At that moment the familiar sound of an S-3 catching an arresting wire filled the space, and through the armored steel of the flight deck, they heard the muffled voice of the Boss on the loudspeaker. “Rig the jet barricade. We’ve got a low-state Raven! Ready Cat 3 for the alert Texaco! Get movin’!”
The overhead fluorescent light shone down on the Raven pilots as they looked at each other, unyielding and firm. Either one apologizing for the exchange was unthinkable.
“Get up there,” Saint finally said.
At least he kept his eyes on me, Wilson thought, before his thoughts turned back to Sponge. As soon as he returned to his place next to The Big Unit, but before he could sit down, O’Shaunessy motioned Wilson over to the console and handed him the radio handset. “Tell Jasper we’re gonna barricade him in about five minutes. Do you guys have a procedure for that?”
Sponge breathed deeply as he flew away from the ship eight miles aft. Two thousand pounds… I’ve got a little over 20 minutes at this fuel flow. He wondered why they were vectoring him out here and keeping him at angels two. When he looked over his left shoulder, he could make out a cluster of lights in the distance… Valley Forge… and home. He desperately wanted to be aboard her. A bolt of lightning flashed nearby and for an instant the ship was illuminated in a bluish light, before darkness surrounded it again. During Sponge’s short aviation career, he had already become accustomed to being at low fuel states. Judging from their ready room conversations, the old guys like Flip and Weed loathed them as much as he did. Sweating fuel was part of life when a Hornet pilot was at sea.
So this is my night in the barrel, he thought, a sea story he could tell at the O-Club just like the heavies did when they held court there. Each story, it seemed, involved a black night, a tanker, and a low-state trap. However, if this was his rite of passage, he would gladly decline. Damn XO! Sponge had seen Saint’s aircraft taxi over the foul line just before Sponge got the wave-off on the first pass. If Saint had gotten out of the gear sooner, Sponge would probably be aboard right now, drinking a cup of water in the ready room. He was thirsty, so he pulled out the plastic canteen from the left pocket of his g-suit and unscrewed the top. He then popped a fitting on his oxygen mask so he could drink.
Just as he took a gulp, the approach controller’s voice filled his headset. “Four-zero-six, fly heading two-one-five. Take angels one-point-two. Stand by for your rep.”
