planes exactly at the Marshall fix inbound to the ship.
Pushover times were assigned at one-minute intervals, and because approaches were flown at 250 knots until the landing gear was extended at twelve miles, the planes would be strung out one minute apart on the approach to the ship. Such was the theory at any rate thought Jake, and it worked out in practice most of the time, except for nights such as this when the weather was so crummy.
He listened as the other aircraft checked into Marshall. They were all assigned lower altitudes and early approach times. On this recovery, there would be only six aircraft: the two Phantoms that had been BARCAP, the two A-6 bombers, the E A-6B electronic warfare aircraft, and Jake’s KA-6D tanker An E-2 HawkEye early-warning turboprop was also airborne, but since it had such a low rate of fuel consumption it would remain aloft for its usual four hours and land on the second recovery. On this recovery Jake’s tanker would be the last plane to come aboard. If Lundeen crashed on deck or couldn’t be towed out of the landing area, then only the tanker would be stranded aloft low on fuel. This couldn’t be helped because someone had to lead Sammy down.
When Lundeen had his fuel, Jake lowered the nose of the tanker, let the airspeed increase to 250 knots then retarded the throttles. “Trim your mirror a little. Razor obligingly tweaked the rear-view mirror on the canopy rail above his right leg. Jake could now see his wingman with only a glance at the mirror. He reached for the light panel and secured his anticollision light, which would reflect off the clouds and disorient Lundeen.
They skimmed a hummock, then left the moon and stars and entered a dark world. At first Lundeen maintained about twenty feet between his cockpit and Jake’s right wingtip. But as they descended through the sodden clouds, the rainwater streaked in horizontal lines across his canopy, distorting the fading lights of the tanker. So Sammy moved closer until less than ten feet separated his plexiglass from the tanker’s wingtip. Sammy began to perspire. He knew that if he made one error-a little more or less adjustment to the stick or throttles than necessary-he would slide away and lose the tanker in the blackness, or the planes would drift together, wings would tear off, and the machines would cartwheel into the ocean.
Marty Greve informed Lundeen, “The TACAN’s dead.” Because the ICS was malfunctioning, the bombardier had to shout over the cockpit noise. Without TACAN, the radio navigation aid, finding the carrier would be possible only with the bomber’s radar. Of course, Lundeen could receive radar vectors from the ship as long as the radio functioned, but without accurate airspeed information he was getting too close to disaster for comfort. Once the gear came down, the angle-of-attack indicator would become accurate enough to use.
He had to stay with Grafton so that no matter what else went wrong electrically he could locate the ship.
As long as he had Grafton . “How much gas, Marty?” Sammy asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the tanker.
“Three thousand,” came the shouted reply. It would be tight.
Jake leveled at 9000 feet and flew toward the fix. As soon as he crossed it, Razor reported to the ship, “Five Two Two in Marshall at time three nine. State four point eight.” Marty Greve made his report.
“Five Oh Six is at Marshall at time three nine. State two point nine.”
Jake couldn’t resist rubbing it in. “Hear that?” he asked Razor. “if we hadn’t given them that gas those bastards would be sucking their seat cushions up their asses right now.”
In the bomber Marty Greve leaned toward his pilot and remarked, as casually as he could at the top of his lungs, “We should have gotten some more fuel from Jake.”
“There are other guys up here who may need a drop too.” Lundeen’s voice broke up several times on the intermittent ICS, so just to be sure Greve understood he added, “We can make it with what we have.”
Greve merely waggled his eyebrows. He had learned long ago that a king-sized ego was as necessary to a good pilot as his flight suit.
Pilots owned the space they occupied. Lundeen thought he could fly his machine through the eye of a needle and was willing to bet his life on it. The navy took them from all walks of life an winnowed out anyone who showed signs of self-doubt -in other words, anyone who carried the usual baggage of humility that weighed down most of the Human race–and retained only those with balls the size of a grapefruit and a brain the size of a pea, or so Marty liked to announce after a couple of drinks at the officers’ club. Still, he reflected, Lundeen had a remarkable ability to look disaster in the face, flip it the bird, and go merrily on his way. Tonight the bombardier’s eyes kept swiveling back to the fuel gauge.
