Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Trench engaged the data link that would receive autopilot commands from the ship. He sensed the frequency come up in the window and lifted his visor. As he leaned in close, placing his eyes mere inches from the display numerals, he determined the frequency was correct. I can read! he thought with jubilation.

Aboard Coral Sea , the last aircraft was being towed forward and the recovery stations reported manned and ready. Air Ops had rousted Petty Officer Conley, their best final controller, from his rack, and he hooked his headset microphone up to the console so he could guide 302 on the most unusual approach of his career. The mood was tense, and all eyes were focused on the PLAT screen.

On the LSO platform, “Rat” Fink scanned aft as the phone talker plugged in his sound-powered phone. Lost in his thoughts, he knew the last twenty seconds of this approach would be up to him. A blind pilot! Trench James was a solid pilot, but could he — could anyone — get aboard while blind? Even on a hands-off Mode One, this was a tall order. Commander Schofield was going to guide him in position, but Rat would be responsible here. The phone rang, and he reached down to answer it.

“Lieutenant Commander Fink, sir.” Rat pressed the receiver close to his ear as the 25-knot wind whipped around him.

“Paddles, this is the captain.”

“Yes, sir!” It was the first time Captain Sanders had dialed the platform.

“Three-zero-two is about ten miles aft with his XO guiding him, and we’re hooking him in now. He has some limited vision that we think allows him to determine up from down, but that’s about it. Now, I’m conveying this to you direct. If you need to jump in there and talk to him, do it. And if he is not in a position to land, wave him off. We get one chance. If he doesn’t get aboard, his XO is going to coax him back in the air, and he can eject. We’ll rescue him. So, do what needs to be done, and I’ll back you up. You ready?”

“Yes, sir. We’ll get him.”

“Roger that, Paddles. We’ll have about twenty-five knots down the angle for you, and Petty Officer Conley controlling him. I’m confident in all of you. Good luck!”

“Thanks, sir. Appreciate it,” Rat answered, grateful for the vote of confidence.

“Roger. Out here,” the captain said as he hung up.

Firebird LSO “Coach” Madden joined him on the platform. “Can I back you up, Rat?”

“Yeah, please. Captain just called. Trench is ten miles aft, and they are hooking him in for a coupled approach. Hopefully, we just watch him, but if he drops radar lock, you’ve got line up. Captain said if he’s out of position, wave him off.”

Coach nodded, tight lipped and uneasy. Seeing Coach’s reaction, Rat added.

“Let me make that call. You help with line up and talk to me over my shoulder, but I’ll be responsible for taking him — or not. Got it?”

“Got it,” Coach replied, relieved that Rat was removing accountability or blame from his shoulders.

“He’s your roommate, isn’t he?”

Coach nodded.

“If you pray, I’d say one. Want to pray?”

Coach wasn’t the praying type, even as he realized his head was nodding yes.

“Okay,” Rat replied as he turned to the young sailor on the sound-powered phone and shouted over the din of the flight deck. “Airman Friddle, you want to join us in a prayer?”

The enlisted sailor looked at him for a moment in confusion, then answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Okay, let’s bow our heads.” With the high winds whipping at their clothes and sun shining on them, Rat led them in prayer on the exposed Landing Signal Officer platform of the great carrier. “Lord, help us guide our friend down. He needs you, and we need you. Please give us the strength and grace to make the right calls and the right decisions. Your will be done always . Amen.”

“Amen,” Coach muttered as the sailor blessed himself. Soon other LSOs arrived on the platform, all scanning the distant horizon for signs of Trench. “Visual,” Coach said, and pointed at a series of three dots low to the west.

Hornets. Each with a squadronmate inside.

Olive joined Wilson in Air Ops as he stood with CAG Matson. The three of them contemplated the status board and listened to the controllers talk to Annie as she guided 302 in an easy, right-hand turn. Wilson leaned toward his Safety Officer.

“Any gripes on three-zero-two?”

“No, sir. I just reviewed the book in Maintenance Control. There’s no throttle or flight control gripes, and the data link is good. We should be okay.”

Relieved, Wilson nodded and then turned to CAG. “Sir, we believe three-zero-two has a good system for a Mode One.”

“Great. Now it’s up to Annie to get him in the window.”

Helpless, they listened to the controller guide 302 toward the ship.

“Three-zero-two, Mother ’s steady now. Turn right. Intercept final bearing one-three-one.”

Annie responded, “Roger, approach, final bearing one-three-one. Trench, turn right… a little more angle of bank. Good. Twenty degrees to go… eleven miles…. Okay, roll back to the left a little…. Good.”

Annie knew that once Trench lowered his gear and flaps, he would need to hand-fly 302 before re-engaging the autopilot. She watched Trench in the cockpit and saw him lean close to the instrument panel to read what he could from it. “Can you see your fuel?” she asked.

“Negative,” he replied, “not enough contrast.”

Both knew he had less than fifteen minutes of fuel, probably closer to ten minutes.

“Okay. You ready to dirty up?” she asked.

“Affirm,” Trench replied. Things were going to happen fast now, and the last chance for the ship to lock a “stabilized” and linked-up 302 was coming up in five miles.

“Okay, let’s roll out left. Good. You are level and just right of course, ten miles. Now disengage the ATC and autopilot. Drop your gear and flaps.”

With some trepidation, Trench did as he was told, finding and lowering the gear and flaps controls by feel. He felt the aircraft “balloon” with the increased lift provided by the flaps. Annie and Jake lowered their flaps to match their stricken mate. To be at the same configuration as the aircraft she was guiding, Annie also lowered her landing gear, while also “flying” the aircraft next to her.

“Okay, a little nose down….Gear coming down, drifting right. Back to the left. Slowing below two hundred…. Come up a little on the power, a little nose up. Trim it. One-seventy… nine and a half miles… one-fifty. A little nose up. Trim out the stick forces…. Now engage ATC.”

Trench nodded as he did so, and felt relief as the throttles moved to keep him at the proper airspeed, which at this light fuel weight he figured would be less than 130 knots. One variable — airspeed control — was out of the way. Annie continued.

“Nine miles, and we’re high, so a little nose down…. And we’re still right, so a little left bank…. Good. Keep it in. Now roll out right. Hold it …. Good. Approach, three-zero-two has three down and locked at eight miles.”

“Roger, Mother ’s steady. Final bearing one-three-one,” Petty Officer Conley answered her.

Trench flinched when he heard a MASTER CAUTION audio tone in his headset. He placed his head next to the left digital display to try and discern what the caution was, and a chill came over him.

“Think I’ve got an AMAD caution here!”

“Roger that, continue,” Annie reassured him. “We’re four minutes from touchdown.” The Airframe Mounted Accessory Drive powered the generators on each engine. Fuel cooled the AMADs, and 302’s low-fuel state at low altitude on a hot tropical day was causing one of them to overheat. If the situation continued, the associated generator could fall off line, and a hiccup in AC power delivery could affect the flight controls and the data link systems, spitting 302 out of a coupled approach. In Air Ops, Olive was on it.