Even after a successful catapult shot, jets sometimes flew into the water. The next-to-last flying accident in the RAG, the one before Burner’s crash, had been out here on the carrier. A Marine captain named “Muddy” Waters, finishing his carrier qualifications, had “bingoed”—been diverted from the carrier traffic pattern back to an airfield ashore—at night. Everything seemed normal about his departure from the ship. The jet was performing perfectly. The landing gear and flaps were retracted on schedule, and the fighter was accelerating. The pilot checked in on the control frequency.
Then he flew into the ocean.
That was all. No one saw it happen. Lacking hard evidence, it was impossible to say with certainty what caused the crash, but the circumstantial evidence was abundant. Because the jet struck the water at the time after take off when the pilot was preoccupied with inside-the-cockpit duties—retracting the gear and flaps, changing frequencies on the radio, selecting a navigational function on the horizontal display indicator, he probably was not devoting full attention to the most important of duties: staying out of the water. With his head down, performing cockpit clean-up chores, still adrenalized from the rush of the night carrier operations, he failed to notice on his instruments that the nose of the Hornet had tilted downward. And because it was a night over the Atlantic, with no perceptible horizon and the surface of the ocean only a dimensionless black void, the young Marine didn’t realize that his jet was losing altitude, that it was slipping ever closer to the ultimate danger.
The F/A-18 Hornet and its pilot sank to the floor of the ocean, leaving not a trace.
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Rick McCormack shoved all this from his mind as he jockeyed the Hornet up over the catapult shuttle. Deck crewmen were swarming beneath the nose, attaching the nose gear of the jet to the shuttle, which was the only part of the catapult that could be seen above deck.
The shuttle was the jet’s only connection to the mighty steam catapult. When the catapult fired, the shuttle traveled down a narrow slot in the deck the entire length of the catapult, pulling the jet with it.
Beneath the slot in the deck lay the catapult’s two steam cylinders, each eighteen inches in diameter, mounted together like a double-barreled shotgun. Each cylinder contained a piston. The two pistons, through slots in the top of the cylinders, were mated to each other and to the shuttle. When the two pistons shot down the length of their cylinders, the shuttle—and the attached jet—went along for the ride.
A device called a “holdback” was attached to the back of the nose gear to hold the jet in place while the catapult applied tension. On a signal from the catapult officer, the catapult was fired by opening valves, letting steam surge into the cylinders. A tension spring in the holdback fitting released when the catapult fired, and the jet was propelled down the 309 foot length of the slotted deck. In two-and-a-half seconds the catapult could accelerate a 60,000 pound jet from zero to 150 miles per hour.
At the end of the catapult were two water brake cylinders, which were tubes mounted at the end of the steam cylinders. The shuttle came to a halt when a tapered spear on each piston rammed into its respective water cylinder, squeezing water out the narrow escape orifices. From its terminal velocity of well over a hundred miles per hour, the shuttle mechanism crunched to a halt in only nine feet of travel when the spears hit the water brakes, rattling every compartment in the forward half of the ship. The shuttle was then hauled by a cable and pulley assembly back to its starting position for the next launch. The Nimitz’s four catapults could launch a jet every thirty seconds.
The awesome power of the catapults never failed to astonish young aviators. When given his first orientation tour of the aircraft carrier’s internal machinery, standing there at the end of the catapult cylinders when the spears slammed into the water brakes—whaaabooom!—rattling every rivet on the giant ship, a nugget fighter pilot’s eyes would expand to the size of Frisbees. The standard utterance was always something like, Ho-lee Shit!
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The catapult officer was in view out the right side of McCormack’s windshield. He wore the green jersey and helmet signifying that he was a member of the ship’s division responsible for the catapults and arresting mechanisms. Across the back of the jersey was stenciled his title: SHOOTER.
