Oh, great…
Brittany was so cute yesterday in her new winter boots. She drew a picture of herself wearing them just for you, which I’ll send to you soon with some goodies. I miss you, my love.
He looked at Mary’s picture on his desk and daydreamed for a few moments. The photo, taken at the Strike-Fighter Ball, was sensational. It caught her beautiful face, her dazzling smile, which generated more wattage than all the sequins on her dress. He dreamed of her feminine shape. Thirty-three years old… and she had not changed since college.
Click, click… weeEEEEeeoowww!
The sound of a Viking recovery above brought him back to his O2 level stateroom and the realization that holding Mary was over five months away. With the Viking aboard, the recovery must be nearing completion. He checked the schedule again and verified his CATCC watch for the next recovery, fifty minutes from now.
Wilson composed a quick note to Mary and headed aft to the ready room.
Thirty minutes later, Wilson walked into Air Ops, amidships on the O3 level. The cool, dark room was illuminated by a few small overhead lights over the work desks. The desks and two rows of Naugahyde-covered benches faced the event status boards.
Wilson was the first CATCC rep to arrive, and he took a spot on the back row. Commander Marty O’Shaunessy, the Air Ops Officer and a career naval flight officer, was hunched over his desk talking on the phone, his usual pose. Wilson knew O’Shaunessy was having a miserable night with this weather. He also knew that, as the sun sank below the horizon, the misery was going to get worse.
Wilson studied the acronyms and numbers on the status monitors for the information he needed. XO and Sponge Bob were checked into marshal, the aircraft holding pattern aft of the ship, at 12,000 and 13,000 feet, respectively. XO had 8,000 pounds of fuel, Sponge only 7,100. And that information was five minutes old. If the launch goes on time, Sponge should get here with a little over 4.0. That 4,000 pounds gave him two passes before he would need to be directed to the tanker overhead.
The ship was working “blue water ops” as normal, as if there were no divert fields in the area, but Wilson sought them out on the status monitors anyway. He needed to find a location in Oman where a divert aircraft, which required a climb and descent through icing conditions in order to make an instrument approach to an unfamiliar field at night, could land as safely as possible in the wind and rain. The ship was definitely where the pilots wanted to recover tonight… if the deck would cooperate. Wilson recalled a salty instructor pilot describe the cause of an aircraft mishap as a “box,” where the sides are closed, one by one, by poor decisions and conditions. He thought tonight’s operations had the construction of such a box well underway.
Wilson caught the eye of LT Mike Metz, the Assistant Air Ops Officer, and gave him a nod to join him. Metz glanced at O’Shaunessy, then got up and walked the few steps to the bench where Wilson was seated.
“Hey, Flip.”
“Hey, how’s it going?” Wilson asked in a low tone. “Are we going to continue?”
“Yes, sir. The weather should be improving with frontal passage. The Captain wants to fly, too.”
“Great,” Wilson muttered as he looked at the status board. “How was the last recovery?”
Metz glanced again at O’Shaunessy. “Took forever. The commander got reamed by the Captain for having too many tankers airborne. We had three sweet tankers and needed to tank four guys almost simultaneously, so we needed them. Hey, did you see that Cutlass bolter?”
Wilson shook his head. “Who was the pilot?”
“I think they call her Betty. It was really long. She went to the tanker but had to climb through some clag to find him, and she finally plugged with about 1,500 pounds. When she got back here, it looked like she trapped hard… She was determined not to go back up there again.”
“I can relate.” Wilson realized he was keeping Metz too long. “Hey, thanks, man. You have a great recovery.”
