W.E.B. Griffin - Retreat, Hell!

"Bridge, Radar," the squawk box announced.

"Bridge," the talker replied.

"We have a slow-moving aircraft at a thousand feet at fifteen miles heading three hundred degrees."

"Acknowledged," the captain responded personally. "Keep me advised."

The captain turned to Colonel Dunn.

"That's probably your helo," he said. "Who else would it be?"

"Sir," Dunn said, "it just occurred to me that an Army pilot probably has never made a carrier landing."

"Why the hell is he coming here?" the captain asked, and then without wait­ing for a reply, ordered: "Turn into the wind. Prepare to recover U.S. Army he­licopter. " Then he had another thought, and issued other orders. "Engine room, full astern. Flight deck, make all preparations for a crash landing."

"Turn into the wind, aye, aye, sir," the talker parroted into his microphone.

'Prepare to recover U.S. Army helicopter, aye, aye, sir. Engine room, full astern,

aye, aye, sir. Flight deck, make all preparations for a crash landing, aye, aye, sir."

There was immediately the sound of a Klaxon, and another voice on the squawk box: "Make all preparations for a crash landing. Firemen and Corpsmen, man your stations. Make all preparations for a crash landing. Firemen and Corpsmen, man your stations."

Then another voice on the squawk box.

"Bridge, Radio."

"Bridge," the talker replied.

"We are in radio contact with Army four zero zero three on Emergency Fre­quency One."

"Acknowledge,' the captain said.

"Acknowledged," the talker parroted.

The captain turned to a small control panel near his seat, moved several switches, and picked up a microphone.

"This is the captain of the Badoeng Strait," he said.

"Good afternoon, sir," the speaker replied metallically.

"Have you ever made a carrier landing?"

"No, sir, I have not."

"Jesus Christ!" the captain softly said to Dunn, and then pressed the mi­crophone button again. "I'm going to turn you over to Colonel Dunn, who is a highly experienced carrier aviator. I'm sure he'll be able to help you."

He handed the microphone to Dunn.

"Army zero three," Dunn called, "what we're doing now is losing head­way—losing speed—so that the deck, which will be your runway, will be mov­ing as slow as possible. You with me so far?"

"How slow is 'as slow as possible'?" Major Alex Donald inquired.

"Just fast enough to maintain what we call steerageway," Dunn said. "You'll hardly notice that it's moving at all. But we can't stop a ship this large right away. Have you enough fuel to circle around for a couple of minutes?"

"Affirmative," Donald replied.

"And you won't have to worry about the wind, either. The ship will be heading into it."

"Okay."

The captain issued another order.

"Engine room, make turns to maintain steerageway."

The talker repeated the order.

"Badoeng Strait, can I fly over the deck? Approaching from the back end, into the wind?"

The captain raised his eyebrows in exasperation, then nodded.

"Permission granted," Dunn said.

The H-19A approached the Badoeng Strait head-on.

"I thought he said he was coming in over the 'back end'?" the captain said.

When the H-19A was several hundred feet from the ship, it veered to its right and flew down the length of the carrier at about the height of the flight deck. Dunn and the captain could see the pilot looking at the ship.

When the H-19A was several hundred feet aft of the ship, Donald turned it around and then flew toward the stern, carefully adjusting his speed to that of the carrier, so that he was moving very slowly toward the deck.

"Jesus Christ, look at that!" Donald's voice came over the radio. "The whole fucking fire department's waiting for us."

It was clear to both Colonel Dunn and the captain that the pilot of the he­licopter believed his microphone switch was in intercom rather than where it was, in transmit.

Neither officer felt this was the appropriate time to bring the pilot's error to his attention.

"Don't fuck this up, Alex," another voice said, one Colonel Dunn recognized as that of Major Kenneth R. "The Killer" McCoy, USMCR.

"I have no intention of fucking this up," Donald said.

The exchange caused snickers, chuckles, and several laughs from officers and sailors on the bridge and elsewhere on the ship.

The amusement on the bridge was instantly stilled when the captain said, "Knock that off!"

The H-19A was now over the aft edge of the deck, thirty feet above it. It inched down its length.

When it reached the bridge, on the superstructure called "the island," both the captain and Colonel Dunn could see the men in the cockpit. And vice versa. Major McCoy recognized Colonel Dunn and waved and smiled at him.

"Jesus H. Christ!" the captain said.

Colonel Dunn nevertheless waved back.

The H-19A continued its slow passage over the flight deck.

"I think I have this fucking oversized ferry figured out, Ken," Donald's voice said. "What's happening is that the deck is moving faster than we are."

"So?"

"Not much faster," Donald said, thoughtfully. "So if I went right up to the front. . . and sat down very carefully, what would happen? All we would do is maybe roll back a little. Shall I give it a shot?"

"Why not?"

The captain grabbed his microphone and opened his mouth. And then closed it.

The captain, an experienced aviator himself, realized that the pilot of the helicopter had condensed the essentials of carrier landing to one sentence: Sit down very carefully. In the time available, the captain realized he had nothing to add to that.

The H-19A was now at the forward end of the landing deck, where, very slowly, it inched downward toward the deck. One wheel touched down, and then, very quickly, the other three.

"I'll be a sonofabitch," the captain said softly. "He's down!" Then he raised his voice. "Mr. Clanton, you have the conn!"

To which Lieutenant Commander Clanton, a stern-faced thirty-five-year-old, replied, "I have the conn, sir. Captain is leaving the bridge!"

The captain, with Colonel Dunn on his heels, headed for the ladder to the flight deck.

On the flight deck, fifty men—a dozen of them in aluminum-faced fire-fighting suits and another dozen in Corpsmen's whites, six of these pushing two gurneys—raced toward the helicopter. Through them moved tractors and fire-fighting vehicles loaded with other sailors.

They all reached the helicopter even before Donald had shut down the en­gine, and long before he could apply the brake to the rotor.

By the time the captain and Colonel Dunn reached the helicopter, a very thin, very dirty, heavily bearded human skeleton in what was just barely rec­ognizable as a flight suit was very gently removed from the passenger com­partment and onto a gurney.

The human skeleton recognized both Colonel Dunn and the captain. His hand, fingers stiff, came up his temple.

"Hey, Billy!' he said, then: "Permission to come aboard, sir?"

"Permission granted, you sonofabitch!" Colonel Dunn replied as he re­turned the salute. Despite his best efforts, his voice broke halfway through the sentence.

"Make way!" one of the doctors ordered, and the gurney started to roll to­ward the island.

McCoy climbed down from the cockpit.

The sight of a man in black pajamas in itself attracted some attention, as did the black helicopter with no markings. Eyes grew even wider when the man in black pajamas saluted the captain crisply, barked, "Permission to come aboard, sir?" and then crisply saluted the national colors.

The captain returned the salute.

"Good to see you again, Major," the captain said.

"Where'd you find him, Killer?" Dunn asked.