McCormack had met him in the ship’s officers’ wardroom: a lieutenant commander named Dave Weed. Weed was a pilot who had already spent a tour in an A-6 squadron, and then an assignment as an instructor back in the training command. Now Weed was a shooter. It was his job to insure that the catapult was set not only for the type of jet being launched, but for its exact weight. A runner with the “weight board” had already come around to each jet, holding up the board for the pilot to approve. On the board was written the jet’s weight —36.5 for McCormack’s Hornet. McCormack acknowledged the number with a thumbs up. The catapult was then set to propel the 36,500-pound jet to its exact flying speed off the end of the deck.
At the port deck edge was an enlisted man, also in green jersey and helmet, hunched down and talking into a sound-powered telephone. He was monitoring the gauges and settings for the catapult and communicating with the crew down in the catapult machinery spaces. He waited for the visual signal from the catapult officer telling him to initiate the firing of the catapult.
Taxiing forward, McCormack felt the nose of the jet lurch as the nose-tow bar dropped into the shuttle slot. On the signal from the yellow-shirt standing by the jet’s nose, he eased off the brakes. The catapult officer was whirling his right hand over his head, signaling the pilot to power up.
McCormack pushed the two throttles forward to full power.
Rick McCormack’s heart accelerated another twenty bangs a minute. The Hornet was sitting there, both engines roaring, crackling, vibrating the entire airframe, held back only by the spring-tensioned holdback fitting down there on the nose gear.
The shooter was going through the time-honored ritual dance of the catapult officer: body arched into the wind, upraised right arm whirling over his head, waiting for the “ready” signal from the pilot in the cockpit.
McCormack “wiped” the cockpit one last time with the stick—rotating the stick through its full range of motion to insure —that all the jet’s control surfaces were free—and scanned his instruments. All okay. He shoved his head back hard against the head rest. He wrapped his left hand tighter around the throttle grip. He brought his right hand up in a salute to the catapult officer—the signal that he was ready.
His life was now out of his hands.
The shooter cocked his head to each side, checking for signals from the island, looking for unwanted obstructions in the path of the catapult. All clear. He lunged forward in a fencer’s thrust and touched his right hand to the deck—the traditional signal to the crewman at the deck edge to initiate the firing.
McCormack waited for the catapult to fire. Nothing was happening. Why isn’t it firing? It seemed like minutes, hours, were going by. What’s wrong?
One-and-one-half seconds, in fact, had elapsed. Why isn’t. . .
The catapult fired.
Whoooom! Down the catapult track he went. The acceleration rammed him back into the seat. Rick McCormack felt as if he were in the grip of a giant hand. In his peripheral vision he saw the flight deck of the U. S. S. Nimitz sweeping behind him. Ahead was the sheer, precipitous end of the deck.
And then nothing. He was hurtling off the edge of a sixty-foot cliff. Beyond he saw only blue—water, sky, thin air.
The hard thrust of the catapult shot abruptly ended and—hallelujah!—he was flying. McCormack snatched the control stick with his right hand. He was in control again. Okay, God, I’ve got it. Thank you. Thank you.
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Better than sex!
Well, almost. That was the consensus back in the ready room after the nuggets had completed their first day period on the carrier.
“What a rush!” said Rick McCormack.
“The first cat shot—Wow!” said
his brother.
“Holy shit! You talk about awesome. . .”
It was true. There was something sensual about it. It was an analogy dating back to the first Navy catapults, when scout planes were launched off battleships with explosive charges. It was the ultimate rush—something akin to a roller coaster, a sky dive, a rocket launch, all rolled into one two second experience.
Carrier pilots always came back to the ship saying the same thing about that first catapult shot: It came very close to being. . . orgasmic.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SUGAR TALK
Road Ammons’s pulse rate was hitting about a hundred-sixty. Which was normal, at least for this little window in time. The window would last another thirty seconds. That was all. Half a minute from this point in his approach to the U. S. S. Nimitz until the last adrenaline-charged millisecond when his tailhook skimmed over the blunt back end of the flight deck and—whump!—he slammed down on that postage stamp-sized hunk of steel at one-hundred-thirty-seven knots.
