nice narrative........thanx......



On Dec 20, 6:44*am, "B.C. MALLAM" wrote:
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *Night *Carrier Qualifications
A *Navy pilot's tale of his first landing on the boat in the dark.

As the last guys *finish their dinner, we all look at each other with similar
glances. Not a *word needs to be said but everyone is thinking the exact same
thing. The *expressions say it all. It's time to walk upstairs and play ball.
We've been *preparing ourselves for this for years now, and it's what sets a
Naval Aviator *apart from every other pilot in the world. If you can't do it,
the years of *training leading up to this point are no good to you. As one of
our paddles *said, if you can't succeed at this you're useless to us as a
Hornet pilot *because we fly, and fight, in the dark. We have to go land this
thing on the *boat Š at night.
We've all been *behind the boat during the day. You do it in the training
command in the *mighty T-45. It's nerve-wracking the first few times, but once
you get over *the initial nerves and start getting the hang of operating
around the ship *becomes a lot of fun. Day CQ in the Hornet was even better.
We'd all been here *before and were looking forward to coming back. Landing on
the boat is what we *do as Naval Aviators. It's one of the most amazing things
you can experience, *yet it's one of the smallest clubs in aviation. It's
something you can20do *well, but never perfect. Every single pass is critiqued
by the Landing Signal *Officers (LSOs), and you're graded no matter what your
rank or who you are. *Being good around the boat is what everyone prides
themselves on. Now it was *our turn. Time to really join the club, and prove
that we can do this safely, *with the sun down.
We all walk upstairs *with the normal banter and ribbing that's become the
norm, poking fun at each *other and cracking jokes. Up several decks we get to
our level and make our *way to the ready room. On the television the deck
cameras are up and we can *all see that it really is game time. The airplane
guard helo is gone (meaning *airborne), and it's dark. How dark isn't quite
apparent *yet.
*I take one *last look at the line up, double-check my jet assignment and walk
to *maintenance control like I've done hundreds of times before this. A quick
flip *through the book and a few jokes with the Chief gets me familiar with
prior *gripes to possibly expect with my particular jet, then I head to the
paraloft. *It's business as usual below decks. If you never get outside you
can really *lose track of what the world out there is doing, but it's at the
forefront of *my mind tonight. I suit up in my flight gear as normal, make
sure I've got my *cl ear nighttime visor on my helmet, and I'm off. The walk
through the ship is *very typical until I finally hit the catwalk hatch taking
me outside. It's *dark.
I stand still for a *second after securing the hatch to let my eyes adjust to
the darkness, and the *hint of yellow sodium vapor lighting from the island.
It takes a minute *to realize there is no adjustment. It's dark. The middle of
the ocean under a *moonless sky is like the inside of a bottle of ink inside a
sealed vault. The *best way to describe it is to walk into your closet with
all the lights in *your house off, at night, then blindfold yourself.

As I step up the *catwalk I realize the tail-end of a Superhornet is over my
head, as well as a *70-foot drop to the water to my left. They're packed like
sardines up here. *They're also turning, and I need to get to the other side
of the deck. My *senses peak out of pure self-preservation. I'm instantly
aware of everything *going on within 50 yards of me, and it's a lot. I don't
need to walk into a *prop or a tailpipe. Something else becomes readily
apparent. I'm getting wet. *"What the .... ?" Well, if we're gonna do this,
might as well pull out all the *stops.
As I step up to my *jet, I eye it over as best I can in the dim orange
light.=2 0The airplane *captain greets me in the dark, and introduces himself
with a salute and a *handshake. There's actually a calming effect. Something
familiar. A familiar *face from the beach. Whatever it is, the tension is
eased slightly as I do my *abbreviated preflight. Abbreviated because the back
half of my jet is out over *the side of the ship. Looks good from here, time
to man up and get out of the *rain.
Canopy down, I'm *strapped in, the jet is up and running with a solid INS
alignment and no real *problems. Let's do this. * *"Tower, 303 up and ready,
38,000 *pounds."
Okay Š done this too *Š cricket, cricket. Damn, wrong freq. I get the
appropriate freq channelized *and check-in with the Air Boss. Seconds later my
jet is swarmed by brown *shirts breaking down all the chains and tiedowns. My
airplane captain passes *off control to a set of yellow glowing wands (the
handlers) and gives me a *salute with a "good luck" look on his face. Great,
was the nervousness that *obvious? The handler gives me the signal to start
rolling forward, and with *little twitches left and right squeezes me past a
few other jets on deck *before handing me off to another set of wands down the
flight deck towards the *catapult.
*Several sets *of wands later I'm parked behind the jet blast deflector (JBD),
which is up *protecting me from the jet 20 feet ahead that's at full grunt
about to be shot *off the front of the boat. I marvel at the choreography
that's gotten me to *this point. Somehow I've managed to fit into this silent
dance (with two left *feet) that is the moving of jets around a moving flight
deck, which is *launching and recovering aircraft simultaneously, at night,
without a word *ever being said, and mainly by guys and girls not even old
enough to legally *drink.
As the JBD comes *down, I double-check my trim settings, radar altimeter set
to alert me to any *settle off the front of the ship, double-check my ejection
seat is armed, all *radios, navaids and datalink are turned on. My three
multifunction displays *are all set appropriately, and I continue to taxi onto
the catapult. I roger *up the weight board for the jet's weight with a
circular motion from my little *flashlight (too dark for hand signals) and the
holdback is attached to my nose *gear. The holdback is what physically
restrains the jet from rolling forward *at full power, but breaks free when
the catapult fires.
I spread the wings *and continue to taxi forward to set the holdback. The lau
nch bar comes down, *and I'm directed to roll forward a few more feet.. *Then
it comes Š the *signal to take tension. With a familiar "thunk" I feel the
launch bar drop *into the shuttle as I advance the throttles to full power.
The jet squats down *under the strain of the engines, I wipe out the flight
controls and run *through my take-off checks one last time; I'm also
rehearsing my "settle off *the catapult" procedures should the worst happen,
and touching the ejection *handle to make sure it's not folded under my leg or
something. With a check of *the flight control page, the trim settings are
correct, no computer problems *and check list complete; now a repeater of the
head-up display is brought up *on the left MFD, a repeater of the attitude
indicator on the right. Should *something happen on the cat I've got four
redundancies of the jet's attitude *now staring at me. I should also add that
from the JBD coming down to me *taking the catapult has all taken place in
about 25 seconds.

