“So him and her huh?” I ask before taking a sip of my coffee.
“All night.” Tanker Jock answers slowly. “Like freaking rabbits.”
I just nod, then take another sip.
Tanker Jock and I are standing on the tarmac of Mataveri International watching Tanker Co-Pilot and Gibbo embrace as if the world itself were about to end. Me personally? I don’t consider the KC-135 preflighting to be such a cataclysmic event, but it does invite a sort of melancholy. The ANG crew won’t be following us to the Antarctic, instead ferrying us about 800 NM south west of here before breaking off for New Zealand, and then to Darwin for some exercise with the Aussies.
I clearly don’t have the investment our star crossed lovers do, but I will admit I’ve grown quite fond of our consort tanker crew. Even Tanker Jock has his charms, though I’d never admit it to his face. Speaking of whom, he steps off from beside me and strolls towards the tanker to break up the two romantics. I follow a few yards behind, pretending to be more interested in the steaming contents of my mug.
Jocko, with the subtly of an atom bomb informs Co-Pilot it’s time to start the jet, and makes for the door. I tell Gibbs it’s time for us to do the same, presenting the united front. I shake Co-Pilot’s hand and tell her she should look us up whenever she’s in Virginia Beach. I shake boom operator’s hand and implore him to stay awesome. Finally I shake Jock’s hand and tell him he’s not a half bad trash hauler, and hoped he’d stay safe. He responds I’m not bad for a hopped up squid fighter puke, and to not break my jet, again. They board the jet and begin lighting off the engines.
I’d say we departed on good terms.
Thirty minutes later, Gibbo and I are roasting uncomfortably in our “poopie” survival suits, waiting to start up the jet. Despite the assurances of the GE rep, I’m still apprehensive about the starboard engine.
However as promised, she lights and turns with no complaints. The jet is good to go.
A few minutes later we’re airborne, off to catch up to the tanker.
Some local hooligans have apparently filled in the southern caldera with golf course sand. What rascals.
An (almost) tropical sunrise.
Suddenly Clouds
We quickly rejoin with the tanker and begin our long trek south. The atmosphere is more reserved than our last leg. Gibbo and Co-Pilot are acting like sullen puppies, and Tanker Jock refuses to engage in any sort of board game (yeah, he still salty). Boom Operator and I engage in periodic stilted small talk, but no one’s mood is much in it.
Still clouds. I’d try and use music as a way to pass the time, but Gibbo, by being master of the radios, is master of the tunes. I don’t want to listen to Sarah McLaughlin for four hours.
We perform our last rejoin with the tanker crew, and I’m heartened to see Boom Operator produce a small stuffed penguin and place it on his window as he lowers the boom. I grin and give him a thumbs up. Also of note, our flight level would periodically have us passing between one or two layers of cirrus clouds. I’m reminded of the ending of Space Odyssey.
Our last rejoin complete, this is where we and the tanker part ways. I bring the Tomcat up alongside the KC-135, and look away to allow Co-Pilot and Gibbs their good byes. They exchange a brief, emotional adieu over the radio. I finally look over and offer the cockpit a stiff salute (a real one this time). The tanker banks to the left and disappears above the cloud layer. I swear I can feel the air leave the aft portion of the cockpit.
We are Alone.
“You going to pout the rest of the trip, dude?” I ask, about a hundred miles distant.
“You’re just jealous I didn’t spend the night alone.” He responds moodily. This, for the record is provably false. Boom Operator is a spectacular wing man, but I don’t want to kick a man while he’s down.
“If you’re gonna be like this, you might as well hit the Dido album, man” I say.
There’s a pregnant pause, then I hear the opening bars of White Flag. I’m simultaneously impressed he was able to call my bluff, glad this has defacto ended the argument, and annoyed I’m stuck with freaking Dido for the foreseeable future.
We don’t take pictures the next 800 miles, I figured I’d not bore you with more pictures of the many thousands of clouds we passed. Suffice to say I resolved the Dido situation with a magnificent(ly awful) rendition of Sand in my Shoes, and we were able to settle on a equally amenable regime of Synth-pop.
The action picks up about 250 NM from our destination, where we pick up our next tanker.
This one won’t be able to match the previous one in character or size, but we’re grateful for it all the same. I will say there’s something odd refueling from an aircraft smaller than you though.
Our F/A-18E shows us the way.
Home sweet home.
Weather below the cloud layer is atrocious, rapidly approaching abominable. Visibility is alright, there are vicious crosswinds with strong, unpredictable gusts and turbulence galore. I’m now mad I botched the one easy landing we had this trip with an engine failure.
I take vectors from the carrier to enter the groove as best I can, but the weather is tossing the Tomcat around like a play thing. This is not going to be fun or easy.
What looks like an okay approach is botched by a sudden crosswind. The LSO frantically waves me off and I gun the throttles to climb away. I can feel my heart racing a thousand miles a minute, and I’m furiously wondering why the carrier has not turned further into the wind.
A second attempt goes better, but the constant gusts and buffeting have conspired to once more make my AoA indicator useless. I’m unable to accurate judge my energy state, but I know I’m roughly in the ball park. I keep my speed below 135 knots, and focus on keeping the needles centered and alignment under control.
I’m frantically manhandling the controls to keep the jet on approach, but I can’t help but wonder that my nose is pointing at the island as I cross the ramp. I’m crabbing on a carrier landing. This is insane. I snag the 2 wire a few seconds later and my jet comes to a crashing halt. Crazy weather veining aside, the jet is perfectly fine, and I follow the instructions of the deck crew and taxi to the six pack.
As I shut down the jet, my hands shake with fury. I see, rather than feel the ship heel slightly as it turns into the wind to allow the F/A-18 that escorted me into land, adding to the insult of the completely unnecessarily dangerous landing I just had to perform. I feel like I am owed an explanation on what just endangered my jet and my crew.
I know I’m pretty far off the reservation on this flight, but demanding an explanation from a hugely senior officer immediately after telling him to go ■■■■ himself lies somewhere between “completely damning” and “Leavenworth” on the scale of choices for career longevity, regardless of situation. But still those landing conditions were stupidly dangerous, and for a jet that hasn’t done a carrier landing in a decade.
I’m still mulling over my decisions as I step off the flight deck onto the catwalk, and then once more through a hatch into the innards of the ship. Meeting my raged and rain soaked carcass is the a clean cut Commander. He introduces himself as the CO of VFA-154, and beckons me to follow him.