by Ward Carroll
“If we do get an indication on our warning systems, call it out to the entire flight over the AWACS frequency. Be concise but clear.” Punk motioned toward his RIO. “Spud, why don’t you talk about LANTIRN pod switchology?”
“Okay, remember we have two Prowlers with us,” Spud said, “and if we satisfy the ROE for engagement, they’ll probably be the first ones to take action with their HARM missiles. But, if we get into a real slugfest and the Prowlers run out of missiles, then it’ll be up to us to kill the sites with precision-guided bombs.” Spud rose and studied a copy of the ordnance plan on the wall next to them before re-taking his seat. “We’ve got two thousand-pounders each. That’s a good punch. Drop one at a time.
“Because we’ll be reacting to a pop-up threat, you won’t be able to cue the pod using coordinates. This is where the RIO makes his money in the air-to-ground arena. Einstein, if you see a SAM launch, you’ve got to quickly call Monk’s eyes onto it, and, if he doesn’t get a tally in short order, then you have to make him into a voice-activated auto pilot and get the jet pointed at the site. Once that’s done, bore sight the pod down the nose of the jet, go to the lowest magnification, and look for the plume. When you’ve got it, increase the magnification, verify the target, get a contrast lock, and drop a bomb on those naughty Iraqis. Oh, and Monk, keep sight of the missile after launch, and, if it’s tracking on you, forget about guiding the bomb and dodge the missile.”
“Speaking of dodging missiles,” Punk said, “when you preflight your jet, take a good look at your chaff bucket and note the mix of chaff and flares. We’ve got a limited number of rounds to use, and they’re crucial when you’re trying to defeat a SAM, so don’t waste them. Okay, let’s—”
The back door to the ready room slammed open and Commander Campbell rushed by on his way to the duty desk. Punk perfunctorily paged through the briefing guide while he kept one eye on the skipper’s gesturing between Weezer and the flight schedule board behind the desk. It didn’t feel right. Punk looked to the front corner of the ready room and saw that the CO’s sudden presence was not lost on Smoke either.
After all of twenty seconds, Commander Campbell pushed away from the desk and strode a deliberate stride to Punk’s group. He stared at Monk and bluntly declared, “You’re out.”
Monk, looking like a little leaguer pulled by the coach just before walking to the plate in a bases loaded situation, shot a pleading glance to Punk and slowly rose out of his chair.
“Skipper,” Punk interjected while he motioned for Monk to keep his seat. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going flying.”
“I thought you had a flight physical.”
“It’s over. I’m healthy as a horse and ready to kill.”
“You’ve missed most of the brief,” Punk pointed out.
“Was he here?” the commander asked as he gave Einstein a chummy pat on the shoulder. “My RIO’s got the brief.” He then pointed toward Punk. “Plus, you’re the flight lead. I’ll just follow you.” The skipper fixed his eyes on Monk and called him out with several jerks of both thumbs. “See ya . . .”
“What’s going on?” Smoke asked as he neared the discussion from behind the skipper.
“The skipper’s taking Monk’s spot on this hop,” Punk answered matter-of-factly.
“Skipper,” Smoke advised, “I’m not sure this is appropriate.”
Commander Campbell did not turn around to face Smoke. He grinned demonically and thought out loud, “You know, this is really my fault. Over the months we’ve been together, I guess I’ve created the illusion of a democracy. It’s a failing of mine we’ll just have to overcome.” The skipper forced a chuckle before whirling around and engaging Smoke with a scowl. “Now get this, my friend,” he railed. “I’m going flying on this event. When and if you ever get to be a commanding officer, doubtful as that might be with a punitive letter in your record, you can make the rulings. For now, get out of my face and go finish your brief!” He glared at Monk, who was still seated and very much surprised by the turn of events. “Are you still here?”
“Again, skipper,” Smoke implored, “this is not . . .”
“MiGs are flying, goddam it,” the skipper bellowed before the mission commander could finish his appeal. “Now let’s get out there and bag some.”
