The PLAT showed the Hornet stop and drop the hook to the deck. The hook runner, a sailor with a long steel crowbar, ran underneath the aircraft and pulled the cable clear of the hook, which was then raised again. Once untangled, the Hornet advanced the throttles to taxi forward and get clear of the landing area. The jet’s exhaust blasted the water on the flight deck into another cloud that tumbled aft. The PLAT switched to Sponge Bob, the undercarriage of 402 visible as it taxied forward over the camera.
“Four-zero-six, on and on, three quarter mile, call the ball.”
“Four-zero-six, Hornet ball, four-oh.”
“Roger, ball Hornet, deck’s movin’ a little, you’re on glide slope.”
Wilson watched the deck status light indication flashing foul in the top of the screen as Sponge drew closer. “It’s gonna be close…” he said to no one in particular. Shakey continued to guide the pilots with his calming voice, as if there were no worries. “You’re on glide slope… onnn glide slope,” he called to Sponge, keeping a careful eye on him but conscious that the deck was still foul since 402 had not yet cleared the landing area. Seconds from the decision point, the deck motion subsided for a moment. With the deck still foul, though, Shakey had to wave him off.
“Wave-off, foul deck,” paddles called, just as the deck went clear.
Damn, Wilson thought. His XO caused the wave-off by retracting his hook too early and not waiting for the yellow shirt signal.
O’Shaunessy turned to him. “Raven rep, your flight lead shit-in-the-gear caused that.”
Wilson nodded and said, “Yes, sir.” O’Shaunessy kept his narrow eyes on him for a count and turned away. While Commander O’Shaunessy could be a dickhead, he was at least fair, taking on peers like The Big Unit to his face, or Saint behind his back, as well as lower ranking squadron department heads. The Irishman always looked pissed off, and who could blame him? He had to orchestrate the tension of carrier recoveries night after night after night, while the captain up there watched his every move and ripped into him when the airborne ballet was less than perfect. If air wing pilots were fouling up his pattern, they were going to know it, and screw ‘em if they didn’t like it.
Wilson looked at the status board with a grim face. This recovery was not going well, and no wonder! Varsity pitching deck, high gusty winds, rain and thunder in all quadrants, barely enough gas airborne on a dark night… and the divert fields practically out of reach, the best one of them closed.
