. O’Shaunessy rubbed his forehead. “What’s the status on three-oh-five?” he asked Metz. The room was quiet except for the sound that came from the air conditioning vents overhead.
“Still on one-zero-seven, sir.” At that moment the radio crackled. “Three-oh-five, tank complete.”
“Get him aboard!” O’Shaunessy shouted and looked at the status board. “What’s the story on one-oh-seven?”
“He’s dry, sir, four-point-oh,” Metz answered, his voice almost an apology.
“Fuck! Get him back here, now!”
Wilson figured Sponge was good for 25 minutes airborne at low altitude — if he “hung on the blades” at a max conserve power setting. The two desired outcomes of flying an approach to the ship with gear and flaps down or joining up on a hoped-for tanker for a desperate “drink” would burn up more gas. He estimated Sponge really had 20 minutes before a third outcome was required: controlled ejection.
Wilson got O’Shaunessy’s attention. “Sir, he’s got about 20 minutes.”
“I know… He’s been doing good, hasn’t he?” Wilson interpreted his question to be about Sponge’s ability behind the ship.
“Yes, sir, if the deck cooperates, he’ll get aboard.”
* * *
Sponge remained on 102, fuel still streaming from the basket. He edged closer to see if he could plug anyway and noted a heavier flow than he first thought. The flow was solid, as if the basket was engaged and fuel was being pumped into an invisible aircraft. If he attempted to plug now, he risked getting the windscreen covered with fuel that could then be ingested into the right engine. That could cause problems he didn’t even want to imagine. When a bolt of lightning from a nearby squall exploded off their right wing, Sponge made up his mind.
“One-zero-two, recommend you stow the basket.”
“Concur,” 102 replied. He retracted the basket almost immediately.
When the prop was secured, Sponge radioed, “Good stow.” After a moment, he added, “Departure, four-zero-six detaching,” as he deflected the stick to the left.
* * *
“What’s the story on one-twelve?” O’Shaunessy said to no one, then picked up the phone and asked the Air Boss the same question.
Wilson heard Sponge ask the question. “Departure, tanker posit?”
“Four-zero-six, we have no sweet tankers airborne. Launching alert Texaco, Spartan one-zero-five in five mikes. Your signal is max conserve. Say your angels?”
“Four-zero-six is at angels two.”
“Roger, four-zero-six, take low holding.”
“Four-zero-six… Ah, you want me to go to angels
