Pilots who experience brake failure on deck must make a frantic pull of the ejection handle before the aircraft goes over the side. The seat blasts them out of the cockpit and then blasts them again into a parachute. They have no more than a second after the disorientation of the opening shock (OOMPH!) to get their wits about them and to prepare for water entry.
Inflate! Pull at the toggles. Raft! Reach for the release.
Immersed in frigid seawater, they struggle to get free of the chute, conscious of the great ship parting the waves mere feet away. As the wake breaks over their heads, they get tossed about, get sucked under, gag constantly and spit out mouthful after mouthful of salt water. They must feel for their raft in the blackness, as icy cold numbs their fingers. Above all else, they hope the plane guard helo sees them and puts a swimmer in the water now. Please, God, help me!
It gets worse. If a pilot can’t get aboard or tank, he may be directed to divert ashore. This requires that he transit alone over miles and miles of open ocean. If disaster strikes then, and the jet is no longer flyable, the pilot makes a desperate Mayday! call, giving his range and bearing before he ejects into black nothingness and a shivering cold descent. Added to that is the dreaded knowledge that no human being is within 100 miles! And even if a rescue helo is sent immediately, it won’t get on scene for nearly an hour, and the pilot is in the cold water that whole time, fighting shock and hypothermia. They hope to muster the strength to signal for the helo if it, by miracle, finds the “needle in the haystack” of the black and limitless sea.
Wilson and the others were well aware of the sudden and violent ways aviators could meet their end. Episodes like this were quite rare. The Navy, as a whole, often went many years between such incidents. Their training was superb and they knew how to handle any situation placed before them. But the nightmares did happen on occasion, and deep in their minds — in the darker than night place where the demons lived — they knew that some gloomy night fate could choose them.
* * *
The external lights of a Hornet at full power came on, a signal to the deck crew the pilot was ready for launch. In the corner of the screen, however, Wilson noted the squadron troubleshooter with wands crossed over his head, the signal for suspend. He watched the Cat crew go through the suspend procedures and heard the Mini Boss make the radio call.
“Two-one-zero, you’re suspended.”
“Roger,” the pilot replied. Another first-cruise aviator, he kept his left arm locked in order to hold the throttles forward until given the signal to throttle back.
A groan went up from O’Shaunessy as he reached for the phone once more.
“Two-one-zero, we didn’t see a rudder wipe out. Let’s try it again,” the Mini-Boss radioed.
“Yes, sir,” the young marine pilot answered.
O’Shaunessy turned to the peanut gallery, his eyes searching for any pilot with a high and tight representing the Marine Hornet squadron. “Red River rep, you catch that from the Boss?”
“Yes, sir, he’ll be debriefed,” the major responded.
“Good, and you can apologize to the Spartan rep sitting next to you if we don’t catch one-oh-three,” said O’Shaunessy as he glared at the major. Just then his phone buzzed, and he turned to answer it. “Roger,” he spoke into the receiver, and raised his voice for all to hear. “Take one-oh-three over the top.”
With a sheepish expression the major whispered, “Sorry, man!” to the Spartan pilot who sat next to him, who then took it as an opportunity to extract payment from the Moonshadows.
“I think, when we get to port, a beer for the one-zero-three aircrew will make amends, and a beer for me having to stay here in this pressure cooker longer than I should have, and a beer for the maintenance department for keeping one-oh-three airborne on this shitty night, and for the CO for general purposes. Hell, just buy the whole squadron a beer, and we’ll call it even.”
“We ain’t that sorry!” the marine chuckled.
