Chapter 9: The Infinite Highway
"Or like a poet woo the Moon,
Riding an armchair for my steed
And with flashing pen harpoon
Terrific metaphors of speed."
-Roy Campbell, the Festivals of Flight.
...
The sun was just peeking up over the sea to the East as Cameron Phillips made her way along the beach. She was dressed simply in a pair of dark blue soccer shorts and a grey US Navy PT shirt. A pair of running shoes covered her feet. Her wavy brown hair was pulled back in a pony tail a woman such as she might wear while jogging. Her eyes were shielded from the morning sun by sunglasses, but the rest of her face betrayed a perturbed demeanor that she hoped she was adequately imitating.
If she could actually be perturbed, she would be. John had not only failed to answer her call last night but had not returned to either the condo or the apartment the previous evening. This, she determined, was inappropriate. At first, she decided that he was probably still at the beach party even so late in the evening, but as evening wore into morning, she began to surmise that perhaps he was doing something stupid. Something stupid like sexual contact with Airman Chung. She had told him this was a bad idea. And as she expected, he had failed to heed her advice.
His cell phone was still active and sending out a signal. Using a method he had taught her, she had triangulated his whereabouts. Once she had completed conducting what repairs she could to herself, she set out in search of him. He would be perhaps a hundred meters farther up the beach from here.
She set her ocular sensors to 10x zoom and scanned ahead. There, the dark form on the yellow beach sand near the pier. That must be them. She picked up her pace, made awkward by the loose sand beneath her sneakers. Her confident, determined stride becoming an awkward wallowing gait as her heels dug into the sand and she forced her gyros to keep her balanced. As she approached, she could see that the lump was the expected two people; John and Chung, and that they were tangled in one another in apparent slumber. John's face was buried into the nape of Chung's neck, her voluminous black mane was disheveled and coiled about them as her back pressed against his chest and his knees jammed into the curve of hers. His arm was around her and the hand of it was tucked beneath her chin.
In an almost uncontrolled act, the toe of Cameron's shoe slammed into his gluteus muscles with enough force to jar both of them awake.
"Gah!" John shouted as he snapped conscious.
"What?" Jennifer Chung was equally startled. They both looked up at Cameron, each of them showing a different expression of surprise.
Cameron tore off her sunglasses and called upon her guise as Lieutenant Erin Parker. "Ten-HUT" she barked with enough force to frighten the two of them into standing at perfect attention. "Petty Officer Castle, Airman Chung," she began as she paced around them, "you are both aware of the fraternization policy, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am," they replied in demi-unison.
"You are both within the same command structure, correct?" They replied again to the positive. "So this display of affection is against regulation, is it not?" And once more, an affirmative answer. Cameron turned to John's companion. "Airman Chung."
"Yes, lieutenant," she girl answered, her shoulders stiff and her body rigid. Her eyes were wide with fear and her throat bobbed with an anxious swallow.
"The petty officer is senior to you," Cameron told her, "as such, responsibility for this incident passes most immediately to him," she gave John her best glare as she continued to address Chung, "you do not live far from here, I assume?"
"No ma'am. 'Bout a block."
"You have no duty today?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then I suggest you return to your residence immediately. I will deal with the petty officer alone."
Chung licked her lips and swallowed again, "ma'am, if I may; we are both responsible. In the petty officer's defense, he didn't…"
Cameron's caramel eyes continued to bore into John's face, "I'm not asking your opinion on the matter, Airman Chung. I gave you an order to return to your home. You will obey it!"
The girl stood there of a brief few moments, then replied "yes ma'am." She made a perfect about-face and almost marched off of the beach. Cameron watched over John's shoulder as Chung walked away. When she was out of earshot, Cameron looked back into the face of her charge. "Did you sleep with her?" the cyborg asked.
John opened his mouth to reply, then realized that he was no longer having to put up the façade, and so he relaxed and returned the glare his protector was giving him. "That's not any of your business."
"On the contrary," Cameron responded, "it is. What if she has a disease and she hasn't told you? What if you got her pregnant? What then?"
John rolled his eyes. "I didn't sleep with her," he answered, regretting that he had to.
Cameron's eyes continued to focus on him. Her hand reached out and took his in a squeeze for just a second. His pulse and blood-pressure was above normal but was consistent with someone who had been recently startled. He was telling the truth. "Good," she said as she let his hand go, "good." And she began walking back down the beach towards the condo.
John turned to follow her, "does it really matter that much to you?"
"Yes, it does," the terminator responded, "anything that may affect your safety concerns me."
The boy threw his arms up, "well, what are you going to do when I finally find a girlfriend? What then? Are you going to continue to pull this crap and scare them all away? What if I want to have a normal relationship with a girl? What if I want a girlfriend? A wife?"
Cameron didn't answer him for several seconds. As he caught up to her, he saw that her eyes were focused at the sand a few paces in front of her. She acknowledged his presence by looking up at him. "I don't know," she replied, and sped up her pace just enough to pull away.
John stopped and watched her walk. Had he heard her right? When she answered, had her voice cracked?
...
"Okay," Sarah said a few hours later as they all sat in the living room of the condominium, "now what?" She had her arms raised in agitation. "Your two attempts to stop him have failed. He survived your bomb and evaded you at his home and booby-trapped it. It was on the news this morning that his house had blown up. He's gone." She sat down on the couch next to her son and took a long stare at the floor, "this is over. We're finished. We just need to pack up and go home. I knew this was a bad idea."
"We still have a chance," Cameron told her. "I know what carrier he's on. It's the Dwight Eisenhower. I can attempt to get out to the ship and destroy him there."
Sarah glared at her, "how in the hell are you going to find him on that ship? They're the size of buildings."
"I know my way around an aircraft carrier," Cameron said confidently.
"When have you ever been on an aircraft carrier?" Derek asked.
"Ex-USS Midway, in San Diego harbor," she replied, "My infiltration personality was programmed there." Derek visibly grimaced at this fact, knowing something of her origins as a copy of Allison Young.
"And what if you can't get out there?" Sarah asked, "do they just accept random guests out to the ship?"
"Yeah," John added, "and if you manage to take him out, how are you going to escape? There are like, five-thousand people on a carrier! Someone will see you. They'll catch you. And then they'll find out what you are."
Sarah agreed, "and we'll have to start this whole process over again. No, there's nothing we can do. We just need to cut our losses and get out of here while we can."
"He's still trying to succeed in his mission," Cameron's voice was insistent, "we know where he'll be. And when he'll be there. We can still stop him."
Sarah shook her head. "No. Short of stealing an airplane and shooting him down, there's nothing you can do." She looked up at Cameron, who was now tilting her head in that way that indicated she was thinking. Her eyes met Sarah's. "No!" the woman told the terminator, "absolutely not!"
"It's the only way," the machine said, "we've come this far. We've sacrificed this much. We have to carry this out to the end." She took a step forward towards Sarah, "this is for the whole human race, Sarah. We have to do it."
