Leaving Dubai early in the morning to avoid the worst of the heat, I climbed out over the Gulf and turned southeast back over the tip of the Arabian Peninsula and towards the Indian Ocean. This was going to be a long haul over water. The one advantage was that I wasn’t too far from land for most of it. The disadvantage is I wouldn’t want to be forced to land in most of those countries.
To the north was Afghanistan, site of so many wars over the centuries, from Alexander the Great to our current president, GW the Least. (Editors Note: Current at the time of the flight) Foreigners almost always wound up getting their butts kicked back out. Russia has coveted Afghanistan for its warm water ports since it started having imperial ambitions. The British fought the Russians to keep them from taking control of Afghanistan in the 1800’s. Then the Russians tried again during the revolution, not too seriously, they had other bigger problems, and then again in the 1980’s. That excursion turned into an uglier version of Vietnam for them. Ten years of war in the mountains of Afghanistan ruined their army, just as Vietnam had ruined the US Army. Both of these wars are ugly reminders of the limits of conventional armies against guerilla warfare, excuse me, terrorists, have to use the phrase of the day. Unless a modern nation is willing to wipe an entire people off the map, as the conquerors of ancient times were, a guerrilla war will bring the most powerful nation to its knees, a lesson which the powerful seem to need to learn every generation. I hope the Chinese are next as they could use a lesson in army humility.
I was cruising along when I heard a message on the emergency channel. I turned up the volume. “This is Indonesian Queen, oiler out of Dubai, bound for Japan. We are being pursued by pirates. Request help.” The message was repeated several times. Pirates? I had heard that pirates were operating out of Somalia where the government had ceased to exist. I had images of jolly rogers, beards, eye patches, and peg legs walking the plank. Pirates?
“This is Navy 841. State your position.”
They gave the Navy their position. I put it into my computer. They were only twenty minutes south of me.
“Indonesian Queen, the USS O’Bannon is in-bound your position. Please come to course 112. They are three hours out,” the Navy guy said.
“That’s not going to be good enough. The pirates are gaining. They’ll be in shooting range before that,” the desperate voice came from the tanker.
I turned south and added manifold pressure. The speed leapt to 325 knots. “This is flight 4727, Dubai to Bombay. I am fifteen minutes out. Will render assistance.” Well hell! That’s why I had those 50 caliber guns installed.
“Flight 4727, identify please,” the Navy asked.
I hit the ident button on the transponder which causes my return to bloom on their screen. In a couple seconds the Navy flight came back. “Flight 4727, come to heading 176. Intercept in 14 minutes.”
“Roger.” Okay, that means the Navy radio was one of their AWACS aircraft. They have the computers and radar to calculate the intercept automatically. I threw a degree of right turn into the tail and sped on. I took the bottle of water I kept for the flight and took a big sip. My mouth was still dry after drinking it. The Navy flight kept me updated on course and time. The sky was broken clouds at nine thousand feet.
I was too busy to be afraid; nervous yes, but not afraid. Fear takes over your heart in the dead of night when you have too much time to think. When you are suddenly thrown into a situation you don’t have time to be afraid. You either react correctly and survive, or you screw up and don’t. It’s afterward, when you can think again that the fear hits. That’s when you get the shakes.
I was about three minutes out when I saw the two ships. The tail guy was getting close all right. He must not have big guns because he was well in range for that. I headed east until the sun was behind me. My stomach was full of butterflies and my heart was beating like crazy, like right before kickoff and all you want to do is get that first lick in on the other guy. I hit the inboard and outboard charging switches which loaded the first of 2,300 rounds. The gun button now worked. A squeeze and six guns would fill the air with bullets. I read that in WWII the Corsair pilots would sometimes only turn on four guns saving the outboard two guns in case they ran out of ammo in the four. Four or even two guns were enough to blow up the flimsy Japanese planes.
I cut power and put in 30 degrees of flaps. When I was a mile out, I tipped over. I’m sure the pirates never knew I was there until I opened up. I strafed down the deck, then concentrated on the superstructure at the stern of the boat. As the rounds impacted, I could see them churning up debris.
I pulled out of the dive and pulled up the flaps. Turning, I was lined up for a side attack. Skimming the waves, I concentrated fire on the superstructure at the stern, hoping to get the bridge and discourage the pirates. I had little hope of sinking a boat since I wasn’t exactly a sharpshooter, but I just might discourage them. Six 50 caliber guns do a surprising amount of damage to unarmored objects. Small ships, like this trawler, had been sunk with just such guns by Marine and Navy flyers. Two Hellcats of VFN-76, on a night mission at Chichi Jima, attacked a Destroyer Escort with 50 calibers and exploded the engine sinking it, and that was a front line warship not a rusty bucket. I pulled up hard and just cleared the bridge. This was some kind of converted fishing ship and had no big guns. I did see small arms fire. I had to hope they didn’t have even a single SAM because even an old out-dated Strella would ruin my day.
