“Ma’am.”
Macho flinched in surprise as Chief Hauber approached from the left.
“Ma’am, they’re gonna recover the birds overhead then launch you. They want you pilots in the jet and ready.”
She looked at him, uncomprehending, dumbfounded that the chief was talking to her. She looked toward the gaggle with Trench and the gaggle as they disappeared into the island, then back at the jet parked on the bow. The open canopy and the empty ejection seat waited for her to get in and to fly 22-ton machine off the ship and into the air, over the ocean. On a mission, a routine training mission like Trench was on. She tried to form words but could not, and without looking at the chief, she walked toward her assigned jet as if to the gallows.
What’s out there? she thought. What’s out there?
Chief Hauber watched with concern as she walked away, knowing enough about pilot mindsets to know that Lieutenant Rourke was not in the proper frame to get in the jet, his jet. Should he stop her? Find a reason to “down” her jet before she launched? He would watch her during the start sequence, and wondered if she, too, was thinking about not flying.
A call from the Air Boss over the 5MC made the decision for them, a decision that everyone on the roof welcomed. “On the flight deck, we’re gonna catch the recovery aircraft and secure from flight ops. Make a ready deck. Land aircraft.”
(Sick Bay, USS Coral Sea, central Caribbean)
After they watched Trench trap and watched the corpsmen lead him to the island, Wilson and CAG left Air Ops. They headed to sick bay to see their stricken pilot and find out what happened. Matson summoned his Wing Intel Officer, Commander Hofmeister, to join them.
They descended four decks below where sick bay was located on the “mess decks,” the large open dining facilities where the crew took their meals. Sick bay was a small hospital that provided for the 5,000 men and women of Coral Sea. There they found the emergency medical response team leading their young pilot into an examination room. Still in his flight gear, Trench seemed confused, fearful, and relieved, all at the same time. Wilson called to him.
“Trench, Skipper. Welcome home.”
“Skipper! It was a yacht! I was rigging it, and on the second pass I lost my sight. About eighty miles south of Mother when I found it. Heading west.”
“Describe it.” Wilson asked him. The medical personnel were in the process of removing Trench’s torso harness.
“White hull, sleek — about 100 feet long. Tinted cockpit glass. Boat davits aft.”