Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

“ Easy with it, you’re fast…. On glideslope, fast, approaching the ramp.”

Approaching the ship’s flight deck ramp, the flight controls could not keep up with the erratic throttle movements. With a routine advisory cockpit tone and the stick seeming dead in his hand, Trench knew he had both controls, elevating his fear.

“ Manual! I’m manual! ”

Rat jumped in as he saw 302 balloon too high for landing. “You’re going high. Drop your nose! Drop your nose! ” Trench did so, but overcorrected and was now at risk of crunching his jet on deck. Behind him Coach cried, “He’s drifting left!” Screw it , Rat thought, knowing this was it.

“ Attitude, idle! ” Rat shouted into the handset as Trench roared past him and came down hard. He slammed onto the deck, the jet bouncing back into the air but not before his tailhook snagged one of the arresting wires to keep it on deck. By reflex, Trench went to full power as he felt himself decelerate on the violent roll out and sensed nothing but water on his left side.

“We got’cha. Stay with it. Stay with it. Keep a little power on,” the Air Boss radioed. Crash and salvage crews ran out to his jet, and a flight deck tractor trailing an aircraft towbar chugged over to his nose. In his cockpit, Trench slumped in his seat, but he unhooked his mask and gulped in one lungful of air after another. Alive — but, at the same time, dead.

“Safe your seat and open the canopy, three-zero-two. Nice job, we’ve got you. You can shut down the engines,” the Air Boss transmitted.

From her vantage point in the catwalk Macho climbed the ladder to the flight deck and moved toward 302. The jet was now surrounded by personnel, the Boss barking orders on the 5MC. Overhead, she saw aircraft circling, waiting for their turn to land. Confusion reigned. Nobody knew if they were going to recover the aircraft overhead or launch the ones on deck first. She moved down the bow toward the angle, toward 302 as activity swirled about her. She saw Trench stand up in the cockpit, assisted by crash and salvage sailors and corpsmen from Medical. The approach had not been smooth, and the jet had hit the deck hard.

Was he coupled all the way to touchdown, or did he fly that blind? Macho wondered. She was shocked to see 302 so close to the deck edge and realized that another ten feet left would have put him into the catwalk, and probably over the side. How did this happen? she thought, even while knowing that things can happen in this business with no warning. Trench was her enemy, and she hated the Neanderthal misogyny he represented — but he was also her squadronmate. The XO’s words rang true. You don’t have to like each other .

Trench was out of the jet now. A throng of sailors guided him toward the island, putting their arms around him as they led him off the deck — maybe his last time on it. Macho watched from a distance, confused, trying to comprehend what had happened and what it meant.

“Ma’am.”

Macho flinched in surprise as Chief Hauber approached from the left.

“Ma’am, they’re gonna recover the birds overhead then launch you. They want you pilots in the jet and ready.”

She looked at him, uncomprehending, dumbfounded that the chief was talking to her. She looked toward the gaggle with Trench and the gaggle as they disappeared into the island, then back at the jet parked on the bow. The open canopy and the empty ejection seat waited for her to get in and to fly 22-ton machine off the ship and into the air, over the ocean. On a mission, a routine training mission like Trench was on. She tried to form words but could not, and without looking at the chief, she walked toward her assigned jet as if to the gallows.

What’s out there? she thought . What’s out there ?

Chief Hauber watched with concern as she walked away, knowing enough about pilot mindsets to know that Lieutenant Rourke was not in the proper frame to get in the jet, his jet. Should he stop her? Find a reason to “down” her jet before she launched? He would watch her during the start sequence, and wondered if she, too, was thinking about not flying.

A call from the Air Boss over the 5MC made the decision for them, a decision that everyone on the roof welcomed. “On the flight deck, we’re gonna catch the recovery aircraft and secure from flight ops. Make a ready deck. Land aircraft.”

After they watched Trench trap and watched the corpsmen lead him to the island, Wilson and CAG left Air Ops. They headed to sick bay to see their stricken pilot and find out what happened. Matson summoned his Wing Intel Officer, Commander Hofmeister, to join them.

They descended four decks below where sick bay was located on the “mess decks,” the large open dining facilities where the crew took their meals. Sick bay was a small hospital that provided for the 5,000 men and women of Coral Sea . There they found the emergency medical response team leading their young pilot into an examination room. Still in his flight gear, Trench seemed confused, fearful, and relieved, all at the same time. Wilson called to him.

“Trench, Skipper. Welcome home.”

“ Skipper! It was a yacht! I was rigging it, and on the second pass I lost my sight. About eighty miles south of Mother when I found it. Heading west.”

“Describe it.” Wilson asked him. The medical personnel were in the process of removing Trench’s torso harness.

“White hull, sleek — about 100 feet long. Tinted cockpit glass. Boat davits aft.”

“Trench, this is CAG Matson. How close did you get to it?”

Trench hesitated, then answered. “Right on top of it, sir, about 200 feet down its starboard side. I made two passes.”

“Did you get a photo?” Wilson asked.

“Not a hand-held, sir, but I believe it’s on my FLIR tape.”

“Okay, we’ll take a look.”

Just then the flight surgeon interrupted. “Gentlemen, we need to get vitals and examine his eyes. Can you give us 20 minutes?”

“Yeah, Doc, go ahead,” answered Matson. “Trench, nice job. We are going to take care of you now. We’ll finish the debrief later.”

“Thanks, sir,” Trench responded, still shaken and unsure.

Wilson grabbed Trench’s arm. “We’ll be back to check on you soon. Relax now.”

“Sir?” Trench whispered.

“Yeah, go.”

“Sir, there was some… scenery on the bow.”

“Got it. We’ll come back later.”

“Thanks, sir.”

Matson and Hofmeister waited for Wilson in the passageway. “What was that?” he asked.

“There was a girl or girls on the bow as he rigged the yacht. I think it had a blinding laser, just waiting for one of us to fly by.”

“Yeah, we’re all lucky he lived to tell the tale. Let’s get his tapes reviewed, and I’m going to see the admiral. I want us to stay on top of this yacht. Come with me.”

They returned to Combat Decision Center located between Air Ops and the flag spaces. Scattered about were large radar repeater consoles with track-balls, communications handsets and controls, and manuals of standing orders and directives the size of phone books. Bulkhead displays showed the sea and air contacts located about Coral Sea , contacts called tracks in the vernacular of the watchstanders, and Matson asked the Battle Watch Captain, one of the admiral’s staff officers a question.

“What tracks do you have south of us?”

The Watch Captain studied the screen. “Sir, we have well over two dozen south of us. Can you narrow the bearing and range?”