Whiskey-72 Op-Area, Virginia Coast -
USS Independence/1500

For the first time in her career, Lieutenant Randi Cole was not excited by the prospect of a catapult launch. Parked on the number two cat, she had already waited an interminable forty-five minutes as the deck crew prepared for the most dangerous event in the F/A-18E Super Hornet's carrier suitability flight test.

Despite its innocuous designation on her kneeboard checklist as the final trial in the "minimum end-speed launch sequence," there was no denying that the mission was fit only for a raving lunatic. Randi would soon be launched by the weakest of a long series of ever-slower catapult shots. This speed, assuming she survived, would be published to all future aviators as the minimum speed they could accept for flying. Anything less and immediate ejection was mandated.

As the lead test pilot for the carrier-suit phase, it was Randi's call when to wave the white flag to stop the sequence. She'd almost done it after the last one. The jet had wallowed off the cat, actually settling below the flight deck as the automatic flight controls fought to arrest the sink rate. And of course she longed to grab the stick, but the F/A-18 required the pilot to ride a hand's-off launch. Competing with the flight control computers after a catapult launch was a mistake few pilots lived to regret.

Randi surprised herself, along with the witnesses--especially those who wore gold pilot wings--when she responded affirmatively to the lead engineer's request for one more shot. It was doubly surprising to those in the know, because Lieutenant Cole was being reassigned the very next day to fly a special project. Nevertheless, the ground team was thrilled; this speed would exceed the specification. As was their custom, the old-timers had a pool going, each trying to pick what would be the test-pilot's final end-speed. No one had put money on the young woman busting the spec.

The ship's CO, also an aviator, was dubious. "Sierra-zero-two, confirm you have sufficient margin of safety to proceed. That last one, at least from where I sit, looked like Mr. Toad's wild ride."

"Affirmative, sir. It looked uglier than it was. As long as the winds are steady and the deck is up, we have room to take it down a notch."

"Roger that, zero-two..." The long pause did nothing to inspire her confidence. "It's your call."

At last the launch team signaled their readiness to continue. After confirming her launch weight and repeating the familiar sequence of the take-off checklist, Randi brought the power up just enough to taxi the final few inches needed to engage the catapult holdback mechanism. As the jet blast deflector rose from the deckplates behind her, the catapult officer--an aviator himself--took a deep breath and gave her the signal to run the throttles up. Randi, busily monitoring her instruments, did not notice his quick genuflection and whispered prayer.

The Hornet's powerful engines pushed the aircraft against the restraint mechanism, while Randi completed a full wipeout of the control surfaces under the watchful eyes of the final checkers. When she was satisfied that her engines, hydraulics, and electrical systems were on-line and functioning, she saluted the catapult officer and grabbed the windshield-mounted handgrip with her right hand, while her left held the throttles firmly in place.

After receiving a thumbs-up from each of the final checkers, the cat officer returned the pilot's salute and turned his attention to the flight deck. It was his task to launch the Hornet with the deck up, or at least on the way up, as the big ship rode the ocean swells. To send her off with the flight deck going down would be catastrophic since the Hornet's vector, much like a BB in a slingshot, would be toward the water not the sky. The process was not as simple as it sounded, since the catapult officer on the Forrestal-class carrier did not actually fire the cat. He would signal to a trusted crewman positioned in the deck-edge catwalk who, after confirming that the launch area was clear and that the final checkers were still in agreement, would hit the fire-control button to begin the launch sequence. These procedures had evolved over dozens of years and hundreds of thousands of launches.

A good launch team was like a well-oiled machine. The third member was the ship's captain. His job was to keep the wind coming down the deck, usually accomplished with small rudder commands. Normally, he would not be concerned if the wind speed was higher than expected--extra wind meant a cushion of safety for the aviators--but today his task was to keep the wind steady and he found himself making both steering and speed adjustments. At this moment, he was concerned that his last speed reduction had been a tad premature. As the wind readout dipped precariously below the eighteen-knot threshold, he called for a touch of power and a half-degree of right rudder.

This was the one, thought the Cat Officer. The deck was plowing through a trough, but coming up. It was time. He risked one more glance at the aircraft. "Can't be too careful with this one," he thought. With a little prayer, Please God let this work, he stepped forward with his right foot, knelt on his left knee, touched the deck with his gloved right hand, and pointed to the bow with a practiced flourish.

The last speed change took effect even as the Cat Officer was kneeling. The ship's pace quickened as it plowed through the swell. Along with the speed increase, the slight heading change reduced the angle of the hull to the wave crest. Imperceptible to most, these changes were sufficient to reduce the time it would take for the deck to reach its maximum height and begin the next downward cycle.

Witnessing the Cat O's signal, the young sailor in the catwalk--understanding only too well how important and dangerous this shot was--checked and double-checked the flight deck.

With dawning realization, the Cat Officer recognized the impact of the cumulative effects of the extra care and caution contributed by each member of the team. A nanosecond too late, he stood to suspend the launch, but the sailor had mashed the fire control button.

