Dutch had the presence of mind to call “Out of burner!” That would help preserve what remained of Sponge’s fuel.
“Clean up,” added Stretch.
I can’t believe it didn’t break! Shakey thought, as the Boss yelled over the 5MC for sailors to put out the fire on top of the barricade.
Sponge was still climbing ahead of the ship, and CATCC directed him back for another pass. “Four-zero-six, take angels one-point-two. When level, turn to the downwind three-zero-five.”
Shakey knew Sponge didn’t have the gas to turn downwind for even a four-mile hook-in to final.
As the crash and salvage tractor drove out to the centerline to douse the small flames still flickering on the loading strap, he took matters into his own hands. “Four-zero-six, Paddles contact. Turn downwind now. Level off at cherubs six.”
“What’re you doing?” Stretch cried.
“He doesn’t have the fuel. We’ve gotta get him back here now! Watch him, guys!”
Sponge breathed heavily through his mouth and fought the urge to remove his mask. Holy shit! he thought. He had pulled the throttles out of burner when Dutch called to him, but what did Shakey want? Level off and turn downwind?! Another first! A night pitching deck barricade out of a day visual pattern! A look at his fuel, though, confirmed Shakey was right. Five hundred pounds left!
He pushed the nose over and banked left. To keep from becoming disoriented, he concentrated his attention on the instruments. In less than three minutes he was either going to be on that ship or in the water next to it. Sponge took a series of deep breaths to remain calm. One step at a time.
A sudden bolt of lightning in the downwind turn made Sponge flinch. His shoulders ached. They had been under strain for the last 40 minutes, ever since he had pushed out of marshal. And he could smell the adrenaline; the smell was stronger than ever, and it seemed to seep right out of his skin. Concentrate!
Shakey called to him again. “Cherubs six, no lower.”
Sponge was concentrating so hard to maintain his tight turn, he didn’t even answer. He was at 800 feet, and would descend to six once on downwind. As he leveled off, he took a glance at the ship, which looked about level with him to his left. He saw one helo close on the starboard quarter and another nearby. He almost wished the ship would just tell him to punch out. The rain was picking up too, another unwelcome sensory.
“Damn, this sucks!” he shouted into his mask.