I came around from the north this time again concentrating on the bridge. As I pulled away I saw the froth at the stern stop. They had cut power. Circling out of range, I saw some smoke coming from the superstructure so I had started some kind of fire. They decided to deal with that problem. I downed the rest of the water in the bottle I had in one long pull.
“This is 4727, it looks like the pirates have fire aboard and are no longer pursuing.”
“Thank God,” I heard the tanker say.
“Navy, the O’Bannon is continuing and will render assistance. Indonesian Queen, do you require assistance?”
“No, we’re fine. Have them go after the pirates,” the tanker replied.
“Roger. We are vectoring the O’Bannon to them.”
I checked my computer and realized I’d used up a lot of fuel in that dash. “4727, Navy do you have a deck in the area. My computer says I can no longer reach Bombay and I don’t think I’d get a nice reception in Somalia after this.”
“You can’t land where we land,” he said.
“Hell I can’t. This is a Corsair and it’s landed on smaller decks than yours. I have a tail hook. I don’t want to go swimming, Navy,” I said, getting pretty heated.
“Flight 4727, hold.” It was an excruciating hold. While I was holding, I had plenty of time to think about all I knew of the Corsair. Things like the Navy wouldn’t certify the plane for carrier landings because it was too dangerous. They gave the plane to the Marines who were glad to have it. The Corsair was the first fighter built by the US that could exceed 400 mph in level flight. It could catch the Zero or it could run away from a Zero, both handy for those Marine aviators who were outnumbered early on, depending on if you are behind or in front of the enemy.
The US gave Corsairs to the British Navy who were ecstatic, considering the antiques they were flying off their carriers. The Brits quickly figured out that a pilot had to land by turning into the carrier so that he could see the landing spot. They mastered the turning landing and loved the plane.
Once the Navy finally figured out how to land the Corsair, it only took them a year after the brits figured it out, it became the best Navy fighter bomber of the war, Whistling Death to the Japanese. The Corsair was even assigned to the escort carriers so I knew an experienced pilot could land it on a dime. The escorts were so small that when the pilots assigned to them had to land on the fleet carriers, they would land on one side of the deck, to the amazement of the fleet carrier pilots. These new carriers were even bigger. I just wasn’t a Navy pilot.
Then the Navy flight came back. “Flight 4727, come to heading 114.”
“Roger. I am at 7,000 feet and 227 knots,” I said.
“Roger.” And that was that. I was heading out over the Indian Ocean and I sure hoped this wasn’t a wild goose chase. It was little over an hour later when I heard the same voice, “Flight 4727, switch to channel 123.8”
“Roger.” I dialed in the radio channel and announced myself. “Flight 4727.”
Another voice came on, “Flight 4727, this is Navy control. Come to heading 180 and descend to 4,000.”
“Roger. Request that I speak with your LSO. This bird can’t make a straight in approach.”
“Copy that.” A few minutes later. “This is Navy control. LSO is on.”
“Flight 4727. This bird has the cockpit so far back it can’t make a straight in approach. I can’t see a thing. The way they landed was a gentle turn in from the side and level wings right before touch down. I’ll be about eighty, that is eight zero knots on final.”
“We can do that. State your weight,” The LSO said.
“Somewhere between 12,500 and 13,000 pounds,” I said. “I lost some weight when I expended all those rounds.”
I heard a chuckle, then “Roger 4727. Watch my paddles on final. Up or down one side means drop or raise wings to match. Both down, you are too high. Both up, you are too low. Follow the paddles. Wave over the head is wave off. Add power and go around. Crossed paddles mean cut power and hope you hook. Good luck.”
“Roger,” I said.
I started seeing ships ahead, the carrier in the middle of the group of ships. It looked pretty small from here, just bumps trailing long white tails. Behind the carrier group, separated by some miles was the Russian ‘trawler,’ covered with communications antennae. The controller took me out to port of the ship then turned me in. I lowered the flaps and dropped the wheels. For the first time since I had owned the plane, I hit the hook lever and dropped it in flight. This would be interesting. I was sweating and it wasn’t just the heat. What was eerie was seeing that big ship looming in front of me. But I knew it was moving and by the time I got there it wouldn’t be there, but it was still an awful feeling. How do Navy pilots do it? I had to trust the LSO.
As I got close, the ship’s stern appeared and I gently turned to catch up. Suddenly, it seemed like I was standing still as the ship was making 30 knots into a 15 knot headwind, I slowed relative to it by the same forty-five knots. The LSO had the paddles in a slight turn. I kept it up. Down, I followed him down. Up a little, I added power. I was almost on top of him when he leveled the paddles and crossed his arms. I leveled and chopped the power. The plane settled, then I hit the deck hard, and before I could think, I was thrown forward against the harness. Shit! I felt the plane going back and hit the brakes. A swarm of deck hands surrounded me. I saw them signaling and pointing at the hook. I hit the hook handle and felt it come up.
