The LSOs saw the hook catch a wire somewhere in the maze of confusion, and the stress and strain of the arrestment was too much for the overstressed right main. As the main suddenly collapsed, the whole jumble slid down the deck into the centerline PLAT camera, where the wreckage and right wing dragging on deck kicked up a shower of sparks as it veered to the starboard side of the landing area.
On the PLAT image, Wilson saw Sponge’s white helmet move in the cockpit. Sponge then opened the canopy as crash and salvage sailors swarmed the nose, some of them employing foam on a small fire underneath the aircraft. A booming cheer in Air Ops released a torrent of tension and anxiety. Wilson’s air wing shipmates all patted him on the back.
“You got him!” The Big Unit said as he grabbed Wilson’s shoulders. Wilson offered a weak smile in return, feeling he had done pitifully little. Wilson’s eyes met Saint’s scowl before the commander wheeled and left for the ready room.
* * *
Sponge had never wanted so much to get out of an airplane. Leaning to the right, his hands raced over the Koch fittings and seat manual release handle that secured him in order to get free of the cockpit. He opened the canopy normally and flipped off a bayonet fitting to let his mask dangle to one side. Instead of breathing fresh air, he gagged on a cloud of CO2 from the crash crew’s attack on the aircraft. He then got splashed by firefighting foam, supposedly pointed at the fire coming from somewhere by the right intake. The foam spotted his helmet visor and obscured his vision as the rain caused it to run down the front.
A hooded sailor wearing a silver fire retardant suit, a chief by the sound of his gravelly voice, climbed up on the leading edge extension. He yelled, over the chaos, to Sponge, “You okay, sir?”
“Yeah! I’m okay!”
“Nice goin’, Lieutenant! Let’s go!”
Sponge pulled himself up and over the canopy sill. The chief and three other sailors grabbed at him as he tumbled down to the deck. He got covered in foam, and some of it splashed into his mouth. Just as he got to his feet and tried to spit out the foam, they began to both pull and push him from the wreckage. Still spitting foam, he trudged 50 feet toward a throng of sailors.
“Sir, you have to get in the stretcher!” a sailor yelled. He pulled Sponge toward a wire mesh stretcher on the flight deck.
“I’m fine!”
“Sir, orders. Get in!”
“Lieutenant, it’s procedure.
