“Oh crap,” was all Andrew got out as the plane skewed sideways, tilting wildly as the port wing scraped a showery arc along the flight deck. The arresting cable reached the end of its travel arc and failed as the nose of the C-17 impacted the island of the Carl Vinson at 42 miles per hour.
The entire structure shuddered with the thunderous collision, and the nose of the C-17 crumpled as 140 tons of transport plane came to a dramatic stop. The 100,000-ton ship rocked in the water from the hammer blow, the flags on top of the island whipping back and forth furiously. Andrew tried to imagine how that would have felt up in the tower where the Air Boss sat, then he wondered if the pilots survived.
The starboard wing was on fire, and crews rushed onto the deck to put it out and evacuate the aircraft’s crew and passengers. If Andrew had harbored thoughts of attempting a landing, the crash put a stop to that idea. No other planes would be landing any time soon. The crash had been sufficient to snap half the mooring lines holding the Carl Vinson to the George Washington, and he could swear the island was slightly tilted.
“Commander Martinez, Lieutenant Tobin,” Andrew called over the radio.
“This is Commander Montgomery, Air Boss of the George Washington,” a voice replied. “The Carl Vinson’s comms are down, Lieutenant, and they’re fighting the fire.” Below, the wing of the C-17, having suffered structural damage, had burst into flames. Jet fuel was pouring out like napalm, and running across the deck. Fire crews battled it with foam. “You’d better head for your rendezvous. God speed.”
“Good luck, Commander,” Andrew said, “and thank you for what you’ve done today. I don’t think any of us would have survived if we’d had to land ashore.” Andrew turned north as the sun dipped below the western horizon, and a dozen Sea Stallion and Super Stallion helicopters lifted off from the Essex and Makin Island, turning to follow.
* * *
“Forty minutes of flight time,” Wade announced.
“This is getting to be a habit,” Andrew grumbled as he searched the blackening sea below. There were a few clouds to the west, and just as Captain Gilchrist had said, there was more wind from the west the further north they went. The sea was more turbulent, and he could see white caps.
“Help me spot those damned ships,” Andrew said to Chris. “We’re losing the light.” Chris grabbed a pair of binoculars off a shelf by his right thigh and scanned the horizon.
“There’s a ship,” he said a minute later, and pointed. Andrew followed his arm and saw it as well. A line of white from a wake ended at a little black shape, one of the guided missile cruisers.
“Got it,” he said, and adjusted course. Less than a minute later, they spotted the carrier. “Gerald Ford, Gerald Ford, this is 44 Foxtrot, we have you in sight.”
“Acknowledged 44 Foxtrot,” replied a nice-sounding female voice. “The captain said to inform you we are turning into the wind, and asked you to give us a few minutes.” Andrew glanced at Wade, who flashed him three fingers then a zero.
“Roger that, Ford, we have 30, that is three-zero minutes of flight time.”
“Acknowledged,” the woman replied.
“Whoa,” Chris said, passing the binoculars, “check this out.”
Andrew took them and found the carrier. The Gerald Ford was the first of her class, a new generation of supercarriers, the first since the Nimitz in 1975. She had been undergoing her final sea trials when the world fell apart. Though not activated yet, she was crewed and fitted out, and as he watched, she performed a high-speed turn to the west. She tilted at least 15 degrees as she heeled over, her stern skewing around from the power of her four massive propellers.
“That is amazing,” Andrew said.
“Let me get this straight,” Wade said. “We just watched two planes like ours land on twice the runway, and one crashed badly. And we’re going to land on that?”
Chris also looked at his pilot, dubiously.
“I’m curious too,” General Rose said from the back of the cockpit.
“The captain is pretty confident in his ship,” Andrew replied.
“Then why didn’t we do this with all three?” the General asked.