A yellow shirt motioned me forward. I added power and taxied up until he signaled stop. Then he motioned for me to fold the wings. It had been a while although I keep everything lubed just in case, or more accurately, my mechanic keeps everything working. I lifted the handle and turned it, wondering if it would work. I watched the hatch pop open, the pin pop up releasing the wings to swivel and the wings lift up and come together like two hands praying and wasn’t that appropriate for the day. He gave me the cut power signal and I turned off the engine.
My head fell back against the head rest. I noticed I stunk. Not from exercise sweat but from fear sweat. I had just flown a combat mission and made my first carrier landing. This is a game for young bucks. I was way too old for this crap.
A baby faced kid appeared on the wing. “Sir, how do you tow this bird?”
My God, do they let children into the Navy? It is amazing how young the rest of the world is getting. “You can push with four guys, three if you get offensive linemen used to pushing a blocking sled. He looked at me like I was nuts, then he laughed. “Push it. Cool. Yes, Sir,” he said as he jumped down. Four guys got on the wings and they pushed the plane onto the waist elevator. I hit the brakes to stop us. I sure didn’t want to go over the edge. That enormous elevator took us down to the hanger deck and the young guys pushed me in, just as their grandfathers had done on the Hancock when this plane had fought at Okinawa and Japan. They pushed the plane off to a side, where it was lost in the immensity of the hanger bay. They chocked the wheels, chained it down and I crawled out of the plane. I was exhausted and had trouble standing.
A fresh faced ensign appeared. “Sir, the Captain would like to see you on the bridge.”
I liked this sir treatment. Must be because I was a pilot and pilots are always sir. “Okay. Is there a head on the way?”
He smiled, “Certainly. This way please.”
I followed him through a dizzy array of passages and stairs. We emerged on the bridge, surrounded by windows. I watched a Tomcat take off from the bow catapult, afterburners roaring, as he climbed into the sky.
Back when I was in the Army I had to learn Navy ranks, but I had never remembered them, stripes and chains and crap like that. But one guy had stars on his collar and I knew what that meant. “Admiral, thanks for letting me land.”
“Thank Captain Bowman. It’s his ship,” he said pointing at a smaller man wearing the eagles of a Captain.
“Thanks, Captain. I would have hated to lose that plane,” I said. The captain nodded but never smiled. I had a feeling he might not have said yes by himself. Interesting. “Mind if I sit?” I asked looking around. I noticed there was only one chair and it was raised almost like a throne. I could imagine that I wasn’t supposed to sit there.
The Admiral looked at Captain Bowman, “Can we use your cabin?”
“Of course. This way.” He led us to his cabin, always right off the bridge so that he could be back on the bridge in seconds. It had a conference table and we sat at it. I noted another captain and a major, excuse me, Lieutenant Commander. He introduced the other captain as Captain Henderson, CAG. That’s short for Carrier Air Group. In other words, all the planes were his. He had wings unlike Bowman.
“Would you like something to drink?” the Admiral offered.
“A beer would hit the spot,” I said.
“We don’t have beer aboard.”
“What’s happened to the Navy,” I said to a few chuckles.
The Admiral gave a meaningful look to the Captain. He turned and pulled a bottle of tonic and one of gin from a small refrigerator. He poured a glass and passed it across to me. I took a big sip and felt energized by the cool liquid. The Captain put the bottle away. Hmm, these guys are being awfully nice to me. I had wondered if I was going to get in deep shit for landing on a naval vessel. There was something fishy about it, so to speak.
“Excuse me Admiral; I don’t understand why you didn’t respond. Hell, at 500 knots your guys could have beaten me there,” I said.
He looked disgusted. “Because some ass at Foggy Bottom has determined that we can ‘render assistance’ but we can’t use aircraft because of their inability to distinguish friend from foe. Seems an aircraft can’t come alongside and yell, ‘Are you a pirate.’ That means I can send a destroyer, and take ten hours to get there, but I can’t bomb the fuckers. The O’Bannon was in transit to Dubai or he wouldn’t have been close enough to get there.”
So, that’s why the treatment. I had done what these guys had been wishing they could do. Foggy Bottom is the State Department. So some career ass kisser had laid down the rules; no hurting fucking pirates. What a piece of work that is. The United States came to international prominence by doing exactly that. Halls of Tripoli was when the United States did just that, used the Navy and the Marines to kick the asses of pirates when the rest of Europe was afraid. Khadafy is just the latest in a long line of Tripoli pirates and they need to get their asses kicked from time to time to make them remember.
The CAG, asked me, “I was surprised to see a civilian craft with weapons.” They all looked at me intently.
I smiled, “I have a waiver from ATF.”
The Admiral broke in, “ATF?”
“You work for the Federal government. You know how crazy the freaking bureaucracy is. Yes, ATF. Anyway, I have a waiver to carry loaded weapons. Good thing too,” I said. “Which brings me to my question; do you have any 50 caliber ammo?”
The CAG spoke, “I think we might be able to make a deal. What did you fly before?”
“You mean Navy?” He nodded. “Didn’t. This is my first time on a carrier.”
“Christ,” muttered Bowman. Oh, so someone had figured I must be a former Navy pilot to be flying a Corsair and taking it into combat and saying I’d landed on smaller decks.
