|
Thank God for Fighter Pilots on the Fourth Super Sabre Jock Takes on the F-16
It’s been 30 years since I played with fireworks--the real, devastating kind. As a fighter pilot in Vietnam I flew 268 combat missions in an F-100, breaking communist assets with awesome visual effects. Civilian life has been good, but I've never totally adapted to the dearth of airborne adrenaline. I did my duty and war is a terrible thing, but I miss the camaraderie and patriotism of aviators who willingly challenge the Grim Reaper for God, duty, honor and country. Then, last fall, after addressing a graduating class of new fighter pilots in Arizona, I got to fly in one of the fastest fireworks generators extant, the winged workhorse over Kosovo, the F-16 Viper. Two hours prior to takeoff four highly disciplined, enthusiastic fighter pilots and one excited alumnus began a pre-flight briefing as if it were the real thing. Sadly, in the ensuing seven months it has been real again over thirty thousand times in a frivolous fracas more nebulous than Vietnam. Plato said, “Only dead men have seen an end to war.” We walked out to the flight line and the finest office an executive at Fearless Fighter Pilots, Inc. could ever want. I climbed the ladder, ducked under the canopy, shoe-horned my body into the back office of a two-place F-16 and lay back in the same position I assume in my favorite recliner. It’s a mighty comfy way to go to war. If only science could provide similar psychological comfort in the fur ball of a dogfight…. On takeoff roll it was immediately apparent this was neither your father's aeroplane nor my beloved F-100. We accelerated like a .44-magnum slug and for the next hour I was Dirty Harry with ten thousand times the firepower. Unlike Harry's weapon, this sophisticated heat does much of the thinking…and can outrun its own bullets. Our target was a simulated missile site deep in the heart of southwest Arizona. We sneaked up on it at 500 knots and 500 feet, more or less, above the jackrabbits and mesquite with a sultry, feminine voice reminding us when it was less. As we approached a ragged ridgeline, Gordo, in the front seat, pulled up smartly into a 30-degree climb and rocketed over the top. From 12,000 feet up we spied the target at our nine o'clock low and dove on it, rolling into 135 degrees of bank and a five “g” turn while pulling the nose down through the horizon. When we were lined up on the target, the Viper pirouetted on its nose as Gordo rolled right side up in a nanosecond. Bombs away, followed by the anaconda squeeze of my g-suit inflating in a dive recovery that felt like a square corner. When pointed back toward heaven there ensued a reflexive rearward crank of the head to check the fruit of our labors. That part hasn't changed in all the years of air-to-ground gunnery—only the flexibility of the neck attests to the march of time. For all its thrills, there were some key aspects of my wartime flights thankfully missing. No Fourth of July fireworks here, just a puff of smoke as a small inert bomb hit the ground. And the mind was spared the remarkably focusing effect of flak in the face--the terror and ecstasy of being shot at and missed. Arriving back at the base we flew initial approach 1000 feet above the runway in 4-plane echelon right formation, a spine tingling sight from any angle. Myriad memories came to mind of similar homecomings with men I trusted with my life: Bullet-riddled planes… adrenaline depleted and body exhausted…the grief of a missing wingman. Mostly I recalled the thrill of coming home victorious, of rescuing the Army from the infidels and conquering my fear while jinking in the cross-hairs of the enemy. The Viper kissed the concrete with nose in the air at a haughty angle and my brief, intense, middle-aged fling with a supersonic angel was over. It had been a wondrous waltz around the wild blue in the company of gung-ho young men in their fabulous flying machines. There is hope for America--my faith in my country was reborn in a flight of fighters. This July 4th give thanks for fighter pilots who dutifully deliver the fireworks wherever called. As safeguards of our independence, they are a national treasure. |
