B.C. MALLAM
December 20th 08, 01:44 PM
>
>
>
> 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 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 done this too 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 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 whyit'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.
> "Roger continue, reattempt lock on at 2 miles." "Yeah, sure," I say out loud
> to myself, and I continue down using the tacan radial to navigate. Just then
> I break out and see out in front of me a flashing red light, amongst the 12
> or so lights I can see that comprise the postage stamp out in the distance
> I'm supposed to land on. It's the laser20line up behind the boat telling me
> I'm left of course, of course. Why drop lock on centerline? Well, I can solve
> line up, there's a start. With a steady amber light telling me I'm lined up
> with the ship now, I just work to get "on the ball." At a mile approach
> finally just gives up with the ACLS.
> "303, 34 of a mile, call the ball." "303 Hornet Ball, 6.9." With a calm
> "roooger ball" the familiar voice of paddles takes the edge off a little. I'm
> working the strongest crosswind I've ever experienced in my 25 trap career,
> flying the ball out the left side of the canopy, rather than through the HUD
> like normal. This sucks, and it's flippin' dark out here. As I fight line up I
> can feel the burble that the ship's aerodynamic wake puts out as I approach
> the ramp, and the ball reflects this as I try to fly my head through the
> four-foot window it represents.
> The "ball" is a yellow light between a set of green horizontal datums. It
> represents your position to the appropriate glideslope. Above the datums
> you're high, below you're low. At the start of the pass at three-quarters of
> a mile, from full high to full low is about 21 feet of altitude. At the ramp
> it's about four feet. Right at the wires, each cell of the ball represents
> nine inches (so says paddles).
> I bring on the power to stop the settle. As the ball starts to sag in close I
> bring on more power and in my peripheral vision I can see I'm over steel. A
> few split seconds and a few more power corrections as I stare down the ball
> staring back at me and a familiar WHAM. I touch down with a rate of descent
> of around 900 feet per minute, enough to destroy most other airplanes. I bend
> the throttles over the stops going to full afterburner, but I'm greeted with
> a familiar feeling of being slammed forward in my straps as I slow from 145
> knots to zero in about two seconds. With the jet at a stop, and the blowers
> still blazing, I throttle back and hear the one thing I reminded myself not
> to do.
> "Lights on deck." DAMN! Lights come off on deck at night. Lights on
> indicates an emergency and I told myself to remember that. It's just not part
> of the habit pattern during the day. At least not yet for me. This is all in
> the two seconds since I've stopped of course, but I'm still irritated. With a
> familiar yank backwards the wire drops away from the tail hook, I see some
> yellow wands giving me the hook-up sign. I roll out of the landing area,
> folding my wings and cleaning up the cockpit (resetting flaps, trim, my
> radalt, etc).
> Thirty seconds later I'm sitting behind the JBD, takeoff checks partly
> complete, trim set, with the jet in front of me at full tilt ready to be
> shot. Happy to still be alive, I think about the last pass, and how I can
> better energize the jet, and where I need to make power corrections to fly a
> better pass. Then the JBD drops, and some yellow wands in the darkness start
> motioning for me forward onto the catapult. It's dark up there, and I have to
> do this about a half-dozen more times. This is going to be a long night.
> BY LTjg. Doug Masters
>
>
** Posted from http://www.teranews.com **
>
>
> 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 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 done this too 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 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 whyit'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.
> "Roger continue, reattempt lock on at 2 miles." "Yeah, sure," I say out loud
> to myself, and I continue down using the tacan radial to navigate. Just then
> I break out and see out in front of me a flashing red light, amongst the 12
> or so lights I can see that comprise the postage stamp out in the distance
> I'm supposed to land on. It's the laser20line up behind the boat telling me
> I'm left of course, of course. Why drop lock on centerline? Well, I can solve
> line up, there's a start. With a steady amber light telling me I'm lined up
> with the ship now, I just work to get "on the ball." At a mile approach
> finally just gives up with the ACLS.
> "303, 34 of a mile, call the ball." "303 Hornet Ball, 6.9." With a calm
> "roooger ball" the familiar voice of paddles takes the edge off a little. I'm
> working the strongest crosswind I've ever experienced in my 25 trap career,
> flying the ball out the left side of the canopy, rather than through the HUD
> like normal. This sucks, and it's flippin' dark out here. As I fight line up I
> can feel the burble that the ship's aerodynamic wake puts out as I approach
> the ramp, and the ball reflects this as I try to fly my head through the
> four-foot window it represents.
> The "ball" is a yellow light between a set of green horizontal datums. It
> represents your position to the appropriate glideslope. Above the datums
> you're high, below you're low. At the start of the pass at three-quarters of
> a mile, from full high to full low is about 21 feet of altitude. At the ramp
> it's about four feet. Right at the wires, each cell of the ball represents
> nine inches (so says paddles).
> I bring on the power to stop the settle. As the ball starts to sag in close I
> bring on more power and in my peripheral vision I can see I'm over steel. A
> few split seconds and a few more power corrections as I stare down the ball
> staring back at me and a familiar WHAM. I touch down with a rate of descent
> of around 900 feet per minute, enough to destroy most other airplanes. I bend
> the throttles over the stops going to full afterburner, but I'm greeted with
> a familiar feeling of being slammed forward in my straps as I slow from 145
> knots to zero in about two seconds. With the jet at a stop, and the blowers
> still blazing, I throttle back and hear the one thing I reminded myself not
> to do.
> "Lights on deck." DAMN! Lights come off on deck at night. Lights on
> indicates an emergency and I told myself to remember that. It's just not part
> of the habit pattern during the day. At least not yet for me. This is all in
> the two seconds since I've stopped of course, but I'm still irritated. With a
> familiar yank backwards the wire drops away from the tail hook, I see some
> yellow wands giving me the hook-up sign. I roll out of the landing area,
> folding my wings and cleaning up the cockpit (resetting flaps, trim, my
> radalt, etc).
> Thirty seconds later I'm sitting behind the JBD, takeoff checks partly
> complete, trim set, with the jet in front of me at full tilt ready to be
> shot. Happy to still be alive, I think about the last pass, and how I can
> better energize the jet, and where I need to make power corrections to fly a
> better pass. Then the JBD drops, and some yellow wands in the darkness start
> motioning for me forward onto the catapult. It's dark up there, and I have to
> do this about a half-dozen more times. This is going to be a long night.
> BY LTjg. Doug Masters
>
>
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