approach guide indicator.
Having made countless traps himself, including Case Three landings on
nights as dark, wet, and raw as this one, Tombstone could see the
approach setup clearly in his mind’s eye. So long as the aviator kept
the ball centered between the horizontal lines of green lights to either
side, the aircraft was holding the proper angle of approach for a good
trap.
The Tomcat was also being guided in by Jefferson’s Instrument Landing
System, “riding the needles” in on the correct glide slope. By coupling
the ILS with the Automatic Carrier Landing System, or ACLS, the approach
could actually be turned over to a computer, which could land the
aircraft with no human hand at the controls.
As Tombstone knew from long personal experience, Navy fliers had
distinctly mixed feelings about the ACLS, and the hairier the approach,
the less they liked it. Hell, no pilot liked to fly with someone else
at the controls, and when that someone else was a goddamned computer …
Had 207 sounded just a little too tight? Hell, an approach on a night
like this would unsettle anyone, and Lobo, Lieutenant Hanson, was still
relatively new at this. “Roger ball,” the LSO’s voice said, calm and
reassuring. “You’re looking good. Come left, just a hair … little
more …
that’s good. Centerline good. Deck going down, power down.”
Tombstone was staring into the night astern of the carrier, but try as
he might he still couldn’t see any sign of the approaching Tomcat …
and then the big aircraft exploded out of the gloom off Jefferson’s
stern, wings swept far forward and flaps down for maximum lift,
acquisition lights at belly and tail and wingtips flashing frantically
but damned near masked by the rain as the F-14 swept across the roundoff
at the end of the flight deck, wheels kissing steel as the tailhook
struck a skittering salvo of yellow sparks, then neatly snagged the
three-wire and dragged the hurtling mass of machinery to an almost
instant halt even as its two big F110-GE-400 engines howled to full
throttle.
The moment the tailhook had successfully engaged the arrestor wire and
it was clear the Pilot wouldn’t have to pull a “bolter” off the deck and
come around for another try, the aircraft’s engines spooled down again.
The whole sequence, from Tombstone’s first glimpse of the Tomcat
materializing out of the dark to the moment it backed slightly on the
carrier’s roof, spitting out the wire, had taken only seconds, and he
let out a small whoosh of pent-up air. Two-oh-seven was safely down, a
perfect trap. Engines whining, the F-14 began nosing around to
starboard, slowly following a yellow-jerseyed deck handler who backed
away from the aircraft step by step, a pair of light wands waving up and
down as he directed it toward an out-of-the-way spot on the flight line.
“Two-one-eight,” the Air Boss was saying into the heavy microphone on
the console in front of him. “Charlie now.”
That was the command to the next aircraft circling west of the Jefferson
to break from its holding pattern, or “Marshall Stack,” and begin its
approach to the carrier.
“Two-one-eight, copy,” another voice said from the speaker, hard-edged
and professional. “We’re heading in.”
“Ah, listen, Two-one-eight. Visibility on the deck’s down to half a
mile or less. Wind at one-nine knots from zero-four-zero, but we’re
getting occasional gusts at two-five.”
“Wonderful, Home Plate. Just shit-fire wonderful. Sounds brisk and
refreshing.”
“Ah, Two-one-eight, we’ve got the beer chilled and waiting for you.
Just bring back our airplane.” Barnes released the switch on the mike
and thumbed through a clipboard on his console. “Who’s got the front
seat on Two-one-eight tonight anyway?”
“Conway,” Tombstone said. He didn’t need to check the roster. “Call
sign Brewer.”
The Air Boss leaned back in his chair and glanced up briefly at him.
“CAG, you look as shook as a rookie making his first trap. What the
hell are you doing hanging around here bothering working men for anyway?
Don’t you have some papers to shuffle or something?”
Barnes said the words with a crooked grin that robbed them of their
sting, but Tombstone felt the stab nonetheless. God, to be skipper of