Coach nodded, tight lipped and uneasy. Seeing Coach’s reaction, Rat added.
“Let me make that call. You help with line up and talk to me over my shoulder, but I’ll be responsible for taking him — or not. Got it?”
“Got it,” Coach replied, relieved that Rat was removing accountability or blame from his shoulders.
“He’s your roommate, isn’t he?”
Coach nodded.
“If you pray, I’d say one. Want to pray?”
Coach wasn’t the praying type, even as he realized his head was nodding yes.
“Okay,” Rat replied as he turned to the young sailor on the sound-powered phone and shouted over the din of the flight deck. “Airman Friddle, you want to join us in a prayer?”
The enlisted sailor looked at him for a moment in confusion, then answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Okay, let’s bow our heads.” With the high winds whipping at their clothes and sun shining on them, Rat led them in prayer on the exposed Landing Signal Officer platform of the great carrier. “Lord, help us guide our friend down. He needs you, and we need you. Please give us the strength and grace to make the right calls and the right decisions. Your will be done always. Amen.”
“Amen,” Coach muttered as the sailor blessed himself. Soon other LSOs arrived on the platform, all scanning the distant horizon for signs of Trench. “Visual,” Coach said, and pointed at a series of three dots low to the west.
Hornets. Each with a squadronmate inside.
(USS Coral Sea, underway, 225 miles northwest of Barranquilla, Colombia)
Olive joined Wilson in Air Ops as he stood with CAG Matson. The three of them contemplated the status board and listened to the controllers talk to Annie as she guided 302 in an easy, right-hand turn. Wilson leaned toward his Safety Officer.
“Any gripes on three-zero-two?”
“No, sir. I just reviewed the book in Maintenance Control. There’s no throttle or flight control gripes, and the data link is good. We should be okay.”
Relieved, Wilson nodded and then turned to CAG. “Sir, we believe three-zero-two has a good system for a Mode One.”
“Great. Now it’s up to Annie to get him in the window.”
Helpless, they listened to the controller guide 302 toward the ship.
“Three-zero-two, Mother’s steady now. Turn right. Intercept final bearing one-three-one.”
Annie responded, “Roger, approach, final bearing one-three-one. Trench, turn right… a little more angle of bank. Good. Twenty degrees to go… eleven miles…. Okay, roll back to the left a little…. Good.”
Annie knew that once Trench lowered his gear and flaps, he would need to hand-fly 302 before re-engaging the autopilot. She watched Trench in the cockpit and saw him lean close to the instrument panel to read what he could from it. “Can you see your fuel?” she asked.