“Roman Three-one-nine, Hornet ball, eight-point-one, Ammons.”
“Roger ball,” came the comforting voice of Pearly Gates. “You’re a liiii--tttle low.”
Yes, he was. He could see the ball dwelling there on the lens just below the green datum lights. It should be right in the middle.
Road squeezed the throttles up, just a bit, to bring the jet up on the correct glide path.
Thirty seconds. Thirty pulse-racing, adrenaline-pumping, shit-scared seconds. Would it be like this every time? Road wondered. Did landing jets on aircraft carriers ever become routine, ho-hum exercises, like parking your car in the driveway?
Road hoped he would never find out. He was a Marine, and one of the things Road loved about the Marine Corps was that they had enough sense to stay ashore, at least more often than their Navy counterparts Most Marine fighter squadrons were land-based, and that suited Road Ammons just fine. Aircraft carriers were something he would be willing to turn over in perpetuity to the Navy swabbos.
But, still, he had to qualify on the damn things, didn’t he? The Marine Corps took this attitude that, hey, you guys are naval aviators just like the Navy jocks, and anything they do, you had better do just as well.
So here they were—he and J. J. Quinn, who despised and dreaded sea-going airfields even more than Road Ammons—qualifying on that great, gray, heaving death slab out there. There was no way around it. It was a credential they had to collect in order to graduate. It was Road’s fervent wish that when it was over he could put it away in a drawer somewhere, like a medal from a war he wanted to forget.
“Pow-werrrrrr!” came Pearly’s voice from the platform. Road recognized the tone. It was the LSO’s “sugar” talk, a lilting, encouraging tone—but increasing in urgency. Pearly was telling Road to add power—nudge the throttles up—but just some. Not a lot. Correct the situation—but don’t overcorrect.
Road overcorrected. He shoved the throttles up. The Hornet started to climb, to go high on the glide path. Road yanked the throttles back.
The Hornet settled.
“Eeeee-zzzeee,” intoned Pearly. More sugar talk. He wanted Road to settle down. Make little corrections.
Five seconds to the deck. The blunt end of the carrier swelled in Road’s windscreen.
The yellowish blob of the ball was hovering near the middle now, only a hair to the low side. Road knew from the constant lecturing by Pearly and Plug that now—especially now—it was critical that he stay with the ball.
That was the hard part. Stay focused on that yellow blob. Don’t stare at the deck. Don’t take your eyes off the ball. . .
Road took his eyes off the ball. He had to! Shit, man. . . there was the deck. . . the whole freaking ship. . . coming at him like a goddamned steel mountain. . .
“Pow-WERRRR!”
KeerrWhump!
Road’s Hornet fighter plunked down on the deck. In the next instant, as the tailhook snagged the number one wire, Road felt himself thrust hard against his shoulder straps. His left hand jammed the throttles full forward, to full power.
The jet had stopped.
For several seconds Road sat there stiff-arming the throttles, his engines bellowing at full power. The Hornet was pulling against the unyielding tug of the arresting cable stretched across the deck.
“All right, son, we’ve got you,” came the voice of the Air Boss, sitting up in his windowed “office” high above the flight deck. “You can pull the throttles back now.”
Road looked around. Oh, yeah, he thought. Sure enough. I’m here. I’m alive.
He pulled the throttles back. He had just made his first carrier landing in the F/A-18.
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“Don’t spot the deck,” said Pearly, down in the ready room. He said it again, glowering at Road Ammons. “Do—not—spot—the—frigging—DECK! Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Road.
“Spotting the deck” meant taking your eyes off the ball as you approached the ramp—which was what Road had done on each of his four arrested landings that day. It meant you zeroed in on the landing area of the deck, which almost always caused the pilot to drop the nose of his jet, and land short of the target area.
Landing short was the worst thing you could do on an aircraft carrier. It meant that you came within a few feet, perhaps inches, of a spectacular, fiery union with the ramp. It was almost always terminal.