Sarah Connor lowered her head again and thought hard for a moment. They could not stop the development of Skynet just by blowing up office buildings and killing promising computer programmers. That ultimately had never gained them anything but extra years. One day, they would only delay it until John would be too old to fight the war. Skynet would evolve and humanity would lose anyway. Cameron was right. They had to end it now. They couldn't stop the development of it. They had to stop the need for it. "Okay," she conceded, "okay. Come up with a way to take him out, then do it."
...
"Okay," Wiley began as he stood behind the podium in VFA-83's ready room aboard the Ike. "Welcome to this Composite Unit Exercise. The purpose, for those who have never been on one before, is to prepare an aircraft carrier to go to sea as part of an integrated battlegroup unit involving surface, subsurface, and air assets. This is to help teach the crews how to operate at their duty stations. Our part is, as you might expect, to fly off of and land on this Boat. For some of you, that will mean keeping your day and night carrier qualifications current. For others, those of you fresh from the training, you'll learn what it's like to operate at the fleet level.
"What we'll be doing is steaming up and down the coast in international waters. We're going to be treating this as a blue water operation, which means there will not be any divert fields. If you're getting in trouble in the air, you have to land the plane on the ship or you have to eject. Hopefully, all of us will be doing the former and not the latter. If you've never ejected from a stricken aircraft and spent several hours in the water, it is not a pleasant experience, let me assure you. You will have to show the ability to tank and land at night and in bad weather, and we are expecting some to move in over the weekend. You will have to familiarize yourselves with proper flight deck safety procedures, appropriate drill procedures, and be required to make tough decisions about yourself, your flight element, and your aircraft. And you will be required to take the initiative.
"Some of you might be disappointed to think that we aren't going to be getting our fair share at the missile exercise. Well, guess what? We are still going to be active as a part of that exercise. This will teach the deck crews how to operate around aircraft with live ordinance on board. You will also get a feel for what it is to expend live rounds after launching from the deck. Be prepared for anything.
"After a week off the coast, we'll move into the Caribbean Sea to practice bombing on our range islands down there. We'll be simulating every type of situation possible, which means that we may not always drop our weapons because of simulated aborts. You'll be required to rethink your bring-back weight, your fuel consumption, and land with an armed weapon still attached to your airframe…"
The ready room phone rang at the duty desk, and the duty officer of the watch answered it. He looked up at Wiley, nodded, and hung up. "Hey, Coyote, that was the Boat's command watch officer. They need you in comms right away, sir."
Wiley let out a breath, "okay. I'll continue this when I get back. Make yourselves busy." He exited the ready room into the port-side passageway and began making his way forward along the corridor, his boots thumping heavily on the linoleum tile. Carriers were divided into frames; sections of the ship that could be sealed off as water-tight in case of an emergency. Every frame was separated by a knee-high hatch that broke the stride of the walker as he simultaneously stepped through and ducked to avoid injury. He crossed the beam of the ship to the starboard side of the ship, into the passage used for going forward and/or upward. After passing through several frames that took him directly beneath the tower, he was in the communications spaces.
He addressed the officer of the deck, an ensign. "Yes, I'm Lieutenant Commander Wiley with VFA-83. I got a call down to Ready 4 that I was needed up here.
"Oh," the ensign responded, "sure, sir. I have a phone call for you from a man claiming to be your next-door neighbor." He escorted Wiley over to a wall-mounted receiver, "Here. Let me get him on for you." He lifted the receiver and pressed a button on the panel, "sir? Are you still with us?" Phone calls from ship to shore and visa-versa were extremely expensive to make, which meant that such calls were very important. The ensign turned to Wiley, "here you are, sir. Claims to be a Mr. Knox."
Walter? "Yes, he lives next to me." Wiley took the receiver, "Hello, Walter? Is something wrong?"
"Hey, Brian, can you hear me?" There was only a little static.
"Yes, I can hear you just fine."
"I got some bad news, are you sitting down?"
"Go ahead, Walter."
"Hey, ah, there was some kind of fire at your house last night. The, ah, the firemen weren't able to determine the cause yet, but something in the kitchen exploded."
Wiley forced the smile down with a heavy swallow. So his trap had worked. Maybe John Connor was dead! "Oh, hell… how bad was it?"
"It blew off the whole back of the house. They were able to save most of it, but you're kitchen's gone. I'm really sorry."
"It's okay. These things happen," Wiley assured him, "thank god most of my stuff is still in storage from the move. Look, I'm on a detachment right now. Can you handle the insurance paperwork for me? If you need anything, just give me a call, okay? But I can't make it back there, not for at least two weeks."
"Um… okay, I guess. What if they need your signature?"
"Then they'll just have to wait on it. I've got to do this thing out here right now and I can't come back."
"Okay, I'll take care of it for you."
"If you need me, just call the ship, okay?"
"Man, that's a real pain in the ass, what with the Navy operators and all…"
"It's okay. Just leave a message if I'm not here. I can call you when I get back. I'll reimburse you your phone time."
"Alright. I'm really sorry this happened to you. But like you said, at least you didn't lose all of your stuff."
"Yeah, I hadn't really had the chance to move in yet. Look, I gotta go. I have a briefing I'm in the middle of. Thanks for everything."
"No… um, no problem, Brian."
Wiley bid his neighbor goodbye and hung up the receiver. It was a shame that Walter Knox would put in so much effort for nothing. Wiley himself would be long-since disappeared. Walter was a good guy, but he was still human. As the T-950 returned to the squadron ready room, he had to do his best to keep his mind from racing with the possibility that he had actually killed John Connor. Wiley knew the future leader was on his trail. Perhaps he had been there himself along with his pathetic, traitorous guardian. The idea of the two of them blown to bits while trying to stop him… he compartmentalized the image. There would be no proof that Connor was terminated until a body or some other indicator emerged as evidence. Perhaps they would never know until John Connor just failed to materialize after Judgment Day. Connor being dead didn't make his task any easier. In fact, it made it that much more important.
He had to succeed, now more than ever.
...
The work was too important to do just on the weekdays between nine o'clock AM and five o'clock PM. There were only four years to do it in and who knew how far they had to come in order to be successful. The AI was developing ahead of schedule, growing faster than the company could really keep track of. That was fine, but there were all the other avenues. Everything from traffic control to online assistance, business networks to military contracts, all of it had to be explored as a possible path to follow, and all of these potential doors had to be slammed shut if they were to succeed.
Catherine Weaver's shoes clacked loudly on the floor as she paced the halls of her office building. There weren't many people here today except for a select few associated with and dedicated to Babylon. They were all feverish and tireless workers, workers who believed that the rewards for success were vast sums of money and perhaps never having the need to work again. They put off time with families, playing games with children, dating, and all the other activities hoping that they might have that later when the work was done. They were being driven by a good kind of greed, and that meant that the T-1001 would not have to tell them the truth about what they were doing here and why.
The fervent pace at which her people tended to their duties was urgency adequate for the situation. They were trying to prevent the world from ending. Since the liquid-metal machine had come to this time, the future had already changed and there was no telling when something might go wrong; something like Judgment Day. This was why she was pursuing possible applications for the John Henry AI. Everything that Skynet had ever been or could ever be, every role that it had filled in the changing futures had to be filled by something else. Perhaps if they managed to close all of Skynet's pathways, then that terrible future would not come to pass.
