* * *
Wilson and the others in Air Ops watched the raindrops bounce on the deck in front of the PLAT camera embedded in the centerline. Wilson was incensed. He couldn’t believe that, after witnessing the near catastrophe, the ship was going to attempt another barricade recovery. What else can go wrong tonight? he thought.
O’Shaunessy, who had lost the bubble, was on the phone to somebody but overwhelmed by the crushing demands put on him by the Captain, the elements, the scheduled track, and the air wing tankers. And Shakey had now turned Sponge downwind for a day pattern on a shitty night like this! Saint just stood off to the left and watched the PLAT. He offered no answers whatsoever.
“Sir?” Wilson called to O’Shaunessy.
“Yeah?” When O’Shaunessy looked over his shoulder, Wilson saw the deep circles under his eyes.
Wilson glanced at Saint, who still stared at the PLAT. Damn, he wished the Skipper were here now, but for the moment he was the only Raven representative thinking about Sponge’s well being. He leaned forward on the bench.
“Recommend a controlled ejection alongside, sir.” Wilson said in a measured tone, eyes locked on O’Shaunessy.
Saint “woke up” with a start. “Negative!” he exclaimed. “Barricade him! Mister Wilson, I’ve got it.”
Despite the in extremis condition of 406, O’Shaunessy and the others were astonished by this public display. After a moment, the Air Ops Officer looked to Wilson and said, almost apologetically, “He outranks you.”
Wilson sat still and said nothing, but he felt his blood pressure rising. The silence was broken by Shakey as he talked to the lone Hornet abeam. “Sponge, nice job on that one, the ship jinked for winds, but you did a good job of getting that good start. You’re real light, so keep that right hand under control and make easy glide slope corrections with power. We’re gonna get ‘cha this time… We’ve got a little raindrop here, so check windshield air… What’s yer DME?”
“One-point-four,” Sponge replied.
“Roger that, turn in level, dirty up. CATCC, say final bearing.”
The approach controller, monitoring everything, was on top of it. “Final bearing one-three-seven.”
“Roger that. Sponge, you have bullseye needles?”
“Affirm.”
“OK, use them to help get set up. We’ll show you a ball when you get in the window.”
“Roger, Paddles.”
As Sponge prepared his airplane for approach, however disjointed this one might be, his training took over and he became calm. He went through the checklist by memory: gear — DOWN; flaps — HALF; antiskid — OFF; hook — DOWN; harness — LOCKED. His hand touched each handle and knob to ensure they were all set as required. Keeping a good instrument scan and flying the ball was something Sponge could do. And, in his mind, he had resolved to wave off if one of the engines rolled back due to fuel starvation. He would then take a cut away from the ship — portside — and eject when abeam. He could do that, too.