“Because it’s probably only good once.” Andrew began his descent, taking them down to 2,000 feet over the Gerald Ford. They were doing a leisurely 250 knots as the bulk of the supercarrier passed below them. It looked tiny and unmoving, in comparison. Oh shit, Andrew thought. As an Air Force pilot, he’d always believed that naval aviators had a screw loose. And here he was…
He continued his descent, and made a long, looping bank around, to go aft of the carrier. As he turned, he could see the crew setting up for him. His heart was pounding in his ears as he turned on the intercom.
“Okay everyone, sorry I have not kept you up on current events. The first two C-17s landed on carriers, much as I described. The second landing was quite a bit rougher than the first. Still, I hear there was no loss of life.” He could hear some cheering from aft and below. “Now it’s our turn. Our primary landing option is gone, so we’re going to land on the carrier Gerald Ford. I don’t anticipate any problems, but everyone needs to be ready. We’ve been passing out straps for the last hour; hopefully, everyone has tied into a lock point on the floor. We’ll be on the ground…I mean deck, in about 15 minutes.”
“Or we’ll be swimming in 16,” Wade said after Andrew turned off the intercom.
They traveled aft of the Gerald Ford for several minutes, and then turned back to line up on the carrier, which was about 10 miles ahead of them. Andrew continued to lose altitude until he was under 1,000 feet, then he deployed the plane’s massive flaps and speed brakes and held at 700 feet and 160 knots.
“Restart Number Three,” he told Wade. “We’re going to need the power to stop.”
“What if it overheats?” Wade asked.
“It won’t overheat if we overshoot and land in the Pacific.”
“Good point. Restarting.”
“Gerald Ford, we’re eight miles out, on final.”
* * *
On the bridge of the Gerald Ford, the operations crew watched the captain with wide eyes and concern. They’d listened to the landings on the Carl Vinson and George Washington. Those carriers were active ships with experienced crews, and they hadn’t been completely successful. Most of the crew of the Ford was new, and they hadn’t had much opportunity to work together. They’d done some launches and recoveries with normal carrier-based aircraft. But this? This was pure insanity. Captain Gilchrist glanced around the bridge, then looked at his executive officer. The two men exchanged nods.
“Give me the 1MC,” he ordered, and a sailor handed him the microphone for the ship-wide intercom system. It still smelled like new plastic. “Gerald Ford, this is the captain. You all know what is about to happen, and you all know why. Most of our countrymen are dead, victims of this inconceivable plague. That plane coming toward us is full of civilians, and many are military dependents. There is nowhere else for them to go. If they ditch in the ocean, hundreds will likely die. If they set down on the beach, the infected will overrun them.
“What I’m asking you to do is not easy. I know we haven’t fully tested the Ford. Many of you are untested, too. Follow the lead of your chiefs, and do what you need to do. Metal can break. Glass can shatter. But nothing can break the spirit of the United States Navy. Today, we’ll show them what we’re made of. Today, the Gerald Ford stands tall!”
Fifty feet above the deck, through a half-inch of glass, they could hear the cheers. Gilchrist nodded, and turned to the rating at the helm.
“General quarters. Helm, all ahead emergency flank. Punch it, son.”
“Emergency flank, aye-aye Sir!”
“Give me the reactor chief,” the captain said. The squawk box chirped at it connected, and he put the set to his head. “Bradley, what’s the status?”
“Both reactors at 85 percent, sir.”
“I need 120 percent.”
“Sir, we haven’t f
inished shaking out the reactors.”
“I know that. We have 500 souls coming down in 15 minutes in a 140-ton plane. Every damned knot we can get is one less he has to lose when he hits the deck.”
“I understand sir, but the strain on the system could have long-term implications.”
“I’m more worried about the long-term implications for the human race. You have your orders, Mr. Bradley.”
“Aye-aye, sir. You’ll have 120 percent in two minutes.”
Deep inside the ship, the crew retracted the dampening rods past the normal stops, and megawatts of power flowed into the ship’s system. Unlike the Nimitz, the Ford was all electric. It didn’t take minutes for the increased output of the reactors to flow through steam feeds into the engines. The reactor room channeled power directly to the engines, and the output quickly passed the maximum tested. Electric motors the size of small houses thrummed, and the entire ship shook. Sailors in the monitoring stations jerked in surprise as the shaft bearings began to heat, and the 26-inch, solid cast steel shafts began to make noises previously unheard.
