One sunny day not very long ago I found myself scheduled for a BFM flight. In these days of aging aircraft, such flights are rare indeed. Something about the heavy sustained G-forces and dynamic maneuvering strains the airframe, apparently...and when a certain strain threshold is reached, well, the nerdy engineer chaps say we can't fly the airplane safely. Perhaps the wings will fall off. Or an engine will break from it's mounting and depart the aircraft. Catastrophic failures like that would NOT be conducive to continued flight, so with much sighing and private gnashing of teeth we obey said engineers and only fly high-strain flights in order to be proficient for an impending battle. Should the worst happen, and all.
In any case, the world being what it is, the only really fun flights are those that strain the jets, so when it comes time to "maintain proficiency" by flying one, well, there are plenty of volunteers. I was among the lucky ones this time and so was quite excited for the day. There was, it seemed, an extra rich flavor in the squadron coffee, usually so vile. Instead of dragging on, the brief flew by while touching on old, well-learned lessons about how to handle one's aircraft in the thick of the fight with an unyielding adversary. I couldn't help dwelling on the glorious sunshine as I stepped from the squadron, my G-Suit, harness, and survival gear each attentively donned, tightened, and adjusted for comfort.
Takeoff, as usual, pressed me back in my seat with acceleration. As our flight of two climbed out into the achingly blue Southern California sky, we noted appreciatively the utter clarity of that day. No haze, no dust, no smog--just an unimpeded view in each direction. It was breathtaking.
And we were going to fight.
Our adversaries that day were F-5 aircraft from the Marine professional adversary squadron, the "Snipers." A fighter much inferior to the Hornet in performance and avionics, it nevertheless had one significant advantage: the pilot. Sniper pilots have, on average, three thousand or more hours flying. That is usually the result of more than fifteen years in the cockpit. They also practice fighting exclusively, being undistracted by other missions which we Hornet aircrew perform (namely, air-to-ground missions). They fight Hornets a lot. They are very good at fighting, and particularly at fighting Hornets. All in all, our contest could be pretty evenly matched.
Which just made us more eager.
What fleet captain or major wouldn't want to bring back gun footage of a hopelessly defensive senior adversary?
Checking into our working area, each of our two Hornets paired up with a Sniper and separated for individual fights. The setting was perfect. Farm fields and the Salton Sea below, clear blue sky above, the sun glowing in the south, and the air so lucid that our Sniper's camouflage paint job was nearly useless. We would shortly be locked in a close struggle, the proverbial "knife-fight in a phone booth" of two fighters so close in proximity that the slightest mistake could offer the other a chance to kill, and end the engagement.
There is something compelling about BFM. The acronym stands for "Basic Fighter Maneuvers" and covers fights that occur with both opponents within visual range. Normally, of course, if we can deal with our enemies beyond visual range, so much the better. Even more so if we can kill them before they can kill us. But once we're within visual range, all bets are off. It's pure airmanship. Both players try to maneuver their aircraft through 3-dimensional space so as to be too close or in the wrong piece of sky for their enemy to shoot them, while simultaneously attempting to set up their own shot. Doing so requires careful--even delicate!--flying in order to get the most aerodynamic performance out of the jet; it also requires the strength to fight against the centrifugal forces of an airplane arcing through the sky in a maneuver, measured in Gs. At 7.5 Gs, our performance limit, every finger, limb, even our heads weigh 7.5 times their normal weight. It becomes quite the chore to adjust something in the cockpit under that pressure, or look around the canopy to keep eyes on your opponent. Oh, and there is the ever-present threat of the ground to worry about, too. Flying into that will end the engagement as definitively as a missile shot.
What glorious combat! Our mettle as fighter aircrew at stake, we sweat and strain against the G-forces while struggling to monitor our opponent, our own aircraft, and our position in the sky. It is the ultimate challenge, an avian version of a cage-match. And behind the pride and reckless fun is the haunting knowledge that one day, just maybe, our lives will depend on our skill in this arena. Defeat, if it comes, is sobering and frustrating. Victory is sweet.
