Sponge screwed down the canteen top and shoved it back against the left console. After fumbling for the mask, he brought it to his face and keyed the mike. “Four-zero-six.”
“Four-zero-six, rep,” Wilson called to him.
“Go ahead,” Sponge replied, glad to hear Wilson’s familiar voice. He then adjusted the mask against his face.
“Four-zero-six, the airborne tankers are dry or sour. We’re starting one up on deck but still haven’t been able to get him airborne. We’re rigging the barricade.”
Rigging the barricade. Sponge sat motionless as the message sank in.
“Four-zero-six, you copy?”
“Affirm” Sponge responded. “I’m still headin’ away from mother.”
“Roger, Sponge. Mark your father with state.”
“I’m on the two-six-five for niner, one-point-niner.”
“Roger, we’re gonna hook you in soon, but first I’m goin’ to go over the barricade checklist… Do you have any ordnance?”
“Negative.”
“Roger, OK… We’re gonna punch off the drop tanks. See anything underneath you?”
Sponge dipped his wing to the left, looked below, and saw nothing but black. “Negative,” he said.
“Roger, then emergency jett your tanks. Big switch on the upper left… hold it in till they’re gone. Let me know when you’ve done it.”
Sponge placed his left thumb on the switch, looked at the tank under his left wing, and pushed. He heard a ka-chunk and felt a twitch as small explosive cartridges pushed away the empty 300-gallon drop tanks from stations on the wing and fuselage. He watched the left drop fall and disappear into the darkness.
“I’m clean.”
“Roger, Sponge,” Wilson answered.
The final controller followed immediately and said, “Four-zero-six, turn left fly heading zero-five-zero.”
“Four-zero-six, left to zero-five-zero,” responded Sponge.
Wilson proceeded with the checklist.
“Sponge, Paddles is going to come up in a bit and give you the barricade brief, but as you get lower in fuel, remember, no negative g. You have a fuel low light yet?”
“Not yet.”
“OK, but when you do, the airplane still flies. Just don’t horse it around.”
The amber color of the master caution light suddenly illuminated the cockpit. The impassionate voice of the aural warning tone, which the pilots called Trailer Trash Tammy, sounded a warning in Sponge’s headset. “Fuel low. Fuel low.”
Sponge’s eyes went to the FUEL LO caution on the left multi-function display. “Jus’ got the fuel low.”
“Roger that. Net’s goin’ up.” Wilson regretted his last comment. The barricade was actually still in its locker, despite the high activity of the crew in the landing area. They were busy making preparations so they could run it across the flight deck. “I should’a been straight with him,” he said under his breath to The Big Unit.