* * *
“Four miles out,” Andrew said as he began to bleed off speed and altitude. He brushed the stall line and gave the plane a little more nose up. It was now at almost eight degrees! The Globemaster didn’t like it one bit, and the plane bucked against the slow speed. He checked the airspeed against the ground speed. Ground speed was 112, air speed 138. Coming north to the southern edge of the storm had gained them a 26-knot headwind. Below, the carrier was still in twilight, but its running lights blazed, and there was still a bit of light. It was enough for the few more minutes they needed.
“Fuel looks good,” Wade said. “Number Three is a hundred and ten degrees too high, but it’s holding.”
“I can see that meatball thing,” Chris said, pointing at the carrier’s fantail.
“Got it,” Andrew said. “Holy shit! The damned carrier is throwing up a rooster tail!”
The Gerald Ford was hauling ass. The powerful screws created vortexes that rose to the surface and threw water up in the air. They looked almost half as tall as the back of the ship!
“How fast do you think they’re going?” Chris asked.
* * *
“Not fast enough,” Captain Gilchrist grumbled, then louder, “We’re not going fast enough!”
“We’re at 39 knots,” the helmsman said. “Forty knots, 41, 42, 43 knots and steady, sir.”
“More,” the captain said.
“Sir,” his XO said, “we’re at the limit of the electrical safeties on the power plant. Chief Reactor Tech Ringo reports he has a heat warning.”
“How much of the reactor power is he using?” the captain asked.
“Eighty-two percent, sir,” one of the sailors said.
“Insufficient. Max it the fuck out.”
“Sir? Chief Ringo is concerned…”
“You heard me,” he said. He turned and bellowed, “I don’t care if Mr. Ringo has to jam a crowbar into the main bus, I want every goddamn amp of power sent to the engines! Shut down all non-essential systems. Kill the catapults as well. Only use approach radar.”
“Sir?” the chief navigator said.
“So help me, by God’s chin whiskers, if I lose that bird in the drink because we’re a couple knots short, every one of you will follow it in!”
Below deck, highly-trained personnel stared at the squawk box in disbelief. They’d spent months learning how to keep the multi-million-dollar drive systems from exceeding parameters and damaging themselves. Now, the captain had ordered them to toss all that out the window and circumvent those safeties.
Electrical engineers tore open panels with huge yellow and black warning labels reading ‘Do Not Open When Energized.’ Inside they removed safety covers, and did hazardous things with thousands of live volts flowing within inches of their fingers.
On the bridge, the pitometer began to climb once again.
* * *
“One and a half miles out,” Andrew called on the radio.
“This is the Air Boss,” a new voice replied, “your glide path is flat, and you’re too low.”
“I can’t come in at a high angle, sir,” Andrew said. “I need rubber on the deck as early as possible.”
“If you’re too low, only half that bird is coming in. I will wave you off, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, I have less than ten minutes of fuel on board. With all due respect, if I get a wave off, I am going to ignore it. You damned well better clear the decks, because I’m landing.”
* * *
“Come on!” Captain Gilchrist urged his ship. “Move, you pig, move!”
“Forty-nine knots,” the helmsman said. There was a gradually increasing shudder from the ship, and the helm was becoming a little loose. “We have 50 knots sir!”
“Engine room reports they’re red lined, sir!” the XO squawked. “Shaft monitors say they have smoke from both Shafts Two and Three. All are giving off heat warnings.”
“Spit on it for five minutes,” Gilchrist snarled. He walked over to the sliding door and jerked it open. He’d been on carriers for almost 30 years, and he had never felt this kind of slipstream when they weren’t sailing into a gale. He could see a twin set of rooster tails. Any other time, the Joint Chiefs would have him keelhauled for what he was doing to a $17 billion ship that had yet to fire a shot in anger.
