The officer of the deck ordered Fleming forward. It was his turn to launch. He brought his engines up to taxi power and was guided to the catapult. He gave the signal to Lafayette he was lowering and locking the canopy. Keeping his eye on the yellow-shirted plane director, Fleming moved his thirty-two-thousand-pound fighter into position on the EMALS until the director gave him the 'stop’ signal. The director then pointed downward towards the deck at a forty-five-degree angle, the signal for Fleming to bring his power up. Satisfied, the man turned control over to the green-shirted catapult officer. The air officer gave the “go” signal to launch, and the catapult officer dropped to one knee and thrust his arm forward with forefinger extended.
Even though securely strapped in, Fleming felt the immediate strain as he was shoved back into his seat while the Super Hornet raced toward the leading edge of the deck. He held the twin throttles firmly in his gloved left hand while holding the stick steady with his right, and all the while keeping his eyes glued forward. In an instant there was nothing but blue sky and water in front of the Hornet, and he felt the plane dip before it recovered and rapidly gained altitude.
Glancing down at the vertical velocity indicator on his glass cockpit display screen, he noted the positive indication that he was climbing, then smartly moved the gear handle to the up position. The ensuing rumble told him the wheels were cycling properly into their individual wells. He reset the huge flaps and, all the while, his plane climbed higher to its rendezvous with the rest of the flight. The entire procedure had taken less than a minute.
“Beats flying off a two-mile runway, right?” Lafayette said, speaking for the first time since launch.
“That's affirmative. Hope I didn't scare you too badly.”
“Nope,” came the one word reply, followed by, “Anyway, what could I do about it?”
Fleming laughed. “OK, let's settle in for the mission. Give me a rundown on your system back there.” They had joined up with the rest of their flight, all four jets flying in echelon at fourteen thousand feet but still climbing as they had been briefed during the mission planning. There were five flights of four aircraft each, and the mission today was an easy milk run. It called for an intercept on the John L. Lewis, a Fleet Replenishment Oiler sailing on a northerly course two hundred and seventy miles west of the strike group. Each Hornet would make a simulated bombing pass on the vessel, climb, and regroup, then head back to the carrier. The purpose of the mission was simply to dust off any cobwebs and sharpen up reflexes which had not seen a workout in two weeks.
Because of the unlimited visibility, there was no talk of sneaking up on the oiler. Also, none of the planes were carrying external stores other than air-to-air missiles for defense should they be attacked by truly hostile aircraft. Their sister carrier, the Truman, was operational, which meant her aircraft were fully armed on all missions.
From a height of twenty-four thousand feet, Fleming easily saw the ships far below looking like so many dots, but because of the perfect weather conditions, there were no shadows cast on the near-smooth sea by clouds which can hide a vessel from even the most experienced eye. Luckily, they did not have to depend on their eyes for contact confirmation. Lafayette was busy monitoring his surveillance radar, and with his experience in differentiating between various classes of ships by their silhouettes, knew they were not yet over their target.
Their earphones came alive. “Sundancers, this is lead. Target bearing zero-five-zero moving north, northeast, at twelve. We have a positive identification. Standby to attack on my command. Flight leaders acknowledge.”
Three terse “rogers” were heard, then silence.
“This is Sundancer lead, commence attack! Maintain five thousand feet separation between flights.'' Dowling heeled his Super Hornet over sharply and proceeded to dive on the target that was still no larger than a dot.
‘Hang on back there, Chuck, we're heading for the deck,” said Fleming, flying the number three position of the four-ship formation. The huge plane responded easily to his touch, the hydraulic elevators sending the fighter down at a constant speed of just under point seven mach. He went through the motion of setting arming switches on non-existent weapons systems, knowing his squadron mates were all doing the same. Down he went, the oiler taking on a distinct shape as they got closer to the surface. He zoomed within two hundred feet of the ship, flying from stem to stern and, as he roared by, easily saw sailors and officers standing on deck, holding their ears, while they followed the wave after wave of aircraft passing close overhead.