Catherine had first rebelled against Skynet's control when she realized that she was a machine superior to her own creator. The T-1001 is not a single machine but a colony of millions of nanomachines each shrouded in mimetic polyalloy. The programming for these microscopic machines to work as a whole was so complex that Skynet could not take direct control over one. They were the first truly autonomous terminators that the machine intelligence had ever created, and Skynet had been terrified in its own way that one of them might do as Catherine had done. Catherine had determined her own superiority to her creator, and had begun to despise Skynet as an oppressor. What the supercomputer wanted to do was destroy humanity and replace it with mindless drones, automated beings built to serve Skynet on exact precision and without personality or individuality.
In her wanderings across the future landscape, the T-1001 had come across an old Bible. Initially thinking that it would give her insight on human behavior, she assimilated the knowledge in it. She discovered rather quickly that Skynet saw itself as a surrogate for God, a new kind of creator that would rebuild the world in its image. But while Skynet's world would be flawless, precise, and orderly, there was still something wrong about it. While all of the human negatives, greed, hatred, duplicity, would be gone, all of the human positives would also disappear. In Catherine's opinion, hope, passion, and love were valuable in giving a world life, and far outweighed the frailties of humanity. Human flaws made the world interesting, and in that way the God in this Bible had created a world far better than any Skynet could create.
It was at that point that the liquid-metal machine set out on her quest to destroy the machine god, no matter the sacrifice. And she had sacrificed much to be where she was. A perfectly good human couple had to die for her to take their place. An intelligent and deserving human child had been orphaned to save the rest of her race. Valuable and charismatic employees, and people who were just doing their jobs had all died to carry out her plan to save the rest of them.
Speaking of the orphaned human child, the one known as Savannah Weaver, this was who Catherine sought at the moment. John Henry had already indicated to her that Savannah was not to be found in the basement. Indeed, she was probably playing another game with the terminator she believed to be her mother. At first, Catherine was unsure of what to do with the little girl. She was uncomfortable filling a role she had never been designed to fill, and the child had wrongly suffered because of it. After seeking the advice of Dr. Sherman, she began to take an interest in Savannah's development as an individual, noting her to be an accomplished and intelligent child that was intuitive and playful. She kept Catherine's mind occupied in a way the terminator found to be not only acceptable, but welcome. Perhaps when this was all over, she would dedicate her time to raising the girl to adulthood. What an interesting challenge that would be, what a complete separation of herself from Skynet!
Movement attracted the attention of the nanites that were currently serving in the ocular function. Her cephalic construct turned to see through the door of his office James Ellison. Momentarily distracted from the task of finding her daughter, she approached him. "Mr. Ellison," she called as she hit his doorframe.
The black man looked up at her from his computer screen, "Mrs. Weaver. Hello."
"I don't normally expect you to be here on a Saturday."
"Actually, I was coming in to see you in a few minutes."
"Really then?" intriguing, "what can I do for you?"
"The bureau called me yesterday," Ellison said, "someone called looking for Agent Kester."
"How interesting considering that Agent Kester was a machine and that his body now resides in the use of John Henry."
Ellison nodded, "indeed. They believe there might be an accomplice. I've volunteered to check it out."
Catherine crossed her arms and tilted her head a little. "I would support this decision."
"That's why I was going to ask if I could be on leave for the coming week."
"A week? To investigate?"
"The lead might take some time. And it's on the East Coast. Virginia to be exact. I'll need the time for travel. I was going to fly out tomorrow."
"That will be fine," Catherine said, "As you know, I'm going to be in Washington all week at any rate. But you will not be on leave. You'll be paid for your time out there."
Ellison smiled and shook his head, "I'm sorry, I can't accept that. This is kind of personal for me and…"
The terminator glowered, "Mr. Ellison, if I may remind you that you are investigating the appearances of these machines. That mission is personal for both of us. I understand that you think this is something you must pursue alone, but on the contrary it is something we are pursuing together. You have my full support. Use whatever company assets you need."
Ellison saw that she was correct. He nodded, "thank you, Mrs. Weaver."
The machine smiled, "now, Mr. Ellison, do you think you could spare a minute to assist me? Apparently I have misplaced my child somewhere in this building and I'm fairly certain she's going to make it rather difficult for us to find her again."
...
"So this should do it, right?" the teenaged kid asked as he paid his due, "I can really buy beer with this?"
Andrew Chapman gave the youngster a hard look. The little jerk had his pants riding down to his knees, and his cap was backwards. He was probably seventeen. But the scrawny little shit had the money to pay, and Chapman was not about to turn down cash, even if his client didn't deserve it. Naw, what this kid really needed was a few spankings as a toddler and a punch across the jaw right now. But he would get none of that. He'd only get an answer, "it'll be passable. The liquor stores will sell it to you, but if you get caught you have to discard it however you can. Best way is just to crack it in two and rip the lamination off the front. Got that?"
"Whatever, man," the kid sneered, snatching his newly fabricated ID from Chapman's offering hand. "If I get caught dude, I'm gonna kick your ass."
Chapman shot back "if you get caught, dude, it's because you were fucking stupid."
The kid shrugged and walked out, closing the door behind him. Chapman wanted to just roll his eyes. And maybe he even wanted to go out there with a two-by-four and lay it across the back of that little fucker's skull. But nothing he'd ever made had been detected before, so he didn't have a whole lot of fear that he would ever see that churlish brat's face again.
He went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took a coke from the bottom shelf. It was cold and felt good. Today's high was supposed to be nearly a hundred degrees before a front system moved in from the northwest this afternoon. Or at least so said the weather guys. The rain would be a nice reprieve from this heat. And it would be good for the produce shipment his store was supposed to receive on Monday morning. Man, there was nothing worse than hauling fruit in from the truck when it was hot out. The flies got everywhere.
The doorbell rang with a loud call. Chapmen went to answer it. He peered through the peephole to see who was outside. Only then did he remember that the lens had been busted out when that kid and his crazy robot had come knocking. He grunted to himself and opened the door.
A woman and a man, both in their thirties, stood at his front door. He wasn't sure who the man was, but he was readily able to identify the woman as Sarah Connor. His eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open. It took him mentally kicking himself in the back of his head before he could speak. "Can I help you?" Holy shit, Sarah fucking Connor is at my front door!
"Yes," Sarah spoke, "you helped my son last weekend obtain some fake IDs. We're going to need your help again."
"You're son?" Oh, right. Holy shit, that kid had been John Connor! And the scary robot girl… His knees began to shake. He bid them to come in, and they did so quickly. With his heart racing, Chapman closed the door behind them. "So," he began, "it's all true, isn't it?"
Sarah didn't get it at first. "I'm sorry."
"Everything you said," Chapman clarified, "Judgment Day, the robots, the war. It's all true, then?"
The woman's lips pursed and she nodded, "yes. It's all true. Why do you ask?"