The propitious mood of the flight continued through our engagements. We fought three sets against our Sniper, getting the best of him each time. Then he called "min fuel" and headed for home. We cheerily confirmed we'd debrief after landing, and, flushed with exertion and success, we climbed up to watch our wingman. Him a newer guy, we had some friendly concern with how he'd handle his wily bandit. We were pleased, my pilot and I, to see that he was doing well. And when his opponent also bowed out for fuel reasons, we decided to have a fourth fight right there while we could--you know, just because we could. And it also went well.
Hard to beat a day flying like that. You really feel you earn your salary, working that hard. Or, well, mostly just wonder who would be crazy enough to actually pay you to have so much fun.
The flight back was easy as pie. In that weather, visibility extended beyond a hundred miles, so we had the field long before coming up approach. Gliding gracefully into the overhead break pattern back home in Miramar, I thought to myself, that was the perfect flight.
And it was.
But one in the aviation business does not say that, even to him or herself, without feeling a suspicious twinge. And suddenly I remembered another seemingly perfect flight, scarce months earlier.
March 23, 2009 found me in Hawaii. It was my sixth day there. Normally, I would be ever so happy for such an exotic spring break on the dime of the Marine Corps, but, well, this time I was headed home from a six-month deployment and I really just wanted to get home. It was my luck, of course, that when we attempted that task five days earlier, an incident with a fellow Hornet caused it (and because we travel in pairs, my jet too) to return to Hawaii for repairs.
Which, being completed quickly, left us waiting on the Air Force.
Now the Hornet is designed for fighting and attacking. Highly maneuverable and passably fast (in the order of Mach 1+ and/or 800 kts), it achieves all this by being mostly wing, engine, and fuel tank. The engines, being quite powerful (36,000 pounds of thrust total) eat up the fuel at an alarming rate, even when the aircraft is just cruising. So in order to make it more than several hundreds of miles, we need the succor of a Tanker. For long trips, we need a BIG tanker.
The raison d'etre, partially, of the Air Force--specifically the Air Mobility Command portion of the Air Force, is to help military units deploy. And so they own the big tankers. The kinds that can unload the required hundred thousand pounds of fuel required to see two Hornets across 2300 miles of ocean. But they like their banker's hours. They do not move quickly, or easily deviate from their schedule. So we waited for them to task a tanker to us, so we could finally return home.
Pleasant and relaxing as it was, Hawaii couldn't quite make us forget that desire. Though the presence of spring break tourists on Waikiki did dull the pain a bit. As did the nightlife.
But so, on the morning of March 23, we were to take off from Hickam, Honolulu with a single KC-135 tanker for the six-hour flight back to the States. Not a moment too soon. The KC-135 is affectionately called "The Iron Maiden" by Hornet pilots because it's refueling basket is a solid metal contraption, suspended from the end of the boom by an eight-foot hose. It's weight makes it easy to hit with the refueling probe, but in order to get fuel, the pilot has to drive his airplane (with the basket on the probe) in towards the boom in order to create a 90-degree or greater "knuckle" in the bearing connecting the hose and basket, for that's what opens the valve and allows the precious fuel in. Holding the airplane in that uncomfortably close position to the boom and the Tanker, while fighting the windstream pushing the basket around and the high-pressure fuel pressing against the probe itself, is no small feat of airmanship. It is the most demanding of the Air Force's big tankers for Hornet aircrew. But it is also the most reliable. Take note of that.
Being as it was a reliable refueling system, and we were experienced aircrew with many TransPac flights under our belt, we were not worried about tanking so much.
The TransPac itself was worrisome. They always are. Flying over large stretches of water with limited fuel reserves is always a little nerve-wracking. So many things can go wrong, like weather. And if something breaks and an airplane can't take fuel, then does it have enough left to get to a runway? If not, of course, the alternative is for the aircrew to eject. Such an ejection may be so far out in the middle of nowhere that no rescue craft (boat or helicopter) could reach the aircrew for many days. Survival rate in that case? not so high.
