me.”
Over the radio he heard Lieutenant Gary “Kos” Koslosky chuckle. “Don’t
worry, Commander. I’m just a social drinker.”
The young pilot’s casual tone made Magruder frown. His F-14 was down to
less than a thousand pounds of fuel, which would keep him aloft for no more
than fifteen minutes. Here in the middle of the North Atlantic, a hundred and
fifty miles from the carrier deck that was the only place the Tomcat could
land, Tombstone didn’t like joking about something so critical.
“Mercury Leader, this is Darkstar,” the tanker pilot’s voice came over
the radio. “Mercury Two is clear. Bring her in.”
Tombstone extended the Tomcat’s refueling probe and eased the massive jet
into position. The KA-6D loomed above and ahead, a silhouette against the
starlit night sky. Behind the tanker, the refueling basket trailed along at
the end of a fifty-foot hose, almost invisible except for the tiny circular
constellation of running lights that showed the mouth of the hose. In the
turbulence the basket floated from side to side, making it difficult to line
up on the small target.
The Tomcat rose slowly, smoothly, as Tombstone manipulated throttle,
stick, and rudder pedals to urge the aircraft closer. It was one of the most
demanding maneuvers an aviator had to master, and it had been nearly two years
since Magruder had been called upon to attempt a midair refueling. Darkness
and fatigue and uncertain winds were all combining to test skills he hadn’t
practiced for all too long.
It didn’t help to realize that his Radar Intercept Officer, Lieutenant
j.g. Nicholas “Saint” Whitman, wouldn’t be much help to him tonight. Whitman
was young, inexperienced, a “nugget” Naval Flight Officer fresh from a Reserve
Air Group. He hadn’t said more than a few words since the Tomcat had first
climbed from the runway at Oceana Naval Air Station hours before. Even if he
broke his silence now, Tombstone wasn’t sure how much he’d be able to rely on
the young officer’s judgment.
Tombstone bit his lip under his oxygen mask as the probe moved closer to
the basket. It looked good … good …
Then, at the last possible second, the basket shifted upward about a foot
and the tip of the Tomcat’s probe rimmed it at the nine o’clock position. The
basket tilted to one side, then slipped away, lost in the darkness above.
He cut the throttle and started carefully backing down and out from the
tanker, all too aware of the dangers posed by that unseen basket. It was
deceptive the way it swayed on the end of the long fuel line. Moving at close
to three hundred knots, that heavy iron-mesh basket was nothing to be trifled
with. If its hundred-pound weight struck the Tomcat’s canopy the Plexiglas
could shatter, and Magruder had no desire to risk depressurizing the fighter’s
cockpit at fifteen thousand feet. Flying this close to another aircraft in
the dark could only compound the hazards. He’d seen a pilot lose it once
during a refueling accident and slam his plane right into the tanker in the
first panicked moments after the canopy was breached.
Tombstone let out a sigh as the Tomcat stabilized back where it had
started in the approach position. He couldn’t see the basket now. It was
invisible at night outside of a range of four or five yards, despite the
lights around the rim. It took experience and practice to judge an approach,
particularly in the dark. He pushed the throttle forward to begin another
run.
He picked up the lights of the basket on the left side of the Tomcat, and
Tombstone edged over to port to line up his probe. When it was properly
positioned to the right of the plane’s nose he let the F-14 drift forward
slowly. The basket slid along the right side of the canopy and gave a tiny
clunk as the probe slipped in. Magruder felt like letting out a triumphant
yell, but he didn’t break his concentration. The docking process was only the
beginning of the refueling operation, and there was still plenty that could go
wrong.
The hose was visible outside the cockpit, marked off with yellow stripes