O’Shaunessy picked up the phone. “If he doesn’t get aboard, send him to one-oh-two for two-point-five.”
C’mon, Wilson thought, trying to control the motion of the ship. Settle down. Sponge was in close. Maybe he can make it…
“Wave off, pitching deck,” Shakey said as he depressed the pickle switch. Sponge added full power and maintained his proper landing attitude as he flew away.
“Dammit!” O’Shaunessy sighed, and spoke to CATCC. “Tank him.”
Seconds later, they heard approach call to Sponge. “Four-zero-six, your signal is tank, clean up, take angels one-point-two, Texaco is at two o’clock, angels two, report him in sight.”
“Visual,” Sponge responded.
“Four-zero-six, roger, take angels two and switch departure button two.”
“Four-zero-six, angels two, button two.”
* * *
After a short lull in the action, and while he was chatting with The Big Unit, Wilson heard Sponge’s voice on the overhead speaker.
“One-zero-two, there’s a heavy stream of fuel coming out of the basket.”
Wilson’s head snapped to the status board and looked at Sponge’s fuel state… 2.5 two minutes ago. He then looked at O’Shaunessy, but he appeared not to have heard the transmission.
“Roger, we’ll recycle,” the tanker pilot answered.
“Commander?” Wilson called to O’Shaunessy, who turned to him and cocked his head.
“I just heard four-oh-six say there’s a heavy stream of fuel coming out of the basket.”
O’Shaunessy whipped around and picked up the phone. “Get me a status on four-oh-six.”
* * *
Sponge watched the basket retract into the refueling store and glanced at his fuel: 2,300 pounds. Roughly, he had 20 minutes. A wisp of cloud flew past; then they were in the clouds. He edged closer to the tanker to keep the position light on the red wingtip of 102 in view.
The Spartan tanker pilot pushed down to get out of the clouds, and Sponge saw a minor stream of fuel emitting from the back of the store as the small generator prop on the store turned. Minor, yet disconcerting. He hoped it was just residual fuel from an earlier stream and, for an instant, when the basket started to move out of the store, he thought all was well. When it opened, however, a solid flow of fuel billowed into the airstream.
“Still streamin’ heavy,” Sponge radioed. His breathing was deep, and he squeezed tighter on the stick. Departure control called to him. “Four-zero-six, update state.”
‘Two-point-three,” Sponge replied.
The tension in Air Ops ratcheted up as the focus shifted to
