Unknown Rider

“Bolt Four One,” Colt said, craning his neck to look over at Smitty, a junior captain and the only other pilot flying the new fighter in the event.

“Bolt Four Two.”

The air wing leveraged the lethal integration of fourth- and fifth-generation fighters, and an additional four Super Hornets and two JSFs would launch near the end of their vulnerability window to relieve them on station. But Colt and his flight were first up, and he hoped to get a crack at the adversary aircraft orbiting north of them. A yellow-shirted plane director walked up to his plane and held his hands up above his head before patting himself on the chest, signaling that he was taking control of Colt’s jet.

Here we go, Colt thought.

The Marines around his jet responded to the plane director’s signal to break him down by removing the chocks and chains and freeing him from the flight deck as he prepared to taxi. Colt clicked his oxygen mask into place and armed his seat, prepared to follow the yellow shirt’s lighted wands from his parking spot forward of the island to the number four catapult on the port side of the ship.

His heart pounded in his chest when the yellow shirt crossed and uncrossed his wands, signaling for him to release his brakes and begin moving. He advanced the throttle and felt the turbofan engine spool up as he released the pressure on his brake pedals and inched forward, following the lighted wands and tuning out the rest of the flight deck’s activity.

“Looks like you’re first up,” Smitty said over their tactical frequency.

Colt double-clicked the microphone switch, acknowledging the transmission but too focused on taxiing to come up with something witty in reply. The yellow shirt passed him off to another in the landing area who steered him behind the outermost waist catapult before crossing his wands to stop him, then directing him to spread his wings. He selected the command on the touchscreen PCD, or Panoramic Cockpit Display, in front of him and confirmed it by clicking on the cyan box.

The butterflies bouncing around in his stomach settled, and he focused on the mission ahead. They all knew the scripted exercise would turn into a notional shooting war at some point during the night when their adversaries tripped the stringent Rules of Engagement. Then the gloves would come off, and they would bring to bear the might of the entire Abraham Lincoln strike group against the make-believe enemy. That was when Colt would get to witness what he’d come for.

As the first event to man Combat Air Patrols against the adversaries, Colt thought they would get to see action before being relieved on station and forced to return to the ship for their recovery. He was combat experienced, well trained, and was flying the most advanced fighter the Navy and Marine Corps had to offer. He was ready.

The yellow wands uncrossed and began moving in short arcs, and Colt replied by taxiing forward across the jet blast deflector. After lining up behind the catapult shuttle, the yellow shirt again stopped him and ordered him to lower his launch bar. Again, he chose the command on the touchscreen and clicked on the cyan confirm box, longing for the simpler analog days of the Hornet. He felt the launch bar drop into place with a satisfying thunk.

Colt looked over and saw Smitty lined up behind the catapult next to him. The orchestrated chaos of an aircraft carrier never failed to amaze him, especially at night, when only the tower’s dim sodium lights illuminated the precise ballet of planes and people dancing on the flight deck. Shadows stretched across the non-skid surface and enveloped everything in darkness.

“OAKINE,” Smitty said.

Once A Knight Is Never Enough…

The yellow shirt uncrossed his wands again and taxied him forward until he felt the holdback fitting tug on his jet and hold him in place. Then the yellow shirt rotated his torso and shot a wand outward, giving the signal to take tension. Colt released the brakes and felt the nose strut squat as the yellow shirt handed him off to the Shooter. He advanced the throttle, manipulated his side stick to exercise the control surfaces, and stepped on the rudder pedals in both directions. At last, he flipped the switch to turn on his exterior lights as the signal he was ready to go.

The Shooter saluted him, then tapped the flight deck with his wand in a fencer’s lunge before raising it to point at the blackness beyond the flight deck edge lighting. Colt placed his helmet back against the headrest and waited for the catapult to fire and fling his Joint Strike Fighter off the pointy end of the ship.

When it did, he broke into a smile behind his oxygen mask. Nothing would ever dull the thrill of a catapult launch, not even the terrifying few seconds before he assured himself he was flying.