Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“ Strike , four-zero-five is joined on four-zero-two. We need to get off this freq and over to approach so we can minimize frequency changes.”

Strike approved the plan. “Roger, three-zero-five, go button one.”

“Three-zero-five. Ridgelines go button one.”

Now Annie had to get Trench to change his radio, and if she lost him, it could spell trouble. She called to him on aux. “Trench, on Comm 1… turn the knob two clicks counter-clockwise.” After waiting a few seconds, she called.

“ Ridgeline, check Comm 1—”

“Trench is up!” In their cockpits the Firebird pilots let loose a collective sigh of relief that they were still communicating on both radios, their only lifeline.

“Roger,” Annie answered, then called to approach. “Approach, Ridgeline three-zero-five with you on Mother’s one-three-five for thirty, angels eight, low state five-point-oh. We are holding hands with three-zero-two who is incapacitated due to blindness. Need to set up for a Mode One.” The approach controller answered with the plan.

“Roger, Ridgelines , Mother is conducting an emergency pull forward. Expected BRC one-four-zero. You are cleared aft at ten miles. Take angels one-point-two.”

After Annie acknowledged the instructions, she visualized the ship heading southeast. She had to set up behind it, or to the northwest, and to do that Trench had to turn — and descend. Here goes, she thought as she keyed the mike.

“Okay, Trench, we’re gonna turn. Easy turn left.”

After a moment, Trench moved his stick left with Annie’s coaching.

“A little more angle of bank…. Good… hold that…. Mother is twenty-five miles off the nose…. Okay, roll out. Back to the right. Good. Let’s pull some power now, and bunt the nose down…. Too much. Pull it back up a little…. Twenty-four miles.”

And so it went. Big Jake, in loose formation behind them, watched for traffic while Annie flew next to Trench and guided him down. Her calm voice carried over the radio to his brain where the message was transferred by his hands to the flight controls. This came with an inherent lag, but Annie still had to anticipate one step ahead.

“Drop your hook,” Annie directed. By feel Trench found the hook handle and lowered it. “Good,” she said when she saw it extend into the slipstream.

In his cockpit, Trench found reason to chuckle. It was as if he were Stevie Wonder or Ray Charles at the piano, looking up and away as he flew his multi-million dollar warplane. He sensed the blue Caribbean below and saw they were surrounded by cottony clouds as his XO led them down and behind the ship. She sounded confident, and it looked as if they could get set up with plenty of “straight in” to get the system to lock-on and allow the ship to fly him down to the deck. He had a few Mode One approaches under his belt, but the air wing pilots seldom used it. He hoped 302 and the ship’s system were up and up.

“ Fuel low. Fuel low. ”

Instant fear and dread shot through his body as he absorbed the meaning of the message his plane had relayed to him. Trench had at most 20 minutes before his aircraft ran out of fuel.

“Sonofabitch!”

Now back in Air Ops, Wilson heard Annie’s alarmed voice deliver the dire news of 302’s low fuel state. Dammit, only twenty minutes! he thought. On the PLAT he assessed the deck, jammed with airplanes being towed forward by tractors with yellow shirt directors extorting the deck crew to move faster. He figured they had 15 minutes to get Trench aboard.

South of Coral Sea , Annie knew she would have to guide Trench into a “basket” behind the ship at the proper bearing, altitude, and airspeed to allow the ship to lock him and guide him down to the deck automatically as he selected the automatic carrier landing switches in order, precision flying for any pilot. Annie had to fly Trench’s airplane by voice, and Trench had to respond exactly. So far he was doing a good job following her directions, but once they were behind the ship, things were going to happen fast.

She led them through an opening in the scattered clouds that hovered 2,000 feet above the sea. When Trench had informed her he had a low fuel light, she hit the countdown timer of her clock. She figured they had 15 to 20 minutes left before his engines flamed out, and she settled on 17 minutes as a baseline. Annie was going to stay with him until he was aboard, acting as his eyes and hands in their one shot to get this right. First, she had to level him off at 1,200 feet…. Then both the aircraft auto-throttle and Automatic Flight Control Systems had to work. “How you doing, Trench?” she asked him on Comm 2.

“OK. Seems like we’re getting close to the water.”

“Affirm, passing angels two. Mother is about two o’clock for fifteen miles heading southeast. We’re gonna do a right one-fifty-degree turn to hook in on final.”

“Roger.”

“We’re a little fast here. Tweak the throttle back a little and pick up the nose — just a little. Good . We’re gonna level off now. Engage ATC. We’re at two-fifty knots…. Good. Can you engage radar altitude hold?”

“Think so,” Trench replied.

Annie helped guide his fingers over the radio. “OK, select, AFCS… far left pushtile under the UFC. Now, the fourth option, switch down. Got it?”

Trench pushed the switches in sequence and lifted his arms above the canopy rail to show Annie before keying the mike. “How’s that?” Trent asked. The flight control computers were now flying the aircraft “hands off.”

“Good, we’re stabilized at angels one-point-three. Close enough. How you doing back there, Jake?”

“Good, fuel state four-point three,” Jake answered from his position behind and to their right, riding shotgun for the formation and scanning for traffic ahead of their flight path. With Trench stable for the moment, Annie needed to coordinate with the ship.

“Approach, three-zero-two with you on Mother ’s one-eight-zero for ten, estimating low state one-point-five, requesting Mode One on arrival. The pilot is blind and wingmen are guiding him to final. Say expected final bearing.”

“Roger, three-zero-two, radar contact. Expected final bearing one-four-zero.”

“Roger, approach, and we’re gonna need a ten-mile hook, plenty of straight away. Can we expect a ready deck?”

“Expect that, three-zero-two.”

In their respective cockpits, Annie and Trench let go a sigh of relief. The ship was going to be ready.

Trench prepared himself for the approach, which he sensed would be his last — ever. Blind! Blind in the cockpit of a Hornet behind the ship with fifteen minutes of fuel! His best window to the outside world was his peripheral vision, low and to his left. He moved his head in deliberate motions to take in anything he could. Outside he sensed two shades of blue, light blue sky over deep blue sea, and he could make out the outline of the cockpit. He could even see his hand move over the switches, but he couldn’t focus on anything.

Trench had gotten better control of his panic, and he trusted Annie would set him up in the proper window for lock-on. Even if he survived, though, he figured this was the end, with a changed and uncertain future awaiting him. In fifteen minutes, he might be dead; if alive, he would still be dead. Either way, his life was over, and he felt the panic return. Annie brought him back.

“Looking good, Trench. We’re downwind now, and Mother ’s over your right shoulder inside ten. Let’s get your data link up… fourth pushtile from the left.”