But any risk can be mitigated with much planning, and so we do. Or more truthfully the Air Force does it for us. They provide us with handy little packets describing our route and scheduled refueling points, chosen so at no point while airborne does any aircraft have insufficient fuel to make at least one divert. Theoretically. We paid close attention to such things on this particular flight, because as it happens the TransPac leg between Hawaii and California is the most dangerous, since there are literally no intermediary diverts--no friendly little islands (or even atolls) on which a runway exists to save a fuel-starved Hornet. One point, poetically named "Point FEARR," is the midpoint of the trip: nearly 1200 miles from land in any direction. In order to fly that far, a typical Hornet would need something like 14,500 pounds of fuel. The most we can carry is 16,500 pounds. That means a very small margin of safety if anything were to happen.
But we weren't worried. We'd done this before. On the "Iron Maiden." And what a nice day it was!
It was a nice day. Clear, sunny, with Honolulu glowing over the bay under the low sun and the shadow of Diamondhead behind her. Aircraft start went without a hitch, the Tanker called us on the radio to signal their own readiness to take off, and suddenly we were rolling down the taxiways toward the departure runway. As we taxied, airport ground control held up a commercial liner to let us pass, a commercial liner, no doubt, with several hundred paying passengers. It just didn't seem fair, I tell you, but it sure did seem right. And with that little surge of pleasure and satisfaction we blasted off into the pellucid Hawaiian air for the long trip to Miramar.
We rendezvoused with the Tanker a hundred miles east of of Hawaii and formed up for the flight. TransPac flying is boring, mostly. Once you get used to the endless span of trackless ocean, the horizon sharp and clear amid the scattered puffy clouds that seem to float just above the water, you only have the other aircrew and whatever entertainment is on hand to keep you busy. Periodically, of course, everyone snuggles up to the Tanker and takes fuel when it's their turn, and that takes some concentration and attention. Otherwise, though, you're just waiting. Feeling that parachute harness dig into your gluteal muscles. Squinting to keep the rising sun out of your eyes. Updating the nearest divert as you pass every navigational waypoint, on the off chance that something requiring a divert will go wrong. And possibly reading, or listening to music, or eating. It's a lot like a road trip.
But our high spirits that day made it all quite bearable. Kith and kin lay ahead, and a warm welcome after six months (and Thanksgiving and Christmas) spent abroad. We were, in a word, cheerful. Time after time we eased in behind the tanker, carefully and smoothly refueled, and re-assumed our position in the flight. The miles grew between us and Hawaii, shrunk between us and California. As soon as the former exceeded the latter, we knew we'd be going home if there were a problem. We were just waiting for it. With visions, I might add, of our triumphant overhead break at the field after six months' absence dancing in our heads. It was going to be good.
Closing in on Point FEARR we moved closer to the Tanker for Aerial Refueling Point 6. This was the first of several scheduled points in close proximity, designed to keep our fuel tanks full in case of divert. Realistically, we would simply cycle on and off the basket with our wingman, refueling as soon as he finished until we were full, and vice versa. We watch as our lead moved up behind the KC-135 basked and began taking gas. As he was doing so, he commented over the radio, "we're going to California, boys!" And we rejoiced, for we had just passed the half-way point and were actually closer to home than to Hawaii.
Our lead, took a full load of gas. Sixteen-thousand-some pounds. He moved off the tanker to the right side, exactly as he had done for the last five refuelings, and we moved in from the left. We stabilized our flight about 15 feet behind the basket, exactly as we were supposed to, and my pilot informed the tanker of this fact by calling "Pre-contact" on the radio. As expected, and in accordance with procedure, we quickly received "Cleared to contact" in reply. Moving forward with the proscribed 2 knots of closure, my pilot with characteristic accuracy put the probe into the center of the basket and pushed it in until it locked. Then smoothly transitioned to pushing the basket forward toward the boom, putting the slack in the hose that would eventually create enough of a "knuckle" for fuel to flow.
It was a skilled approach, well befitting a fighter pilot and professional aviator. It was a nearly identical repeat of all the previous tanker approaches thus far.