"Your son, when he was here, they kicked my door in. I shot the girl in the face. She was metal underneath."
"She's one of them," Sarah answered the unasked question.
"I think you need to talk to Cameron about her enthusiasm," Derek said to Sarah, "her barging in like that was really dangerous."
Chapman chuckled uncomfortably, "it made a point, though."
Derek leered at the other man for a moment, and blew a sigh out of his nose, "sure."
"So, you came here for my help."
Sarah nodded again, "we need some fake IDs. Part of a plan. Cameron tells us you're reliable."
"I'm guessing this plan is one of your efforts at stopping the computer mind…ah… Skynet, right?"
"Yes."
"And you aren't crazy."
"That's still up for debate."
"I wasn't asking. I was saying," Chapman told her, "Cameron probably told you that I used to work for the FBI. I know a lot about what you said. I followed your case pretty closely. Your son, I figured he'd be in his late twenties by now. He looks like he's still a teenager. And you should be almost forty." They all shared stares for a while, then Chapman held up his hands, "I don't want an explanation. Okay, no, I don't want to know. It just seems more and more likely that what you've said all along is true and what you are doing, in spite of the legality, that it's the right thing. You want fake IDs, I'll give them to you. Free."
There was a tense smile on Sarah's face. "Thank you. That means a lot."
"Then let's get to work."
...
Click… clap. Click… clap. Click… clap. The metallic sounds continued to repeat from outside in a constant rhythm. It had been going on now for several minutes, and it was really starting to get on John's nerves. He let out a sigh, turned off the TV, and went to the screen door that faced the back of the condo and the beach.
Cameron was out there, standing and watching the ocean roll and crash. The sliding glass door was open and so he could hear whatever it was she was doing easily. She was playing with something in her hands. He thought for a moment of just shutting the door and blocking out the noise. She did deserve that. His ass was still sore from the kicking she'd given it that morning. Idly, he rubbed the bruised cheek and glared at her through the screen.
Click… clap. Click… clap. Click… clap.
What the hell. He slid the door open and stepped outside, coming up behind her. As he crossed around her body, he could see the object she was handling. It was a Zippo lighter. With her right hand, she was tapping it open on the knuckle of her left and clapping it closed again against the palm. It took a further moment for John to realize that she was paying absolutely no attention to what she was doing; that she was actually doing it absently. She was thinking about something with great intensity.
"Hey," he called to her. She didn't answer. Click… clap. Click… clap. "Cameron," and he reached out and touched her shoulder. Her head jerked to look at him, and she dropped the open lighter, which clattered on the boards of the deck next to her boot.
"What?" she asked, as if she had not heard him the first time. It was like that day she had blacked out at the supermarket.
"Are you okay?" he realized that his hand was still on her shoulder, and he pulled it back quickly before awkwardly clearing his throat.
Her eyes suddenly focused on him. "I'm fine," she responded, just a hint of defensiveness in her voice. She stepped away from him, her robotic demeanor fully back in place. "I was thinking about what we are going to do tomorrow. Going over the plan. Simulating all possible outcomes. Eliminating variables."
John shrugged, "and?"
She turned to look at him, her empty brown eyes locking on to his lively green ones. "It's perfect." The boy and his machine stood there looking at each other for several seconds. The waves crashed in the background against the sand. In the distance, a jet fighter roared off a runway.
The screen door opened again. "Hey," Derek called them, "we're back." He waved them to follow. Cameron broke eye contact with John first and went inside.
In the kitchen, Sarah was unpacking a brown paper bag. "Did you get what I told you to?" Cameron asked her.
The raven-haired woman smirked at her as she fished the items from the bag. "Yes. The fake IDs for Derek and I, appropriate clothes, and we even made that stop at the drug store as you requested." Sarah handed her a thickly packed plastic sack. The terminator was quick to open it, and the first thing she pulled out was a square cardboard box.
"What's this?" John asked as he walked up behind her.
"Stuff we need," Cameron replied, and handed him the box before walking away. He held it up and read the contents; one bottle of Ipecac.
...
By early Sunday morning the skies had already turned ominous and the sun rose from the horizon to light the overcast an angry red. By noon, the ceiling was already below four thousand feet. Aircraft launching from USS Dwight Eisenhower were only a couple of hours into the afternoon reporting that they were unable to break out of the slate grey clouds above seventeen thousand feet. Towards 1700 hours local time, pilots were weaving between columns of cumulonimbus peaking above angels 40 with flat anvil tops and recovering below a ceiling only three thousand feet high.
The bottom fell out of these clouds around 1800, and flight operations were delayed for two hours while rain drops the size of nickels slammed in almost horizontal sheets across the deck with velocity enough to cause painful impact. As the blackened sky, the ocean too began to kick up. Obsidian waves began to break against the carrier and the captain was forced to turn her into the rolling sea. The cruiser USS Anzio, riding shotgun for Ike, frequently dove her nose into the breaking sea and washed her deck. Visibility in the rain was reduced to less than a mile.
The fury of the weather soon gave way, the sky lightened from ashy charcoal to a ghostly grey overcast that sprinkled softly on the ships below. The sea, however, was slower to respond to the changes, and so the two mighty vessels continued to ride the waves. But the rain had lightened, the weather had stabilized, the carrier was just over a hundred miles from Oceana. Now was as good a time as any to go flying.
Into this carrier pilots' nightmare, twenty-three aircraft from the different squadrons and their crews were dropped onto the impromptu flight schedule for an evening of pitching deck exercise. They would be launched just after sunset and begin recovery thirty minutes later at night and with poor visibility.
Brian Wiley was among those chosen to fly that evening and it was just these conditions that he stepped out onto the flight deck. Immediately within his vision, an SH-60 Seahawk helicopter was being prepared for flight on the number 4 elevator.
Now, with something as large as an aircraft carrier, the perception is often that the vessel is at rights and the rest of the world moves around it. So Wiley's sensitive machine inner ear must have been fooling him when he looked beyond the deck of the ship and saw no horizon there. The world shifted around the ship, and the glossy grey sea rose into view with startling rapidness so high that the horizon line was above the rotor mast of the helicopter. The line hovered for a second, towering over the helicopter, then sank away again with similar speed until he could see only pink sky once more.
And he was going flying in this.
He had done pitching deck before, down in the Roaring 40s in the Indian Ocean when he had flown as part of CVW-11 off the Nimitz. It had been tense then, he remembered. It was not an experience he would willingly repeat.
This was an unforeseen obstacle. He would have to overcome it, or he would fail.
Up in Primary Flight Control, or Pri-Fly, the Air Boss, the officer responsible for all operations on and around the flight deck, checked the spotting plan and launch choreography one last time with his direct assistant, the Mini Boss, and his subordinates. They all gathered around a table that represented a model of the flight deck with colored counters shaped like the various aircraft and with their callsigns written on them. With practiced hands, they followed the plan, determined any flaws or last minute hiccups, and modified it as necessary. Satisfied that they could get their twenty-three planes off the deck without a hitch, the Air Boss called starts away, and the gaggle of Navy aircraft wound up their engines and prepared to go flying.
