Wilson saw Weed’s rudders and stabilators move and watched the edge of his friend’s helmet in the canopy. Wilson saw Weed salute to signify ready, and seconds later Weed roared down the track and into the gray gloom of the squall. The JBD lowered, and the catapult crew turned their attention to 301.
Big raindrops began to pelt Wilson’s canopy, and then sheets of rain beat down on the flight deck, giving a welcome fresh water wash down to everything on it. In his dry cocoon, Wilson taxied as his yellow shirt directed him, lining up on the cat.
“Flip, Jumpin,” Kessler called to him on the tactical frequency.
“Go.”
“I’m down, sir.”
As he lowered his launch bar, Wilson absorbed this information. Jumpin’s jet was down for some maintenance malfunction and would not be launching. Wilson was now “alone” for this flight.
“Roger, see you later,” he transmitted.
Wilson came up on the power to tension the holdback and seat the launch bar in the shuttle. The rain obscured visibility ahead of the ship, and near the shot line he saw some teenaged sailors laughing at the absurdity of their drenching shower. Then, through the squall, he saw sunlight on the water.
Dripping wet, the yellow shirt gave Wilson the take-tension signal. The rain subsided as quickly as it had started, and Wilson shoved the throttles to military power and cycled the controls. With all well, he popped a sharp salute to the catapult officer and held on, waiting to be shot. Seconds later, he blazed down the track kicking up billowing clouds of spray. The warm Caribbean air would soon act as a 25-knot blow dryer for the sopping sailors remaining on the flight deck.
Wilson cleaned up, energized the radar, and accelerated ahead of Coral Sea. He couldn’t begin to drop bombs on the wake until the airplanes on the previous event were recovered so he had 30 minutes of time to kill. To the west, he saw the dot of a climbing jet silhouetted against a white cloud and figured it was his friend, Weed. What the hell, Wilson thought. He had some time and decided it would be interesting to follow his former roommate and watch an operational test live.
(Firebird 301, airborne, Central Caribbean)
With his radar in Range-While-Search mode, Wilson elevated the antenna and soon found Weed, about seven miles distant. Above his canopy bow about 30 degrees left of his nose, Wilson could see the speck that signified Weed’s aircraft. He climbed to place himself about 5,000 feet below Weed who appeared to be level around 15,000 feet. Wilson did not “lock” his friend on radar; he did not want to distract him with a radar warning receiver indication. Weed continued west at a moderate 300 knots — no hurry — and Wilson matched him, having fun with his impromptu “tail” as he weaved among the afternoon buildups that drifted like hot-air balloons over the sea.