Scott kept a tight grip on the Corsair's stick as the stricken aircraft gained two escorts in the form of the blocky MiG-31's that slid into place on his wingtips, their over-sized F-15 shapes positively dwarfing the diminutive SLUF.
"Hi guys," he said with a forced calm to his voice, though a waver betrayed his concern, even through the radio. "Thanks for coming to the assist. I'd do a victory roll, but as you can see, I'm having a bit of trouble".
"Roger that," replied one of the Foxhound pilots, the one with the gruff voice who'd spoken earlier. "You've done a hell of a job so far, Romeo. You'll make it down".
Scott clicked the mike in response, before switching channels to speak with Charles. "Ah, Border Boy, this is Romeo. Sorry I can't join you for the post-mission debrief and the drinks. I'll catch you all up later on, and owe you a round. See you soon, over".
The business dealt with, Scott grimaced and kept the Corsair as on course as he could manage. By now, the instrument panel was a field of red warning lights and shrill buzzing alarms, and all he was doing was damage limitation, rather than fighting to keep the plane aloft. Making it back to terra firma in one piece was all that mattered, and making sure no one got hurt when the plane inevitably fell out of the sky.
"Romeo, this is Wolf-2" came a female voice. "Capital Air Command has you on visual. The base is ahead, off your nose. Keep going, you're almost there," she urged patiently. "You're looking good so far. We're going to overfly Oured Bay on approach, so prepare to punch off your stores".
"Roger, Wolf-2," replied Scott. His hands danced over the controls on the plane, prepping the hardpoints to jettison his remaining stores. The missiles were dead weight now, and dangerous in the event of a dangerous landing. If things went truly bad, they could explode, and then there'd be no chance of escape. Thumbing the switches, he punched off the SDM pods, the depleted drop-tanks and the paired AIM-9's. The various shapes tumbled away from the stubby Corsair II with a rumbled of disturbed air, and the handling picked up a little, to Scott's pleasant surprise.
Looking out of the curved canopy, he saw the runway hove into view, stretching out like a welcoming mat. The flashing lights of crash vehicles stood off to the end, ready to start rolling as he made his approach. Foam had been sprayed in preparation to minimise the chance of fire on landing, and he felt a tightening in his chest as the Corsair vibrated and wobbled alarmingly, thumping and grating sounds coming from the jet. More lights turned red, and Wolf-1's voice sounded again, with more concern.
"Keep going Romeo. There's uh, a 'little' smoke coming out of your engine, but you're looking good. Cycle your gear and line up for landing, over".
"Roger, Wolf. Thanks for the reassuring words. Maybe I can just park this thing here and get a ride the rest of the way with you, over?"
A rough laugh came back and the Foxhound bobbed as it's gear came down and locked, and the huge jet angled for a slow-and-low approach, putting as much drag out as possible to keep the speed low.
"That's the spirit, Romeo. You're doing well, over"
Scott clicked the mike again, reaching for the gear levers. Even as he did, he realized how tired this was making him - the constant stress and hyper-awareness of the moment, coupled with the physical exertion was massively draining. Sweat was pouring through his suit, and streaming into his eyes, but he couldn't spare a hand to wipe his face. Cycling the gear, he waited for the rumble as the planes' gear extended into the airstream.
Nothing happened.
He returned the lever to the up position, counted to five, and tried again. This time, there was the rumble of movement, though it seemed abbreviated, before the lights turned green.
"Romeo, this is Wolf-2" came the woman's voice again, this time more reserved and uncertain. "Your gear's not fully down. Your main units have extended and locked, but your nose gear isn't down. Suggest you try again, over".
Scott looked at the panel, and felt his heart sink further into his pelvis. The hydraulic system was a mess of red - he couldn't try again even if he wanted to, and the flight controls were virtually frozen up. All the was keeping the plane flying was ballistic motion and the residual pressure in the system had dropped the flaps and the gear.
"Uh, I'm pretty much coasting in at this point," he said with a waver in his voice, as the jet began to oscillate as the vortices around the flight of the aircraft began to buffet from the ground. "I've got almost no control, and no pressure. I'm gonna have to keep her nose high and use the shape of the plane to drop my speed... and hope that's enough to slow down before I put the nose onto the tarmac... wish me luck. And... if it all goes to shi- hell, then uh..." he swallowed and his voice dropped a tone or two.
"Tell my wife I always thought of her. And tell my son that I'll always, always be proud of him. Over".
There was a moment of quiet, which became eerily and soberingly more quiet as the engine and the electrics gave out, the air conditioner in the cabin finally giving out and leaving him with the smell of burned plastic and the rush of air outside the plane, especially close the ground. There was a double click of affirmative on the radio, and then he grappled with the stick.