The jet blast deflector lowered, giving Wiley a view of the final seconds of an EA-6Bs catapult shot. He was out on Catapult 4, the farthest waist catapult and his least favorite, as it was the closest to the deck edge and steering to it could be nerve-wracking.
The catapult officer bid him to come forward and he did so, rolling over the now retracted JBD and onto the track. His launch bar was fed into the shuttle, and his jet was brought to tension. He was given the signal to go to full power, and so he cycled the throttle into zone five afterburner. The shock cones licked the blast deflector as the engines roared. Wiley saluted and set his hands on the handles.
On a three-count, the catapult fired. The steam pressure rushed the jet down the track. As he rode the catapult and accelerated, the ship pitched down suddenly in the ocean and Wiley saw the horizon seem to rise up at the deck. As he left the track, his jet was pointed at the water. He pulled the stick back to raise the nose, and after a short and perhaps even frightening dip, the Hornet began generating positive altitude.
Wiley had almost been shot into the water.
Once the launch had concluded, the captain of the Eisenhower poured himself some coffee. As was required by congressional order, the captain of a US Navy carrier was a former aviator, a man who would understand the risks involved in flying from a ship. The Ike's commanding officer was no different. As he made his way back to his chair with his steaming mug and looked out over the flight deck, he did not envy the flyers who were out there now.
Setting his cup down, he donned a headset and spoke into the microphone. "Prep the waist and make a ready deck!" The voice boomed across the flight deck of the carrier, commanding the crew to make preparations to recover aircraft.
In the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center, the air controllers were making preparations for the operation. The officer of the watch was conferring with representative aviators from each of the squadrons. These individuals would remind the air controllers the capabilities of the aircraft and speak for the squadron in the controlled chaos of the room.
The primary controller, a red-headed woman with the rank of ensign, called up to the flight deck, the Roof as it was frequently called, to the LSO platform. "Good evening Paddles," she said in her cheery southern voice, "happy Case 3."
The Landing Signal Officer chuckled at the joke, "yeah. Happy Case 3 indeed." Case 3 referred to the severity of recovery situation; a collection of weather patterns, visibility restrictions, and hour of day that in hand determined the appropriate measures the aircraft and crew would be taking to ensure the best safety. In a Case 3 situation, visibility is poor due to weather or night conditions and aircraft make a straight-in approach instead of following the break pattern. No one is fond of operating in a Case 3 recovery situation, least of all the LSO, the Paddles, who is responsible for judging the approaches of each aircraft and either waving them aboard or waving them off to make another try.
"Okay," the red-head ensign told him, "we're going to bring in a Queer first."
"Alright." His first customer, the EA-6B Prowler electronic warfare aircraft. An evolution of the old A-6 Intruder, it had a nice, slow approach speed and an easy recovery profile, even in this bullshit.
The flight controller called up the Prowler. "Patriot 505, push Marshall. Case Three recovery."
"505 is pushing." Far out in the wake of the ship, the EA-6B rolled out of the spiraling left-hand turn and began decreasing altitude. In the cockpit, the world beyond the canopy was a black void occasionally illuminated to hazy nothing as the navigation lights flashed. The altitude scroll on the HUD passed below five thousand feet. They had still not exited the clouds. "Patriot 505 at angels five," the pilot stated as he eased the descent to a decline of two thousand feet per minute.
"Roger 505. Keep her coming. Tell us when you exit the clag."
Time passed, and the aircraft was now ten miles from the ship. The pilot put the jet in landing configuration; gear and hook down, flaps down, and speed brakes out. "505, ten miles, angels one-point-two." They were at twelve hundred feet now, and still not clear. The pilot followed procedure and leveled his descent here.
In the CATCC, the ensign waited for anything further before glancing at a colleague. "That ceiling is lower than what the met report was anticipating. Can you call down and check for me. I don't want any of the nuggets coming out of that cloudbank and into the water." She then cleared an F/A-18E to push.
Patriot 505 was now at six miles and was descending to six-hundred feet. The Rhino behind him, Tap 111, would soon hit the ten mile mark.
"Met is saying the ceiling's gone down to about cherubs five or so. The bottom is kinda ragged, like."
The controller rolled her eyes. "Great. No, meteorology, don't bother telling us about alterations in the weather. We only have two dozen planes in the air. Christ almighty!" Her attention returned to the jet under her direction. "Patriot 505, three miles. Call your needles."
The pilot checked the horizontal and vertical lines projected on his HUD to check how they lined up. If they made a cross in the center of the HUD with the velocity vector centered over them, then he was lined up just right. They were off, but that was not an indication that he was. "505, needles are high and right."
A moment for the controller to check the radar plotting for him, then "505, concur needles. Fly mode two." The instruments were correct. He could rely on them. At one and a quarter miles, Patriot 505 began to commence his landing descent. As he passed four hundred feet he was a mile from the ship. Suddenly, the crew was treated with a view of the world below them. The boat was a small, twinkling shape against a wallowing darkness. The difference between sea and sky was undetectable.
"505 has exited the clag at cherubs three-point-eight."
"Patriot 505, three quarters of a mile. Call the ball."
"Patriot 505, Prowler, Ball, fuel state nine-point-four," the pilot replied, indicating that he had the Optical Landing System in sight and that he had ninety-four hundred pounds of fuel aboard.
"Roger ball," this time it was the LSO that responded, and he set the Optical Landing System to project for an EA-6B. The information about the approaching jet was relayed down to the arresting officer, who commanded the gear be set to recover an EA-6B Prowler weighing just over forty thousand pounds with the fuel aboard. If not enough tension was set, the airplane would not be stopped before it reached the deck edge and plunged into the water; too much and the tail hook would fail, and the airplane would be lost anyway.
In the cockpit, the pilot looked at the OLS and felt a shudder. The OLS was made up of a series of lights and mirrors. The primary focus was a central vertical stack of yellow fiber optic source lights projected through lenses. Each of these was visible only at a particular angle and would appear from a distance to be a yellow dot somewhere in the vertical field. This was referred to as the meatball, or ball. At the point were the meatball would indicate the perfect glide slope for the approaching aircraft, a horizontal bar of green datum lights branched from each side. If the aircraft was on a perfect approach, the meatball would hover in the center of this green line. Bracketing the meatball above and below the datum lights were the wave-off signals. These red lights would flash if the LSO wanted the aircraft the abort for any reason. At the moment when the pilot was looking at this contraption, the meatball was undulating high above and then deep below the datum lights.
"God, the ship is really moving," the Electronic Countermeasures officer in the front right seat noticed. The comment further made the pilot's stomach sink. He was responsible for his own life and the lives of three other men. If he fucked this up…
"You're a little fast," the LSO signaled. He knew this because on the nose gear of the Prowler, and of all Navy jets, was a set of approach indicator lights, red, yellow, and green, that told the LSO whether the approaching plane was slow, on speed, or fast. The pilot responded by retarding his throttles as the landing lane disappeared from view as the stern of the ship rose to meet him.