The players in the drama remained in place, including Monk, who was pushed back into his chair by Punk every time he attempted to stand. Finally, Smoke looked at his watch. “All right, we’ve got five minutes until we man up. Get the skipper up to speed, and let’s fucking do it.” Smoke started for the front of the room and then turned and addressed the CO. “Skipper, I’m the mission commander for this event. Punk is your flight lead. You’re a wingman. Are we clear with our roles, sir?”
“Whatever,” the commander returned, downplaying the ire that surrounded him. “Monk, may I please have my seat?” Monk pushed by without a word, balling up his kneeboard card that outlined the mission and angrily throwing it into the CONFIDENTIAL BURN trash bag next to the safe at the back of the ready room. He pulled the back door open to walk out, and the skipper called to him. “Don’t get mad. You can have my night hop tonight.”
Punk used the balance of available time to focus the skipper as much as possible on the mission at hand. At every turn the CO preemptively returned an “okay, okay” as if insulted by the details Punk provided. After a few fruitless minutes, they broke and fanned out into their own final preparations before the trip to the flight deck.
Punk made it a point to go in a direction opposite the skipper. Commander Campbell headed to the front of the ready room and the duty desk to draw his blood chit and pistol, so Punk went to the back and mindlessly rinsed his coffee mug in the sink.
At the other end of the ready room, Smoke took Einstein aside. “You’ve learned by burning since you arrived a few weeks ago,” he admitted to the receptive young RIO. “But I’m afraid today is going to be an exceptional challenge. I want you to focus on two ideas this flight. First, be respectful, but don’t let yourself be bullied. Second, although you don’t have any flight controls in the rear cockpit, you have to take control of the airplane from the moment the engines come on line as if you did.” The lieutenant commander grasped the young officer by the shoulders and shook him gently. “I know both of those things are easier said than done, but the success of this mission may depend on them.”
“Sure, Smoke,” Einstein replied resolutely in spite of his disappointment.
“Don’t get too down over this,” Smoke said as he released Einstein and gave him one last pat on the back. “These things have a way of working themselves out.”
As always, the final point of congregation for the aircrew before stepping onto the flight deck was the paraloft, a space not much bigger than a large broom closet. The paraloft functioned as an office for the parachute riggers, who kept the aviators’ gear in working order, and a last stage dressing room for the aviators. Eventually, all twelve of the Tomcat crews were in the crowded room trying not to punch or kick each other while working bodies into harnesses, zipping into G-suits, slipping kneeboard cards into nav bags, placing helmets on heads, and holstering pistols.
Punk was wary of the skipper’s intensity, and he stole glances at him through the crowd as they each made ready to go flying. The lieutenant pulled the webbing of his harness snug across his chest and then picked up his 9-millimeter pistol from the shelf where he’d momentarily placed it and worked it into its integrated holster. After he snapped the top flap across the weapon, he looked up and noticed the skipper was going through the same routine, but with a significant twist. Instead of storing the 10-round clip separate from the pistol as Punk—and all of the other aviators in the room—had, the skipper slammed it home through the grip and then allowed the slide to translate forward.
“Skipper,” Punk called earnestly across the contortion of bodies that separated them. “You know you just chambered a round . . .”
“No, I d
idn’t,” the skipper insisted.
“Yes, you did,” Punk returned as he moved toward him.
And he watched with disbelief as the CO leveled the pistol at an empty corner of the otherwise packed room, said, “If it was loaded, I couldn’t do this,” and pulled the trigger.
The report was deafening and the bullet careened off the steel deck and two bulkheads before embedding itself in the shell of Monk’s helmet, which was sitting in the line of helmets on the rack.
A wisp of smoke trailed from the tip of the barrel as Commander Campbell calmly removed the clip and split his focus between it and the gun in his other hand. “Weezer must’ve issued me a faulty weapon,” he declared.
“What the fuck?” Punk yelled. “You could’ve killed somebody.”
“Ah, bullshit,” the skipper replied. “I had the gun aimed over in this corner.”
“Is anybody hit?” Smoke asked as he straightened his survival vest and retrieved his helmet from across the floor.