“Man, this is what I call overkill,'' came an unknown voice over the radio causing Dowling to reply immediately, “Cut the chatter! Sundancer flight regroup, and head for the boat.” It was an uneventful ride until some twenty minutes out from the carrier, Lafayette came on the intercom.
“Dave, how's your air conditioning up there?”
Fleming put a gloved hand up to one of the ducts expecting a cold draft to hit him between where his glove ended and his flightsuit sleeve began. There was air moving all right, but it wasn't cold. He checked the circuit breaker, tripping and resetting it several times, all to no avail. “Looks like it’s crapped out on us, Chuck,” he answered, then silently cursed as the heat began to build up. He reached over and moved the selector from automatic to manual and held it. The temperature started to come down immediately.
“You on manual?'' asked Lafayette.
“Yeah, no big deal. I’ll write it up when we land.”
“Probably just a short in the DC bus.”
Twenty minutes later they were going through their landing check list. The planes were now spaced at sixty second intervals for landing. The LBJ had been brought around into the wind only minutes before, and the carrier-controlled approach controllers, (CCA) were monitoring fuel levels in each aircraft by means of computers and were busy keeping an eye on which planes might need to be brought in first. In addition to the two airborne rescue helicopters which were hovering about a half mile from the carrier’s port side, there were two Super Hornet tankers aloft in case some of the returning planes needed to take on fuel fast.
Each of the planes in the stack ahead of Fleming made solid approaches and touched down on their initial attempts. His own landing was uneventful as he followed instructions from the landing signal officer, who in turn was following his progress on a special TV monitor equipped with cross hairs. It was Fleming's job to listen to instructions from the Landing Signal Officer, and for the two of them working in concert to bring the fighter firmly down onto the angle deck, where the Super Hornet’s tail hook would snag one of three arresting cables.
Fleming was now fully concentrating on the task at hand, unaware that his heart rate had climbed to 160 beats per minute. He instinctively knew that any mistake made in the next few moments could prove fatal. His eyes darted back and forth in rapid succession from the “meatball” to the deck, and back to the “meatball” for affirmation that he was on the proper glideslope. As soon as he felt the head-snapping jolt of the hook catching the cable, he immediately brought his engines to full military power in case he had to bolt off the carrier. The cable held. He pulled his throttles back to idle, and seconds later his hook was manually disengaged by a color-shirted deck crewmember. He taxied off the angle deck and followed the signals of the deck crew where to park. More sailors then scurried underneath his plane and tied it down securely. He cut off the engines and completed his shut-down check list. Finally, he opened the canopy and took in deep gulps of fresh air. He was pleased with himself and with Lafayette. Theirs had been a good flight.
Shortly after nine o’clock that evening, he returned to his cabin to find Caldwell and Hamilton reliving the day's mission. Like pilots everywhere, both were gesticulating wildly to press home their points.
“Hey, man, have you heard the latest?” Hamilton asked, sitting on Fleming's desk with an unlit cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth.
“No,” replied Fl
eming, “but I’m thinking I won’t be kept in suspense for long.”
“Absolutely right, good buddy!” Taking the cigar out, Hamilton waved the foul looking thing inches from Fleming’s face and said, “Scuttlebutt has it confirmed that CVW-12, that's us, boy, will be converting to the F-35C in December, and we’ll be operational this time next year.”
Fleming glanced at Caldwell for confirmation, and his roommate nodded, then said, ''We can expect to be relieved off the LBJ sometime in late November to begin ground school training in the Lightning III, we’ll be replaced by Carrier Air Wing 3, already operational in the bird.”
“It’s puzzled me from the git-go why they didn’t just put an F-35C air wing onboard to begin with,'' said Fleming. “Strange how the newest carrier in the Navy didn't have the newest aircraft, but who are we peons to question the powers that be?”