“Sorry, Admiral,” I said.
“Well, you didn’t crash.” He sat back. “Is your plane capable of carrying other weapons?”
“Yes. When they reinstalled the guns they had to put back the original weapons systems. I can carry rockets and bombs. This plane can carry 500 pounders under each wing and anything from 500 to 2,000 pounder under centerline.”
“A thousand pounder would be plenty,” the CAG said.
“And you can drop it?” the Admiral asked.
“Whoa. Yes, if it has the right mounting and size. But I don’t have the attachment hardware. It has hard points but no way to carry and release a bomb.”
“It would have to be laser guided. His chances of hitting a maneuvering ship with never having dropped would be close to zero,” the CAG said.
“Make that zero,” I interjected.
“They would see the laser designator. Could we use a drone?” the Admiral asked.
“The drone is slow. Take too long to get there,” the CAG said.
“Unless we dropped it from a Hawkeye. About the time he was getting there, the drone would too, if the Hawkeye was up in the right position,” the Admiral said.
“That would work,” the CAG conceded.
“There’s one problem. I ain’t letting one of your jocks take my plane,” I said.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” the Admiral said smiling. “Our guys wouldn’t have any idea how to fly a prop plane anyway.” I got a very funny feeling, a very funny feeling, and it wasn’t a ha ha feeling. “I understand your craft took some damage. Shall we go see it?” He saw the look on my face and quickly said, “Minor damage, very minor.”
My plane is damaged. I was in a state, hardly noticing as the group filed out. We emerged on the hanger deck and I had to fight the urge to run to my hurt baby. As we approached, I saw some chief had an access panel off and his head stuck in the belly.
“Hey Chief,” the Admiral shouted as we got close.
He pulled his head out of the plane. “Yes Sir. The plane’s fine. I can fix the hole in two hours.”
“Hole?” I scurried over.
The chief pointed to the belly. In it, was a small hole. He held out his hand. “Looks like thirty caliber. Flattened against the armor plate in the floor of the cockpit. In his hand was a deformed bullet. Shit. That bullet had my name on it except for the armor. I felt my hands start to shake and quickly stuck them in pockets.
The Admiral had wandered over. He said to me quietly, “Don’t worry. A lot of us have been there.”
I looked at him and guessed his age. “You a river rat?”
His eyes lit up, “Yep, I sure was and I was scared as piss every mission.” He turned away and in a regular voice said, “Chief, can this thing be rigged to carry a thousand pound GBU?”
The chief wandered out and looked at the wings.
“Those are rocket hard points. 5 inch,” I said. He looked under the main wing. Those can carry bombs, 500 pounders.” He nodded, inspecting the hard points closely. Then he looked at the centerline. He spent many minutes looking, finally taking off another access panel and poking around inside.
“No way to use the wing mounts, Sir. The wiring is still there but the hard points are all wrong. If I had a major machine shop and a couple weeks I could fabricate new ones…” He shrugged. “But we could rig up a thousand-pounder under the centerline. No way could we hook it up to the panel,” the Chief finished.
The Admiral turned to the LtC. “That means no way to turn it on in mid air. He’d have to drop it like a tank of gas. How long can a battery run?”
“An hour or so, once it is energized,” he said.
“Not enough time to get him out,” the Admiral said.
“Doubt it,” he said.
“Admiral, there’s a place for the safety wire to run from the cockpit,” the Chief said. “As for turning on the guidance package, I could run a wire through the same hole for the fuel and up to the cockpit. All we need is a simple switch. I can have these insignia painted out today.”
“Hey, wait a frigging minute,” I protested.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take pictures. I’ll have her painted better than new when you’re done,” the Chief said.
“Done? I didn’t start,” I said.
The Admiral stepped in and said in a command voice, “I think we should retire to my cabin.”
I, along with the rest, followed as he took off. My mind was a whirl. Attach a bomb to my plane? Drop it with a drone? No, this was madness, madness!
Once in his cabin we all took seats. “Okay, just to let you know I had a quick check done on you. Your service records were easy to find.” He held up a message form I recognized from my service days. “Army unfortunately,” he smiled at Captain Bowman who scowled.
I couldn’t help it. I saw his scowl and piped up with, “You’re just pissed Army has beaten Navy two years in a row.”
Bowman started to say something and it was going to be a doozy when he caught himself. The other officers laughed, whether at my joke or not I’ll never know. Bowman subsided.
The Admiral continued, “Top Secret clearance.” I nodded. “I am going to tell you some facts and issues and I must ask that you treat them as you did when you were on active duty.” He, and his staff, proceeded to give me a dog and pony show, with charts and imagery, the military’s fancy word for pictures, on the whole set up in Somalia and the threats it represented. Having been in Intelligence, I am pretty wary but he presented a damn good case. Good enough that he had me agreeing to his harebrained scheme.
The rest of the day and that night, I was made an honorary member of the attack squadron, including being invited into the ready room, where conversation revolved around my exploits. Most of the fighter jocks couldn’t believe I stopped the pirates with just 50 caliber guns. And they were all shocked it was my first arrested landing. The Skipper looked at me, “I can’t believe you sunk a ship with 50 caliber.”
