going to join on the other Hunters or on Wilson. Wilson knew Weed knew Wilson was in the only FA-18C overhead the ship, and he wasn’t joining up. The two pilots were ignoring each other from a distance of three miles, like friends with a strained relationship at a party, knowing full well the presence of the other.

Coral Sea began to launch aircraft, and soon each of the waist cats had only one more jet to shoot. The game now began, with the Hobo s first to enter the break, followed by the Raiders . Wilson followed and entered the pattern. As he bumped up his airspeed and came into the break from a position three miles aft, mind and habit shed thoughts of the incident with Weed. He took a distance interval behind the second Raider jet and whipped the stick left. He then pulled into a knife-edge turn as he brought the throttles to idle.

With the stick in his lap, he bled airspeed, slapped down the gear and flaps, and worked himself on speed, on altitude, and abeam with a good interval. As he turned off the abeam position, the Rhino ahead of him rolled into the groove. Perfect!

Wilson concentrated on flying a good pass, working hard, checking rate of descent, angle of bank, and holding proper airspeed. He was locked-in , in control of his jet, placing it exactly where it needed to be. For a short moment, green lights appeared above the lens, his indication that the LSOs had cleared him to land. For the next 25 seconds, he was absorbed in the task of putting his 16-ton airplane on a targeted 40-foot patch of moving flight deck. He was in a sense relaxed as he concentrated on his approach — not having to dwell on either his command responsibilities nor on the new and troubling relationship with his friend.

As Wilson slid across the wake, making minute corrections with the stick and throttles, he took some power off and nudged the stick. He held a constant rate of descent, and the amber “donut” of his indexer lights showed him “on speed.” He ignored “the ship” that loomed larger with each second and concentrated on the lights of the meatball, centering it between the rows of green datum lights which showed him to be on glideslope. He picked up slight movement in the ball and felt the jet alternately settle or balloon as he worked the controls to keep himself in parameters. The stick and throttles now acted as extensions of his brain as he flew the jet.

Wilson held 135 knots of airspeed, his entire being locked in on the approach. As he approached the ramp, Wilson felt he was hovering over it, able to move the jet inches up and down the imaginary chute that led to an arrestment.

As he slammed into the deck, his hook picked up the three wire and threw him forward against the straps. His left arm pushed the throttles to full power, and the force of the arrestment caused him to bounce in his seat as the deck edge rushed up. Home. But within seconds Weed and the image of him strafing helpless survivors returned to mind.

As he retracted the flaps and folded the wings, Wilson raised the hook on signal from the yellow shirt and followed his directions to the right. He gave a thumbs-up to Chief Sutherland in a gaggle of green-shirted maintenance sailors. Dubose, burdened by his tie-down chains, followed Wilson’s jet to its parking spot.

Wilson could see they were taking him to Elevator 2, and he crept forward until his nose was out over the edge of the deck. The yellow shirt turned him right, and, for a moment, Wilson saw the frothy white waves from Coral Sea’s wake, sixty feet below him, radiating into the blue Caribbean. He inched forward, and after another quarter turn, Wilson’s left main mount skirted the deck-edge coaming. As he moved ahead, his nose came within feet of the Growler next to him. The yellow shirt had him lock his right brake, and Wilson came up on the power to pivot his nose right. Sailors helped by pushing on 301’s nose in the delicate maneuver. Once lined up, sailors swarmed over the jet, taking care to remain clear of the dangerous jet intakes. On the yellow shirt’s signal, they pushed Wilson back into place with the tail of Firebird 301 out over the water.

The yellow shirt gave the signal to wrap it up, and Dubose began to place tie-down chains on the landing gear to secure the still running Hornet in place. Wilson pulled the parking brake and began to relax.

Mongo then appeared next to Wilson’s jet. He stood watching Wilson, his face expressionless.

What does that sonofabitch want? Wilson thought.

CAG, wearing his float-coat and cranial over his khaki uniform, then walked up next to Mongo. Highly unusual . CAG, too, was looking at Wilson, and both of them were waiting for him to shut down and deplane.

What the hell is this? Wilson thought. What is happening out here?

After securing the avionics, Wilson shut down the jet. He popped the canopy open as he brought the throttles to off. Surrounded by the deafening noise and the not insignificant danger of the everyday flight deck, CAG and Mongo still watched him with cool detachment as they waited for him to climb down.

Wilson stepped onto the LEX, removed his videotapes from the machines behind the ejection seat, put them in his helmet bag, and descended the ladder. Mongo brushed past Airman Dubose and reached toward Wilson’s bag. “I’ll need those tapes, sir.”

Bristling, Wilson clutched his bag, and bared his teeth under his helmet visor. “Excuse me, Lieutenant Commander , I am post-flighting my aircraft!” CAG stepped in to defuse the situation.

“Guys… guys…. Let’s go below. Nice job, Jim,” he shouted as he put his hand on Wilson’s back, pulling him toward the island. CAG turned to Dubose, who was as puzzled by this reception as was Wilson, and pointed to 301. “Nice looking jet, airman! Keep it up!” Dubose nodded as the three pilots walked away toward the island, shrugging his shoulders at more strange officer behavior he couldn’t begin to figure out.