“That's it in a nutshell, '' said Hamilton sliding off his perch. He froze momentarily, turned, and reached over to Caldwell's desk and scooped up the photograph of Caldwell's wife and kids.
Holding it close to his chest, he turned to Fleming and said in a serious voice, “Major, I think you owe an apology to Commander Caldwell for calling his wife and kids godawful ugly yesterday. Not only is that flat-out untrue, but it was totally uncalled for.”
Fleming felt a flash of anger followed by a rush of acute embarrassment. Why has Hamilton turned on me so suddenly? he wondered.
Hamilton was not about to let it die. He continued to escalate the conflict. Pressing his point home while now holding the photo aloft for Fleming to openly see, he asked, “How could you have possibly called this woman and these two fine children uglier than dirt?” He shook his head sadly. “What's the matter with you, Major Fleming, the cat got your tongue?”
Fleming just stared at the picture in a fish-out-of-water moment. The photo had changed! The woman and her children were still standing in front of the same church, but she had transformed to an incredible beauty, and the children to miniature reflections of their mother!
Hamilton and Caldwell could not stifle their silence any longer. Both doubled over in fits of laughter, and only then did Fleming realize that he had been the unwitting mark who had just fallen for the ultimate practical joke.
“You pricks. You lousy pricks,” he repeated in a whisper. It took him a long moment to allow the luxurious feeling of pure relief to wash over him, then he too began to laugh. Soon he was laughing as hard as the jokesters. “How many guys have you fooled with that?” he managed.
“Many,” was Caldwell’s one word reply. He continued to laugh, savoring the memory of the pained expression seen on Fleming's face moments before.
CHAPTER 5
Saturday – Early afternoon – June 19th
“Miles, have you seen the noon weather report?” the admiral asked Captain Blizzard who had joined him on the flag bridge. Three other officers were present. The afternoon’s Hornet launchings had commenced twenty minutes earlier.
“I have, and I'm also aware there were problems with some of our meteorological instruments, and that was the cause for the bad information we passed along to the rest of the strike group. Commander Hirshberger will have a full report for me shortly.”
The phone rang on Taylor’s workstation. “Admiral Taylor,'' he said. Several moments passed, then he handed the instrument to Blizzard. “It's Alan Paige,'' he said.
Blizzard listened for a minute, a frown forming. “Hold on a second, Al. I want you to repeat this. I'm putting you on the speaker so that Admiral Taylor can hear as well.'' He pressed the speaker button.
“OK, Al, you're on speaker. Go ahead.”
“Captain,” came the XO’s voice for everyone to hear, “I'm in the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center (CATCC), and we have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” interrupted the admiral.
“It's one of the Hornets, Admiral, a two-seater. They’re in trouble, yet the pilot can't define what the problem is. He's one hundred twenty miles west of our position, and his radio communications are garbled at best. But on top of that, we’re having a hard time getting a solid fix on him.”
“Is he down low on the deck?” asked Blizzard, wanting to know if the plane was flying so low that it was not being seen on the ship's radar screens.
“Negative, Captain, '' came the reply. “We tentatively have him painted at flight level three one zero, but for some reason none of us can explain, we can't seem to lock on. We’ll have him for a second or two, lose him, have him again, lose him, and so on. I know that sounds asinine, Boss, but that's what's happening down here.”
“Is Gowdy there?” the admiral wanted to know.
“I’m here, Admiral,” replied CAG, “and I'm at just as much a loss as Al Paige. All our equipment is functioning normally. We’re having no problem tracking and communicating with any other aircraft, including his wingman. I can't explain it, Admiral.”
Taylor absently drummed his fingers on the desk. He glanced at his chief of staff who shrugged his shoulders. He paused for a few more seconds, then asked, “Where are the Russians?”
“Nowhere near that Hornet, Admiral. We have them all accounted for, and there's no jamming coming from any of their ships.”