“Nobody’s hit, damn it,” the skipper declared as he scanned the line of aviators on the floor before him. “You guys get up.”
“You’re the safety officer, Spud,” Smoke pointed out. “What do we do now?”
“I think you have to fill out an accidental discharge form, skipper,” Spud said before he looked to one of the stunned parariggers. “Call the ordnance shop, Petty Officer Smith.”
“Don’t call anybody,” the skipper said as he pushed his way toward the door. “We’ll worry about the goddam paperwork later. Shit happens. It’s time to go flying.” The CO slapped the magazine back into the butt and re-holstered the pistol before he grabbed his helmet and walked out.
“Okay, so a shot was fired,” Spud mused once the commander was out of the room. “We are in a war zone, you know.”
One by one the rest of the aviators got off the floor, inspected themselves for bullet holes, and then filed out of the paraloft toward the flight deck.
Smoke grabbed Einstein one more time as he started to walk out. “Remember what I said.” Einstein didn’t reply but continued out the door.
“Look at the bright side, sir,” said Petty Officer Smith, the senior-most rigger. “The flight can only get better from here.”
The day was clear and bright as the aviators entered the outside world. Punk looked at the sunny sky and glassy blue water and almost forgot that the skipper had just tried to kill them. As he negotiated the last set of steps to the flight deck, he caught sight of something else that shifted his thoughts: another aircraft carrier steamed next to the Boat, about half a mile away on a parallel course.
“Now that’s a beautiful sight,” Punk commented to Spud two steps ahead of him.
“Ah yes, the Other Boat,” Spud observed as he stopped and admired the scene. “It’s always good to lay eyes on your relief.”
“Man,” Punk reflected with a sigh, “the skipper’s endorsement, our relief on station . . . I’ve been missing a lot lately. I almost forgot we exit the Gulf tomorrow.”
“Yep,” Spud returned. “This is our last Southern Watch flight right here, my most trusted nose-gunner, our last chance for glory. After today, the Other Boat owns the war. In fact, I’ll bet Rex is in CAG Ops right now turning the plan over to the other air wing staff.”
“My plan?” Punk asked. “Well, I’m glad we busted our asses for two days so the other guys could just walk in and take advantage of our efforts.”
Spud looked back as he stepped onto the flight deck and ducked under a missile-laden Hornet’s wing. “Timing is everything in this business.”
Through a shroud of steam from catapult three’s track, Punk watched the skipper coax his fighter into the sky and then level off at five hundred feet and rage toward the horizon. A moment later, the downward movement of the three-panel jet blast deflector, raised when a jet was at full power on the catapult to keep the push of exhaust from blowing everything behind it over the side, turned Punk’s attention to the steam-obscured taxi director’s signals, and the pilot slowly urged the big fighter forward and gingerly split the catapult track with the twin nose wheels.
Two enlisted men, wearing the white jerseys and float coats signifying they were troubleshooters, emerged from the cloud, reached for the silver probe that extended from the nose of the F-14, and then separated down either side, tapping and shaking their way over the jet as Punk inched forward. He lost sight of them as they passed outside of the intakes and continued aft on their last-chance inspection toward the exhaust nozzles.
On the director’s signals, Punk spread the wings for takeoff and then “knelt” the Tomcat by compressing the nose strut, which gave the fighter the appearance of a rail dragster and allowed the jet’s launch bar to eventually mate with the catapult’s shuttle, a joining of airplane and carrier metals that effected flying speed for the jet by the end of the stroke.
The yellow-shirted director flashed the sign for the pilot to drop the wing flaps, but then immediately countered the move with two closed fists, the signal to stop everything. Punk and Spud both watched the director gesture behind and underneath them, presumably to the troubleshooters. He extended his left palm, petitioning the deck crew for an explanation across the world of engine noise, while he kept the other fist balled in Punk’s direction. Then he followed with an alternating thumbs up and down, a signal that suggested there was some doubt whether the jet was ready to go flying.
