A Time to Die (48 page)

The ingenious crew of the carriers improvised in a minute’s notice. They rigged a pair of metal poles that pushed the barrier up to fifteen feet. The barrier was integrated with the fourth and last arresting cable. The mechanism used hydraulic retarding pistons capable of bringing an eighteen-ton fighter craft to a stop inside 75 feet. The C-17 nosed into the net still going 65 miles per hour, all four turbofans screaming at full power, thrust reversers pushing to slow the monstrous plane.

Sailors screamed in alarm as the jet slammed into the safety barrier and ran with it like a bull caught in a bedsheet on the clothesline. The torque on the arresting cable was extreme. The pulleys let off a high pitch shriek, threw sparks for ten feet, and the lubricating grease burst into flames. The hydraulic cylinders were rated at several times their average load, but the C-17 was more than ten times that expected load. They compressed in under a second, and slammed against their stops. The intense loading blew out all the fittings on the pistons, sending steel reinforced hoses crashing through the equipment rooms like scythes. An instant later, the top arresting cable severed with an explosive snap. One end whiplashed back with enough force to knock a tug off the deck. The safety barrier managed to slow the C-17 almost ten miles per hour before it failed.

The instant the plane hit the barrier and the pilot felt his plane slow, he slammed down on the brakes. He’d engaged them the second they touched down, but only the appropriate amount to slow the craft. Now he just rammed the pedal down.

The monumental impact had blown two of the starboard tires and one of the port. Actually helping slow it a bit. Now smoke and bits of rubber flew from all eight tortured tires as the antilock brakes systems fought for control. The plane skewed to port, where more braking power remained. But the arresting cable had severed on the port side, and the barrier netting pulled the plane the other direction. The surviving lower arresting cable slid back, under the plane. Like a guillotine it sliced the nose gear right off the plane. Its nose slammed onto the deck with a crash and shower of parts and rubber. The cable proceeded rearward, hooked on the main landing gear and broke like the top cable.

The starboard wing tip clipped the
George
Washington
’s island, crashing over the last 2 feet and taking a gouge out of the ship’s steel.

It took another 420 feet to come to a stop, 77 feet before the end of the flight deck. Its port landing gear were left five feet from the edge of the flight deck.

“Holy fucking shit!” Andrew gasped. The entire landing took less than a minute, but felt like it took a year off of his life. They flew past the carriers and could see hundreds of crewmen running out onto the deck, both to keep any flames from erupting from the smoking engines and to leap in celebration. After a moment’s elation Andrew had the truth sink in. Even from 4,000 feet he could see the damage done to the carrier’s emergency barrier system. Shredded cables and netting were everywhere. He could also see the deep dents in the
Carl Vinson
’s deck where the huge Globemaster had slammed down. Chris saw his expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“We can’t land that way again; the carrier was too fucked up.”

“41 Indigo, we made it!” the pilot called out below.

“Good job,” Andrew said. “Let us know when it’s our turn.” He glanced at the fuel then back at Wade.

“About 95 minutes of flight time,” Wade said. The sun was almost to the horizon.

“That was spectacular,” the pilot of 23 Poppa said. “But how am I supposed to land now?”

“We’re on that,” Commander Martinez said. “Lt. Tobins, after witnessing that, are you still wanting to go last?”

What was Andrew going to say? No, he knew there was no third landing attempt. He could see two huge ocean-going tugs moving in already. They were going to flip the mated carriers around so the
George Washington
was in the wind, thus allowing them to use the still intact crash barriers of the
Carl Vinson
. But that would leave nothing for him.

“You’re going to have to go next, 44 Foxtrot,” the pilot of 23 Poppa said. “You’ve got the more important cargo. If I ditch, we can probably save most of the passengers. If you ditch, we’ll lost almost everyone.”

“I’m not sure I won’t lose three quarters even landing that way!” Andrew said. “He did a spectacular job, considering.”

Below the tugs had started to ever so slowly turn the two mated ships around. Even more ropes were being employed to try and hold the carriers together. The lost steel plate was being replaced, and more readied. On the flight line, the C-17 had its door down and passengers were coming off, some on stretchers. A sign that the rough landing had caused injuries. Debris was being cleared from the deck and forklifts were coming up on an elevator to begin offloading the cargo.

“44 Foxtrot, this is
Gerald Ford
Actual. Captain Christopher Gilchrist.”

“This is 44 Foxtrot, Captain. What can I do for you?”

“I can offer you an alternative, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, I am most certainly, all ears.”

* * *

Three guided missile cruisers and the USS
Ronald Reagan
had broken free of the flotilla and turned north, sailing as fast as they could. Andrew watched them go from his vantage point as he observed the operation below.

The turning of the carriers had not gone without incident. When they were turned leeward to the wind, the two ships started rolling on the waves. The plates buckled and one carrier’s deck ground up and over the other. The tension of the ropes pulled them together, and one deck slid back over the other. It was the
George Washington
that ended up on top.

After a few minutes of discussion between the pilots, air bosses and ship captains, it was decided that separating and rejoining them would take too long and be too risky. The deck was five feet of steel honeycomb structure and a skirting underneath that had been crushed flat in the overlapping. So five feet of lip now protruded onto the
Carl Vinson
, and they’d lost ten feet of deck space. The problem was the landing plane would have to fall over that five feet on landing. But there was nothing to do about it. At least it firmed up Andrew’s decision to go with Plan C.

The offload completed, the debris cleaned up and the
Carl Vinson
’s crash barrier rigged up similarly to the
George
Washington
’s, all that was left was the now disabled C-17.

“What are they going to do?” Wade asked, looking out as they passed by.

“Whatever they do it won’t be pretty,” Andrew assured him. And he was right.

