The pilot slides into position and, with no horizon to reference, attempts to line the probe up behind the basket. Rigid with concentration, and “squeezing the black out of the stick,” the pilot attempts to anticipate the movements of the basket, which is constantly buffeted in the airstream. He adds a little power to ease forward, misses low, pulls a bit to back out, and lines up again for another stab. Hurry back, stabilize, now easy, easy… He takes a lunge with throttle and stick to slam the probe into the basket. The hose buckles from the impact before the take-up reel returns tension. The pilot pulls some power, but not so much that he backs out. As he maintains that position on the tanker, he watches the status light on the store, willing it to go from amber to green.
Green. Good flow. Life blood enters the aircraft. Time enters the aircraft. A split-second glance at the fuel page on the multifunction display, followed quickly by another glance, confirms the increase in fuel. Yes, yes. Even as his eyes scan for the first hint of relative movement on the tanker, he relaxes a bit and exhales deeply, his mouth open against the mask’s microphone. Another chance, more time to live.
* * *
Air Ops let out a collective sigh of relief when the Cutlass came up on the radio. “Three-oh-five, plugged and receiving.”
“Roger, three-zero-five, take three-point-oh.”
“Three-oh-five.”
Wilson heard The Big Unit murmur. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Four-zero-six, two miles, going slightly below glide path.”
“Four-zero-six.”
O’Shaunessy assigned one of the tankers, Spartan 102, to keep their eyes on — or “hawk”— Sponge. As Wilson watched the PLAT, he could see the familiar strobes of the Super Hornet high in the screen. They crossed from right to left across the screen as the tanker passed behind the ship and into a position to catch Sponge if he needed their services. The final controller called to Sponge with “Four-zero-six, on glide path, slightly right of course, one mile,” and followed that with “Four-zero-six, on and on three quarter mile, call the ball.”
“Four-zero-six, Hornet ball, two-seven.”
“Roger, ball, workin’ thirty-six knots, slightly axial.”
O’Shaunessy turned to Wilson with an amused look and, referring to Sponge’s below tank fuel state, said, “At least he’s honest.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilson said and smiled. He appreciated the small break in the tension and stood up to take full advantage of it. He heard Shakey assure Sponge of his position on glide slope just as the PLAT crosshairs moved up, then down. The screen displayed a sudden pitch of the ship’s deck, one they also felt in their stomachs. The chance of catching Sponge on this pass was very low.
