This isn't one of my own stories, of course.
Like the trip through the Omani canyons I wrote about before, this story
is about someone else's
experience.
Because flat hatting is
not only unprofessional, it's also dangerous. And no one has ever described me
as unprofessional and/or dangerous. That I can recall. And it sets a very bad
example pour les
aûtres. And I, for one, will form no
part of
that.
No.
But,
because you are all kind, patient, assiduous readers, I will share with you a
story (or two, depending on the reception) that I may have picked up along the
way. From other guys, because you know, guys talk, word gets around, you hear
things. Not guaranteeing of course that every last detail is accurate, because,
after all - I wasn't actually there. Didn't see it. And you can't prove a
thing.
--------------
First:
Some definitions are in order.
Flat
hatting - inf. v.
ex:
I flat hat. You flat hat. They flat hat. We have flat hatted.
def:
The action of taking a multi-million dollar, government provided aerial
conveyance and using it for a purpose that the taxpayer, the Chief of Naval
Operations, and your commanding officer would never have countenanced. If only
they knew. And for which, if you get caught, you could easily find yourself
seeking new employment. Usually involves low altitude, high speed flight on
non-approved routes. See also: Barnstorming, screwing around, having a
blast.
---------------
The
year is unimportant, as is the steaming carrier deck from whence our two brave
heroes launched into the tropical azure sky. They are in vicinity of the
Philippine Sea, the graveyard of ships and death bed of empires. They have
launched to go to a floating target, just south of Olangapo. There, they are
going to drop an enormous bomb.
It
is just a training flight.
The bomb
is known as a Walleye - a TV guided bomb, which locks onto contrast and follows
it home. It has large wings for an unpowered glide weapon, but what really sets
it apart is its perfectly humongous warhead. This warhead is designed to take
down large buildings, with its large, star-shaped frag pattern, elements of
which move (after detonation) at speeds greater than mach 10.
That's right: ten point zero mach.
Which all of you, being clever readers, will have to admit is pretty damn
fast.
One of our intrepid warriors
carries the bomb, carefully slung beneath his wing by his superior BB stacking
ordnancemen. The other, equally trained and dangerous, carries a datalink pod,
used to refine the aimpoint of the Walleye once it has been released. The first
danger boy will lock the bomb on to the target area. The second will guide it
all the way to the target barge. They are both very much looking forward to
really
blowing some stuff up.
Because heat
like this? You don't get to bring it very
often.
After a decent interval, our
protagonists approach the target area. Because the Walleye is so perfectly huge,
they are required to do a thorough target area search prior to release. Because
it wouldn't do to maim or kill civilians.
Imagine their dismay to find a banca boat floating in close proximity to the
target.
You see, the locals, who
lived their lives a little closer to the bone than we ourselves are accustomed
to, had a habit of hanging around target ranges, waiting for the USN to drop
practice bombs. Which they would then salvage, and turn into belt buckles and
whatnot, to sell to drunken Sailors on Magsaysai Street, right there in
Alongapo.
But the problem for our
two heroes was this: While it was quite possible for banca boat fishermen to
stand close in against a floating target and wish away the prospect of taking a
25 pound practice bomb close aboard, the same could most decidedly
not
be said to be true for a 2000 pound Walleye with a mach 10, star-shaped frag
pattern.
No. Definitely not.
Uh-uh.
Our mission oriented,
get-the-job-done focused aviators wondered what to do at this point. Sure, they
could just scrub the mission, and dump the 2000 pound, beautiful weapon (which
really only wanted something or someone to love) into the deep blue sea, and
call it a day.
Or. They
could
try to scare the banca boat people off. So that they could drop that thang.
Right there against the target. Right
there.
Care to guess, constant
reader, which path your servants
chose?
Yeah.
Yeah,
I know. That was an easy one.
So
anyway, a few screaming, low altitude fly-bys were attempted. Afterburners were
lit, wings were rocked and fists were shaken. Somewhat unsurprisingly, none of
this had any effect whatsoever on the intended audience. The banca boat
fishermen, patiently awaiting their rewards, remained stolidly in place. From
their perspective, it was no use to wonder why the men in the FA-18's acted the
way they did. All one could do was patiently await the certainty of the soon to
be delivered bounty coming from the
sky.
But Mutt and Jeff really wanted
to get that thing off the wing, and guide it to a shack hit, and enjoy the
frisson
of pleasure as their little seed blossomed into a mach 10 flower. They were not
to be denied.
After a brief
consultation, hero "A" (hereinafter referred to as the Bomb Boy) and hero "B"
(the Pod Guy) agreed to a plan of action: Bomb Boy would get down as low, and as
fast as he possibly could over the water, attempting to scare the banca boat
people off. Pod Guy would take control of the (non-released) weapon, for no
better reason than this was going to make some
really
cool video, after it was all said and
done.
Bomb boy got down to 200 feet.
Over the flat water, this was not particularly dangerous, but it was
interesting: At that height, with no waves, depth perception (I'm told) is
pretty tough. But then he squeaked it down some more - 100 feet.
This is low, for those of you who
are unfamiliar. At 100 feet and 500 knots, taking into consideration one-third
of one second's reaction time, you have one-half of one second to recognize a
problem and correct it. Or else don't
bother.
And then, because he wasn't
quite certain that was low enough to make the point, Bomb Boy got her just a bit
lower. Fifty feet on the radar altimeter. Just a little higher than his wingspan
reached from side to side. Lower than the roof of your two-story house. At
nearly 600 miles per hour.
Low? Don't
breathe low. Don't even think.
And
then Bomb Boy, lined up for the banca boat, steered that baby right over the
hull, going through the number as he got there. All of this (including the
amazed faces of the banca boat crew) was captured on the bomb video tape by Pod
Guy. Which made for much rejoicing later on, in the ready room, as the tape was
played in front of a jealous and amazed junior officer protective organization
(JOPA). Oh, there was much laughter and ribaldry to see the banca boat crew
spill into the water as the Hornet rocked by in full blower, at fifty feet.
But the banca boat guys got the last
laugh. After they went for their little swim, they climbed back in the boat and
waited patiently for providence to offer up a new belt buckle opportunity.
Fouling the range, and causing our heroes to fly back to the carrier in dismay.
Knowing that the job had not been accomplished. Knowing that tomorrow was
another
day.
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones
"Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra"
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche
