Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

While turning back, he set the radar altimeter bug to 80 feet — if he broke 80 feet it would warn him — and paid close attention as he pulled back to the yacht. Keeping the engines spooled up, he extended the speed brake to remain slow and got as low as he dared as he crossed the yacht’s wake. The small craft continued on course, as if to beckon him to come back for a closer look. He scanned the skies again for air traffic.

He was alone.

Stabilized, he slid up next to the yacht, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun glinting off the deck. There they were! Still on the bow waiting for him, jumping up and down and pointing with excitement. Trench banked left and waved as he passed only 100 feet over the girls, getting a good look all right. Despite the glinting sun off the flying bridge, he was ready to set up for another pass when…

He blinked his eyes. And blinked again. He lifted his visor and rubbed his eyes, opening them wide. I can’t see! In horror and unbelief, he shouted into his mask, “I CAN’T SEE!”

Terrified, Trench half-rolled right by feel and shoved the throttles into burner while he pulled back on the stick. Breathing heavily into his mask, he realized he had some peripheral vision, but when he tried to focus his eyes ahead, he saw only black. With the marginal vision he had, he sensed he was in a climb. Yes, get away from the water! He forced his eyes open, causing them to bulge in an effort to regain sight and focus. I can’t see! God help me! Please God help me!

Trench couldn’t believe what was happening and didn’t know his altitude. Didn’t know the aircraft attitude! Too steep and he could run out of airspeed and stall it, even in burner. He looked up and right, hoping what little he could see on the periphery would guide him. It was no use. He could see the green pitch lines generated in the Head-Up-Display, but he couldn’t decipher them. He sensed he was flying west and by instinct rolled to the right, easy, and still in burner. Talking to himself, he counted the seconds of his turn, as if he were back in flight school, to determine a rough heading to north — and home.

This must be a nightmare, he thought and whimpered as he breathed through his mouth, not knowing his altitude, airspeed. I don’t know where the motherfucking ship is! Dammit!

“Please help me!” he screamed in the cockpit, frantic with nerves and moaning, crying in mortal dread. This is really happening!

Fuel. What’s my freakin’ fuel?! He then realized with more shock and horror that the burners were still plugged in! With a frustrated cry, he pulled the throttles to a midrange setting.

The clouds! He was heading toward the clouds. If he went into one, what little peripheral vision he had would be gone. He would be in complete blindness!

I need help! his mind screamed as he rolled left to stay clear of the cloud. Without depth perception, he was unable to determine how far away it was.

Knowing the XO and Big Jake were airborne on this event, he keyed the mike on the Comm. 2 squadron tactical frequency.

“Any Ridgelines up? This is Trench in three-oh-two! I can’t see! I can’t see! ”

Silence.

He then keyed the Comm. 1 radio to call the ship. “ Strike , three-zero-two!”

After a short delay, the Strike controller answered. “Go ahead, three-zero-two.”

“ Strike , three-zero-two is south of Mother . I can’t see! I’m blind! I need someone to join up on me and guide me!”

After an eternity of silence, the controller answered. “Roger, three-zero-two, mark your posit.” The routine request for position sent an already stressed Trench over the edge.

“Strike , dammit , I CAN’T SEE to tell you my position! I’m south about eighty miles. I think I’m heading north.” Even in his panicked state, Trench could sense the controller on the other end of the radio transmission had never heard a call from a pilot with this problem. Willing himself to calm down, Trench fought to remain patient with the only lifeline he had.

“ Ridgeline three-zero-two, Strike , looking… can you squawk seventy-seven hundred?”

In front of Trench at the top of the instrument panel was the Up Front Control, a keypad for all his avionics. This included his IFF transponder that broadcast a code that controllers could use to identify specific aircraft with course, speed, and altitude. Without it, Trench’s Hornet was just a mark on a scope. His left hand moved to the UFC to change the code as he had done hundreds of times before — and he froze. The IFF pushtile under the UFC was marked, but he couldn’t focus on it!

Which one is it?

Once again, Trench felt the frustrating dread of not being able to do the simplest of tasks. In the back of his mind, he considered ejecting.

“ Strike , three-zero-two, stand by.”

Annie in 305 and Big Jake in 307 were forty miles west of Coral Sea , low on the water and playing with the bathtub toys they had found in their personal playground.

In combat spread formation at 360 knots, they were approaching a fleet of about ten fishing trawlers spread over a few miles of ocean. They were small craft, no more than forty feet long, all painted white, some with outriggers deployed. On the northern horizon she picked up the silhouette of an unusual looking vessel, a large ship with a huge crane-like object aft. Once they finished with these little fishermen, Annie would lead Big Jake north to check it out.

As they came upon the fishing fleet wallowing in the swells and appearing dead in the water, she concentrated on one of the boats as she thundered over it. She and Big Jake were freelancing after dropping their practice bombs on smokes they had laid down, killing time as much as honing their skills before the scheduled recovery in thirty minutes.

“Three-zero-five, Alpha Sierra.” Annie was surprised to get a call from the ship surface search controller.

“Alpha Sierra, three-zero-five, go ahead.”

“Are you in touch with three-zero-two?”

This was an unusual question. Trench is in 302. Is he okay? she thought as she keyed the mike. “Negative, but I can be. What’s the difficulty?”

“Three-zero-five, Alpha Sierra. Three-zero-two is reporting he’s blind.”

Annie let the fishing fleet pass underneath as she let the message sink in. Blind?

“Alpha Sierra, is he lost-plane?” Trench had a combat cruise under his belt, and Annie was incredulous that Trench could be lost and unable to find his way back to the ship, especially on this gorgeous day.

“Negative, three-zero-two reports that the pilot is blind, cannot see, and needs assistance. He’s talking to Strike .”

Stunned, Annie began a climb, and on the tactical frequency transmitted, “Annie’s, go squadron tac.” On Comm 1 she told Alpha Sierra they were on the way. “Alpha Sierra, Firebird three-zero-five flight switching Strike. ” For Big Jake’s benefit, she added, “Annie’s, go button three.”

“Two,” her wingman responded.

As if pushing preset buttons on an automobile radio, nimble fingers flew over the UFCs in both cockpits, punching in the new frequencies. After a few seconds on Strike frequency, Annie keyed the mike. “Annie check?”

“Two,” Jake replied. Satisfied her wingman was up the proper frequency, Annie keyed the mike again.