But, as we were watching the basket and hose to monitor the formation of the "knuckle" and confirm fuel flow, suddenly before our wondering eyes we saw the hose perform a funny little jink. Instead of rotating smoothly around the basket on it's bearing, it jerked the wrong way, hesitated, then violently spun to the accustomed position.
The whole apparatus appeared to explode in our faces.
Our canopy was suddenly rendered nearly opaque by the tens of gallons of high-pressure jet fuel cascading over it and back along our aircraft. In a sliver of vision I caught a view of the hose flailing wildly at the end of the boom with no basket attached. Ominously, there was a shadow on the right side of the windscreen indicating that the fuel basket was still attached. "Get back" I said forcefully, a mere instant after I heard the engines spool to idle and felt the deceleration of the airplane. In a flash I comprehended: we weren't getting fuel; we were in an emergency; we would have to Bingo all the way home.
Adrenaline is a funny thing. The whole event took probably two seconds or less from the time our probe touched the basket and the time we pulled away from the tanker. But already I had the awful comprehension that the trip was changed, and that it was suddenly dangerous, and amazingly enough I couldn't muster any emotion. No disappointment at all. Just, what happens next?
Away from the Tanker, with our canopy clearing in the windstream, I felt the engines come back up to military power. We were climbing to a higher altitude where the lower concentration of oxygen would lessen drag and cause our existing fuel to burn more efficiently. I had our nearest divert, San Francisco International, as the waypoint already, and we were heading there. As this registered, I heard the welcome voice of my flight lead command the same. My pilot pulled up the nose, the Tanker began to fall behind us, and I heard my flight lead on the Tanker frequency advise our intentions and declare an emergency. He named our destination as Moffett, a military airfield as close to San Francisco as makes no difference. It was a better choice than SFO.
Sometimes it's nice to have a friend handy.
At this point, I confirmed that we were on a max-efficiency climb, and advising my pilot of the navigation setup: "You have steering to Moffett with 1150 miles to go." I then looked at the fuel: thirteen-thousand-some pounds.
That was below our intended Bingo. That was alarming.
I knew that some fuel had been burned as we maneuvered away from the Tanker, and began our military power climb out. I knew also that Air Force Bingos were very conservative, including some 40-minutes of loiter time over the airfield in case of weather, or something. But still, I knew it was going to be close. Especially with a large metal basket hanging off our jet. Who know how much fuel THAT would suck up with it's drag?
My lead interrupted my depressing little reverie. "Engine look OK?" he asked. Suddenly really worried, I quickly pulled up the engine monitor page, remembering how close the probe was to the right intake, and fearing for a horrible instant that some shard of the basket assembly had been ingested into our right engine. Even a small piece of metal would tear the engine apart, at best causing us to shut it down and proceed single-engine, at worst causing more extensive damage. I scanned both columns on the page, looking for tell-tale discrepancies which might indicate an engine problem. I found that the right engine was running a little hotter the left, with higher RPM and Oil Pressure as well. I brought this to my pilot's attention, but he confirmed that our right engine had so operated the entire flight thus far. Relieved, we concluded that no shards of metal or bearings had gone down the right intake, but nevertheless resolved to keep a close eye on that right engine.
What with Murphy's Law and all, who knew what might happen next?
About this time we started having difficulty getting any higher. Apparently we had reached our optimum cruise altitude, 33,000 feet. Now pointed straight at our divert airfield--albeit with more than a thousand miles to go--and stabilized at altitude, we painstakingly set the throttle setting that would yield the most distance covered for our remaining fuel. Our lead told us to fly the best jet we could; he would simply follow us. No problem, buddy! We weren't going to deviate from the precise settings calculated for peak efficiency, not for all the tea in China. And then the tedium began.
