Wilson held 135 knots of airspeed, his entire being locked in on the approach. As he approached the ramp, Wilson felt he was hovering over it, able to move the jet inches up and down the imaginary chute that led to an arrestment.
As he slammed into the deck, his hook picked up the three wire and threw him forward against the straps. His left arm pushed the throttles to full power, and the force of the arrestment caused him to bounce in his seat as the deck edge rushed up. Home. But within seconds Weed and the image of him strafing helpless survivors returned to mind.
As he retracted the flaps and folded the wings, Wilson raised the hook on signal from the yellow shirt and followed his directions to the right. He gave a thumbs-up to Chief Sutherland in a gaggle of green-shirted maintenance sailors. Dubose, burdened by his tie-down chains, followed Wilson’s jet to its parking spot.
Wilson could see they were taking him to Elevator 2, and he crept forward until his nose was out over the edge of the deck. The yellow shirt turned him right, and, for a moment, Wilson saw the frothy white waves from Coral Sea’s wake, sixty feet below him, radiating into the blue Caribbean. He inched forward, and after another quarter turn, Wilson’s left main mount skirted the deck-edge coaming. As he moved ahead, his nose came within feet of the Growler next to him. The yellow shirt had him lock his right brake, and Wilson came up on the power to pivot his nose right. Sailors helped by pushing on 301’s nose in the delicate maneuver. Once lined up, sailors swarmed over the jet, taking care to remain clear of the dangerous jet intakes. On the yellow shirt’s signal, they pushed Wilson back into place with the tail of Firebird 301 out over the water.
The yellow shirt gave the signal to wrap it up, and Dubose began to place tie-down chains on the landing gear to secure the still running Hornet in place. Wilson pulled the parking brake and began to relax.
Mongo then appeared next to Wilson’s jet. He stood watching Wilson, his face expressionless.
What does that sonofabitch want? Wilson thought.
CAG, wearing his float-coat and cranial over his khaki uniform, then walked up next to Mongo. Highly unusual. CAG, too, was looking at Wilson, and both of them were waiting for him to shut down and deplane.
What the hell is this? Wilson thought. What is happening out here?
(Flight Deck, USS Coral Sea, Central Caribbean)
After securing the avionics, Wilson shut down the jet. He popped the canopy open as he brought the throttles to off. Surrounded by the deafening noise and the not insignificant danger of the everyday flight deck, CAG and Mongo still watched him with cool detachment as they waited for him to climb down.