She was totally the best pilot on the ship. Still night traps were scary. Mary Anne had told her that it was like you’re in a car without headlights going 150 miles an hour down a narrow, dark road toward a one-car garage illuminated by a single light bulb. If you get through the garage door, your car will stop automatically. And the garage is moving around.

Tonight you have to hit the garage in a rain storm.

Tonight her first try had better be good if she didn’t want a swim in the Pacific Ocean. In her flight suit. She had only a couple of hundred pounds of fuel left – air boss had delayed her till the end because he had confidence in her.

"N3212, Hornet" she says. She glances at the console in front of her, checks her speed, makes sure that the landing gear and flaps are in position and the arresting gear is down; "ball," she adds, indicating that she can see the glidescope, indicator. "Three hundred pounds," she concludes, meaning that she hasn’t much fuel left."

"Roger ball," the LSO replies.

Drat! That amadon again, the only one of them left that thinks its funny to haze a woman flyer as she’s trying to land. Just her luck to get him for a night trap in foul weather.

All of them had hazed a woman officer on another ship, the first woman to fly off a carrier deck. They waved her off on what might have been good traps and let her land on dangerous ones. Finally, they waved her off seriously and she didn’t believe them and she tried for the trap and got herself killed.

Murdered would be a better word.

She adjusts the controls rapidly and skillfully to keep the amber ball on the side of the deck aligned with the row of green lights.

"A little two high," the LSO tells her.

She’s not too high at all. She’s never too high.

Fifteen seconds.

"Foul deck," he shouts, "wave off."

She slams the throttle forward and soars over the ship and back into the dark and rainy night.

"Want to try it again?" the air boss asks lightly.

"Was the deck really foul?"

"Will worry about that when you’re down."

"Roger."

She goes through the routine again.

"Roger ball," he says with a laugh in his voice.

The garage is swaying more, the light bulb is dimmer. She juggles the wheel a bit. The ball is right on.

"A little too low this time, Hornet."

She ignores him.

Air speed 150, any slower and the Hornet stalls.

"Still too low," the LSO shouts.

The heck if she is.

Her aircraft hits the deck with a jolt, rolls forward at 150 knots, she feels the three wire catch the tail hook and jams the throttle forward. An invisible hand pulls the Hornet down to the deck and slams it motionless. She pulls back the throttle. The wire releases her and, like a dangerous snake slips back into place.

Perfect trap. Naturally. Still the best pilot on the ship. "Nice to have you back," the air boss says, relief in his voice.

"N 3212, all the way up front," deck traffic control tells her, "three slot. Get it out of there."

Man with a rotten disposition.

She begins to taxi forward and away from the landing deck, though there are no planes after her.

The engine flames out.

"3212, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Traffic demands, "I said get it out of there."

"You put in some fuel and I will," she tells him. "Otherwise send a tug." "Roger," he backs off, knowing that they could have had a disaster on their hands if she had flamed out ten seconds before the trap.

"Air boss, are you still there?"

"That’s affirmative."

"Was the deck fouled?"

Hesitation.

"It didn’t look that way to me."

The tug hooked on to the nose landing gear.

"Would you send a message up to the skipper for me?"

"CAG?"

"No, the big skipper, the one they call Speedy."

"If it’s not obscene."

"I am NEVER obscene; you know that."

"What’s the message?"

"Tell him I’m turning in my wings tonight unless he gets that would-be murderer off this ship."

"Roger," air boss says.

He doesn’t doubt her for a minute.

He’d better not.

Articles | Messages | Author | Homilies
Previews | Mailbox Newsletters | Home

Andrew M. Greeley © 1995-2004
All Rights Reserved
Questions & Comments: Webmaster