“What?” I nearly screamed.
There was dead silence. “You didn’t know? When the O’Bannon was closing in on that pirate, the damn thing blew up. They rescued some of the pirates. Seems like they had gas stored aboard and your bullets started a fire. The gas leaked out, ran down a stairway and into the hold and started the ammo on fire and blammo, the rust bucket blew a hole in the keel, flooded all three holds and down she went. Seems like they didn’t bother closing and dogging the doors between the holds. Talk about a whole bunch of fuck-ups. Just a bunch of fishermen used to fucking dhows. They didn’t even have fire fighting gear aboard.” The skipper shook his head. “The pirate they hauled out of the drink said they were lowering buckets over the side for water to fight the fire.”
“Scratch one pirate,” someone yelled. That was followed by hooting and hollering and congratulations flying my way.
One pilot shouted, “Hey Skipper. He gets his Tail Hook certificate,” to even louder shouting.
The Skipper quieted them down to a dull roar. “You did make a carrier landing. Nothing says you have to be active duty. El Tigre,” he shouted and a pilot stood up smiling.
“Yeah, Skipper?”
“You the Admin officer, right?” The pilot nodded. “Where’s his Tail Hook certificate?” That got all of the pilots shouting at El Tigre. The pilot shouted back, but it was obvious he didn’t stand a chance against the whole squadron. He sneered and left, showing up five minutes later with a certificate with my name. I saw his name plate, Herrera. So that’s why El Tigre. He presented it to me to general acclaim.
It was that night, after I had bedded down in a stateroom that the Admiral had arranged for me, that the second thoughts started. What the hell was I doing trying to be a hot dog pilot? There wasn’t all that much danger for the proposed missions, if the bomb dropped cleanly and didn’t tear up the plane as it came off. I’d drop from high altitude and let the laser guidance take it right in. I wouldn’t even get close to the ship. But I still had trouble sleeping. I blamed on the noise: the thundering of the catapult, the thudding of landing jets, the power of their engines. It couldn’t be because I was scared.
I had breakfast in the pilot’s mess. The crews were talking animatedly about the ‘incident’ and still had some questions which I answered. They also wanted to know about the Corsair and laughed when I told them it’s WWII nickname, ensign killer. They allowed it wouldn’t hurt to weed out ensigns.
After breakfast, I headed to the hanger. I didn’t recognize my plane. The Chief had painted out all of the markings. The hole was repaired. I couldn’t even tell it had been there. He also had an ungainly looking bomb hung in place of the center gas tank. It was an ugly looking thing, a camera package on the nose and wings halfway back. It was painted a dull green rather than blue. Blue meant practice, green meant live ordnance.
One of the crew came up with my personal stuff, apologizing that they had gotten into it before they knew what it was. Hell, I didn’t care about them finding my toothbrush. I examined the bomb and the attachment. The Chief appeared and told me to be in a shallow dive when I released it. Then let it fall away naturally before I pulled back or I could hit the tail of the bomb before it separated from the plane. He told me to treat it just like a tank of gas I was dropping. I wouldn’t even notice the difference. I had to wonder since I’d never dropped a tank of gas either.
It was about fifteen hundred, that’s what the clocks said, when a pilot came running up. “Get up on deck. The Corsair will be there when you get their. The second pirate boat is chasing a freighter.” Without thinking, or I would have frozen in place, I followed the pilot upstairs and onto the deck.
The Corsair was up and the deck crew surrounded it. I jumped up and got myself in the cockpit. The chief jumped up and pointed to a small switch sitting on the floor. “Just press it with your foot when you see the pirates. It’ll turn on the guidance package.” He saluted and jumped off the wing.
On the early model Corsairs the prop had to be hand pulled to clear out oil that would settle in the cylinders. The later models had a robust starter that would crank the prop enough to clear out everything before you hit the ignition to fire the engine up. I looked out and shouted, “Clear prop,” and saw the blue shirts scramble clear. A thumbs up from the yellow shirt and I hit the starter. The prop turned several times clearing out the cylinders and as it turned the prop I hit the ignition and blue smoke poured out as the engine caught. As soon as it stabilized, I let down the wings. Again, this was a first. I hoped they would lock properly. The wings folded out and the locking pins tripped into place.
I was all the way at the rear of the flight deck and it was cleared for me. I felt the carrier turn and the shudder as the Captain gave it full speed. It’s hard to imagine the power needed to make that many tons of steel shudder like that. The Captain wasn’t taking any chances and was going to give me every knot of wind he could. Setting the flaps at thirty and the prop for high speed I revved the engine. By this time the oil was heated up and the engine purred. The Kitty Hawk is over 1,000 feet long. Normally, the Corsair had a 900 foot run with no flaps on a hard surface like this. With thirty degrees of flap and the head wind, I figured I could be up in 700 feet easy. Everything was good. I saluted the launch officer who looked down the deck. He gave me the go signal, a lunge into the wind pointing down the deck. I revved her back up and let the brakes go. The tail came up immediately from the nearly forty knots of wind coming down the deck and the prop wash at full speed. I was at ninety knots before I reached the front catapults and was off the deck before I ran out of deck. I knew I could have been up before that, holding her on the deck longer than I needed to make sure she would fly.
