“Mercury Leader, this is Mercury Two. I’m disengaging now.”
Commander Matthew Magruder, running name “Tombstone,” checked his fuel gauge and eased back on the Tomcat’s throttle. “Roger that, Two,” he said, trying to keep the anxious edge out of his voice. “Hope you left some for 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 every three feet. Proper procedure dictated that he increase his throttle to push the basket forward along the fuel line by two stripes, which would position the nose of the Tomcat about ten feet behind and ten feet below the fat-bellied Intruder tanker. A take-up reel aboard the KA-6D was supposed to reel in the slack automatically until the basket tripped the pump system and fuel began to flow. Tombstone guided the aircraft forward until the two stripes had disappeared. He looked upward at the basket receptacle in the belly of the tanker above, a circular hole which surrounded the fuel line. On either side of the receptacle lights were mounted, one red, one green. When the green light was lit the pumps were operating, but as Tombstone squinted upward all he saw was the harsh red glare that told him the pumps were off.
“Darkstar, Mercury Leader. Light’s still red,” he reported.
“I copy, Mercury Leader,” the tanker pilot responded. “Try bringing her forward another notch. Maybe that’ll do the trick.”
“Roger, Darkstar.” Tombstone eased the throttle forward a little more. He could feel sweat trickling down his forehead. It took a lot of effort to keep the Tomcat precisely in the groove, and the added strain of the problem with the pumps made it that much worse. The third stripe disappeared, but the red light continued to glow above.
“Still no green, Darkstar,” Tombstone said.
“Copy, Mercury One. Back out again and we’ll recycle.”
Once again the Tomcat dropped aft and down while the tanker crew reeled in the hose and redeployed it again. Tombstone glanced at his instrument panel and felt his throat tighten. Seven hundred pounds of fuel left. If this didn’t work there was no way the Tomcat would reach the U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson for a safe landing. Without fuel the engines would flame out and they would have to ditch, and Magruder didn’t like the thought of a night ejection over the rough waters of the North Atlantic this far from a carrier. It might take hours for an SAR helicopter to find the Tomcat’s crew … if they were ever found at all.
“What are we going to do if we can’t refuel, Mr. Magruder?” Whitman asked suddenly over the Tomcat’s ICS intercom. He sounded scared … as scared as Tombstone felt.
Before Tombstone could answer, the tanker pilot was back on the radio. “Try it again, Mercury Leader. We’re ready.”
He glanced at the fuel gauge again as he applied more throttle. Six hundred pounds now. The basket appeared out of the darkness, farther to the right than he’d thought it would be. Tombstone eased the stick over and began to line up.
“Mercury Leader, this is Two,” Koslosky called. “Aren’t you done tanking yet, Tombstone?”
“Negative,” he snapped back, cursing under his breath. The younger pilot’s call had made him over-correct. Now he had to back off or risk brushing the basket …
“Help me watch that damned thing, kid,” he told Whitman. Even a nugget’s eyes would be useful now. When a pilot started paying too much attention to watching his target instead of his controls, it was easy to screw up an approach.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Saint replied. “It’s looking good, real good now …” The Tomcat slid forward slowly …
A solid clunk signaled a good connection, and the hose rippled in a perfect sine wave from the contact. Tombstone increased power and pushed the basket forward, his eyes on the two lights by the basket receptacle. The red one was still glowing.
“Darkstar, still no green,” he said.
“Sorry about that, Mercury Leader,” the tanker pilot responded. “Goddamned thing must be Tango Uniform.” That was maintenance slang for “tits up”—out of order. “Look, we’re pretty far from the Big J. Back her off while I reverse left and we can try again.”
“Negative, negative,” Tombstone responded angrily. It would take two minutes to turn around, maybe longer, and he was down to less than four hundred pounds of fuel. He wasn’t going to waste valuable time waiting for the tanker to get comfortable on a heading for home … not when every minute brought him closer to a flame-out. “Let’s recycle one more time, Darkstar.”
“Mercury Leader, Mercury Leader, this is Domino.” That was the call sign for Air Ops aboard the Jefferson. The voice sounded worried. Had the carrier been listening in on the channel, or had the KA-6 called on higher