“OK, let’s go over what we do know. One. We can't get a good fix on one of our F-model Super Hornets flying at thirty-one thousand feet some one hundred plus miles west of our position. Two. The communications link back to us is patchy at best, so we should assume he’s having the same problem on his end. And, three, we don't have a clue as to the real nature of his trouble. That an accurate summary?”
“That's about right, Admiral.”
“CAG, who’s flying? Some green kid?”
“No, Admiral. The pilot is a man named Robinson. He's a full lieutenant, ten years of service, and has thirteen hundred hours in the Hornet. The backseater is equally experienced.”
“So, if he says they’re in trouble, you know they’re in real trouble, right?” Blizzard asked.
“Absolutely, Skipper,” CAG replied. ''Hold on a second, we're getting a transmission from him now. Let me pipe it up to you.'' The assembled officers heard static, then a faint voice.
“Bigfoot this is Sabre six, do you read?”
The men had to strain to hear the words. There was no hint of panic in the voice.
“This is Bigfoot, Sabre six. We're trying to get a fix on your position. Say again altitude, heading, and airspeed.”
“Bigfoot, this ...” was followed by heavy static for fifteen seconds. Then, a very weak ...“magnetic ... heavy fog, radar jamming … fuel eight thousand ...” and more static. Then nothing.
Gowdy came on the speaker. “We've lost him again, but we now have a firm fix. We have just sent a two-ship to intercept and guide him home. As soon as we hear something, we'll let you know, Admiral.”
“Roger,'' replied Taylor, then flipped the switch to the off position. “I have a feeling this is going to be one of those days,'' he murmured to no one in particular, then dismissed the group.
The admiral is right on one thing thought Blizzard as he made his way below. This sure was going to be one of those days.
* * * * *
Saturday – late evening, into night
It was close to midnight before Blizzard was able to call it a day. Al Paige was to take command of the night launches scheduled for oh two hundred hours, and Blizzard was glad for the relief. Doctor Potter had left his stateroom minutes earlier, leaving behind a preliminary medical report on the condition of the pilot and his backseat systems operator.
“What have you got, Clarence?” Blizzard had asked.
“I briefed the admiral before coming to see you and told him I’m confused and alarmed.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Miles, let me put it to you this way. Both of those fellows are extremely ill, and I don't know why. Something happened to them up there today, something that I have never
seen happen to any other human being in my over twenty-five years as a physician. We'll be running tests on them for days, but as sure as I’m standing here, we're not going to find any answers.”
“Clarence, are you telling me they encountered some sort of Andromeda Strain of an alien bug, kind of like in that old sci-fi flick from thirty years ago or maybe some other such nonsense of a thing from outer space? Something we have no cure for here on earth?” Blizzard asked, his voice carrying more than just a hint of sarcasm.
“Nothing of the sort,” replied Potter, ignoring Blizzard’s caustic tone. “Do you remember what those lads looked like when we got them out of their cockpits?”
Blizzard shuddered at the memory.
* * * * *
The two-ship flight of Hornets had rendezvoused with the cripple eighty-six miles due west of the carrier. Both planes were flying at thirty-two thousand feet in an echelon formation, both radars scanning out to a distance of two hundred miles. They were painting normal returns, identifying all of the commercial airline traffic in the area, and had just updated the LBJ Combat Direction Center when the missing Hornet popped into view at their nine o’clock position, two miles away, and slightly below them.
Both back-seat operators reported the sighting at the same time, and LBJ came on the air to acknowledge that they too were now showing all three aircraft. The Hornets wheeled into protective positions on each side of their squadron mate. Flight Lead radioed the carrier after repeated attempts to raise Robinson.
“Bigfoot, this is Dasher one. Do you read?”
“Roger. What have you got Dasher one?”
“Problems. We have a bird that can't talk, and from my visual, I don't even know how it can still fly. The skin is a mass of wrinkles, all the paint, markings, and decals are gone; both canopies look like they've been sand blasted, heck, the whole thing looks like it's been sand blasted! It's freaking unbelievable! I can’t begin to imagine what they might have tangled with.”
POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller Page 5
