“Two one zero, say needles.”

The ACLS guidance cue, a small circle with a tick mark at the twelve o’clock position, blinked steady three degrees above the horizon but centered up on his heading. “Fly up and on,” he replied.

“Fly your needles,” the approach controller said.

Colt watched the ACLS cue move downward until the circle fit perfectly inside his velocity vector. As it dropped below the horizon, he decreased power and allowed the velocity vector to lower until his rate of descent equated to a three-and-a-half degree glide path.

He took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. Passing through eight hundred feet, he glanced at the number representing his distance to the ship and saw that he was two miles away. Exactly where he was supposed to be. It wouldn’t have been the first time the ship locked up the wrong aircraft and sent erroneous commands.

“Two one zero, three-quarters of a mile, call the ball.”

Colt had already transitioned his scan to the IFLOLS. “Two one zero, Rhino ball, six point oh.”

Ducky’s voice came over the radio. “Raaaaah-ger, ball!”

Meatball. Lineup. Angle of attack.

His eyes danced between the meatball on the left side of the ship, the row of lights extending through the middle of the landing area, and the dim amber circle just left of his HUD.

Meatball. Lineup. Angle of attack.

Colt added a touch of power just as the ball dipped low in relation to the datums. His power addition worked, and the ball crested back to where it had been. But before he could congratulate himself, the red wave-off lights strobed, and his left hand instinctively pushed both throttles forward. He kept his angle of attack constant and allowed the added power to change his trajectory upward and away from the looming flight deck.

“Wave off, wave off, foul deck,” Ducky’s disgusted voice said.

Colt gave a little shake of his head as he flew up the landing area and climbed to twelve hundred feet to join the bolter/wave-off pattern. But he had enough gas for at least two more looks before he had to hit the tanker, so he took a deep breath and fell back on his training.

“Two one zero, say state.”

Colt glanced down at his fuel display. “State five point seven.”

There was a delay, and Colt continued driving upwind while waiting for the approach controller to call his turn to downwind. “Two one zero, your signal is Texaco and divert.”

Divert?

Colt reached down and selected the waypoint for Marine Corps Air Station Iwakuni, stunned to see they had opted to send him to the tanker and then to a field over two hundred miles away when he had more than enough gas to try again. He was about to key the microphone to question the decision when he heard the LSO’s familiar voice break the silence.

“Two one zero, paddles.”

“Go ahead.”

“A Rhino’s landing gear collapsed in the LA. It’s going to be a while before they can clear it, so we’re sending you to the beach for the night.”

“Two one zero.”

There wasn’t much left to say. Colt was already thinking about the cold beers waiting for him.

16

Officer’s Club — Club Iwakuni

Marine Corps Air Station Iwakuni

Iwakuni-shi, Yamaguchi-ken, Japan

Four hours later, Colt had completely forgotten his frustration at being sent back to Iwakuni instead of loitering overhead the carrier while he waited for them to clear the fouled landing area. It was amazing what some hot food and a few cold beers did to his outlook on the night. And it didn’t hurt that the Greyhound crews who hadn’t yet flown out to the ship were there to welcome him with open arms and a blank check to pick up the tab.

“Another round?” Andy Yandell asked, tilting his bottle back to drain the rest of the Sapporo American-style lager.

Colt stared across the bar at the handful of Marine F-35B Lightning II pilots from the Green Knights and the Bats. He knew the Marine variant of the Joint Strike Fighter featured a vertical lift fan and pivoting engine nozzle for vertical landing and short takeoff capability and differed from the carrier variant he had flown. But he couldn’t help but wonder if it also suffered from a weakness that allowed a hostile threat to hack into it.

“Colt?”

He looked over to the COD pilot sitting next to him. “Sorry?”

“Another round?”

Colt knew he had to lead a flight back to the carrier in the morning. But morning seemed so far away. “You bet,” he said, though he knew he would probably regret the decision.

Andy pushed his empty bottle across the bar’s surface and gestured for the bartender to bring them two fresh beers. The bartender returned a moment later and set them down in front of the two drunk pilots.

“Long way from the I-Bar,” Andy said, referring to the iconic bar located on North Island Naval Air Station in San Diego.

“You got that right.” Colt picked up the fresh beer and clinked the long neck against Andy’s. “Thanks for the beer.”

“It’s the least I can do.”