As I climbed out, the radio came on giving me a heading. I took off that-a-way at 300 knots. It was different flying this time. The first time, I didn’t have time to think. It was an emergency and I responded. This time I had two hours to think about it. I was flying to drop a bomb on a ship quite purposely. Yes, they were pirates, and yes, they were attacking a defenseless ship. But, man is it different flying along with a thousand pound bomb under your plane. It was a long, lonely flight - thinking, thinking way too much.
I listened as the freighter asked for help, to be reassured by the Navy. They told me on a different channel that the drone had been launched and would be on station before I got there. I climbed to fifteen thousand feet and increased speed to 325 knots. In forty minutes, the controller was giving me steering directions. I could see the two vessels. The second was gaining on the first. Well, he was in for a surprise. I throttled back and pressed the switch on the floor, making the bomb live.
The controller informed me. “The drone has acquisition.” There was a fellow on the Hawkeye flying the drone like you would a toy, except this toy had a laser built in and it was locked onto that pirate. When I was about five miles out, I felt the plane trying to dive. I wondered what the hell was going on. Then I figured it out. The bomb had locked on and those wings on the bomb were trying to ‘fly’ to the target. I put the Corsair into a shallow dive. At seven thousand feet, I pulled the tank jettison lever and felt the clunk of release. I waited just a second and started a gentle pullout, then sharper. I turned to starboard so I could look down at the ship
Modern munitions use very sophisticated explosives more powerful than TNT or even plastic explosive. A 1,000 pound bomb would have a quarter ton of that powerful explosive. If you’ve never seen a military bomb explode, it is quite something. The explosive superheats the surrounding air causing the air to rush away from the over pressure caused by the heat. You can actually see it, a wall of air moving faster than the speed of sound away from the explosion. The extreme pressures create a wall of air supercompressed so much that is stronger than steel. Whatever that wall hits just explodes.
I could see the bomb falling. It looked like it had a lock. It hit right dead center on the middle hold. It ripped right through the hold cover, maybe it was canvas, and an instant later, the whole ship heaved. Being contained like that I didn’t see the wall of overpressure, but I sure as hell saw the effects. The middle of the deck blew up into the air. That great over pressure sought its way away from the hell that was the explosion and it found a rusty steel wall. That wasn’t going to stop it and it didn’t. The bomb blew the hold to shreds. Anywhere it was a little weak those unstoppable gasses blew through and then on into the ocean below. The water around the ship frothed and boiled as it absorbed the power of the bomb. The sides of the hold blew out sending scraps of metal into and through the hull. The wall of overpressure followed finishing the job of ripping the sides of that rusty bucket in half.
I saw a bright light followed by the debris from the deck blown in the air. The water frothed around the ship. In milliseconds the bomb had done its damage and blown the ship in half. The prow pivoted to the right as the stern pushed from behind. As the prow turned, it ripped loose from the stern and quickly settled into the water. The stern traveled on a little before it too, started settling. I looked away not wanting to watch any more.
I banked the Corsair away from the freighter and climbed back above the clouds to fifteen thousand. I heard the freighter come on. “It blew up. The damn ship just blew up.”
The Navy controller asked, “What happened?” even though I’m betting the drone had pictures of the whole thing.
“The damn ship just blew up,” he repeated. “I was trying to get every knot out of this thing when we heard an explosion. I ran out and looked behind to see the damn thing going up like Fourth of July. It had to be their ammo. A boiler would never look like that.”
I heard the Navy controller telling him that they were recalling the destroyer, and were informing Somali officials of the need for a rescue. Yeah, a rescue.
“Wait a moment. My first officer is looking with the glasses. He says the ship broke in half. What? He says the stern is already settling and the bow is down,” the captain of the tanker said.
I turned down my radio. I cruised back, images of the ship blowing in half in my mind. There’s no way that thing stayed afloat. I hoped they had lifeboats. I knew what I did was the right thing, but it sure felt awful. This is what combat does to people, this doubt that eats at you.
My second landing was as hairy as the first, even though it seemed simpler having done it once. After I climbed out of the Corsair, I was escorted back up to flag country. The Admiral and the Captains congratulated me. “They have one more ship. It’s currently in port. I’ll have the Chief put another GBU on the centerline.”
I wasn’t so sure. The pilots were going crazy when I hit the ready room. My back was sore from the backslapping and my ego was fully inflated.
It was something to be a celebrity among these pilots. Many of these guys had flown combat mission in Iraq or Afghanistan. Some of the senior pilots had flown missions in Desert Storm, a real war, unlike GW’s stupid Iraq invasion which was about as challenging as clubbing seals. They treated me like one of their own, maybe even an exceptional member of the club. It helped keep the doubts at bay.
