Tombstone’s control panel. “We got a lock.”
“Roger, concur lock. How much you want?”
“Four thousand pounds.”
“That much?” Rabies said, doubt in his voice. “I thought you were heading in for landing.”
“Yeah. But if you think refueling for the first time was tricky, imagine the trap. I want to be a little heavier, have plenty of time for a couple of go rounds.”
“Roger, you got it.” Another green light on the panel lit up, indicating fuel was flowing. “You sure you know how much she holds?”
“That is one of the things I do know,” Tombstone answered.
The MiG proved to be an exceptional refueling platform once he figured out how to plug into the basket, and the aircraft gulped down the fuel quickly. Within a few minutes, Tombstone was able to reduce speed and drift away from the tanker.
“Thanks,” Tombstone said. “I’ll see you on the boat.”
“Roger. If you have any problems with a trap, I can give you some pointers.” Rabies voice was smug. He was known as a hotshot who rarely missed a perfect three wire trap.
“I think I can manage.” Tombstone chuckled.
“Some kind of fun,” Greene said from the back. Except for a few quiet comments during Tombstone’s lineup, he had been silent during the entire evolution.
“Yeah. You can try it next time.”
“Wonderful.” Again Tombstone detected a note of surliness in the younger pilot’s voice.
“Now, let’s see if we can get back on board.” Tombstone switched away from the coordination frequency back to the tower frequency. “Home Plate, this is Stoney One. Request permission to come on board.”
“Roger, green deck, and you have priority in the stack. We’ve recalculated your weight to account for the fuel you took on and we’re ready for you.”
“Roger, I’d like to make two passes over the deck before I actually try it. And put the Hornet LSO back there, would you?”
“Roger, you got it.”
Tombstone descended and slowly turned, getting a feel for the handling of the aircraft now that she was fully fueled again. He came in behind the carrier at five miles, lined up on her and proceeded to the two-mile point, intersecting what his glide path would be for a Tomcat, then commenced his descent.
“Stoney One, call the ball,” the controller said.
“Roger, call the ball,” Tombstone acknowledged. Moments later, he saw the Fresnel lens. “Stoney One, ball.”
“Stoney One, LSO. First for both of us, sir. Looking good at this time, on path, on altitude. Say needles?” the calm, professional voice of the LSO requested.
“No needles,” Tombstone said. “We’ll do this by visual.”
“Roger, copy no needles. Disregard needles, well, fly visual, Stoney One.” The LSO reflexively fell into the standard patter he used with an approaching aircraft.
“Disregard needles, aye,” Tombstone answered.
For a few moments, he simply let the aircraft fly, his hands light on the controls as he made his approach. The MiG was so much lighter than the Tomcat he was used to and he was sure that would shortly play a major factor.
Astern of the aircraft carrier is a mass of roiling, disturbed air, and every aircraft approaching for a landing runs smack into it. This area, known as the bubble, makes it difficult to hold on glide path, particularly in an unfamiliar aircraft. For his first approach, Tombstone would approach intentionally high, avoiding ramp strike.
“Stoney One, you’re above glide path, on course,” the LSO said. “I understand you’re doing a fly by?”
“Touch and go,” Tombstone said, feeling confident with the way the MiG was handling. He would touch wheels to the deck well forward of the arresting wires, continue maintaining full power, and take off again immediately over the bow. “Two touch and goes, and then we’ll do it for real.”
“What are your tires rated for?” the LSO asked.
So, no actual contact with the deck prior to the trap, he thought. “You ready for this?” he asked Greene.
“Yep. We’re in command eject, and I got my hand on the bar. We run into trouble, I’ll have us out of here.”
That worried Tombstone a bit. Would Greene panic and punch them out unnecessarily?
“It’s going to feel different,” he said. “A lot harder landing than it would be in a Tomcat.”
“Don’t worry — I know what to do.”
And now the boat was coming up at them quickly, a massive steel tower, its deck cluttered with aircraft and people. He saw sailors lining up outside the green line, staring up in wonder at the sight of a MiG flying over their deck. Vulture’s Row, the observation area on the weather decks at the 0–10 level, was also crowded. A few people waved as he went by.
He flew down the length of the deck, then pulled up sharply and peeled off to the left. “Nice pass, Stoney One,” the air boss said.
“One more, and we do this for real.”
Tombstone circled around and this time intercepted the flight path at just over two miles from the boat. He lined up again, eased her in, and followed the LSO’s directions, getting used to the sound and rhythm of the LSO’s coaching. This time he took her down even closer to the deck, so close that in a Tomcat his wheels would have been touching. Again, he continued his pass on down the deck, then peeled off to the left. Behind him, Greene muttered a word of encouragement.
“All right, this time is for real,” Tombstone announced as he veered away from the carrier once again. “I’m taking bets on the three wire.”
“You’re on,” the LSO said promptly. “I bet two sliders that you nail the three wire.”
“I hope you’re hungry,” Tombstone warned.
The aircraft felt right, so very right. He knew with a sudden surge of confidence that there would be absolutely no problem with the trap, that he would nail the three wire cleanly, easily, righteously.
“A little high, sir. Down just a bit,” the LSO coached. “That’s right, that’s right, looking good,” he continued, as Tombstone bled off the speed slightly. “Watch your speed, sir — not as much needed in the smaller bird.”
Tombstone increased his speed slightly and corrected his course as the MiG veered in the bubble. The LSO was right. The lighter aircraft could land a bit faster than a Tomcat could, and had less of a margin for error in minimum airspeed.
“You’re right a bit, sir. That’s it, that’s it — right on path right on altitude. Bring her on in, looking good,” the reassuring patter from the LSO provided Tombstone with instantaneous updates on how he was doing. He glanced one last time at the Fresnel lens, at the bright green glow, a friendly welcoming sight, and then fixed his gaze on the deck. He was committed now.
All at once, the carrier loomed up at them, massive and inhospitable. It was always at this moment in any landing that he was convinced, just for a microsecond, that he wasn’t going to make it. And it passed just as quickly as it always did.
“Power back, power back,” the LSO said, as he came over the flight deck. “Now!”
Tombstone pulled throttles back, and let the MiG slam down on the tarmac. “Full power,” the LSO ordered, and Tombstone slammed the throttles forward again.
For one terrifying moment, he thought he had missed all four wires. Or perhaps the tail hook had been down — no, the LSO would have seen that and warned him. Then, he felt the neck-snapping jolt that threw him forward against his ejection seat straps, and the MiG slammed to a halt. For the next several seconds, it strained against the arresting wires, engines burning at full power, ready for take off again should the wire snap.
Then a plane captain stepped up front him and signaled for him to reduce power. Tombstone eased back on the throttles until the engines were barely idling. He backed up slightly, then retracted the tail hook. “Good job, Stoney One,” the LSO said. “I’ll see you in the dirty shirt mess. We got a lot of folks who owe us a slider or