Greve had not been able to find the target on the first bomb run. Lundeen had insisted on flying a racetrack pattern and making a second attempt Lundeen was driving, so that is what they did. But as they turned onto the final bearing for the second try, they had run right into a flak trap. Lundeen had cussed and yelled and threatened the bombardier’s life if he didn’t break the target out of the clutter this time. He did. After the drop, Lundeen had turned hard and gone back to drop the RockEyes on the concentration of antiaircraft weapons, and the plane had been peppered again.
The RockEyes were cluster bombs: each 500-pound cannister contained almost two hundred fifty bomblets that spread out to form an oval three hundred feet long by two hundred feet wide. Each bomblet contained enough wallop to disable a tank.
They had used too much fuel, stayed too long at full throttle. Lundeen had intentionally not told the ship about the little drink they needed from the tanker so that they would never have to explain that Marty couldn’t find the target on the first pass. The pilot would never tell, would pound him on the back and roar to the world that Marty Greve was the best goddamn “beenie” who ever strapped an A-6 to his ass. But right now, Greve thought, he would admit to any sin short of sodomy if that would squeeze another grand or two of gas into the tanks.
Even as he worried, the refueling drogue on the tanker streamed again.
Greve pointed out the waiting hose to Lundeen, who was not too proud to accept a gift and maneuvered aft for a plug. When the green light went out on the tanker package, their fuel state was almost thirty-eight hundred pounds.
“Jake’s a helluva guy,” Greve said.
The Approach controller announced a time check and Razor and Greve set their clocks precisely at the mark. Jake crossed the fix inbound at 0144 and settled into a lazy turn with ninety degrees of heading change each minute.
On the right wing, Lundeen moved up and aft until he was looking at the red kneeboard light on the canopy wall near Razor’s right knee. When the clamshell speed brakes, or “boards,” began to open on the wingtip, they would block the kneeboard light from his view. If Lundeen missed the opening, or “cracking,” of the boards he would not be able to slow his craft to the same degree as the lead aircraft, even with his throttle at idle.
From Lundeen’s point of view, it would appear as if he were sliding forward in relation to the leader.
At thirty seconds to pushover, Greve warned him and he intensified his concentration. “Any time,” the bombardier hollered just as the red light in the tanker’ cockpit disappeared. Lundeen squeezed out his speed brakes and jockeyed the throttles. Jake had cracked boards, waited a half-second for Lundeen to react, then brought them on out to the full open position. That was the way it should be done but too many pilots forgot.
“Five Two Two leaving Marshall on time with Five Oh Six in tow. State three point eight.”
“Five Oh Six leaving Marshall with three point six,” Greve chimed in.
Jake had kept just enough fuel for one circuit around the pattern, which he knew he would have to fly after he dropped the bomber on the glide slope.
Approach acknowledged and directed a frequency change. Both bombardiers changed the radio channel then checked in.
At 5000 feet Jake slowed his descent and changed course to intercept the final bearing inbound to the carrier. They were still in the good. At 4000 Lundeen sneaked a glance at the radar altimeter, which he knew was not functioning. The black boxes containing the electronics for the instrument were in the rear fuselage presumably damaged by flak.
At 2000 Jake reduced his rate of descent still further and retracted the speed brakes. Sammy stayed right with him. With the throttles back they descended to 1200 feet and leveled there, still in the clouds, closing on the ship at 250 knots as they bounced in the rough air. They were twelve miles from the ship when the first F-4 missed all four of the arresting gear wires and caromed back into the air. “Bolter, bolter, bolter,” the LSO shouted over the radio.
“Boards,” Jake directed over the radio, and brought out the speed brakes.
“Gear,” he added, and dropped the landing gear and flaps.