The Corsair was old. And, for once, this was in it's favour: The A-7 predated fly-by-wire controls, and so the linkages were all mechanical and driven by rods and hydraulics. With the pressure dropping off as the system failed and was going bone-dry, he had enough authority to keep the plane nose-high, but almost as soon as he dropped into ground-effect, the plane began to fight, lashing all over the sky. Struggling to keep it on course, the naval aviator fought the jet, throwing his weight and not-inconsiderable strength into keeping the jet straight, every muscle aching as the jet built up heavy vibrations that jarred to his bones and made him see double. The disorientation was staggering; sound crashed in on him from the roaring air and the groaning airframe, and the blurring double-vision and staggering pressure and fatigue on his muscles tore his attention in a dozen directions, but somehow he kept enough attention to keep the nose high as the jet descended, less like a bird and more like a falling leaf.
The tail struck hard with a screech, bouncing the plane up, before he pushed the nose down a little. The Corsair settled into its' main gears heavily with a scream of tortured rubber, dulled by the thick layer of crash foam. The wings of the plane, high up in the airstream, further braked the aircraft and slowed, it, but the vibration and shuddering through the frame increased. The gear strained and complained, and scott rotated the nose hurriedly. Almost as the fuselage came level and the lip of the big nose intake kissed the ground, the portside gear arm collapsed, and the fuselage dug into the ground. The world became a blurring cascade of noise, colour and strain as the plane slewed around and about.
Thrown against the straps, Scott was a virtual ragdoll as physics took over his journey and his limbs were thrown around the inside of the cockpit. His seat straps kept him mostly in place, but he was still wildly and violently shaken about. A gasp escaped his lips as something in his ribs gave way, and his neck felt like it had been shaken by an angry dog, before with a final lurching screech the jet came to a halt.
Quivering-limbed and with every part of his body aching, Scotts' blurry, double-vision came into vague focus and he slapped the controls. No response. Thumping and scrabbling reached his ears from outside, and he turned - and that hurt - to see rescue crews outside the plexiglas of the canopy. He raised a shaky thumbs-up, before they hit the emergency release. He managed to raise one aching leg, feeling something grate inside as he did so, before pulled his survival knife one-handed from the sheath on his leg and sawing through seat-straps. Then the hands of the emergency crew found him and took over. In a haze, he was spirited from the cockpit, and away from the Corsair as it was drowned in foam to prevent an explosion.
The next minutes were a blur as he was taken away from his downed plane, and laid out on a stretcher. Slowly, his disorientation faded, and he began to catch words - broken ribs, broken wrist, whiplash, compressed spine. It was clear from what was being said, that he was lucky to be alive, but that the next weeks - or months - would be hard. And maybe flying would never be a part of his life again.
But at least his family would.
Gently eased onto his back, he looked up as the blocky shapes of the pair of Foxhounds roared overhead, and he let out a sigh of relief as the medical crew wheeled him into the back of an ambulance.
"Hi guys," he said with a forced calm to his voice, though a waver betrayed his concern, even through the radio. "Thanks for coming to the assist. I'd do a victory roll, but as you can see, I'm having a bit of trouble".
"Roger that," replied one of the Foxhound pilots, the one with the gruff voice who'd spoken earlier. "You've done a hell of a job so far, Romeo. You'll make it down".
Scott clicked the mike in response, before switching channels to speak with Charles. "Ah, Border Boy, this is Romeo. Sorry I can't join you for the post-mission debrief and the drinks. I'll catch you all up later on, and owe you a round. See you soon, over".
The business dealt with, Scott grimaced and kept the Corsair as on course as he could manage. By now, the instrument panel was a field of red warning lights and shrill buzzing alarms, and all he was doing was damage limitation, rather than fighting to keep the plane aloft. Making it back to terra firma in one piece was all that mattered, and making sure no one got hurt when the plane inevitably fell out of the sky.
"Romeo, this is Wolf-2" came a female voice. "Capital Air Command has you on visual. The base is ahead, off your nose. Keep going, you're almost there," she urged patiently. "You're looking good so far. We're going to overfly Oured Bay on approach, so prepare to punch off your stores".
"Roger, Wolf-2," replied Scott. His hands danced over the controls on the plane, prepping the hardpoints to jettison his remaining stores. The missiles were dead weight now, and dangerous in the event of a dangerous landing. If things went truly bad, they could explode, and then there'd be no chance of escape. Thumbing the switches, he punched off the SDM pods, the depleted drop-tanks and the paired AIM-9's. The various shapes tumbled away from the stubby Corsair II with a rumbled of disturbed air, and the handling picked up a little, to Scott's pleasant surprise.
Looking out of the curved canopy, he saw the runway hove into view, stretching out like a welcoming mat. The flashing lights of crash vehicles stood off to the end, ready to start rolling as he made his approach. Foam had been sprayed in preparation to minimise the chance of fire on landing, and he felt a tightening in his chest as the Corsair vibrated and wobbled alarmingly, thumping and grating sounds coming from the jet. More lights turned red, and Wolf-1's voice sounded again, with more concern.
"Keep going Romeo. There's uh, a 'little' smoke coming out of your engine, but you're looking good. Cycle your gear and line up for landing, over".
"Roger, Wolf. Thanks for the reassuring words. Maybe I can just park this thing here and get a ride the rest of the way with you, over?"
