The Introduction of Barnstormer (Working Title)

“Tower, Mercury 2-2 requesting taxi and takeoff clearance,” Barnstormer said into his helmet mic from the seat of his F/A-18 Hornet, currently holding position on one of the port-side deck elevators of the ERS Luna.  Today was a big day for him, the last day of his carrier qualifications, the final test in his role as second plane of the second flight in the Mercury training group before earning his wings and being admitted into the Equestrian Royal Air Force.  The sky was mostly clear, winds were negligible, and Barnstormer was feeling extremely confident about his odds, given that the other two portions of the test took place in bad weather and nighttime conditions, both respectively and together-and he had aced each of those.

“Mercury 2-2, ceiling is Angels six, visibility unlimited, currently no friendly traffic in sight.  Cleared for takeoff on CAT-2,” the air traffic controller responded from the carriers operations tower.

“Roger, tower.  Taxiing to CAT-2,” the pilot confirmed.  His engines already having been started and left to idle while awaiting clearance, Barnstormer nudged the fighter's throttle forward slightly to give it a little momentum to approach the carrier's second launch catapult.  As he slowly crawled across the gigantic ship's deck, he reached to flip the switch that would lower the plane's wings from their folded up storage positions, and turned on his landing lights.

As he reached the launching mechanism and halted his movement so the catapult officer could connect his aircraft to it, he lowered his flaps and moved the stick and rudder pedals to make sure all of the fighter's control surfaces were in good working order and wouldn't become stuck at a critical moment.  Seeing that the catapult officer had moved out from beneath his plane, he returned the thumbs up the pony was giving him, and added a salute to signal the all clear and readiness to launch.

Returning his attention back to the fore, Barnstormer shoved the throttle to maximum afterburner and, letting the engines spool up for a few precious seconds, punched the button that would send a signal through the plane's electronics to the catapult, hurling him off the end of the carrier deck.  He was immediately thrown back in his seat, the forces acting on him so strong it was all he could do to keep his hooves on the controls.  And then suddenly, with a bone-jarring thud, he was clear, flying under his own power.  He immediately pitched the nose up a few degrees to gain some life saving altitude, should something go wrong, and banked hard to the left, coming around in a one hundred and eighty degree turn so that he was now flying roughly parallel to the carrier's port side, but facing the direction that carrier was traveling away from.  Raising his landing gear completely and his flaps two notches, he pulled the throttle back to maintain a gentle, level glide a few thousand feet above the endless ocean.

“Mercury 2-2, paddles contact, altimeter two-niner-niner-two, cleared for approach and landing” The tower radioed, letting him know that the carrier's automated landing system had recognized his aircraft and was tracking its flight path, and what to set the instruments displaying his altitude to to account for local barometric pressure.

“Roger, paddles contact, altimeter two-niner-niner two, state seventeen point three,”, Barnstormer confirmed, adding his current fuel levels.   Excellent, he thought.  Even smoother than I anticipated.  The next few minutes were usually the easiest part of landing on an aircraft carrier, especially in such good weather.  All that was required of a pilot at this point was to fly straight and level on his current course, until he had flown far enough out to make a wide sweeping turn that would align himself with the angled landing deck of the floating behemoth.

Even though speeds were relatively slow, compared to what a fighter like the one Barnstormer was flying could really do, that point was upon him before he knew it, and accordingly he banked once again to the left, lowering his landing gear and flaps once more.  The carrier was still littler more than a distant dot in the expanse of deep blue, but Barnstormer knew that it would grow in his vision all too quickly.  He was reminded of the analogy “like jumping on a postage stamp from a mile away”, and marveled at how apt it was.  Though it had been smooth sailing thus far, the pilot knew just about anything could go wrong at any second-and that's why he loved his job.

Keeping the angle of attack indicator, the instrument that told a pilot where his plane was traveling in relation to it's true heading, squarely above the growing deck of the ship, so as not to fly too low and plow into the stern in an extraordinary fireball was habit for Barnstormer, even though it often put him at odds with the Landing Signal officer on duty.  In simulations, he had had trouble keeping his plane high enough when he did as he was instructed and kept the AOA indicator where it should be, between the second and third arresting wires at the back of the deck.  These wires ensnared a planes tailhook, and acted as a giant breaking mechanism to slow the planes incredible speed in an extremely short distance.  So he compensated by raising the nose a few degrees until he was close enough that he could physically see the arresting cables and not rely solely on the LSO's radio instructions.

“Mercury 2-2, three quarters of a mile, call the ball,”  the LSO radioed.  “Calling the ball” as it stood in pilot jargon, meant that a pilot could now physically see the carrier's landing light guide, and was expected to report if he was off target.  It was just one more safety feature to ensure every pilot made it back in one piece-they were a precious and highly skilled resource after all.

“Tower, Mercury 2-2, Hornet ball, on glideslope, state fifteen point nine,” he replied, letting the tower know all was as it should be.  It was at this point a pilot had to be extra sharp; to anypony else almost a full mile was a long way off, but to a pilot it may as well have been an inch away.  A mistake at this point could, at best, throw off a landing and require the pilot to come around for another pass, and at worst, be lethal; it was extremely difficult to correct a mistake at this stage.  So far, though, everything had gone smoothly, and Barnstormer expected no troubles.

