Today she was handling everything entering their perimeter, and Phil knew she’d keep it all under control until he was ready.
PriFly had the best view and the busiest job on the boat. The captain on the Command Bridge a story below steered the boat—at the moment to PriFly’s precise direction. The admiral, another story below on the Flag Bridge, could only order it about.
From here, she and Phil commanded all flight traffic within ten miles. In the Stack, on approach, or on the deck, all orders flowed through their PriFly post high on the Island.
She checked the deck. The first of the line at the bow catapults was punching aloft, they were the patrol to pick up where Gabe’s flight had left off. The trap wires at the stern were all clear and reset for landing.
“Peel ’em,” Phil called out without turning his attention away from the launching aircraft. Long experience had taught her that he didn’t need to look, he knew the exact state and location of everything that eventhoughtabout his flight deck, probably including stray seagulls.
Falisha contained her surprise and carefully double-checked the skies and the deck.
With the first launch gone, the next-up aircraft, an EA-18G Growler electronic warfare jet, was taxiing into position at the head of Cat One. The catapult’s carriage raced from the bow back to midships along its slot in the deck. In a carefully orchestrated ballet, deckhands were positioned to latch the front wheel onto the carriage the moment both arrived, which fifteen seconds from now would be slinging the Growler down the deck and off the bow at flight speed.
Latched. Safety checks. The jet blast deflector swung up behind the plane to deflect its exhaust upward.
The same ballet, ten seconds behind, was happening on Cat Two.
At the proper signal from the deck, the pilot advanced the throttles to full, then saluted the deck.
She knew she was avoiding taking action.Peel ’em?
A carrier could manage simultaneous launch and recovery operations, but when the pressure wasn’t on, the Air Boss usually ran the entire on-deck show personally, doing one task, then the other.
Phil knew exactly what she was feeling, of course, and spoke without turning. “You’re ready, Falisha. Hell, you can do the whole thing as well as I can. But for the moment, only approach and landing ops are yours—but all yours. Do it.”
The proper response was immediate action, but she did take one more moment to revel in the feeling. The Air Boss saying she was ready to step from Mini Air Boss to Air Boss was a dream she’d been pursuing for the last four years.Rockin’ it!
Then she keyed the radio and swung into gear.
“892. BRC is zero-three-zero,” she called up to Gabe. Gabe needed the Bearing Recovery Course to line up with the ship’s runway, which was presently angled thirty degrees east of north. “Your signal is Charlie.” C for Cleared to enter the landing pattern.
He dropped out of the Stack on his next circle around and began descending. He flew forward past the starboard side, turned a one-eighty in front of the bow but well above the launching aircraft. He then turned to fly sternward, well off the port side in clear view from PriFly.
With her big field glasses, Falisha double-checked as he passed directly abeam that his flaps were extended and the wheels and tailhook down. He waggled his wings in a quick wave because he knew she’d be watching. Yep, arrogant as could be, so why was she touched?
“892, in the Break,” he reported exactly ninety degrees off the ship.
Gabe was guaranteed to break her heart, but she already knew that wasn’t going to stop her. Her revised goal? Enjoy the hell out of it while it lasted.
Descending through eight hundred feet, he carved another hard one-eighty and approached from astern.
He entered the Groove of final approach at three-quarters of a mile off the stern.
She released Gabe’s wingman from the Stack to start his own approach.
“892, call the ball,” the Landing Signal Operator radioed aloft.
“892, F-35C. Roger ball. Low state one,” Gabe called back.
The deck would now be verifying that the landing wires were set to react properly for an F-35C with low fuel.
Low state one. A thousand pounds. Twelve minutes. So like Gabe to push the limits. If there was some deck failure or problem with his tailhook, he’d be hard-pressed to reach any Vietnamese airport. The closest land was two hundred miles away.
She glanced forward to make sure that a tanker jet was sitting in the Corral, the area halfway between the Island and the base of the catapults. It was always there in case someone aloft needed fuel pronto.
Gabe had probably been fudging the two thousand pounds of fuel report on entering the pattern because he’d been pushing his flight limits too far—again. That scared her in a way it never had before. He was like the heavy-foot drivers who could never stand to go merely ten over the speed limit.
What if he pushed that envelope past its breaking point one day? She’d be left to live on without him. A thought that made her sick to her stomach.