With the *jet at full power, just shy of the afterburners, and a quick
triple-checking *glance, I look left at the catapult officer and give him a
salute. Not really *for him, he can't even see me, it's too dark. More so for
my own familiarity. *With my pinky finger on the throttles I click forward the
exterior light *master switch, and the deck comes alive with the light of the
form lights, red *and green nav lights, and strobes. This is the official
salute that I'm *ready.
*Left palm open *and pressed against the throttles (so I don't inadvertently
pull them back *from the force of the cat shot), right hand up on the canopy
grip, and I press *my head back against the seat looking forward down the cat.
The only light in *front of me is the green cat status light. I'm about to be
shot into a black *rainy sky, why? With that thought the jet squats again and
then it comes. *WHAM! I slam the throttle to full afterburner and stare at the
airspeed to *make sure I see three digits by the end of the cat stroke. Over
the span of *the next 310 feet and roughly two seconds, myself and my jet have
accelerated *to over 175 knots. At least that was the last speed I saw prior
to the jolt of *coming off the front of the ship. It almost hurts. As the jet
rotates itself *to a nice climb attitude I grab the stick, raise the gear and
pull the *throttles out of blower. You know what? It's freakin' dark out here.

I *make my airborne call and get switched over to marshal. Kind of like
approach *control for the ship. I also realize that I'm in the weather, and
it's dark. *This sucks. I check in and my marshal instructions are immediately
force-fed *to me. *"303 take angels 7, marshal mom's 310, expected final
bearing *124, expected approach time two one."
If th ey could see *me right now, they'd probably wipe the drool off my chin
as my brain tries to *remember what was just said. Amazed at myself for
actually catching all that, *I climb to 7,000 feet and point myself northwest.
The marshal distance is a *function of altitude to keep things simple.. Add 15
to your marshal altitude. *I've got my radar looking out in front of me, and
before long there are *several hits on my radar in front of me, above and
below. It's the marshal *stack. This is a good thing as it means I'm going to
the right place, those *hits are my friends out there already established in
holding and I get warm *and fuzzy. As I look down at my clock and speed up to
roughly 400 knots, I *realize my push time is three minutes away, and I'm 30
miles away. Not gonna *happen. I request a new push, and establish myself in
holding. For the next *few minutes I've got "comfort time," which really is
just used to think about *what I'm about to try and accomplish.
Something finally *goes my way when I hit my marshal fix at exactly 22 miles
just as the clock *ticks through my push time. *"Marshal 303 commencing, state
7.4, *altimeter 29.75." *"Roger turn right 150." *"Sweet," I think to *myself.
Vectors means I don't have to fly the full arcing approach. As I *descend I
keep checking my radar altimeter bug and rolling it down. More than *a few
guys have lost track of=2 0what they were doing and flown themselves *into the
water, after all, it's a dark black hole out here. Especially in the *weather.
With a quick glance at my weight I see I'm a few hundred pounds above *max
trap weight. Perfect, I'll arrive behind the boat right at max trap *weight.
No need to dump gas to lighten up. As I get vectored behind the ship *for a
datalink approach (an ILS of sorts), I level off at 1,200 feet and *realize
I'm out of the weather. How can I tell? There's a light off to my left *at
about 14 miles. I have to land on it.

They did studies in Vietnam, *and guys had higher pulses and blood pressures
behind the boat at night after *a mission than they did when they were getting
shot at. I now know why‹it's *dark out here. There are a lot of things that
can go wrong. Back into the *weather I go as I get a quick turn to final and
intercept the ACLS, which *brings me down to about 1,000 feet before it drops
lock.
"303 negative *needles, negative bullseye." This night just got better.