Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“ Strike, Ridgeline three-zero-five flight with you on Mother’s two-six-zero for thirty-five, passing angels five. We understand three-zero-two needs help.”

Miles away, Trench heard the exchange. Overjoyed when he recognized the calm and welcome voice of XO Schofield coming to his rescue, he keyed the Comm. 2 mike.

“Annie, Trench. You up tac?”

“Yes, got you loud and clear, Trench. We’re comin’ to ya.”

The three Firebird pilots were all up the same two frequencies, and the chances of “stepping on” each other when transmitting were reduced. However, the ship was not monitoring the squadron tactical frequency, and before Annie could respond to Trench, they called.

“Three-zero-five, Strike , radar contact. Ridgeline three-zero-two reports he’s blind approximately eighty miles south of Mother . We are looking and have several aircraft in that vicinity.”

Big Jake was now close enough to Annie to use hand signals as she led them up. Using triangulation geometry — thirty miles west to eighty miles south — she figured a heading of 150 would put them on a vector to intercept Trench and banked the formation right. Both she and Jake had their radars searching in the 80-mile scale to find their stricken squadronmate.

Blind? She wondered how this could have happened to Trench. A popped blood vessel under g- force? Unseen chemical in the cockpit?

Like all carrier pilots, she was mindful of fuel, and through hand signals with Big Jake learned they had about 6,500 pounds each, some 45 minutes with a bare minimum cushion for the recovery. How much did Trench have? And where was he going to land, even if he could see to do it? The nearest land was Kingston, Jamaica, over 200 miles northeast… from the ship! For Trench, the nearest land at the moment was Colombia, which was some 250 miles south of Mother . Both options were bad: it was going to be the ship for Trench or nothing. All they could do was hope some semblance of sight returned to him, but before they could do anything, she needed more info.

“Trench, what’s your angels?” she asked him.

After a moment he answered. “I can’t tell… think between five and ten.”

Leveling at 15,000 feet, she accelerated to the southeast. Big Jake held his position on her in a loose cruise formation so he could also work his radar. She heard Strike ask Trench to squawk emergency in an effort to find him now .

“Trench, can you squawk emergency?” she asked him.

“Trying — fumbling with the switches because I can’t see them.”

“What’s your state?”

“Don’t know. Was in burner a long time to get away from the water. I think it’s around four-K.”

Annie thought, Four thousand pounds , with over 30 minutes till the ship was in a position to recover aircraft. Trench would be on fumes by the time he even had an opportunity to trap, and Annie needed to know if the ship was working on a plan to do that.

“ Strike , three-zero-five. Is a Firebird rep working this problem in air ops? Once we find three-zero-two, we can guide him back for a Mode I approach. Recommend emergency pull-forward.”

Yes, Trench thought. A Mode I “hands off” approach was the only way he was going to get aboard — unless his sight reappeared in the next thirty minutes. He hoped his auto-throttles, flight control computers and data link were all up to the task. But first, the XO and Jake needed to find him. His mouth was bone dry from fear, and he reached down into his g-suit pocket to grab his water flask. He didn’t know how high he was and, for a moment, was afraid to unhook his oxygen mask. Screw it , he thought and removed his oxygen mask, allowing him to take a long drink from his canteen.

“Three-zero-five, Strike . We’ve passed your recommendation.”

“Three-zero-five, roger,” Annie answered. She needed to get Trench to squawk emergency to help everyone find him.

“Trench, Annie. Can you select IFF? Under the UFC, second pushtile from your left.”

With his XO’s helpful reminder, his thumb found the IFF pushtile— of course! — and Trench pushed it. With his peripheral vision his saw the display illuminate, and then punched in 7700 on the keypad by feel: left row, bottom, seven, twice; center row, bottom, zero, twice. Out of habit, and by feel, his mind guided his thumb to hit ENTER.

“ Ridgeline three-zero-two, Strike. Radar contact on Mother’s one-six-five for seventy two.”

Roger, Strike. S ay my angels!” Thank goodness, a relieved Trench thought. They’ve got me!

“Three-zero-two, you are at seven thousand, three hundred feet.”

“My heading?”

“Three-zero-two, you are heading zero-five-zero.”

Annie realized that Trench was moving away from them. “ Strike , three-zero-five. Can you get him to turn north toward Mother ?”

Trench could turn the aircraft left, and maybe use the sun overhead to gauge a general heading, but he needed help until Annie showed up. He still didn’t know his airspeed — he felt like he was fast — so he pulled the stick into him a little. When he felt a few g’s on his body, he figured he had at least 300 knots. Annie called to Strike again.

“ Strike , three-zero-five. Bogey dope to three-zero-two.”

Strike responded that Ridgeline 302 bore 160 degrees at 65 miles, and gave them a heading of 140 to intercept. They still needed to get 302 heading north.

“Three-zero-two, Strike. I’m going to call your turn. At a standard rate turn, turn left.”

Rolling left, Trench did his best, by feel and what sense of the horizon he had, to hold 30-degrees angle of bank. He waited for Strike to tell him to roll out, using a procedure he had learned in flight school and had never used since. He was beginning to gain confidence despite blinking his eyes hard to snap out of the loss of sight. Nothing.

“Stop turn.”

Trench did as he was told. “What’s my altitude now?” he asked.

“Angels six-point-eight,” replied the controller. Trench added power and eased back on the stick to stop his shallow descent.

C’mon, XO! Get down here! he cried to himself as his panic returned.

Wilson sat in the back of the ready room with the briefing guide open on his lap as he led Ghost through the conduct of their upcoming flight. Killer, the duty officer, walked up to them with a grave look on his face.

“Sir, Air Ops says Trench in three-zero-two is reporting he’s blind and trying to find his way back.”

Wilson was incredulous. “ Blind? He can’t find the ship?”

“No, sir. They say he can’t see .”

Jolted again, Wilson absorbed the news in shock. After a moment, he stood and headed for the door.

“I’m going to Air Ops,” he told them both.

Looking at Killer, he added. “Find Olive and get her up there, too. Call CAG Office and inform them to get the word to CAG if they haven’t already.”

Glancing at the status board, he saw Annie and Big Jake were also airborne. With thirty minutes to recovery, Wilson knew they were low on fuel.

He flung open the ready room door, startling a passing sailor, and bolted for Air Ops some 20 yards forward. Air Operations was the nerve center of the air traffic control functions involving Coral Sea’s aircraft, of which fifteen were airborne at the moment.