That is, until, an unexpected thermal, rare at sea, buffeted the plane.  Under normal circumstances, high in the sky, a jolt like this one was minor, hardly worth noting.  In the final stages of a carrier landing, this landing in particular, it served to lift the plane a few extra precious feet above the waves...and so close to aft end of the carrier, it threw everything into chaos.

Immediately, shouts of 'BOLTER BOLTER BOLTER' assaulted Barnstormer through the earpieces in his flight helmet, urging him to gain altitude and speed as quickly as possible to avoid crashing.  Knowing what to do, and praying it worked and the unexpected updraft hadn't just cost him his life, he pushed the throttle past the safety stops and pulled up-but it was too late, he hadn't had enough initial speed to produce the required lift to pull the plane out of its now deathly descent.  He sailed past the leading edge of the landing deck and out over open water, still descending despite his best efforts.  He continued trying to push the throttle forward, risking snapping it in two, hoping to coax just that much more thrust from the engines, finally managing to slow his descent.  He felt the aircraft shudder as the rear landing gear, which he hadn't had time to retract, dipped below the surface.  Miraculously, the nose of the plane didn't immediately slam downward into the waves, and Barnstormer was astonished to notice he was actually gaining altitude, if ever so slightly, and gaining speed.

Frozen in shock, he was rattled from his reverie by the continued shouts from deck and tower crew.  Having been lost from sight briefly, from their perspective, they had no idea if he was still alive.

“Tower, Mercury 2-2, I'm alright, I'm alright, gaining altitude and turning for another pass.” Keeping with his update to the tower, he banked left and pitched up, falling back into the traditional landing pattern.  “Blasted thermal threw me off.”

“Mercury 2-2, copy that.  Bit of a close one, there, you need a minute to shake it off?”

“Negative, tower, back in the saddle.  Just want to land and grab some lunch,” Barnstormer replied, smirking to himself.  The tower controller couldn't hide the mirth in his voice when he radioed to confirm.

Well, let's hope THAT never happens again... he thought as he continued on his flight path to a better landing.

Climbing down the ladder from the cockpit of his now safely landed F/A-18, he was surrounded by a small gaggle deck crew and landing officers.  Pushing his way through the chaos, Barnstormer met his commanding officer, a pegasus by the name of Razor Wing.  Motioning for Barnstormer to follow, Razor Wing left the throng behind and started across the deck, entering the operations tower and clopping briskly down the halls to his office.

Once inside, he faced Barnstormer across his ample desk, looking bemusedly into Barnstormer's face for any indication of undue stress.

Finally speaking, he asked, “You do realize,  just how insanely, uncannily lucky you are, don't you, Airman?”

Standing at attention and staring at the wall above and behind his superior's head, he replied “Sir, I'd like to think some skill played a part.  But yes, sir, I do realize how lucky I am.”  Truth be told, though he wasn't rattled by the near death experience, he did acknowledge his survival was due far more in part to the gods of fortune than his own considerable skill.

Standing in silence for another moment, Razor continued, “We looked at the footage caught by the bow recorders.  Care to guess why you aren't slowly sinking into the drink?”

Barnstormer honestly had no clue how he head managed to survive such a surely fatal mishap, so he answered with a simple “No, sir.”

“As near as we can tell, it was, quite simply, you reacted fast enough to give yourself enough speed, and thus enough lift, so that by the time your gear hit water, your descent had been mostly halted.  The wheels grazed the surface-well, grazed might be putting it lightly-but the point is by the time they hit you had recovered enough to pull yourself out.  A millisecond's more delay in throttling up and you'd be deader than a doornail.  I'm not aware of anypony in the service that could have reacted fatser, and I've trained or flown with just about all of them.  As such, you're being transferred to our best unit, the 181st Strike Fighter Group, upon graduation, which I'm making effective immediately.  Congratulations,” he said, raising a hoof for a formal hoof bump.

“I...ah...th-thank you sir,” Barnstormer stammered, incredulous that a mistake, and one that nearly cost him his life, would be the thing to help him achieve his dream of being a part of the most prestigious squadron in the service.

“There's also that...” Razor added, looking pointedly at Barnstormer's bare flank.

Only it was no longer blank.  Barnstormer blinked, disbelieving, at where once had just been a smooth grey coat was now the silhouetted three-quarters profile of his F/A-18, right where a cutie mark would be.  Convinced that somehow the deck crew had managed to spray paint the image on his flank unnoticed in the short walk from his plane, he rubbed it with a hoof.  But no paint smudged, the image remained as sharp and pristine, evidence that Barnstormer had at last, at such a late age, found his calling.

“Lucky thing that the 181st flies F/A-18's,” Razor chuckled, “or that would make for quite a bit of awkwardness.  Now, if there's nothing else, get packed.  You ship out at first light.”

Scarcely containing his elation, Barnstormer may as well have shouted the 'Yes, sir' he gave Razor Wing, and bolted out of the office and down the labyrinth of halls to his quarters to gather his things.  This is going to be one amazing posting, he thought as he opened his cabin door, looking forward to flying with the most skilled ponies Equestria could offer.