throttle forward with her left hand to move the Hornet from its deck-edge parking place. Her jet wash could kill someone or explode another aircraft, and she couldn’t see the carrier deck around her plane.
He motioned her to hold and she eased back on the throttle, bringing the jet to a stop with the nose nearly touching the massive blast deflector protecting her plane from the jet wash of the plane being launched. The F/A-18 Hornet was a heavy, stubborn plane when fully fueled and armed. As graceful as it was in the air, it was unresponsive on land, or in this case steel, due to its back-weighted center of gravity. It took throttle on both engines to move its bulk.
She would be launching into the twilight. She took a deep breath as the plane ahead went to maximum burners. She hoped his launch was smooth so she could get away before that moment where the horizon shimmered in the fading light and her eyes lied about what was water and sky.
She punched a button and the takeoff checklist appeared in her left display. She was fighting the clock now and there was no time to waste. She ran the list, slamming the control surfaces around to check maximum movement, pushing the rudders, scanning the internal panels checking oil pressure, hydraulics, fuel flow—looking for anything with even a hint of a problem before it became too late to address it.
The safety officer gave final approval, the deflector shield lowered, and the plane director signaled her forward onto the catapult track. Steam was still swirling from the catapult shot of the EA-6B Prowler just launched. Dread began to build deep at the base of Gracie’s spine as she eased the throttle forward and rolled the Hornet across the catapult hook. The nose wheels locked and the green shirt catapult crewman hurried to attach a holdback bar to keep her plane in place until the catapult fired.
Two ordnance men moved beneath the wings of her plane, pulling safety pins to arm the weapons. One of the catapult officers held up a weight board, 41,300 pounds, and Gracie confirmed it with her own readouts and signaled her agreement.
Underneath her, in the interior of the carrier, pressure was building to the point that at the touch of a button, the steam-driven catapult would hurl her from the carrier deck, taking her from a dead stop to 125 knots in under two seconds.
She rested her hands on her thighs and deliberately tightened then loosened each muscle group in her arms and back to help her settle more deeply into the seat while she waited for the catapult officer to signal full burners.
On the next catapult the executive officer, Peter “Thunder” Stanford, was also getting ready to launch. She’d be off first. She felt an overwhelming sense of dependency on God during these moments. She knew if the catapult failed she was dead. She would hit the water doing anywhere from sixty to a hundred knots, and the impact would shear the plane into pieces.
If she did manage to eject in the two seconds before impact, she would either land on the carrier deck like a pancake and have her ejection seat chute get sucked into the roaring jet engines of another F/A-18 Hornet or she would land in the water and literally get run over by the carrier steaming ahead to maintain the thirty-knot minimum wind across the flight deck.
She prayed for safety but she didn’t dwell on it. She had decided years ago when she chose this profession that she would accept the training rigors, the risks, the dangers, and not ask God to remove the consequences of her choices. She was a Navy pilot. She loved it. And she accepted everything that meant.
The catapult officer signaled for full burners. Gracie tightened her left hand, took a deep breath, and shoved the throttle full open. The engines roared as the afterburners kicked in, the sound deafening even inside the cockpit with the helmet on, and the plane began to quiver around her.
The status screens were still green. She was good to go.
God,
He motioned her to hold and she eased back on the throttle, bringing the jet to a stop with the nose nearly touching the massive blast deflector protecting her plane from the jet wash of the plane being launched. The F/A-18 Hornet was a heavy, stubborn plane when fully fueled and armed. As graceful as it was in the air, it was unresponsive on land, or in this case steel, due to its back-weighted center of gravity. It took throttle on both engines to move its bulk.
She would be launching into the twilight. She took a deep breath as the plane ahead went to maximum burners. She hoped his launch was smooth so she could get away before that moment where the horizon shimmered in the fading light and her eyes lied about what was water and sky.
She punched a button and the takeoff checklist appeared in her left display. She was fighting the clock now and there was no time to waste. She ran the list, slamming the control surfaces around to check maximum movement, pushing the rudders, scanning the internal panels checking oil pressure, hydraulics, fuel flow—looking for anything with even a hint of a problem before it became too late to address it.
The safety officer gave final approval, the deflector shield lowered, and the plane director signaled her forward onto the catapult track. Steam was still swirling from the catapult shot of the EA-6B Prowler just launched. Dread began to build deep at the base of Gracie’s spine as she eased the throttle forward and rolled the Hornet across the catapult hook. The nose wheels locked and the green shirt catapult crewman hurried to attach a holdback bar to keep her plane in place until the catapult fired.
Two ordnance men moved beneath the wings of her plane, pulling safety pins to arm the weapons. One of the catapult officers held up a weight board, 41,300 pounds, and Gracie confirmed it with her own readouts and signaled her agreement.
Underneath her, in the interior of the carrier, pressure was building to the point that at the touch of a button, the steam-driven catapult would hurl her from the carrier deck, taking her from a dead stop to 125 knots in under two seconds.
She rested her hands on her thighs and deliberately tightened then loosened each muscle group in her arms and back to help her settle more deeply into the seat while she waited for the catapult officer to signal full burners.
On the next catapult the executive officer, Peter “Thunder” Stanford, was also getting ready to launch. She’d be off first. She felt an overwhelming sense of dependency on God during these moments. She knew if the catapult failed she was dead. She would hit the water doing anywhere from sixty to a hundred knots, and the impact would shear the plane into pieces.
If she did manage to eject in the two seconds before impact, she would either land on the carrier deck like a pancake and have her ejection seat chute get sucked into the roaring jet engines of another F/A-18 Hornet or she would land in the water and literally get run over by the carrier steaming ahead to maintain the thirty-knot minimum wind across the flight deck.
She prayed for safety but she didn’t dwell on it. She had decided years ago when she chose this profession that she would accept the training rigors, the risks, the dangers, and not ask God to remove the consequences of her choices. She was a Navy pilot. She loved it. And she accepted everything that meant.
The catapult officer signaled for full burners. Gracie tightened her left hand, took a deep breath, and shoved the throttle full open. The engines roared as the afterburners kicked in, the sound deafening even inside the cockpit with the helmet on, and the plane began to quiver around her.
The status screens were still green. She was good to go.
God,
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