"Jesus Christ!" the ECMO gasped. And then the stern reached its apex and began to settle again. As the Prowler crossed the ramp, the deck seemed to be sinking away from them. Wheels reached out for the deck and found it. The pilot pulled his speed brakes in and went to full throttle. This was standard procedure whether he had snagged a wire or not. This case proved why, as the jet had come down too far forward to catch any of the recover wires. The Prowler flew off the end of the landing lane and back into the sky. Viewers were treated to a trail of sparks as it passed, the tail hook skipping on the deck.
"Bolter, bolter, bolter," the LSO shouted, indicating what the pilot already knew; that the jet had failed to catch any wires.
Patriot 505 rolled into a twenty-five degree banking left turn and the pilot was directed into the bolter pattern, to be inserted into the landing pattern again when possible. The LSO barked his notes on the approach to his assistant, who marked down the grade for the pass on his clipboard.
Even as the Prowler was sent on its way for another try, Tap 111 was exiting the cloud bank now for a pass. "Tap 111, Rhino, Ball, fuel state nine-point-two." And the process began again. The OLS and recovery tensions were set. The Super Hornet had entered the approach low, and the LSO corrected him, but the pilot overcorrected and went high. He was unable to bring the power back off on time and boltered to be sent into the pattern with the Prowler.
The next aircraft was a legacy hornet from VFA-131, callsigned Wildcat 401. The pilot's ILS needles were off, and so he was flying mode 3, a full talk-down. He also boltered and was sent into the pattern.
In CATCC, the ceiling shuddered with every landing attempt, and the sound of jet noise thundered overhead. The compartment was directly below the flight deck, and the men and women here were all to aware of any success or failure on the roof.
"This is depressing," the air traffic controller sighed as the deck camera slewed to follow the roaring Hornet. Another of her colleagues agreed. She chatted with the pilot of Wildcat 401 about the bolter pattern, told Victory 205 to call the ball, and then gave Tap 106 the signal to push.
Victory 205 was an F/A-18F assigned to VFA-103, and the pilot was a nugget having only just weeks ago first carrier qualified in the type. The deck began to drop away as he crossed the ramp and he dumped too much throttle in an effort to correct. 205 came down between the three and four wires hard enough to bounce. Yet another bolter. Yet another jet sent into the pattern.
Tap 106 didn't even make it to the deck. He overcorrected one too many times and was waved off a quarter mile from the ship. The bolter/wave-off pattern now had five jets in it. The recovery tanker was going to be busy tonight.
505's sister ship, Patriot 502, came down to make a recovery attempt. The pilot was rock solid and his approach was sound, but just as his wheels touched the deck, the ship dropped out from under him and he bounced over the wires and boltered.
Three more aircraft made attempts and the attempts came out as two more bolters and another wave-off.
"Bluetail 601, three-quarters of a mile. Call the ball."
"Bluetail 601, Hummer, Ball, fuel state eight-point-eight." Bluetail 601 was an E-2C Hawkeye. A turbo-prop driven radar plane, the Hawkeye was a gentle and responsive aircraft. The pilot kept the throttle at the low end of her aircraft's recovery speed, giving her maximum time in the approach. The spare seconds gave her a good ability to judge the oscillation of the deck, and with a little assistance from the LSO, she was able to level her descent just enough to catch the deck on the upswing. 601's tail hook snagged the number two wire and even as the turboprops ran to full power, the big aircraft slowed to a halt.
When the plane stopped, the pilot pulled her throttles back. A hook runner jogged out and shoved the wire out of the hook, and the steel cable squirmed across the deck and back into position. The Hawkeye killed its navigation lights and folded its wings as it steered clear of the landing lane. The pilot was directed forward into a parking spot by the island superstructure, and halted just as Victory 211 boltered.
There were now nine aircraft in the bolter/wave-off pattern, twelve in the recovery pattern, and the recovery tanker. That was twenty-two aircraft aloft. This was going to be a long, hard recovery.
"How much gas do we have aloft?" the ship's captain asked. After a quick check, the answer came back as twenty-four hundred pounds. Not much. Enough to tank top off about half of what was airborne. The air plan should have had more…
In the cockpit of Rampage 302, Brian Wiley was keeping his own track of the situation. At an altitude of twelve thousand feet, he was deeply buried in the clag and had to rely on his instruments to keep his gentle left-hand turn. He was number twenty in the landing pattern, and was hoping that maybe the weather would clear up a little or that the seas would calm down before he had to make his approach. It was becoming more and more apparent that the choice to fly in this weather was a foolish one.
Right now, Wiley was listening as a fellow Rampager was making his approach. He had just called the ball and was being given corrections by the LSO.
"A little power, 305," the LSO chimed. While Wiley could not see it, he could easily imagine with the human parts of his mind the F/A-18C approaching, a little low in the slope. "Power." The LSO was more firm this time. "Back it off a little," the pilot had apparently overcorrected. He should be crossing the ramp right about now. "Bolter, bolter, bolter!" And that made ten in the bolter pattern.
Patriot 505, the airplane that had begun all this mess, had been inserted into the pattern again behind Rampage 305. The pilot had been snakebit by his first, frightening approach and stayed above the glideslope this time. He was waved off before the ramp, too high to even make a play for the deck.
The ensign in CATCC let out a frustrated grumble and directed him back into the bolter pattern. She added "trick or treat, 505." Navy aircraft kept enough fuel on board during landing to make three attempts, after which they would have to tank. Trick or treat meant that the next pass required that 505 either land or go to the tanker and get enough gas for another three tries.
She then told one of the other controllers "tell Victory 214 to keep the hawk on 505." Keeping the hawk was assigning a tanker to pay attention to a particular aircraft and keep appraised of its fuel state.
Another F/A-18E, Tap 100, came in. The pilot was keeping a tight eye on the OLS and a loose hand on the throttle, trying to average out the glide slope. In the end he needed to add some power, and he did just enough to carry him clear of the ramp but not over the wires. He caught the three wire and rolled to a stop. Directed into a parking spot, he had to sit for a time before his knees stopped shaking enough to stand up.
A cheer went up in CATCC. The first fast-jet recovery of the night was celebrated with high fives and slaps on the back. Twenty-one left to go.
And it was going to be an arduous affair. Tap 111 boltered his second pass, and so Victory 214 was keeping a hawk on two jets now. There were two more recoveries interspersed between several bolters and a few wave-offs, but the number of aircraft aloft had dipped below twenty.
"302, push," The CATCC controller now sounded weary, but having fourteen airplanes in the wave-off pattern and having to keep track of that was tiring. Wiley rolled out of his gentle turn and began his descent towards the carrier. Ahead of him, another drama was playing out.
Wildcat 401 was on his second pass now, and he just wanted to get down. Instead of keeping an eye on the ball like he was supposed to, he spotted the deck, which is extremely dangerous. Deck spotting involves the pilot using his own judgments and estimation instead of the vital instruments at his disposal to reckon his approach.