“Oh, fuck,” Punk passed over the intercom, “don’t tell me we’re down.”
“It certainly looks like that’s a possibility,” Spud replied. “Don’t freak out, yet. Let’s see what they’ve come up with.”
One of the troubleshooters emerged out of the shadows of the right wing and waved at the cockpit until he was sure he had Punk’s attention. He pointed under the jet, worked both hands in opposing half circles, and then motioned an angry slash with his right arm; then he mouthed “the . . . tire . . . is . . . cut” and gave Punk a thumbs down.
“Damn it,” Punk responded, “we must’ve sliced it on one of the arresting wires on the way to the cat.”
Spud looked at his watch. “It’s still early in the launch. If they sideline us quickly, maybe the airframers can swap another tire on there.”
“That’s a long shot,” Punk figured as he followed the director’s signals to sweep the wings back and extend the nose strut so they could clear the catapult for the jets behind them. “It would take a varsity effort by the maintenance crew.” Punk looked over his left shoulder at the spare Hornet parked behind catapult four. The Tomcat’s status had not been lost on the F-18 pilot or his ground crew, and they all gesticulated toward the nearest director to indicate their jet was in full working order should a substitution be required.
Punk and Spud were sidelined just aft of the carrier’s island, facing the fantail on the right half of the landing area. The director passed control of the jet to the plane captain, who signaled for Punk to secure the right engine.
Punk pulled the right throttle fully aft and watched the corresponding gauges wind down. As he looked back through the canopy toward the plane captain, he noticed Chief Wixler rushing toward them, pushing an aircraft jack—a man-sized tripod on wheels—in front of him, accompanied by two green-shirted maintainers.
The chief blew by the plane captain and disappeared under the wing. Punk and Spud felt a series of lurches as the jet was raised slightly on the right side. Chief Wixler sprinted off again and returned half a minute later rolling a wheel. A yellow shirt walked up to the plane captain, and Punk saw him give the young sailor an angry indication that they only had two minutes until their Tomcat would be ruled down and shelved for this launch.
Punk adjusted his mirror in an attempt to see what was going on around the right main landing gear, but he only managed an occasional glimpse of an arm or a leg as the maintainers shuttled tools back and forth between the toolbox and the wheel assembly. Then the yellow shirt reappeared, pointed to his watch, and gave the plane captain two
thumbs down.
The plane captain flashed Punk a fist and ran under the wing. Seconds later, an enraged Chief Wixler emerged and squared off toe-to-toe with the yellow shirt as a major league baseball manager might confront an umpire during an argument.
“Spud, are you watching this?” Punk asked over the intercom. “Wix is some kinda fired up.”
“Yeah,” the lieutenant commander replied, “I’ve never seen this sort of intensity from him.”
The two deck hands continued flailing, each matching the emotional ante of the other until Chief Wixler tapped his watch and forcefully flashed the director two fingers. The yellow shirt repeated the signal back to the chief and followed with a conditional thumbs up before crossing his arms expectantly and focusing clearly on his watch. The chief sprinted back under the wing and disappeared from the aviators’ view again.
“It looks like Wix bought us a couple of minutes,” Spud said.
As Smoke’s jet moved across the jet blast deflector to prepare for launch, Punk looked across the landing area at the spare Hornet and confirmed it was still chained to the deck awaiting a final ruling.
“Are you guys going to make it, Punk?” Smoke asked over the squadron common frequency as he moved onto the catapult.
“I’m not sure,” Punk replied. “The chief is giving it a Herculean effort, I’ll tell you that.”
The skipper suddenly transmitted on the frequency from overhead the carrier: “Smoke, pass to the spare Hornet that Soup will take the lead if Punk goes down.”
Punk looked over his right shoulder to Smoke, who had his hands raised above the canopy rail along with Gucci while the ordnance team armed their missiles. Smoke noticed Punk facing his way, and he tapped his right index finger against the side of his helmet and then signaled “three” four times to him. Once the ordies cleared away with all the arming pins in hand, both pilots switched their radios to “quad three” for an unofficial discussion.
