“Two-zero-one,” the voice of the Landing Signals Officer said over Tombstone’s headphones. “Call the ball.”
“Two-zero-one,” Tombstone replied, identifying his aircraft by number. “Tomcat ball, three point one.” By “calling the ball,” Tombstone was letting the LSO know he had the
landing signal in sight, that the incoming plane was a Tomcat with 3,100 pounds of fuel left on board so Jefferson’s recovery crews would know how to set the tension on the arrester cables stretched across the deck, and that he was properly aligned for a trap.
“Roger ball,” the LSO confirmed. “Looking good.” Tombstone felt his heart begin to race. It was always like this during a carrier landing, day or night, fair weather or foul. Naval aviators without exception rated recovery on the deck of a carrier as having a higher pucker factor than air-to-air combat or an enemy SAM launch.
He lowered his arrestor hook, cut back on die throttles, and fet the Tomcat sink toward the Jefferson’s deck. The carrier’s Stem appeared much larger now, swelling rapidly as he dropped from the sky.
1415 hours, 23 March
VBdng 704, flight deck, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Lieutenant Commander Christopher Goodman had the throttles ifilhe way back on his ungainly S-3A Viking as he spit out the jfcrestor cable and retracted his tail hook. Gently, he eased the throttles forward again, using the rudder pedals to steer the aircraft off the part of the flight deck delineated by broad white stripes and make way for the next incoming plane. A yellow-sbirted handler backed away just ahead of the aircraft, arms extended forward, jacking them up and down, up and down as he signaled Goodman to come ahead.
He taxied slowly toward the line of planes along Jefferson’s starboard side, aft of the island. His crew—Lieutenant Hyman @old, the co-pilot; Lieutenant j.g. Roger Kelso, the tactical Coordinator; and AX/1 Bill Rocco, the systems operator—all .were already relaxing now that the trap was successfully completed, unstrapping their seat harnesses and preparing to Shut down the bird and log out.
There was very little swell this afternoon, and the Jeff was riding the sea almost rock-steady. That was always a blessing on the rare occasions when it happened. An airplane, any airplane, might be sheer poetry in motion in the sky, but on an aircraft carrier’s deck it was transformed into a bulky, clumsy,
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Keith Dougtes
ARMAGEDDON MODE
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and barely manageable beast. With a pitching deck made slippery by ice or rain, things were just that much worse.
The handler gave a two-handed pushing movement to the side, indicating a particular parking space with the aircraft lined up along the starboard side, aft of the island. Goodman swung the foot pedals farther, maneuvering toward the narrow slot. A long line of aircraft noses swept past the cockpit as he turned, all painted in dull pale grays: F-14D Tomcats, wings angled sharply back along their flanks; a pair of bulky E-2C Hawkeyes with their wings rotated sideways and back to avoid the flat, saucer shapes of their radomes mounted above their fuselages; A-6F Intruders with their wingtips nearly meeting above their backs. Space was always at a premium at sea, both on the flight deck and down below, on the carrier’s cavernous hangar deck. Planes were parked side by side with folded wings nearly touching.
Easing the fifteen-ton aircraft toward the target, he gently applied pressure to the tops of the rudder pedals, engaging the wheel brakes.
Nothing happened. Goodman felt a sinking, mushy sensation through his flight boots, then nothing at all. The Viking’s brakes were gone, and Goodman was rolling across the deck toward a narrow cul-de-sac lined with multi-million-dollar aircraft.
There was no time to speak, even to give warning. With one hand he cut the throttles all the way back, then flicked on the Viking’s external lights and dropped the arrester hook to signal the deck crew that he was in trouble. His momentum was too great to allow the plane to roll to a stop, and if he kept going he was going to roll with irresistible momentum squarely into the side of a Hawkeye. Working the foot pedals, he swung the Viking hard to the left, turning away from the flight line and back onto the one patch of clear flight deck within reach. . . .