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Sun - September 4, 2005
(Previously)
The ball starts falling towards the center but it’s moving too fast, he’s going to shoot through the glideslope, he can hear the LSO key the mike, and he knows that “Paddles” is going to scream for “POWER” so before that can even happen he plugs the throttle into blower (just a bit? a bit more? how’s that?) and when the LSO finally does call “POWER!” on the radio what seems like an eternity later the pilot mentally shrugs, thinks to himself, you bet, that’s all I’ve got and there’s nothing at all left over, and he feels strangely calm knowing that he's done what he can do and there’s no card left to play. The ball sags below the datum lights and he hears the LSO key the mike again… (Part 1 begins here )
Wed - August 31, 2005
(Previously
)
"Should be good to go for a recovery at..." the JG pauses, running the math again in his head, rechecking the performance charts - got to keep in mind that he's dirty: gear and flaps down will increase fuel consumption, "No more than 45 minutes or so, to be on the safe side. Put him on deck with three-point-oh." - "Three point oh? Doesn't give him much of a margin for error!" - "That's about the max he could make an attempt with, as hot as it is. Any more than that and he won't have single-engine wave-off capability. It'll be tight as it is." - "Man," the Air Boss exclaims, "This just keeps getting better and better." He turns and picks up a phone again, buzzes the Captain. (Part 1 begins here)
Sun - August 28, 2005
(Previously
)
Time to turn, he thinks – this is as far as we should go. Time to head back north. “In place right, go.” An automatic check of his fuel state, engine instruments, radar warning receiver. Another turn on CAP, the boredom setting in. His wingman returns him his previous favor, and locks the XO up as his nose comes round, setting off his radar warning gear. “Buddy spike, six,” the XO says automatically. He rocks himself gently in his ejection seat, fore and aft. Trying to stay alert. Trying to stay ready. (Part I begins here)
Thu - August 25, 2005
(Previously)
Little bit of afterburner – WHOA! He fights a sudden, uncommanded lift of the nose, like a boat rising to meet a wave, a nervous, drifting yaw to the right, the screaming "WHEEEEE" of the stall warning tone. He bunts the stick forward, hard - no gentle caress this, but a panic pulse, a video game move. In the sudden switch to almost 0 g, he floats in the seat straps while he reaches out with his left leg to stab with fear-augmented strength on the left rudder. She lifts again, hesitates, settles - the stall tone goes from a constant scream to abbreviated bursts. These slow, they stop. Almost lost her there, dummy! Got to be careful when you’re slow and single engine – asymmetric thrust in burner can put you out of limits. And you’re still high, so there’s less lift. Trade altitude for airspeed. Lower the nose; let’s pick up some knots. “Two, be advised: I can’t maintain altitude. I'm going down.” “Roger.” (Part I begins here )
Tue - August 23, 2005
(Previously ) (Back to Part
I)
The XO called 304’s wingman on the aux freq and told him to escort the crippled jet back to the ship. After a few terse words of advice, “Throttle idle on the bad motor – if it keeps chugging, for God’s sake shut it down. If he can’t maintain altitude on the one motor, don’t let him forget to jettison his stores someplace safe. Join us if you can after getting him aboard the ship – we’re not waiting though.” Man, what a mess. "Hammer's, switch Sabre on prime. Liberty, the Hammer package is going feet dry, minus two."
Sat
- August 20, 2005
I've said before that of all the things I've
done in my service time, the only one I really wouldn't much care to do again -
ever - is S.E.R.E.
Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.
Sat
- August 13, 2005
(Previously)
Twenty miles away from the overhead tanker pilot, the squadron XO acquires a radar lock on the USAF tanker orbiting in its track, analyzes the target angle and maneuvers to intercept heading for a stern conversion...
Tue - August 9, 2005
(Previously)
The XO braces himself in the ejection seat with his right arm locked on the canopy bow towel rack, left arm braced against the rail, holding the engines at full power. He puts his head back against the seat, peeks to his left at the deck-edge cat operator and catches him just as he fires the catapult. The XO bites down on a scream of mingled primal joy and physical strain as jet bounces up and down the long catapult stroke. His body is pressed against the seat by the g-forces as even his eyeballs flatten, making the flight instruments in the HUD momentarily unreadable. But after a long moment, it is over and his heavily laden fighter wallows, rather than springs into the air on this hot day in an Arabian Gulf summer. Airborne, by God.
Mon - August 8, 2005
Is worth what you pay for it.
Sun - August 7, 2005
AS-28 Priz is cut free by a British robot sub.
Sat
- August 6, 2005
(Previously
)
"Ooooon the flight deck, aircrew are now manning for the 1200 launch. All unnecessary personal must clear the flight deck, everyone remaining on deck must be in a full and complete flight deck uniform: Life vests on and securely fastened, helmets on and buckled, goggles down, sleeves rolled down. Take one last good look around the flight deck for loose gear and FOD, stand clear of all prop arcs, intakes and exhausts. Stand clear of huffer exhausts, tow bars and tie-down chains. Let's start the go aircraft, start 'em up."
Fri - August 5, 2005
A Russian bathyscaph has become entangled
on the ocean floor at over 630 feet of depth.
