said. “Perfect weather over the entire AO.”
“That’s something, anyway,” Batman replied. “At least we’ll be able to
see where we’re flying.”
The Tomcat shuddered as another aircraft, an F/A-18 Hornet of VFA-161,
cranked up its engines on Cat Four, ahead and to Batman’s left. Hot air
roiling back from the aircraft’s twin engines made the air above the
deck dance and shimmer. Deck personnel, their duties identified by the
color of their jerseys and helmets, moved clear of the Hornet and
crouched low on the deck. The launch director dropped to one knee, then
touched thumb to deck.
Instantly, the Hornet slid forward, accelerating to flight speed in less
than two seconds as steam boiled from the cat track in its wake, a
seething, straight line of white fog swiftly dissipated by the breeze
coming in over Jefferson’s bow. From Batman’s vantage point in his
Tomcat, the Hornet appeared to slide off the end of Cat Four and vanish,
dropping off the end of the rail as though plunging toward the waves far
below.
Then, as if by magic, the Hornet reappeared, climbing up from behind the
edge of the flight deck that had briefly hidden it from view, climbing
higher, dwindling in seconds to a speck in the blue sky above the blue
horizon.
Launching off a carrier, Batman reflected, was the only time when the
aviator didn’t have full control over his aircraft.
Most aviators feared the trap at the end of a mission more than the
launch–night traps or recoveries during bad weather were the worst of
all–and Batman shared that common dislike with all other naval pilots.
At least during a trap the aviator was in control of his machine,
guiding it down the glide slope, adjusting position and speed and angle
of attack in response to the LSO’s radioed commentary, and to his own
eye, hand, and judgment. But the launch was the one time during the
mission when the man in the cockpit was literally a passenger. Just
beneath the carrier’s roof, in the catapult room, steam pressure was fed
into two enormous bottles, with pistons attached to the shuttle, which
rested in its track on the deck overhead. The FDO–the Flight Deck
Officer–was responsible for calling for just the right amount of steam,
an amount that varied depending both on the type of aircraft being
launched and on its launch weight, which might vary anywhere from 42,000
to 82,000 pounds. Too much steam pressure, and the aircraft could be
torn apart; too little, and it would not build up enough speed to become
airborne and would trundle off the front of the catapult and into the
ocean below. There wasn’t much room for error; typically, cats were set
to launch aircraft at about ten knots above the minimum speed necessary
to get them airborne.
Sometimes–not often, but sometimes–something just plain went wrong
with the equipment, and the aircraft was given a nudge instead of a
kick. Batman had seen it happen more than once. On one occasion, pilot
and RIO had ejected as their Tomcat fell toward the sea. The RIO had
survived, but the aviator had been recovered from the sea by helicopter
later, dead, his neck broken.
Even in peacetime, flying jets off a carrier was one hairy way to earn
your paycheck.
It was always a bit unsettling then to sit and wait in line for your
turn at the cat. Batman liked being in control; he was very good at what
he did–which was flying a high-performance Navy fighter–and he
disliked just sitting there, strapped into his ejection seat hoping that
somebody else got their figures right and pushed the right sequence of
buttons.
He’d been giving a lot of thought to control, lately, especially as it
related to his future. Aboard the Jefferson, Batman had a playboy’s rep;
when he’d first checked in with the VF-95 Vipers, several years earlier,
he’d been something of a hot dog, young, brash, and just a bit too eager
to bend or break the regs when it suited him, especially when he was
flying.
No more. He’d met a girl two months ago, a wonderful girl. .. and he was
seriously considering giving up the Navy and settling down.