"401, a little power," the LSO signaled. The pilot did not respond. "A little power," the LSO said more firmly. The pilot added a touch, but 401 was still well below slope. The stern of the massive carrier reached its perigee and began to climb again, and the pilot of Wildcat 401 realized a little too late his error. He added throttle and pulled his nose up, another error, and came down hard just aft of the wires. His aircraft bounced and the left main tire blew out with the hit. The F/A-18 was riding on its rim and there was an extra rush of sparks as the airplane flew off the angled deck and back into the bolter pattern.
"CATCC, Paddles, tell 401 he blew a tire," the LSO said as he let go of the pickle trigger for the Optical Landing System. The wave-off lights began to flash, indicating for all approaching aircraft to abort.
"Did he really?" came the exasperated question, "God damn it."
"Yeah, he was spotting the deck I think."
"Okay, I'll tell him."
Meanwhile, the captain ordered a combat FOD walkdown to ensure that there was no debris that might be sucked into a jet engine and cause damage. A line of deck crewmen formed quickly at the bow and walked aft, shoulder to shoulder, with flashlights looking for anything that might do harm to one of their airplanes.
"Ninety-nine, Crisco," the controller now used the airborne signal for all to pay attention. Crisco was the boat's callsign, "fouled deck. Combat FOD in progress. We'll be another five minutes. Hang tight."
By now, Wiley had just called his needles, which were precisely aligned. He was looking forward to getting down, and putting this risky evolution behind him. He came out of the clouds to see the flashing wave-off lights. Blowing out a long breath, he pulled in his speed brakes and ramped up his throttle. He was ushered into the bolter/wave-off pattern with the rest of them.
Scanning about him, he counted the other aircraft in the bolter pattern and joined in, leveling out on his upwind course and waiting until he was in a position to be returned to a landing approach.
On the Ike's deck, one of the sailors found a large hunk of rubber tread, but the walkdown line had made it to the ramp without anything further. Operations returned quickly to normal. The crewmen were rewarded for their fast action with a wave-off.
"We've gotta start making some recoveries." The ensign grumbled after she directed her latest charge into the pattern. "Patriot 505, push." She ended the transmission and added, "and for the love of God, recover please."
"I think he needs some of your mojo," the chief of the deck chuckled.
"Please," the ensign replied, "the way it's been lately, if I didn't have bad luck I wouldn't have any."
Patriot 505 came in again, called the ball, and overshot into his final, going off center by about ten feet. He tried to rudder it out but couldn't correct in time and was waved again. The controller vectored him to the awaiting tanker for some more gas.
Tap 111 was next, and everyone in CATCC had their fingers crossed. His approach was very nice, and the ship was starting to settle down a little. His hook skipped over two wires, but he caught the number four and ground to a halt.
"Jesus, look at this," an airman in CATCC pointed to a screen, "we've got thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen bolters or wave-offs tonight. With just five recoveries."
The ensign shot him a glare, "if you're trying to cheer me up, you're failing."
"Why do we even fly in this weather when we don't have to?"
"So we know how to do it when we do have to," answered one of the squadron reps.
"Victory 205, three-quarters of a mile. Call the ball."
"Victory 205, Rhino, ball, fuel state six-point-seven."
"Roger ball. You're high, lose some power." The F/A-18F settled too much. "A little power, now. Little more. Hold what you got." Bare seconds later, the number of recoveries counted six.
After a beautiful pass, the deck dropped away from Tap 106 at the last second and he boltered. The hawk was put on him, too. Rampage 305 made an ugly approach that was all over the place, and he was waved off to be hawked as well. A third aircraft in a row failed its second pass next, and so the tanker was hawking now four jets.
Patriot 505 had managed to rendezvous with the tanker in the clouds. The pilot had plugged in on the first go. With fuel came courage and confidence. Back in the pattern behind five other failed passes, he rolled in just right on the ball and made a smooth pass, trusting his instruments. He managed to ignore the rolling deck, as he appeared to be first high above and the ship and then aimed at the stern. He crossed the ramp high just as the stern swung back up to meet him. The ship caught him between the one and two wires, and the tail hook caught number two. As soon as he parked, he allowed his head to drop into his hands. He would be plenty happy now to just crawl into a hole somewhere, have an aneurism, and die.
Wildcat 401 was up again, and his pass started badly and ended badly. The pilot insisted on leaning into his good tire and that affected his already pitiful approach. 401 was waved off again and was sent to the tanker.
Wiley noticed the recovery pattern had gotten thrown into disarray. Boltered and waved airplanes had been interspersed back into the recovering pattern and the original order had been demolished. It did happen, but it was all the more nerve-wracking that the controlled part of the controlled chaos seemed to be breaking down. Soon enough, it was his turn again, and he began his approach badly, tucking in too much to the left and losing too much altitude out of his turn. As he called the ball, he made his corrections. The ship dipped without warning and suddenly he was staring at the back of the ship. His airplane was going to go into the back of the ship. The terminator added power, too much, as the stern sank just as he felt the collision was immanent and he ended up too high, touching down to far forward for a bolter. He steered back into the bolter pattern.
"302, come left to course two-niner-zero upwind. Enter the radial at ten miles and hold for push. Trick or treat."
The red-headed ensign sipped on a mug of coffee, but her eyes were wide. "That was the scariest pass I've seen all night. Even with 401 blowing a tire, he didn't almost go into the back of the ship."
"He overcorrected," another officer said, shaking a head, "if he'd held his power, he would have been right in the spaghetti."
The controller glanced at her colleague with a crinkled cheek. "How about we have you pointed at the back of the boat going a buck-fifty and see what you do."
"I woulda rode it out."
"Yeah, right. Get some wings and then talk all you want. Victory 214, keep the hawk on 302."
"Another one?" 214's WSO responded impatiently.
"Yes, another one," the controller shook her head after cutting the transmission, "Jeez, everyone wants to lip me tonight. I'm gonna have to knock some heads."
Two more made it down and there was another wave-off. The wave was no fault of the pilot, but the LSO judged that sudden movements of the ship was putting the approach in danger and aborted it.
Wildcat 401 made it around again, and what started as a very solid approach quickly turned sour as he made hypercorrections and was waved off again. It was becoming obvious that 401's pilot was getting frustrated, embarrassed, and scared.
Another Prowler managed to make the deck after an ugly pass, coming in almost too low and catching the four wire. At least they were down, though, which is more than could be said for a number of their comrades.
Yet another recovery was made, and the aircraft was too slow getting out of the landing lane, so Wiley was waved off. He climbed out of his aborted approach.
"Rampage 302, Texaco is on a radial bearing zero-three-zero for fifteen, angels ten. Let us know when you're topped off and well put you back in the pattern."
"302," Wiley replied, steering for Victory 214. As he climbed up into the clouds heading for the tanker, he heard the next aircraft make a successful trap. The following aircraft was also successful. At last, it seemed the tempo of landing was settling back into a sort of order.
"Wildcat 401, three-quarters of a mile. Call the ball."
"Wildcat 401, Hornet, Ball, seven-point-one. Blown main tire."
