A radio call from the final controller brought them all back to the task at hand. “Four-zero-six, approaching glidepath. Slightly right of course correcting. Expected final bearing, one-two-eight.”
“Four-zero-six.”
Stretch shouted over gusting winds to the controlling LSO. “Shakey, after the ball call, jump in early. Lip-lock him the whole way down if you have to.”
“Roger that!”
To minimize the danger to the others on the platform, Stretch shouted, “Guys, let’s clear the platform. Primary and backup LSOs, myself and the phone talker stay. Rest of you guys go below and hang out in Ready 8 until he’s aboard. Sorry.” Four of the LSOs nodded and walked to the catwalk ladders.
The J-Dial circuit buzzed, and Stretch answered it. “Lieutenant Commander Armstrong, sir.”
“Stretch, Boss… Captain wants you to call him.”
“Yes, sir,” Stretch answered. He killed the connection and then dialed the Captain’s chair on the bridge. After one ring, the Captain picked up the receiver and growled, “Cap’n.”
“Lieutenant Commander Armstrong on the platform, sir.”
“Paddles, time to stop screwing around and get this guy aboard. Now! Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Stretch said, then swallowed. “Will we have winds down the angle? Because…”
Before Stretch could finish the Captain boomed. “I’LL TAKE CARE OF THE WINDS! Now you do your job!” The Captain slammed the receiver down.
Stretch looked aft into the dark. He had received blasts from the Captain in the course of predeployment training. His temper was legendary, and over time Stretch had built up a mental layer of protection. Same shit, different day, he thought, trying to reassure himself about tonight’s display of temper.
“Stretch, who was that?” Shakey shouted to him.
Stretch smiled. “It was the Boss. Says barricade’s set. Actual weight 27,000. The bridge is workin’ on the winds. We’re good to go!”
Sponge concentrated on his instruments but took a peek at the ship off to the right of his HUD. He was curious… Will I be able to see the barricade from three and a half miles? When he looked over his nose, he saw nothing but the outline of the landing area, the drop lights, and the tower sodium vapors… a cluster of yellow lights surrounded by black.
One thousand pounds of fuel remaining… this is it.
“Four-zero-six. You’re on course, approaching glide path,” the controller said.
“Four-zero-six.”
He watched the glide slope indication steadily descend from the top of his HUD. He focused on obtaining the best possible start to the approach and let everything else — the fuel quantity, the aircraft cautions, the weather, the barricade stretched across the deck — become secondary to flying a night carrier approach. The tension left him as he entered a mental realm that took all his attention.