The next day went by quickly. The day after, slower. The third day dragged. On the fourth day, I asked to see the Admiral. “Excuse me, but it seems like they have given up. I need to get on with my little trip.”
He exchanged glances with the CAG. “They are just laying low. They are waiting for us to not be looking.”
I remained unconvinced. Hell, I couldn’t just sit out here.
The CAG spoke up. “We’ve been considering options. We know where their last ship is. It’s in harbor. We can run one last mission with the drone. It will be easier than the last one since it will be tied up at the dock.”
“What about air defenses? What about witnesses?” I asked.
“No air defenses, and we figure that a night drop would be best,” the CAG said.
“A night landing?” I asked.
The CAG laughed. “Nope, Captain Bowman wouldn’t do that to you. He'd be afraid you would scratch his ship. There would be too much paperwork. You’ll drop right before sun up. By the time you get back here the sun will be up.” I shook my head. The CAG continued, “You go tonight and this threat will be gone tomorrow.”
Shit! I had signed up. I couldn’t leave them hanging. “I guess I better get some sleep today if I’m flying that early.
“Take off is Oh-three-thirty local,” the CAG said. I nodded. I’d have to be at the plane by two to get her prepped. It was hard getting to sleep.
One thing they did for me was they lit up the deck. Normally, Navy fliers take off and land on dark decks to practice for wartime. At night, the pilots catapult off into a black hole with no references except the instruments on the panel. It takes guts.
They had the deck lit up like Christmas for me. Again, I was off before I hit the end of the deck. I climbed to 15,000 and called to the controller who gave me a heading and time on target. I cruised along, watching for lights, my own lights blinking in the night. At twenty minutes out, the controller informed me that the drone was on target and to strangle the parrot. A quick lesson: the early identification friend or foe (IFF) devices were called the parrot since it squawked back to the ground radar whether you were a friendly plane. So strangling the parrot meant turning off your identifying squawk so the enemy radar didn't easily see you which for me was my Mode C and the lights. It felt strange to be flying at night in complete darkness with a now live bomb under me. I watched the GPS to see how close I was to the target. I started to see the lights of the city ahead. As I closed in I could make out the port. The target ship was at the southern end of the port.
The controller told me the drone had acquired the target. I headed for the southern end of the lighted harbor area. The GPS said I was on track. The GPS counted down the distance. The harbor lights slipped under the wings, I waited, waited, watching the GPS counter. Again, I was about 5 miles out when I felt the drag of the bomb trying to fly itself to the target. I pushed over into a shallow dive. I felt the drag lessen. It was still there when I pulled the release and felt the thud as the bomb separated. I pulled up, retracting the flaps and turned out to sea, then turning so I could see down. There was a flash that lit the whole waterfront. I turned out to sea followed by a loud thundering boom a few seconds later. I had no idea what I’d hit.
A few minutes later the Hawkeye came on the radio. “4727, we have one craft climbing out towards your position.”
What? What this about no air defenses? “What kind of craft?”
“The OOB shows the Somali Air Force had A-37s. But none operational. That is a ground attack craft.”
What if they borrowed a real fighter from someone? I was in some really deep shit if they did.
“4727, be advised that two Tomcats are in transit your position, Buster.”
Buster was slang for bust ass getting there. If they were at the ship they’d still take a while to get here.
“Craft is still climbing. Advise you climb to 15,000 and come to course 224.” I started to add throttle, then remembered, set prop for high speed first. Once it was set I climbed while turning. “4727, come to course 045. Hold altitude. 4727, come to full power.” I pushed the throttle to the stops and felt the plane surge as airspeed increased. I realized they were vectoring me onto the plane. Shit. I’m no dogfighter. My hand was flipping on the six guns before I realized it and the six guns were armed.
“4727, course 089.” I turned again. “Bogy is one mile ahead at 10,000 feet and still climbing at 375 knots.” I knew what they were telling me. They couldn’t tell me to dive and shoot him down but they sure as hell had put me in position to do so. I was debating when my mind was made up for me. They must have seen me or their ground radar picked me up. I saw the bogey turn and add power trying to climb above me. I turned and used the altitude to get up to 450 knots. I pulled 6 Gs lining up behind him. I put the pipper on his nose and squeezed the trigger just as he noticed I was behind him. The rounds started high but converged on the A-37 until all six streams of 50 caliber were hitting right in the middle of the jet. Flame shot out of the right side of the plane. At least one lucky bullet hit something vital and the right side engine came apart, followed by the main gas tank exploding from the hot flying parts of the engine as turbine blades flying in all directions sliced through the aluminum of the plane. I saw two ejection seats careen free of the flaming mass as I jerked the Corsair into a hard left turn to miss the flaming wreckage that filled the sky. I leveled off at 12,000 feet and throttled back to cruise. Once again, I hadn’t had time to think and had gotten lucky.
