become “normal,” at least looking down from above.
But this time Ryder didn’t bother to move. He knew the sound of a Harrier engine by now—at least he thought he did. His ears had been bothering him lately, too. He waited and the noise got louder. Then finally he saw it. A jump jet, coming out of the south, starting to curve into a long elliptical orbit around the ship.
Someone in the combat control room was talking to the pilot by now, he was sure, not on the radio but on an SCP, a satellite cell phone. For security purposes, this was how the ship communicated with its tiny air force. Cell phone mikes and speakers had been installed in everyone’s crash helmets; the dialers had been sewn into their flight suit knee pads. Landing instructions, responses, and replies were all set in code, using words heard frequently during shipping operations. On special occasions, or when things got too hairy to speak in code, the SCPs also had a scrambler mode, which could distort any two-way conversation for up to 30 seconds. This quickly drained the phone’s internal batteries, though, and was used only as a last resort.
The incoming Harrier got a 20-mile clearance, too, meaning nothing was within 20 miles of the ship in any direction. This was the designated time frame in which a jump jet could land or take off from Ocean Voyager . Anything closer and the pilot would have to fly away for a while and wait until he was called back for another try.
But the all-clear was sounded, via the ship’s equally low-tech foghorn, once the CAC got a visual and confirmed that this guy was a friendly. The Harrier glided over the ship with admirable precision just a minute later. Ryder straightened a little. This speed jockey looked good, thank God. This was not a mission to have a wet noodle watching your six. Three containers had been rolled away and one of the aircraft elevators appeared from below. It arrived with a whoosh of clean hydraulic power. Following hand signals from a trio of Marine Aviation guys, the Harrier slotted in perfectly above the mobile landing platform, known to all as the pancake. As Ryder well knew, matching a hover with the speed of a moving ship was an art that would take even a test pilot a while to master. Yet this guy was doing it with ease.
The plane started coming down. Like Ryder’s Harrier, this jump jet had been “ghosted,” upgraded in the area of radar avoidance. The plane had been coated with a thick black and gray paint to absorb unfriendly radar signals. Movable heat deflectors had been installed to cool its various jet exhausts. All the plane’s sharpest angles had been smoothed over, and anything that had been previously hanging off the fuselage or wings was now recessed inside them. The plane even had a specially tinted canopy, nearly opaque from the outside. In other words, the jump jet was now stealthy, and, ironically looked more like the original British version of the plane, than the current U.S. model.
Ryder stepped back; so did the Marines. They’d seen Ryder land enough times to know that whenever a Harrier came down there was a bounce and then a flare of hot thrust deflecting off the pancake. The new pilot didn’t need their help anymore, so they’d moved off to safer footing.
But this Harrier came in so perfectly, it touched down without anything remotely resembling a thump. Nor was there any hot kick-up. This, too, brightened Ryder’s spirits. The person behind such a smooth landing must have had at least as much flying time as he, possibly more. Chances were good he was a real veteran, in both service and age.
“This guy will be ancient,” Ryder predicted aloud.
The Harrier shut down, its canopy popped, and the pilot climbed out. Ryder took one look at him and nearly fell off the boat.
He looked younger than the Delta guys.
They met at the edge of the pancake. He was short, as many fighter pilots were. Maybe five-seven on a good day. He took off his crash helmet to
But this time Ryder didn’t bother to move. He knew the sound of a Harrier engine by now—at least he thought he did. His ears had been bothering him lately, too. He waited and the noise got louder. Then finally he saw it. A jump jet, coming out of the south, starting to curve into a long elliptical orbit around the ship.
Someone in the combat control room was talking to the pilot by now, he was sure, not on the radio but on an SCP, a satellite cell phone. For security purposes, this was how the ship communicated with its tiny air force. Cell phone mikes and speakers had been installed in everyone’s crash helmets; the dialers had been sewn into their flight suit knee pads. Landing instructions, responses, and replies were all set in code, using words heard frequently during shipping operations. On special occasions, or when things got too hairy to speak in code, the SCPs also had a scrambler mode, which could distort any two-way conversation for up to 30 seconds. This quickly drained the phone’s internal batteries, though, and was used only as a last resort.
The incoming Harrier got a 20-mile clearance, too, meaning nothing was within 20 miles of the ship in any direction. This was the designated time frame in which a jump jet could land or take off from Ocean Voyager . Anything closer and the pilot would have to fly away for a while and wait until he was called back for another try.
But the all-clear was sounded, via the ship’s equally low-tech foghorn, once the CAC got a visual and confirmed that this guy was a friendly. The Harrier glided over the ship with admirable precision just a minute later. Ryder straightened a little. This speed jockey looked good, thank God. This was not a mission to have a wet noodle watching your six. Three containers had been rolled away and one of the aircraft elevators appeared from below. It arrived with a whoosh of clean hydraulic power. Following hand signals from a trio of Marine Aviation guys, the Harrier slotted in perfectly above the mobile landing platform, known to all as the pancake. As Ryder well knew, matching a hover with the speed of a moving ship was an art that would take even a test pilot a while to master. Yet this guy was doing it with ease.
The plane started coming down. Like Ryder’s Harrier, this jump jet had been “ghosted,” upgraded in the area of radar avoidance. The plane had been coated with a thick black and gray paint to absorb unfriendly radar signals. Movable heat deflectors had been installed to cool its various jet exhausts. All the plane’s sharpest angles had been smoothed over, and anything that had been previously hanging off the fuselage or wings was now recessed inside them. The plane even had a specially tinted canopy, nearly opaque from the outside. In other words, the jump jet was now stealthy, and, ironically looked more like the original British version of the plane, than the current U.S. model.
Ryder stepped back; so did the Marines. They’d seen Ryder land enough times to know that whenever a Harrier came down there was a bounce and then a flare of hot thrust deflecting off the pancake. The new pilot didn’t need their help anymore, so they’d moved off to safer footing.
But this Harrier came in so perfectly, it touched down without anything remotely resembling a thump. Nor was there any hot kick-up. This, too, brightened Ryder’s spirits. The person behind such a smooth landing must have had at least as much flying time as he, possibly more. Chances were good he was a real veteran, in both service and age.
“This guy will be ancient,” Ryder predicted aloud.
The Harrier shut down, its canopy popped, and the pilot climbed out. Ryder took one look at him and nearly fell off the boat.
He looked younger than the Delta guys.
They met at the edge of the pancake. He was short, as many fighter pilots were. Maybe five-seven on a good day. He took off his crash helmet to
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