hour ago, and without one word being spoken between them, seemed to change that. Wilson feared the harm to their friendship was irreparable.
Wilson saw Weed’s jet enter the circle from the opposite side. After 180 degrees of turn, it was apparent he was not going to join on the other Hunters or on Wilson. Wilson knew Weed knew Wilson was in the only FA-18C overhead the ship, and he wasn’t joining up. The two pilots were ignoring each other from a distance of three miles, like friends with a strained relationship at a party, knowing full well the presence of the other.
Coral Sea began to launch aircraft, and soon each of the waist cats had only one more jet to shoot. The game now began, with the Hobos first to enter the break, followed by the Raiders. Wilson followed and entered the pattern. As he bumped up his airspeed and came into the break from a position three miles aft, mind and habit shed thoughts of the incident with Weed. He took a distance interval behind the second Raider jet and whipped the stick left. He then pulled into a knife-edge turn as he brought the throttles to idle.
With the stick in his lap, he bled airspeed, slapped down the gear and flaps, and worked himself on speed, on altitude, and abeam with a good interval. As he turned off the abeam position, the Rhino ahead of him rolled into the groove. Perfect!
Wilson concentrated on flying a good pass, working hard, checking rate of descent, angle of bank, and holding proper airspeed. He was locked-in, in control of his jet, placing it exactly where it needed to be. For a short moment, green lights appeared above the lens, his indication that the LSOs had cleared him to land. For the next 25 seconds, he was absorbed in the task of putting his 16-ton airplane on a targeted 40-foot patch of moving flight deck. He was in a sense relaxed as he concentrated on his approach — not having to dwell on either his command responsibilities nor on the new and troubling relationship with his friend.
As Wilson slid across the wake, making minute corrections with the stick and throttles, he took some power off and nudged the stick. He held a constant rate of descent, and the amber “donut” of his indexer lights showed him “on speed.” He ignored “the ship” that loomed larger with each second and concentrated on the lights of the meatball, centering it between the rows of green datum lights which showed him to be on glideslope. He picked up slight movement in the ball and felt the jet alternately settle or balloon as he worked the controls to keep himself in parameters. The stick and throttles now acted as extensions of his brain as he flew the jet.