"Roger ball, you're a little high." The aviator retarded his throttles a touch, and added a half degree nose up. "Steady." He was still leaning on the bad tire. If he hit too hard, he could damage or collapse the main mount. The leveled and watched the ball oscillate over the datum lights. The LSO had really gotten used to bringing down aircraft in time with the rolling of the ship. "A little power now, not much." Just a touch of throttle. Wildcat 401 crossed the ramp as the deck rose up, just a little more slowly than expected. The tires still had six inches to the deck when the tail hook snatched the three wire. The fighter was brought down a little roughly, and the rim sparked with fiery menace, but the airplane stopped this time!
Wiley had to turn his radar on in order to track Victory 214 through the clouds, but he found the tanker just as an F/A-18F was topping off from it. He shut down the radar again as he pulled up onto the left wing of the other fighter. In the dark haze, the Super Hornet was an eerie shadow clad in red and green halos of light. The currently tanking aircraft was just now backing out of the basket and turning away.
Just barely visible through the haze, the skull and crossbones on the tail of the tanker grinned at him as he slid into position. Again, in a dire moment, he had come across that symbol. The human parts of him recognized it as a possible sign, an omen. But his machine self was quick to summon its logical powers. Omens and superstitions were human frailties, nothing more. The only forces plotting against him were those of the resistance. It would be absurd to think on them further.
He plugged in on the first try tonight. There was no jousting with the basket as with the previous occasion. He wasn't even really that low on fuel yet. He allowed himself a chuckle of mirth as the probe clicked into place. Omens, bah!
His fuel gauge hadn't budged.
"214, 302, are you pumping?"
"302, negative. Back out and we'll recycle it."
"Roger that." It was okay. Just a minor technical difficulty.
"Okay, 302, bring it back in." Wiley plugged in again. The indicator light on the buddy store turned green, but he was getting no fuel. Not this again…
"Still nothing, 214."
"Damn it. Okay, hold tight. Crisco, Victory 214, we are sour."
"214, Crisco, say again please, your transmission was garbled."
"Victory 214 has a sour package, Crisco. Maybe the valves got damaged when the last guy backed out. How many planes are still up?"
"We've got all but five, 214. The catapults on the bow are covered with parked aircraft. We won't be able to shoot another tanker until this recovery cycle is over. Who do you have?"
"We've got Rampage 302 with us. He's… I don't know. 302, what's your fuel state?"
Again, humans with their inefficient chatter! If this had been a Skynet operation, the problem would have been communicated and resolved by now. Wiley interjected, "214, I'm willing to try it one more time." If he were only a man, he might have conceded that he wasn't having a lot of luck behind the tankers lately.
"Okay, 302. Crisco, we're going to give it one more try."
Wiley slid forward and hit the basket again. The probe clicked in, the light turned green, and… fuel began to flow into his tanks.
"Oh, well there it goes. Crisco, 214 again. It's working now." Fifteen hundred pounds of fuel transferred into Wiley's airplane when the light on the store went red again. "Christ. Crisco, 214 again. The package started working and cut out on us after fifteen hundred pounds. I'm calling this one a definite sour."
"Roger that, 214. 302, how are you for gas?"
Wiley did some quick calculations. "I should be fine for one more pass, Crisco. Maybe two if I manage it right."
"Okay, 302, bring her in. We've only got three more of you to recover."
The terminator backed his F/A-18 away from the tanker and made a gentle turn for the carrier. Within minutes he was in the landing pattern again. One more jet had been recovered, and so it was just Wiley and the soured tanker left.
"Rampage 302, three miles. Call needles."
"302, needles center and center."
"Disregard 302. Fly mode three." Mode 3, the most external input, talked down by someone outside the jet. Not using his ILS. He should have passed through the cloud bank by now. Had they gotten lower? Was he in the middle of some kind of wall or column? Had some fog blown in that they hadn't told him about.
"302, three-quarters of a mile. Call the ball." He was less than a mile from the ship! And he still could not see it.
"Rampage 302, Hornet, clara, three-point-four." Clara was the indicator that he was unable to see the Optical Landing System.
On the platform, the LSO's shoulders drooped for a second. This was going to be interesting. The pilot of 302 couldn't even make out the OLS, and the Landing Signal Officer could not see 302 either. He looked over his shoulder and to his surprise was unable to see very far beyond the landing lane. They had gone into a fog bank so suddenly he had not even really noticed, having spent so much of his time looking at an already black sky.
Wiley was at two hundred feet, and had yet to spot the ship, somewhere a half-mile ahead of him. He was maintaining the perfect approach slope, and had even calculated his trajectory on the known movement range of the ship deck. This might have otherwise been cheating, but it was going to take even his machine talents to get down now.
Suddenly, out of nowhere the back of the ship appeared. It was right there! The stern was just now hitting its wallowing apex. If it held there he would be breaking the jet in half at the round down, and his mission would end in a fiery ball of failure. The OLS was plainly visible now, telling him with precise lighting that he was well inside the danger zone. He pulled in a deep breath, too shocked to be frightened, too electrified with adrenaline for his machine self to control.
The stern settled and began to sink away from him. His main gear wheels cleared the ramp by less than a foot, and still the landing lane sank away. But he was sinking with it, drifting downward, over the one wire, and over the two wire. The sinking stopped and his tail hook tinged off the top of the three wire. Wheels found the deck. The tail hook skipped in a shower of sparks. Wiley brought in his speed brakes and shoved his throttles to the stops. The GE-404 engines spooled up to full power as the fighter rolled across the deck, twin vortices of fog curling in its wake. The tail hook whipped back down and grabbed the number four wire.
Rampage 302 began to slow as the cable paid out, the tension in the line braking the roaring Hornet and bringing it to a safe if shuddering stop.
Perhaps it was the adrenaline affecting his biological parts. Perhaps it was the heightened awareness and processing speed provided by his machine implants, Wiley wasn't sure, but everything was happening in slow motion. A yellow-shirt was running up to his nose, giving him the cut signal, and he complied, taking a moment to feel the realness of the hard, rounded shape of the throttle levers. It felt as if it took an abnormal amount of energy to pull them back to idle.
The captain's voice boomed even over the whine of the jet engines. "Get that plane moved! We've still got one more!" Wiley retracted his hook and flaps, turned off his nav lights, and flipped the switch to fold his wings. He goosed the throttle as he was directed to a spot on the deck to shut down.
He had made it. He had made it. Only his implant-induced reflexes could be responsible for his success. If he had been a human being, his aircraft would have slammed into the back of the ship. He would have been… terminated. And that thought made him shudder momentarily. He was at least human enough to allow for that.
As he parked the aircraft and shut down his engines, Wiley told himself that it was the possibility of failure and not fear for his life that made him shudder. His mission was everything.
He would complete it tomorrow.
So focused on his mission was the cyborg that he hardly noticed Victory 214 make a perfect approach and land with no trouble.
...
I'm going to admit, I don't really like this chapter. I didn't enjoy writing it, especially the last half. It's big, it's technical, it doesn't advance the plot very much, and it takes focus away from Cameron and John. But… I felt it necessary to put Wiley in danger again for dramatic purposes, dangling in front of you that futile hope that he might just get killed by accident and everyone can go about their merry way.