The nose dropped about twenty degrees, and the aircraft seemed to be flying right at something.  They were landing, the most dangerous part of carrier flight operations.  He remembered a study conducted during the Vietnam War in which carrier pilots had been fitted with portable electrocardiographs to monitor stress, and it had surprised a lot of people that the most stressful time for carrier pilots wasn't while they were being shot at—it was while they were landing, particularly at night.

Christ, you're full of happy thoughts! Ryan told himself.  He closed his eyes.  One way or another, it would be over in a few seconds.

The deck was slick with rain and heaving up and down, a black hole surrounded by perimeter lights.  The carrier landing was a controlled crash.  Massive landing gear struts and shock absorbers were needed to lessen the bone-crushing impact.  The aircraft surged forward only to be jerked to a halt by the arresting wire.  They were down.  They were safe.  Probably.  After a moment's pause, the COD began moving forward again.  Ryan heard some odd noises as the plane taxied and realized that they came from the wings folding up.  The one danger he had not considered was flying on an aircraft whose wings were supposed to collapse.  It was, he decided, just as well.  The plane finally stopped moving, and the rear hatch opened.

Ryan flipped off his seatbelts and stood rapidly, banging his head on the low ceiling.  He didn't wait for Davenport.  With his canvas bag clutched to his chest he darted out of the rear of the aircraft.  He looked around, and was pointed to the Kennedy's island structure by a yellow-shirted deck crewman.  The rain was falling heavily, and he felt rather than saw that the carrier was indeed moving on the fifteen-foot seas.  He ran towards an open, lighted hatch fifty feet away.  He had to wait for Davenport to catch up.  The admiral didn't run.  He walked with a precise thirty-inch step, dignified as a flag officer should be, and Ryan decided that he was probably annoyed that his semisecret arrival prohibited the usual ceremony of bosun's pipes and side boys.  There was a marine standing inside the hatch, a corporal, resplendent in striped blue trousers, khaki shirt and tie, and snow-white pistol belt.  He saluted, welcoming both aboard.

"Corporal, I want to see Admiral Painter."

"The admiral's in flag quarters, sir.  Do you require escort?"

"No, son.  I used to command this ship.  Come along, Jack."  Ryan got to carry both bags.

"Gawd, sir, you actually used to do this for a living?" Ryan asked.

"Night carrier landings?  Sure, I've done a couple of hundred.  What's the big deal?"  Davenport seemed surprised at Ryan's awe.  Jack was sure it was an act.