A rough laugh came back and the Foxhound bobbed as it's gear came down and locked, and the huge jet angled for a slow-and-low approach, putting as much drag out as possible to keep the speed low.
"That's the spirit, Romeo. You're doing well, over"
Scott clicked the mike again, reaching for the gear levers. Even as he did, he realized how tired this was making him - the constant stress and hyper-awareness of the moment, coupled with the physical exertion was massively draining. Sweat was pouring through his suit, and streaming into his eyes, but he couldn't spare a hand to wipe his face. Cycling the gear, he waited for the rumble as the planes' gear extended into the airstream.
Nothing happened.
He returned the lever to the up position, counted to five, and tried again. This time, there was the rumble of movement, though it seemed abbreviated, before the lights turned green.
"Romeo, this is Wolf-2" came the woman's voice again, this time more reserved and uncertain. "Your gear's not fully down. Your main units have extended and locked, but your nose gear isn't down. Suggest you try again, over".
Scott looked at the panel, and felt his heart sink further into his pelvis. The hydraulic system was a mess of red - he couldn't try again even if he wanted to, and the flight controls were virtually frozen up. All the was keeping the plane flying was ballistic motion and the residual pressure in the system had dropped the flaps and the gear.
"Uh, I'm pretty much coasting in at this point," he said with a waver in his voice, as the jet began to oscillate as the vortices around the flight of the aircraft began to buffet from the ground. "I've got almost no control, and no pressure. I'm gonna have to keep her nose high and use the shape of the plane to drop my speed... and hope that's enough to slow down before I put the nose onto the tarmac... wish me luck. And... if it all goes to shi- hell, then uh..." he swallowed and his voice dropped a tone or two.
"Tell my wife I always thought of her. And tell my son that I'll always, always be proud of him. Over".
There was a moment of quiet, which became eerily and soberingly more quiet as the engine and the electrics gave out, the air conditioner in the cabin finally giving out and leaving him with the smell of burned plastic and the rush of air outside the plane, especially close the ground. There was a double click of affirmative on the radio, and then he grappled with the stick.
The Corsair was old. And, for once, this was in it's favour: The A-7 predated fly-by-wire controls, and so the linkages were all mechanical and driven by rods and hydraulics. With the pressure dropping off as the system failed and was going bone-dry, he had enough authority to keep the plane nose-high, but almost as soon as he dropped into ground-effect, the plane began to fight, lashing all over the sky. Struggling to keep it on course, the naval aviator fought the jet, throwing his weight and not-inconsiderable strength into keeping the jet straight, every muscle aching as the jet built up heavy vibrations that jarred to his bones and made him see double. The disorientation was staggering; sound crashed in on him from the roaring air and the groaning airframe, and the blurring double-vision and staggering pressure and fatigue on his muscles tore his attention in a dozen directions, but somehow he kept enough attention to keep the nose high as the jet descended, less like a bird and more like a falling leaf.
The tail struck hard with a screech, bouncing the plane up, before he pushed the nose down a little. The Corsair settled into its' main gears heavily with a scream of tortured rubber, dulled by the thick layer of crash foam. The wings of the plane, high up in the airstream, further braked the aircraft and slowed, it, but the vibration and shuddering through the frame increased. The gear strained and complained, and scott rotated the nose hurriedly. Almost as the fuselage came level and the lip of the big nose intake kissed the ground, the portside gear arm collapsed, and the fuselage dug into the ground. The world became a blurring cascade of noise, colour and strain as the plane slewed around and about.
Thrown against the straps, Scott was a virtual ragdoll as physics took over his journey and his limbs were thrown around the inside of the cockpit. His seat straps kept him mostly in place, but he was still wildly and violently shaken about. A gasp escaped his lips as something in his ribs gave way, and his neck felt like it had been shaken by an angry dog, before with a final lurching screech the jet came to a halt.
Quivering-limbed and with every part of his body aching, Scotts' blurry, double-vision came into vague focus and he slapped the controls. No response. Thumping and scrabbling reached his ears from outside, and he turned - and that hurt - to see rescue crews outside the plexiglas of the canopy. He raised a shaky thumbs-up, before they hit the emergency release. He managed to raise one aching leg, feeling something grate inside as he did so, before pulled his survival knife one-handed from the sheath on his leg and sawing through seat-straps. Then the hands of the emergency crew found him and took over. In a haze, he was spirited from the cockpit, and away from the Corsair as it was drowned in foam to prevent an explosion.
The next minutes were a blur as he was taken away from his downed plane, and laid out on a stretcher. Slowly, his disorientation faded, and he began to catch words - broken ribs, broken wrist, whiplash, compressed spine. It was clear from what was being said, that he was lucky to be alive, but that the next weeks - or months - would be hard. And maybe flying would never be a part of his life again.
But at least his family would.
Gently eased onto his back, he looked up as the blocky shapes of the pair of Foxhounds roared overhead, and he let out a sigh of relief as the medical crew wheeled him into the back of an ambulance.
