Night was retreating across the Pacific as Captain Alex Harrow stood on the Bridge of his aircraft carrier, supervising preparations for flight operations. Pointed into the brisk thirty-knot wind, USS Nimitz surged west into the darkness, plowing through ten-foot waves. Fifty feet below, a myriad of colored lights illuminated the Flight Deck, as the last of the first four F/A-18 Hornet fighter jets, its engine exhausts glowing red, eased toward its catapult. Along the sides of the carrier, additional Hornets were being raised to the Flight Deck from the Hangar below. As the twenty aircraft in Wing ELEVEN’s first cycle prepared for launch, Harrow knew that twenty miles to the north, George Washington’s air wing was doing the same.
* * *
Lieutenant Leland Gwenn pushed forward on the throttles, easing his single-seat F/A-18C toward the carrier’s bow. In the darkness, he watched the Director’s yellow flashlights guide him toward the next stage of preparation for launch—the Director lifted his hands over his head, then pointed toward the Shooter.
The Shooter, also wielding yellow flashlights, continued guiding Leland forward, finally raising his right arm, flexed at the elbow, dropping it suddenly. Leland responded by dropping the Hornet’s Launch Bar, which rolled into the CAT Two shuttle hook as the aircraft lurched to a halt. The Launch Petty Officer disappeared under Leland’s jet, verifying the Launch Bar was properly engaged, and a moment later the Shooter raised both hands in the air. Leland matched the Shooter’s motion, raising both hands to within view inside the cockpit, giving the Shooter assurance Leland’s hands were off all controls. The Shooter pointed his flashlight to a red-shirted Ordie—an Aviation Ordnanceman—who took his cue and stepped beneath the Hornet, arming each bomb and missile.
As Lieutenant Leland Gwenn—call sign Vandal—waited for the Ordie to complete his task, he thought about that fateful day, eleven years ago. He was only seventeen, having just pled guilty to managing a ring of teenage car thieves. Standing before Judge Alice Loweecey, he was more jubilant than remorseful; his lawyer had informed him a deal had been struck that would allow him to avoid jail time.
Judge Loweecey had studied the documents before her in silence before lifting her eyes to the heavily tattooed teenager standing before her. Pushing her wire-rimmed glasses high onto the bridge of her nose, she cleared her throat and announced the decision that changed Leland’s life. It was either three years in jail or three years in the Navy.
Fortunately, the Navy was exactly what he needed, levying a heavy dose of discipline and responsibility onto his young shoulders. He matured rapidly, eventually regretting his youthful indiscretions. After receiving his high school GED and impressing his Navy superiors, he enrolled in the University of Maryland as a Midshipman, with guaranteed acceptance into the Navy’s flight school in Pensacola following graduation. He received his commission as an officer in the United States Navy, and eighteen months later earned his wings, also earning the well-deserved call sign of Vandal.
A loud roar to Vandal’s right caught his attention as his wingman—Lieutenant Liz Michalski—in the F/A-18C on the starboard bow catapult streaked forward, her engines glowing white-hot as CAT One fired. Michalski’s jet disappeared below the carrier’s bow, reappearing a second later as it climbed in altitude, the glowing twin-engine exhaust growing smaller as it ascended. She would wait in a holding pattern for Vandal and the rest of Air Wing ELEVEN’s first cycle.
A signal from the Shooter told Vandal his weapons were armed and it was time to go to full power. Vandal pushed the throttles forward until they hit the détente, spooling his twin General Electric turbofan engines up to full Military Power. As he confirmed the engines were at one hundred percent RPM and fuel flow, he knew that beneath the Flight Deck, steam was being ported behind CAT Two’s massive piston, putting the catapult in tension. He then exercised each of the Hornet’s control surfaces, moving the control stick to all four corners as he alternately pressed both rudder pedals. Black-and-white-shirted Troubleshooters verified the Hornet’s control surfaces were functioning properly and there were no oil or fuel leaks. Both men gave a thumbs-up and the Shooter turned toward Vandal, relaying the results of the inspection.
Satisfied his Hornet was functioning properly, Vandal returned the thumbs-up and the Shooter lifted his arm skyward, then back down to a horizontal position, directing Vandal to kick in the afterburners. Vandal’s Hornet was unusually heavy tonight, with twin fuel tanks—one on each wing—and ordnance attached to every other pylon; tonight’s takeoff required extra thrust. Vandal pushed the throttles past the détente to engage the afterburners, then turned toward the Shooter and saluted, the glow from his cockpit instruments illuminating his hand as it went to his helmet.
The Shooter returned the salute, then bent down and touched the Flight Deck, giving the signal to the operator in the Catapult Control Station. Vandal pushed his head firmly against the headrest of his seat and took his hands off the controls, and a second later CAT Two fired with the usual spine-jarring jolt. He felt his stomach lifting into his chest as the Hornet dropped when it left the carrier’s deck. Vandal took control of his Hornet, accelerating upward.
As the seat pressed into him during the ascent, Vandal scanned the instruments in his cockpit. Michalski was in a holding pattern at twelve thousand feet. With a nudge of his control stick to the right, Vandal adjusted the trajectory of his climb, angling toward his wingman. A few moments later, he pulled up next to Liz Michalski, call sign Phoenix, who was stationed behind an F/A-18E configured as a tanker, topping off her fuel tanks. All the fighters in Air Wing ELEVEN’s first cycle were heavy, consuming over one thousand pounds of fuel during their launch and climb to twelve thousand feet, and would top off their tanks before heading west. Vandal settled in fifteen feet away on Phoenix’s nine o’clock position, waiting his turn behind the tanker while USS Nimitz completed launching its first cycle.