The idea was to stay focused on the ball all the way to touchdown. That was the only way to insure landing exactly on target, which was the space between the number two and number three wires. —The four cables on the carrier deck were spaced thirty feet apart. On a perfectly flown pass—ball in the center all the way to touchdown—the jet caught the number three wire. Your jet cleared the ramp——by exactly fourteen feet.
If your hook caught a number two wire, or worse, a number one wire, it meant that you had cleared the ramp by something less than the optimum fourteen feet. You had come within ten or eight or as perhaps only three or four feet of becoming immolated in a glorious orange fireball.
Number three wire was good.
Numbers two and four were all right.
A number one wire was, by definition, an “arrival.” You had cheated death, but not by a comfortable margin. Enough number one wires, and the LSOs started looking at you like you carried the Ebola virus.
Which was the way Pearly Gates was looking at Road Ammons.
“No more deck spotting, Road,” he said. “No more one wires. Got it?”
“Okay, Pearly. I’ve got it.”
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Everyone did it once in a while. Occasionally you missed the target wire, and caught a number one or a number four. That little two-foot window was an elusive target, particularly when the deck was lurching up and down in a heavy sea, or the wind was buffeting your jet like a leaf in a storm. The tolerance was tiny. Too low, and the LSO would wave you off. Too high, and you missed the last wire, the number four, and boltered.—
And that, of course, was the reason pilots were supposed to jam their throttles to full power on every touchdown, regardless of whether they thought they were going to catch a wire. If they did snag an arresting wire, so much the better. The jet would stop on the deck regardless of the power on the engines. If they missed, ——the engines were already spun up and delivering maximum thrust. Off they would go again, just like a normal touch and go practice landing out at Whitehouse.
Everyone in the detachment got four landings on their first day at sea. And every nugget—Road, Rambo, the Twins, Sniper, Chip—snagged at least one number one wire. But none was doing it with the same deck-spotting consistency as Road Ammons.
The CAT II students—the three senior pilots—all did well, as expected. Most notable was Jim Hillan, whose passes at the ship looked like they were on autopilot. Hillan had a hot streak going: four “okays” for four—passes, each one to the number three wire.
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The conditions in the str
ait between Catalina and San Clemente were as close to ideal as the nuggets would ever see. The visibility was unlimited. The southern California sun beamed down from a cloudless sky, sparkling off the Pacific like a field of jewels.
It didn’t take long for the sheer terror to wear off. After the adrenaline-pumping surge of the first catapult shot, and then the same thing in reverse with the first “trap,” the nuggets were beginning to feel the glimmerings of something like. . . cockiness. That wasn’t so tough! Hell, I even remembered to pull the power back after that last trap. . .
By late afternoon, the gold California sun was becoming something of a problem. It was shining too brightly. The Nimitz was steaming westward, toward the low-hanging spring sun, which meant that the pilots squinted directly into the sun as they tried to pick up the ball on final approach.
“Clara,” called Chip Van Doren on short final.
“Roger,” acknowledged Pearly. “You’re a little high. Keep it coming.”
“Clara” meant that the pilot had lost the ball—his primary source of information during the last few seconds of a carrier landing. He was coming down the glide slope without any visual guidance.
Seconds passed. Pearly kept his thumb poised on the wave off button while he watched the oncoming jet. If the pilot didn’t pick up the ball in the next couple of seconds. . .
“Ball,” Van Doren called out, four seconds from the ramp, as the shimmering yellow blob came back into sight.
“Roger ball.”
Kerrr-ploppp.
Van Doren caught a three wire. While he was taxiing clear of the landing area, the next jet, J. J. Quinn, called out “Clara.”
Pearly rogered. “Keep it coming.”
And again, four seconds out, J. J. picked up his visual cue. “Ball.”
“Roger, ball. You’re a little low. Right for line up.”
J. J. corrected, dipping his right wing to align the jet with the centerline, then plunking down on the deck to snag a number two wire.
Bogeys and Bandits Page 30