Our on-board computers showed us landing with about 1300 pounds of fuel, adjusted. That was scary. The minimum landing fuel in the Hornet for us is two thousand pounds, which provides roughly two missed approaches in visual flying conditions and one missed approach in instrument conditions. We were below even that. If there was weather, we might not make the runway. If we had to go missed approach (for any number of reasons), we might not make the runway. Heck, if we had a headwind, we might not make the runway! Besides, nobody really knows when the hornet runs out of fuel--is it when the meter reads zero? or (more likely), at some higher number? Would we flame out with several hundred visible? and if so, then we had even less than 1300 pounds to work with. I settled in for a very anxious couple of hours.
Now no reasonable man is going to trust his airplane and perhaps his life entirely to a computer, if he can help it. The computer said 1300 pounds of fuel on deck, but I could calculate myself based on our airspeed, distance-to-go, and fuel burn exactly what we'd get to Moffett with. And I did. Constantly. I filled sheets of paper from my kneeboard pad with calculations. At first, my calculations agreed with the computer. With that basket staring at us through the windscreen, those were indeed the bad moments.
Clearing out the cockpit for a possible ejection? Not much fun. Especially if you can anticipate waiting until the last possible minute, when the engines have flamed out and the aircraft is about to fall out of the sky, before pulling that handle, and trusting your life to a little rocket motor, a parachute, and a life jacket (the latter two of which were packed unknown hands, unknown years ago). Scary.
But as fuel burned off, and less throttle was required to keep the aircraft flying, the fuel-on-deck numbers crept up, both computer-generated and manually calculated. Looking suddenly at about 1700 pounds on deck, we decided not to jettison our tanks (now that they were empty), we were going to make it. Maybe. Providentially, with about four hundred miles to the coast, a tailwind picked up and grew to about 40 knots. Suddenly we were looking fat, anticipating 2100 pounds on deck! It was a relief, I tell you, And, we reminded ourselves, it didn't count the fuel saved in the descent.
Drawing toward the coast, we flew into radio contact with Oakland Center. The tanker had relayed our situation to them, so when we checked in as "an emergency flight direct Moffett" we got a cool response and no instructions. Which is exactly what we wanted. We weren't out of the woods yet. Any excessive maneuvers off course would put us into the dangerously low fuel realm again. Also, now that we could radio Moffett for the weather, which was again! Providentially clear and beautiful, we could anticipate landing to the north. The simplest thing, we decided, was to aim south of the field, setting up a nice easy turn north on a six-mile final approach path that would allow us to slow down nicely and waste as little gas as possible. Things were starting to feel a little more manageable.
I can't describe the feeling of seeing the coast that day. To see California, after two hours of wondering whether we'd make it at all, after five hours of endless ocean horizons, after six months gone was like witnessing a miracle.
Shortly after sighting of the coast we saw the field--easily fifty miles away, but clearly visible on that beautiful day--and took a slight cut right to facilitate our easy turn to final. As a result of our gradual descent we were looking now at a veritable surfeit of fuel: 2500 pounds on deck. Our lead, however, reminded us that we still had a heavy metal basket tenuously attached to our aircraft, and we wanted to make sure we didn't do anything to drop it on some unsuspecting Californian on our way to the field. It was the right call. Generally, if something is going to fall off the jet, it will do so when the landing gear and flaps come down, for the new protuberances on the airplane tend to disturb the airflow over all the surfaces. With the recent crash of a stateside Hornet into a house in San Diego, we were especially worried. We didn't want to do anything stupid.
So now that we'd made it, fuel-wise, we began to tackle the ticklish problem of terminal area flight with a refueling basket our aircraft. We lowered the gear just after crossing the coast and right over the unpopulated coastal hills that separate the south part of San Francisco Bay from the Pacific. It was with trepidation that my pilot reached up for the gear handle, and for my part I kept my finger hovering over the button that would mark our position and padlocked it with my eyes (the better to follow it's trajectory), all in case the basket decided to depart. As the gear doors slammed open and the gear began descending, I felt more keenly than before every airframe buffet from the changing wind, eyes glued to our unwelcome guest, willing it to stay on.
Fortunately, it did. The gear came down smoothly with nary a vibration from the basket.
