Night Trap. Gordon Kent

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       2

      0625 Zulu. Mid-Atlantic.

      Alan clenched his teeth. Even in the back end, the light as they came out of the squall had dazzled him, yet he had stayed braced. Then, the failure to stop had tricked his senses; he had even leaned into his harness as if the hook had caught. Now, as they came off the bow, he felt the plane falling. Light vanished; everything was blackness and electronic green. And then, climbing agonizingly away from the black water as if crawling out of a hole, he felt Christine decide not to kill them.

      “Bolter, bolter,” Craw muttered.

      “Shut up!” Rafe bellowed.

      “Hookslap?” Narc said.

      “It wasn’t my lens.” Rafe was incapable of dishonesty, at least about flying—and at least to another pilot. He cut the back end off the intercom and said to Narc, “It wasn’t my boat! Fuck, fuck fuck fuck FUCK. Twelve hundred pounds of fucking fuel left! We gotta land on the wrong fucking boat!”

      On the flight deck, the Landing Signal Officer was already jabbering to Pri-Fly, where a paunchy commander in a yellow jersey with “Miniboss” across the chest was staring into the rain.

      “What the hell?” the Miniboss (the Assistant Air Officer) moaned.

      “It was an S-3. We haven’t got an S-3 up.”

      “You sure? You better be sure!”

      “I’m sure.”

      Miniboss turned away from his bubble window and muttered, “Well, I’m not,” and he hollered at a lieutenant he didn’t know to check the sheets for an outstanding S-3. Had they got the goddam count wrong or what? And while you’re at it get somebody up here who knows S-3s even if you have to wake the squadron’s skipper because that sonofabitch is going to come around again; and he said into his mike to the LSO, “What’s he going to do?”

      “We’re under EMCON; I’m not in contact.”

      “The way I read it, he’s from the Jefferson. Get his fuel load.”

      “We’re under EMCON.”

      “Well, get out from under! Set the lens for an S-3 and find if he can get back to his own boat! If he can’t, prepare to receive.” He turned away to order somebody to keep the Combat Air Patrol airborne until it was over; get their fuel and estimated time aloft; while you’re at it—

      The LSO had already had the lens reset. He was already prepared to receive. He had expected to recover two F-18-As; the lens had been set for them. He imagined the S-3 catching a wire set for the much lighter F-18-A and winced.

      All in a night’s work.

      Rafe caught the flare of lights that signaled him to try again. Narc had talked on the ball to the LSO and told him that their fuel was down. So, the worst was going to happen: he, LT George Rafehausen, veteran carrier pilot, sometime wingman of the squadron skipper, was going to land on the wrong boat. Rafe blew out his breath in disgust.

      This time he kept it simple. By the numbers. He gentled Christine into the approach. His angle of attack was perfect. At least he’d make a good landing.

      Then he watched as the carrier began to turn.

      He had to chase the turn. His numbers went out the window. They were turning away from the squall to help him, but that made no odds to him. Why weren’t things ever easy?

      “Smoke in the tunnel,” Spy’s voice said over the intercom.

      There was a break, then Senior’s voice: “Tape’s still turning. Friction fire. Gawdamned Christine.” Then, “I’ll get it.”

      The brightness of the deck was close.

      “No time,” Rafe said. “Senior, stay strapped; I’m putting this sucker down.”

      Rafe coughed as the smoke hit him. Why wasn’t he wearing his mask? His eyes watered. This time he kept the carrier in sight. He had his landing well in hand again; he could feel it. Again the light hit him, and then the deck reached up and slammed the plane.

      His angle was too steep. Not by much, just some instant’s inattention in the fumes. Too steep and too soon, and the tail smashed the deck just forward of the one wire. Bitched. Rafe felt it and was into high power, and the plane shot off into the looming dark.

      Another bolter. He couldn’t believe it.

      The LSO was already on to Pri-Fly. “Hook snapped,” he said.

      “Oh, shit.”

      “Readying the net.”

      “Understood.”