Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“Skipper, the book says to leave the generator and engine alone if you can land within fifteen minutes. Recommend we ignore the AMAD.”

Feeling CAG’s look of apprehension, Wilson nodded. “Concur, and Annie is on it. Rick, can I talk to him?”

The Air Operations Officer handed him the radio handset.

Wilson took it and transmitted. “Three-zero-two, Firebird rep.”

Recognizing his skipper’s voice, Trench answered, “Go ahead, sir.”

“Just leave everything alone, you are inside fifteen minutes to landing. You’re doin’ great. Out here.”

“Roger, sir.”

Annie jumped back in. “You’re settling… you’re low. Pick the nose up. Okay, bunt nose down and hit altitude hold. Airspeed good, just under one-thirty. Just slightly right of course, six-point-five miles.”

What everyone involved knew, and what Trench sensed, was that the invisible last-chance “window” for the ship to lock him was looming just ahead. Actually, they were inside it, and Trench wanted them to lock him up now so he and Annie could stop struggling with calls over the radio.

“Three-zero-two, approach. Are you receiving landing check discrete?”

“Affirm!” Trench lied, hoping but not knowing if he had a good landing check. It was now or never. Annie kept the calls coming.

“Okay, stabilize. Trim the stick forces out. Doin’ good… roll a little left…. Approach, lock him now.”

“Four-zero-two, report coupled.”

“Trench, push the bottom push button,” Annie guided.

With his fingers, Trench felt for the push button that would link 302 to approach control, and pushed it.

“Coupled!”

“Sending commands—” the approach controller continued.

Trench felt the aircraft twitch and throttles move under his left hand. Yes! he thought as a wave of relief swept over him. The ship had him now.

“Command Control!” he transmitted.

“Roger three-zero-two, slightly right of course and correcting at five miles. Nice job.”

On the bridge, in Primary Flight Control, in Air Ops, and in Annie Schofield’s cockpit, all those monitoring the situation breathed a sigh of relief. While continuing to fly escort on Trench, Annie kept her jet at a safe distance from him so the ship’s final control radar would not jump over and lock her .

Wilson and the others in Air Ops watched the “dot” of 302 loom larger as it gravitated closer to the glide slope “crosshairs” on the PLAT camera mounted in the flight deck. All of them knew what could happen. The ATC or flight controls could “kick off,” and it would be too late to lock Trench inside the window. When the controller said, “Three-zero-two, you’re on course at four miles,” they knew they were committed. Above them on the flight deck, Wilson heard the Air Boss on the 5MC loudspeaker; “ Make a ready deck. Firebird three-zero-two is at four miles. Stand clear of the foul line! ”

Trench let his hands rest on the stick and throttle, feeling them move under the data-linked commands sent from the ship. With his limited peripheral vision, all he could discern was water and sky. In two minutes, he was going to be aboard — hanging from a parachute — or dead. He sensed this was it, the end of his flying days, the end of his military career, not that he had ever wanted one. But now he did, and would stay for thirty years if he could just see. Please God! he cried in his mind, begging to wake up from his nightmare, begging for a second chance. Damn yacht! He had to warn the others. Approach kept the calls coming.

“Three-zero-two, approaching tip-over. Up and on glide slope at three miles.”

“Roger,” he acknowledged. He felt the airplane lunge as the throttles moved back, then forward to keep 302 on speed. He was now on glide slope, an imaginary 3.5-degree ramp that would take him all the way into the wires, and he couldn’t even see the ship’s wake. Annie reassured him on Comm 2.

“Looking good, Trench. Deck’s clear. You’ve got a centered ball. Gear down, hook down. You’re all set.” Trench nodded, then keyed the mike to warn everyone.

“It was a yacht, about a hun’erd miles south. I was rigging it, and it blinded me. White yacht, heading west.”

“Three-zero-two, approach. Say again?”

“I’m telling you, it was a yacht! ” an exasperated Trench boomed. “With a blinding laser. Now you know, so get me aboard!”

In Air Ops, Wilson and Matson exchanged glances. CAG stepped over to the console and picked up a phone. Wilson went back to the PLAT display, helpless to do anything more.

“Three-zero-two, roger. On glideslope, on course…. Two miles.”

To Trench, the controls seemed to be working hard to keep him on glide slope, and he was fearful they would “kick him out” of the ship’s data link control. He had no choice but to ride and wait.

All eyes looked aft at the formation of Hornets , knowing that a blind pilot was in the lead aircraft. They also knew this approach could end in a fiery crash, and the Air Boss had instructed nonessential personnel to go below. Descending from her cockpit on the bow, Macho asked Chief Hauber, the squadron flight deck chief, what was going on.

“Three-zero-two is coming back. He’s blind.”

Stunned, Macho asked, “Who’s in three-oh-two?”

“Lieutenant James,” he answered.

With her mouth hanging slack from disbelief, Macho saw the formation of Hornets on final. Blind? Trench? How? What was he doing? These questions cycled through her head as the aircraft grew closer.

“We better get below, ma’am,” the chief said to her.

“Yes,” Macho replied, trying to process the news that Trench was in extremis. Despite the fact she considered him her mortal enemy, she wanted to stay and watch — not to watch the train wreck, but to provide support, to see him make it for herself. She didn’t want this, but stepped to the deck edge and down a ladder, taking another look at Trench as the formation drew closer. Unable to force herself to go below, she disobeyed and stayed in the starboard bow catwalk forward of the foul line — and waited.

Through habit, the controller called to Trench one last time; “Three-zero-two, on and on, three-quarter mile—”

“You’re on and on, Trench! Workin’ twenty-six knots, clear deck!” From the LSO platform, Rat jumped on the radio to reassure the pilot that he “had” him now, even though the ship’s equipment was still flying Trench down to the deck.

In the cockpit, Trench could sense the ship’s wake below and a mass of gray ahead of him. The ride was smooth despite the jerky movement of the throttles. Next to him, Annie slid further away and leveled off at 200 feet. Rat was in control now.

“About a half-mile, Trench. You’re on and on.”

“Roger,” Trench answered. Knowing he was seconds from touchdown — or ejection — his breathing had become rapid and clipped.

“On glideslope… onnn glideslope,” Rat continued with his comforting calls.

Trench then felt the throttles under his hand stop moving. Panicked, he keyed the mike for help. “Manual throttles!”

This call electrified the LSOs and, behind him, Rat heard Coach call to him. “He’s settling!” Rat was on top of it and transmitted.

“Roger, manual. You are in-close, a little power.”

Nobody involved with the evolution had experienced this before. With five seconds to touchdown, Trench now had to manually manipulate his throttles, requiring a delicate touch even with pilots who could see. The ship had his flight controls, but now Trench had to add and retract power through the throttles from calls Rat gave him. Trench responded to Rat by adding a shot of power. Rat fought to remain calm as Trench was now getting too fast.