Which made for quite a relief--or did, until we saw more clearly our flight path to the field: nothing but houses. Nothing but houses, picket fences, in pleasant suburban neighborhoods. The exact place, in fact, we didn't want that basket coming off. Granted, it has survived the configuration change. But still, as we had so recently learned, you never knew what was going to happen. It was a source of worry.
At this point, Approach Control began squawking at us on the radio. They wanted us to take a vector south to deconflict from a northbound airplane passing to the east of us. We refused forcefully, citing (again) our emergency status and worrying again about fuel if we had to fly too far off course. Not to mention the gnawing concern of that basket perched precariously on a stubby fuel probe, flying over perfect San Jose neighborhoods. Approach would not stop talking, however, and and as soon as we got the northbound airplane on our radar, we told them shortly we'd maintain separation ourselves and switched tower. My lead turned toward the field first, and once we had sufficient separation from his aircraft, we followed suit. My pilot then began slowing the airplane for a normal touchdown.
Horrified, we noticed the basket vibrating. Vibrating significantly. Acutely conscious of the hundreds of American Dreams lying peacefully beneath us, we quickly accelerated back to the speed where the basket didn't vibrate. Not now! I thought. Not this close!
As our airspeed climbed above 200 knots, however, the basket visibly settled back. OK, then, we'll fly it in at 200 knots.
Now our problem is landing too fast.
At that speed, the nose tire would probably burst on touchdown, causing us perhaps to lose control on the runway. But we had a little space past the neighborhoods (inside the airfield boundary) in which to slow down, and a nice long runway to coast into. It would just take a little touch.
My pilot skillfully brought the throttles back once clear ground was beneath us, and with barely a quarter mile to touch down aerodynamically braked the plane for a gentle, 150-knot touchdown. Perfect. The basket vibrated again, true, but it stayed on...all the way through the rollout.
As our airspeed meter counted down to 48 (its lowest displayed number), I relaxed suddenly in a slump. It was over. We had made it. Nothing dropped, nobody hurt, back to the good old contiguous U S of A. Pulling off the runway, I called for taxi, responding halfheartedly to the gibe over the radio as we taxied past the tower: "hey, is that thing supposed to be on there?" I just wanted to get out of that jet.
As I tried to negotiate the ladder down, I noticed my legs were shaking. On the ground, as I stared in disbelief at the large, heavy metal basket we brought from 1150 miles out to sea, I noticed my hands shaking too. I was drained, but not tired--just eerily aware of all that had happened. Mustering up as much bravado as I could, I snapped some pictures and traded some jokes with my pilot and the lead aircrew. We weren't home yet, but suddenly it didn't matter.
The Epilogue is a story in and of itself. After landing, we contacted Oakland Center to have them divert the last cargo plane with our Trail Maintenance element to Moffett, so they could take the basket off our aircraft. They complied, and we enjoyed a nervous, tired dinner in the lush, lazy environs of Santa Clara while we waited for them to arrive. We greeted them awkwardly when they landed, knowing that they wanted to be home too and feeling guilty despite ourselves that they had to come all this way to fix us. We needn't have worried, however. They had heard about the emergency and become very concerned, very concerned indeed--many maintainers hugged us when they saw us on the tarmac. And with characteristic Marine efficiency, they took off the basket and readied us for flight the next morning in little enough time that they continued back to San Diego later in the evening. So the story ended happily for all.
As for us, we slept well in Navy housing, woke early, and made our belated return to Miramar at about 10:00. The wonder of California hadn't left me since that first miraculous view from the Pacific less than a day prior, and I spent as much of the flight as my tasks would let me stuck to the window, looking from coast to mountain to desert. Finally our beloved field was in sight, and as we broke over it I saw the rest of the squadron out to welcome us home. Not a perfect return, by any means, but a good one for sure.
Getting home is all that matters sometimes.
So on that recent beautiful June day, returning victorious from battle against a worthy adversary, I remembered that a perfect flight is, perhaps, overrated. In extremis, whether mechanical or combat-related, getting home is really all that matters. Getting you home and your jet home. Preferably both working. And in that exact order.