He looked a little above the fantail, and there was the C-17, almost hovering above the deck, only a thousand yards out.
“Jesus Christ on a crutch,” he hissed. The plane was beyond big. It looked like a huge crouching dragon, coming in to land on a postage stamp. “Sound the crash alarm,” he said. “Clear the decks!”
* * *
“44 Foxtrot,” the radio operator said, “call the ball.”
I must be crazy, Andrew thought. Fucking crazy. “I got the ball,” he said over the radio. He flicked the PA on. “Everyone brace for impact!”
“44 Foxtrot,” the carrier Air Boss called, “we got her up to 50 knots. I don’t know how long we can hold her there before something goes. Headwind is gusting to 29 knots. We did the best we could. God speed, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks,” Andrew said, focusing on the approaching ship with all his might.
He’d watched two other pilots do this with mixed results. It was very different to be the one racing at the deck.
“Seventy-nine knots,” he said, and glanced at his ground speed as calculated by a radar bouncing off the water. It read 141 knots. He would hit the deck with 62 knots to kill in under 1,000 feet. We’re going to die, he thought. His knuckles were white on the control handles, so he purposely loosened them.
“I just want you to know, we’re all counting on you,” General Rose said behind him, in a strange accent.
“Huh?”
“That movie, Airplane?” the general prompted. “Remember the guy kept saying that?”
Andrew used a bit of his brain to remember, then laughed and shook his head.
“Yeah, I remember now. Leslie Nielsen. Funny.” It seemed like a stupid thing for the general to say at that moment. But the joke worked, and he relaxed somewhat. He was a highly trained pilot. He could do this.
The deck of the carrier bobbed and weaved a little. In the final 20 seconds of his approach, Andrew got a feel for its rhythm. He remembered hearing that snipers had learned to predict similar motions to shoot people. His mind raced as the deck came up.
“You’re too low,” Chris yelled.
“No,” Andrew hissed, “I’m dead on.”
The C-17 Globemaster came in with a relative speed of 63 knots. The nose cleared the fantail by 11 feet, the rear wheels slapped down at the edge of the round down on the stern. The impact was almost too light to feel. Andrew pushed the yoke hard forward as Chris pulled the thrust-reverser levers, and slapped all four throttles forward against their stop.
It was 290 feet from the fantail to the emergency barricade. The nose gear hit considera
bly harder than the main gear, only a few feet before the barrier, and the nose of the C-17 penetrated the net. Heavy duty Kevlar and polyester weave spread and stretched over the nose and hooked on the wings, and the arresting gear worked to absorb the strain as the aircraft’s engines screamed in reverse.
This barrier, like the carrier, was a new generation, and considerably more capable. The netting snapped progressively outward, so the main cables didn’t break. Between the arresting gear and the thrust reversers, it felt like stomping the brakes on a race car. The impact threw the flight deck occupants forward against their restraints, and the plane groaned like a tortured beast.
The island passed on their right, and Andrew slammed the brakes to their stops. The yelling of the passengers, both in First Class and below, was clearly audible.
Ultimately, the plane tore completely through the crash barricade and snapped both cables, but not before it had cut the aircraft’s velocity in half. Riding the brakes hard, with the engines at maximum power, Andrew killed the remaining momentum, with 320 feet to spare. Chris and Andrew pulled the throttles back, flipped the kill switches on all four engines, and slumped in their seats. Andrew keyed the intercom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard the USS Gerald R. Ford.”
* * * * *
Epilogue
Tuesday, April 26, A New Day
The Gerald Ford limped back to the flotilla at a stately 27 knots. It was the best she would likely ever manage again. One of the shafts had seized, and she’d thrown a propeller. Several of the main electrical distribution systems were damaged and were still undergoing evaluation. However, any Westinghouse employees who weren’t zombies, if they existed, would have been pleased to know the reactors had functioned at 120 percent for 30 minutes with no ill effects.
Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die Page 44