Randi's eyes widened as she felt the initial jolt of the catapult launch sequence even as the horizon began to fill with blue-gray ocean. Unbelievably, the launch team's best intentions had contributed to the worst possible scenario: a minimum launch speed, light winds, and a downward launch angle, all of which combined to put the Super Hornet and its pilot into a massive hurt locker.

The shot felt horribly soft. To the uninitiated, any cat shot would appear so violent as to preclude human reaction, but to Randi Cole, veteran of hundreds of carrier flights, the delay in accelerating through 100 knots was agonizing. During the first third of the stroke, Randi's finely tuned survival instincts implored her to grasp the yellow and black striped handle and pull, ejecting her from the fifty-million dollar test aircraft.

"Deck's down - Bad shot!" transmitted the Cat Officer on the FM launch control circuit.

"Prepare for a William's turn," the Captain advised his helmsmen. He already had the microphone to his lips to call for the ejection.

Inside the cockpit, Randi's hands outpaced conscious thought. Halfway down the stroke she pushed the throttles into afterburner while simultaneously grabbing the stick just beneath the handgrip to squeeze the paddle switch and disengage the automatic flight control computers. Recognizing that the aircraft would run out of altitude and settle into the sea if the automatic flight controls tried to minimize sink rate as they were programmed to do, she chose to risk manual control. Randi needed airspeed to buy time for the engines to spool up and the only thing she had in the bank was the sixty feet between her and the water.

"What the hell?" asked the Captain, shocked by the sight of the Hornet's horizontal stabilators shifting from their normal attitude of trailing-edge up--the climb position--to trailing edge down. The command to eject froze in his throat.

Before the nosewheel even cleared the deck edge, Randi selected emergency jettison to clear off the fuel tank. And as the main gear broke free and the Super Hornet began its flight, she snapped the gear handle up. With the trim set for take-off climb, it took both hands to push the stick forward. Taking the aircraft toward the water was the only way she could gain a couple knots.

Nobody on the flight deck, least of all the Cat Officer, was prepared to see the aircraft plunge off the deck. Most of the crew were seasoned veterans--having witnessed other mishaps--who expected to see the aircraft try to claw its way into the sky. To watch a jet simply dive for the water was almost surreal.

The Cat Officer realized that Randi's bold move put her out of the ejection envelope. Simple physics decreed that the seat could not compensate for her rate of descent. When she pulled the handle--if she pulled the handle--it was doubtful that the seat would propel her to sufficient height to allow the chute to blossom.

The book said that the afterburners would fully stage in a shade less than seven seconds; given her dilemma, it might has well have been seven hours. With the gear still retracting, there was no benefit from reduced drag, and the weight loss, though helpful, wasn't enough to offset the other factors. The bottom line was that, even with the weight loss and the dive, the jet wasn't accelerating fast enough to avoid a stall if Randi tried to pick the nose up. Something more was needed. To the witnesses, it looked as if the test pilot had run out of airspeed, altitude, and ideas.

But Lieutenant Randi Cole had one more trick up her sleeve. If she could place the aircraft extremely low--close enough to the wave tops to enter ground effect--she could take advantage of the lift that would be generated by the compressed air trapped between the wings and the water. The phenomenon was the same that let coastal birds glide effortlessly along the waves at the beach. With luck, the effect would keep her airborne long enough for the burners to kick in.

Ground effect began at a height equal to two-thirds of the wingspan. But that was over flat terrain. It was anybody's guess what was needed over the rolling sea. Ignoring the thousand and one distractions clamoring for her attention, Randi kept her eyes glued to the vertical speed indicator, knowing that her only chance was to keep from climbing. Fighting the instinct to pull up, she allowed the aircraft to settle ever closer to the water.

From the flight deck, the ocean spray kicked up by the jet's engines and the splash made by the fuel tank coincided to convince the observers that Sierra-zero-two had pancaked in. There'd been no ejection. Dozens of crewmen, convinced that the big ship would run over the wreckage, ran to the deck edge, some hollering beseechingly at the pilot to, "Get Out!"

But the Captain's bird's-eye perspective from the Bridge revealed a different story.

"Sir?" asked the helmsman, hoping to shake his Captain from frozen silence, eager to execute the series of maneuvers necessary to offset the big ship from the wreckage.

The Captain nodded. He could understand how his crew might think he had choked at the prospect of losing this valuable test aircraft and its pilot. "Belay that order, son. Damned if she doesn't have it under control."

As if in response to the Captain's declaration, the Hornet's afterburners began kicking up twin rooster tails and the SuperHornet accelerated. Seconds later, unable to hold the nose down with the speed rapidly building and the trim still set for take-off, Randi released pressure on the stick and let the aircraft climb steeply, happy to gain some altitude. The effect was inspiring to the incredulous crewmen, all of whom would add another sea story to their arsenal about the woman pilot who, after cheating death, actually hot-dogged it.

Even the flight deck bosun, a salty veteran of twenty-nine years, was impressed. "God damn if that young gal doesn't have a pair of brass balls," he transmitted.

Everyone tied into the radio-circuit understood that something remarkable had happened. It was, after all, the highest compliment any master chief could bestow.