A heavy cable was rigged to the port winglet and a quick release attached. Meanwhile all the crew disembarked, and a single fighter pilot could be seen running back aboard. The cargo ramp was raised a few feet, but left partially open. Andrew began to wonder what they were going to do when he saw the engines light off.

“They’re crazy,” he said aloud. A moment later the starboard engines went to full power, and the plane began to grind metal as it turned to port, belayed by the cable on that wing. He could see the cable cutting into the wings aluminum skin, but it held.

“Are they trying to turn it around?” Chris asked.

“No,” Andrew said, “they’re just aiming it.”

Chris opened his mouth to ask what they were aiming it at, but the answer became apparent. The port engines spun up to full power, the plane was pointed directly to the port side of the carrier, and a sailor in a recess in the deck yanked the quick release.

The entire power of the plane’s engines pushed it grinding across the deck. Even the blown tires and missing nose gear wasn’t enough to stop it. In moments it was moving over the side of the carrier.

“Holy shit!” Chris barked as the 140-ton C-17 tipped and plunged over the side and crashed into the ocean with a titanic splash, some of the water actually landing on the deck. The thrust of the engines flipped the plane over onto its back just as the power was cut, and it lay there like a beached whale, and began to sink. Right on cue a pair of US Coast Guard RHIBs came racing in and divers leaped into the water. Just as the plane nosed down, the telltale bright yellow vest of a pilot’s flotation device was visible as the valiant flyboy came out the half open gate.

“That is one steely-eyed missile man,” Andrew said and threw a salute at the distant pilot. He wouldn’t find out for some time that the pilot was the CAG, commander of the
George
Washington
’s FA-18 combat group.

Exactly thirty-nine minutes after 41 Indigo landed, the ships were realigned and 23 Poppa was on his glide path. This time the pilot had the advantage of seeing it done once before. He knew what to expect, but only the added difficulty of the overlapping fantails to add.

Just like before they watched from 4,500 feet, endurance under one hour, as the C-17 lined up on the nose of the
George Washington
and slowly approached.

The wind was now almost seventeen knots, and the pilot had a better feel for what his craft could do. He crossed the bow of the
Carl Vinson
with a relative speed of 112 knots and at a much better angle. His wheels touched down only thirty feet aft of the bow, and almost dead on the quickly painted center mark.

“Bingo!” Andrew said as the Globemaster’s engines roared into reverse. This pilot also used more brakes, riding the ragged edge and making smoke curl from them as he shot down the entire 1,092-foot length in just over seven seconds. When he jumped the five-foot gap at the fan tail he’d slowed to 50 knots and it was looking brilliant. Unfortunately, that didn’t hold up.

The much reduced speed meant the wings had little lift. The plane didn’t fly over the gap, it nosedived. The front landing gear crumpled underneath as the rest of the plane came down. The much heavier main gear absorbed the impact and the plane did a sort of nose down bunny hop leaving crumpled metal and rubber behind. When the jump started, they were 150 feet from the fantail.

The hop was just a little one, a bit shy of 155 feet. Just enough for the nose to completely clear the crash barricade, but not the outboard starboard engine. The arresting system retarded and pulled, yawing the still relatively fast moving plane and pulling it hard to the starboard until the engine, as it was designed to do, sheered from its mounting before the wing could be compromised. It was either good or bad that the fuselage was coming down the way it did, two other arresting cables were likewise collected by the main landing gear.

“Oh crap,” was all Andrew got out as the plane skewed sideways, tilting wildly and the port wing effecting a scraping, showery arc along the flight deck. The arresting cables that had the landing gear maxed out their travel arcs and one failed. Then the nose of the C-17 hit the coning tower of the
Carl Vinson
a few feet forward of its aft side at 42 miles per hour.

The entire structure shuddered with the thunderous impact as the nose of the C-17 crumpled in a most spectacular fashion, and 140 tons of transport plane came to a dramatic stop. They all watched as the 100,000 ton ship actually rocked in the water from the hammer blow, its flags on the tower whipping back and forth. Andrew tried to imagine how that felt up in the flight operations booth where the Air Boss sat. Then he wondered if the pilot survived.

The starboard wing was on fire and crews began rushing out. One to control the fire while others began evacuating crew and passengers. Even if Andrew had maintained second thoughts of his coming landing attempt there, the crash just put paid to that idea. No other planes would be landing down there anytime soon. He noticed the force was sufficient that half the mooring lines holding the
Carl Vinson
to the
George Washington
had snapped, and he could swear the tower had a slight tilt to it.

“Commander Martinez, are you there?” Andrew called over the radio.

“This is Commander Montgomery, air boss of the
George Washington
,” the radio replied. “The
Carl Vinson
is coms down, Lieutenant, and they’re fighting the fire.” Below the wing of the C-17, apparently having suffered structural damage, was bursting into spectacular flames. Jet fuel was pouring out like napalm and running across the deck. Fire crews were likewise pouring out and foam was beginning to be deployed. “You better head for your rendezvous, and God speed.”

“Good luck, Commander,” Andrew said, “and thanks to you for your work. I don’t think any of us would have survived if we’d had to land on the ground.” As the crews fought the blaze below, Andrew turnednorth as the sun dipped below the western horizon. A dozen Marine Sea Stallion and Super Stallion carriers were just lifting off the Essex and Makin Island and turning to follow.

* * *

“Forty minutes of flight time,” Wade announced.

“This is getting to be a habit,” Andrew grumbled as he searched the blackening sea below. The sky showed a few clouds to the west, and just as Captain Gilchrist had said there was more wind from the west the further north they went. Unlike where they’d just left the sea was more turbulent and he could see white tops.