Blackmail

51 USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

In the southern Arabian Sea, just west of the Maldives, USS Harry S. Truman headed into the wind as an F/A-18E Super Hornet moved forward on the Flight Deck, locking into the starboard bow catapult. Seated in his chair on the Bridge, Captain David Randle watched as the jet blast deflector behind the fighter tilted up, shielding the F/A-18F behind from the aircraft’s twin-engine exhaust. A moment later, the Super Hornet raced forward, angling up and to the right after clearing the bow, headed out to relieve one of the fighters in Truman’s combat air patrol.

The next Super Hornet also launched successfully, completing this launch cycle. In another thirty minutes, the returning fighters would land aboard Truman. In the meantime, Randle’s eyes scanned the video screens mounted below the Bridge windows. The Reagan strike group was a hundred miles to the west, with both strike groups staying a safe distance from the Russian Northern and Pacific Fleets camped out at the mouth of the Persian Gulf. However, if events unfolded as expected, it wouldn’t be long before Truman headed northwest, with Reagan and two new strike groups alongside. The Eisenhower and Bush strike groups were fresh out of maintenance periods, as were their air wings, but that wasn’t the case for Truman.

USS Harry S. Truman had been at sea for eight months, and the grind was beginning to wear on personnel and equipment. Aircraft carriers had tremendous repair departments, well stocked with spares and well-trained technicians, and Truman was no exception. However, the higher than normal flight tempo had taken its toll and the failures requiring depot-level repair were mounting. With combat looming on the horizon, Randle had been pushing hard to ensure every aircraft aboard was fully operational.

The ship’s Communicator approached, handing Randle the message board. He read the OPORD, then reflected on his new operational orders. The basic battle plan had been laid out, although the start time was TBD. There was still time to prepare, and his repair department needed to fix all inoperable aircraft, while Randle crossed his fingers and hoped no more broke in the meantime.

Five miles east of Truman, Lieutenant Commander Bill Houston aimed his single-seat Super Hornet toward the moving gray postage stamp in the Indian Ocean. It’d been a long five hours on combat air patrol and he was approaching bingo fuel. He was glad to be heading back to the floating bird farm, his home on the water for the last eight months. Real home, with his wife and three kids, would have to wait. Houston’s eyes went to a small, worn photo of his family wedged against the rim of his instrumentation panel. He had his arm around Nell, with the kids in front, his hand on John’s shoulder while Nell pulled Kate and Jackson close.

As he returned his eyes to his instrumentation, he caught the reflection of a Japanese Imperial Navy ensign — the Rising Sun flag — in the canopy. Bill Houston, half Japanese and half English Channel mix, had been awarded the call sign Samurai by his fellow pilots in flight school. The top of every pilot’s helmet had to be covered in reflective paint or tape in case they ejected into the ocean and required retrieval, and with a call sign of Samurai, Houston had decorated his helmet with the red sun near the front, and red and white stripes radiating over the top.

As Houston closed on Truman, he heard Approach in his headset. “Bravo-one-five, Air Ops. Mode one landing.”

Houston acknowledged and turned control of his aircraft over to Truman’s SPN-46 automatic carrier landing system, which would adjust engine speed and flaps to land the fighter at a designated point on the Flight Deck. He wasn’t a fan of delegating control of his aircraft to a computer, but orders were orders and Houston prepared for the hands-off landing.

Not long after enabling the automated landing, Houston heard Bitching Betty in his headset — the female voice of the F/A-18 audio warning system, with its distinctive southern drawl — proclaiming a warning he’d heard only in the simulator.

“Engine right! Engine right!”

Houston’s Super Hornet slowed and yawed to the right, and a glance at his instrumentation revealed a flameout in his starboard engine. He went to afterburner on the port engine and half flaps, straightening his flight trajectory.

Into his headset, he said, “Approach, bravo-one-five is single-engine at four miles.”

Approach acknowledged, and while they passed word to the Flight Deck to prepare for an emergency landing, Houston noticed the engine fuel display ticking rapidly toward empty. He’d developed a fuel leak, which explained the reason for the starboard engine flameout.

Houston disengaged the automated carrier landing system, taking manual control. After evaluating whether to ditch the aircraft into the ocean or risk a landing with one engine and a fuel leak, he decided.

“Approach, bravo-one-five. I’m bringing it in.”

Captain Randle stood on the port side of the Bridge, looking aft. The damaged Super Hornet appeared in the distance, a small gray speck growing slowly larger, wobbling as it was buffeted by strong winds. Randle’s attention shifted from the jet to the Landing Signals Officer, standing on the Flight Deck. The LSO held a radio handset in one hand, advising the pilot on engine power and glide path. In his other hand, he held the pickle switch controlling the Optical Landing System, containing red wave-off and green cut lights, which directed the pilot to either abort the landing or make adjustments during his approach.

The Super Hornet angled down toward the deck, its tailhook extended. The pilot’s control of his aircraft was impaired with the engine flameout, and if he landed late and his tailhook missed the arresting cables, he would have to bolter, pushing his remaining engine to full throttle to regain sufficient speed before he ran out of carrier deck. A bolter was always an exciting event, and with only one engine, a hazardous one.

Randle watched the green cut lights flash periodically during the jet’s descent, sending last-second guidance to the pilot. He followed the Super Hornet in, its wings wobbling one last time before the wheels hit the Flight Deck. The jet’s tailhook snagged the number two arresting wire and the aircraft screeched to a halt. Randle let out a deep breath, relieved the pilot had landed safely. However, that was one more jet down, adding to the repair department’s workload.