The trip back to the ship was slow and fast. I was done, but had I done well? There was a certain celebration in knowing I had helped, but an anxiety in wondering, had I hurt or really helped. I flew into a rising sun. I hoped both guys had gotten out of the plane and were picked up. I heard the Hawkeye giving assistance to a ship sent after the pilot and navigator. The Hawkeye controller gave me steering back to the ship.
It was bright early morning when I saw the flashing bumps on the ocean, long white tails following them. I was tired as I landed, following the paddles down. Once again I hit the deck hard. This time there was no jolt as I hit. I had already advanced the throttle as I ran down the deck. I stuck my head out the side to see the end of the deck running up. The Corsair ran off the end and settled a little, I kept screaming in my mind, ‘Fly you fucker, fly!’ As the plane dropped towards the blue water I had to fight the impulse to pull back on the stick which would stall the wings and put me in the drink for sure. Climb you bastard! Airspeed was coming up… My baby started to climb. I let out my breath as I hit 200 knots and retarded the throttle, turning downwind for another go at landing.
“You’re not a Navy pilot if you haven’t had a bolter,” the LSO said over the radio.
Here I was ready to lose my lunch and he’s making jokes! But it released the tension and I had to laugh. As I laughed I noticed the muscle tension relaxing. Good thing as my control movements had become jerky and uncertain. “Shit Navy. I never said I wanted to be a fighter puke.”
I heard the Admiral’s voice come over the radio, “Too late. You’re the Lone Ranger now.” I could hear the laughter and had to smile myself. That had done it. I was semi-relaxed as I turned in the second time. I followed the paddles in and felt the hard thump of the wheels and the instant jolt as the hook engaged. I was down.
As I climbed down from the plane in the hanger deck, the guys were standing around. On a signal they broke into the Lone Ranger theme. I had to laugh. The Chief came up and before he could say a word I told him, “I want it painted back to original before the day is done. I’m done.”
“Yes, Sir,” he said. He turned to one of the men, “Adams, get the paint shop ready.” The fellow ran off. “It’ll be better than new,” he said, smiling.
“I hope so,” I said quietly. I wasn’t sure anything would be better than new after this. A different shiny faced Ensign was there to escort me back up to flag country. After the congratulations and handshakes, I sat at the table and said, “I’m done.”
The Admiral nodded, “Fair enough. You did solve a rather large problem for us and we appreciate it. I understand the Chief will have your plane painted today. By the way, you had three grade three landings and just one two point five. Not bad for an Army flyer.”
“Good,” I said happy at the thought of getting back to my life. I looked over and even Bowman was smiling.
There was a knock on the door and a Lieutenant brought in some photos. They were spread on the table. I wasn’t sure what they were until the CAG said, “Sunk for sure. The only thing above water is the mast.” I leaned over the picture. The CAG pointed to a pier, “That’s where she was moored. See this, that’s the cargo mast and this is the top of the funnel. The rest is under water. Nice job.” I looked at the photos astonished. “We sent in a recce bird at dawn. He was back before you were. We were just waiting for the film to be processed.”
“Oh,” I said looking at the photo again. “What about the A-37?”
The three of them exchanged a glance. “We checked our, um, sources in Somalia. Seems the only A-37 in the country is owned by one of the warlords, gang leader would be a better term, who looks to have thrown in with the one running the pirate operation. They were pirates, not part of the government.”
“Could they have shot me down?” I asked.
“That model of the Dragonfly has a minigun in the nose more for ground attack but a minigun tosses out an awful lot of rounds right quick. No way to know for sure, but they wouldn’t have sent him up unarmed,” the CAG said. “It was a good mission.”
The Admiral gave me what I took to be a fatherly look, even though I wasn’t really all that much younger than him, “A lot of us have been there. It isn’t always pleasant, but if someone doesn’t do it, none of us will keep our freedom. That’s what I want you to think about when those thoughts return.”
I looked into his eyes and I knew he had spent nights thinking those thoughts. It was a price I would have to pay. I shrugged. “At least I got a free paint job.” This brought a few smiles.
“Tomorrow, you can continue on to Bombay. I want to thank you,” he said holding out his hand. I shook with him and the CAG and Bowman. “I expect to see you at Tailhook this year,” the CAG said.
“In Vegas?” I asked.
“Always,” he said smiling.
I nodded and the Ensign escorted me back to the ready room where a riot erupted when I entered. I was congratulated on my first, (and only) air-to-air kill. The pilots were much more in awe of a Corsair taking down a jet, even an A-37, than they were about the bombing missions. They were equally surprised to learn a Marine Corsair flown by Capt. Jesse Folmar of VMF-312 claimed a MIG in Korea. I wasn’t the first to do it. I was luckier though, since Fulmer got jumped by several Migs after downing his and was shot down. A one for one trade.
Someone produced a bottle of whiskey and cokes and a drink was shoved in my hand. How could I say no? It was late before the party broke up. I retired to my room and crawled into bed. The dreams wouldn’t come that night. They would come later.
Return to Around the World homepage
Keywords: erotic stories, erotica, MF, Mf, con, rom, somali pirates
Copyright Rod O'Steele © 2008, 2009, 2012