Thu - August 4, 2005
A couple of alert readers have, well... alerted
me to this
article.
Mon - August 1, 2005
(Previously)
In the ready rooms below, the crews are wrapping up their final briefs before going to the parachute locker to strap their g-suits and harnesses on over their flight suits. The squadron XO goes to his squadron duty officer and draws a 9mm pistol and two magazines. He reflects upon the words his first CO told him when he was a lieutenant: "Always carry a weapon over Indian Country. If you get shot down, the war isn't over, it's just that the tactics have changed." He smiles briefly at the thought of that old man, wonders where he is now or if he's even still alive - he was one of the old breed, that CO: He was what they called "Old Navy," back before that became a clothing brand. He burned it hard at both ends, left it all out there on the field, no matter what the endeavor. The XO's smile fades as he looks at the pistol in his hand, feels the purposeful hardness of it, thinks about why he needs it. The war is supposed to be over, but it's not, and where he's going, not everyone is friendly.
Tue - July 26, 2005
(Previously)
In TFCC the Battle Watch Captain turns to the admiral and says, "Well, that seemed to go pretty well." "Just about textbook," the admiral concurs. In Combat, the third class operations specialist looks at his relief with a gimlet eye, passes down the status of the air systems, threat and weapons posture. Turns the console over and walks away without saying good-bye. Port and starboard watch - he'll see the guy again in six hours. Hungry. Hungry and tired. Wonders which one he'll work on first. Maybe a bite to eat. On the bridge, the Captain calls down to Air Ops: "Where the hell are those alert fighters and the E-2? Sure would be nice to have them on deck so that we can finish the re-spot." In a squadron ready room, the executive officer concludes his briefing, releasing the close air support crews to do their individual and crew briefs on their own. They'll walk in 30 minutes. It's going to be a hot day...
Sat
- July 23, 2005
(Previously)
The lieutenant thinks, "If he shoots me, I die. If he's inside min range, once we close I can easily handle him." Upon a moment's reflection, he calls his wingman back into the fight, just in case. The throttles are already parked in the northwest quadrant, delivering full combat rated power, so the lieutenant urges his fighter forward with small thrusts of his hips like a horseman, trying to close the distance. He looks at his armament panel, sees that he is still in simulation mode, reaches up and re-arms the jet: "There," he thinks. "If I'm going to have to die today, at least I'll have company."
Thu - July 21, 2005
(Previously)
Do something, daddy. Do it, he prays. Do it now. He is rewarded: The Phantom jock turns forty degrees left, no more: He's checking his six o'clock, aware now of a potential threat, "spiked at six." The lieutenant can imagine the narrowing eyes of the Iranian crew, pilot and weapons officer, heads straining over their left shoulders as they attempt to evaluate this new information, give it context. But the lieutenant is unsatisfied: Forty degrees is not enough. At this range, forty degrees won't make it happen. He strokes the throttle-mounted expendables switch, thumbing out an IR decoy, a flare. He hopes it draws their attention to him. He hopes it looks like a missile launch. He hopes he has done the right thing...
Mon - July 18, 2005
(Previously)
At a mile, with three seconds left to go until the merge, the lieutenant knows that he is unobserved - no way that the Phantom pilot would allow a threat down there at his belly without checking into him to neutralize the merge - he'll have 90 degrees advantage by the time he crosses the Phantom's six o'clock. Perfect. He starts an "early turn," before the merge has even happened, up in the vertical behind the F-4. At 90 degrees nose high, looking back through his canopy at the Phantom exhaust pipes and with his airspeed bleeding away in the HUD, the lieutenant realizes his mistake and screams with anger into his O2 mask: His nose-high conversion turn has cost him too much energy, he has gotten slow. He will get slower still before he has completed his turn and is in trail of the F-4. The F-4 is a faster jet: Not only will he never catch up to him, but the F-4 will catch up to his wingman, placing her at risk- the lieutenant recovers to the horizon at 250 knots and sees the fast moving Phantom turn again from an identifiable aircraft into a receding speck on the horizon. In training he could simulate a missile launch from here and win the day. But he isn't in training, this is really happening, and he hasn't got the ROE. He is out of position, and the physics cannot be overcome.
Sat
- July 16, 2005
(Previously)
Lieutenant: "Twelve miles, hot, naked." Wingman: "Two's naked." Neither of them targeted yet with an air-to-air radar. Good. All throughout the strike group, eyes close and ears strain to catch each almost mechanical note of this exchange, ears attuned to the hidden weight of the words and tension in the voices. Which elevates immediately to a new and higher octave with: "Two's spiked, nose." In the lead aircraft, the lieutenant's jaw clenches, bares his teeth in his mask: Hard - He is closing on what is now very apparently an Iranian fighter at the rate of a mile every three seconds. He weighs the space left to him to maneuver, the time before a missile could reach his wingman, the rules of engagement. His actions in the next few moments might affect the fate of his wingman, the fleet, nations. He is 27 years old.
Wed - July 13, 2005
(Previously)
In the E-2, the ACO updates his track video and speaks into his boom mike, "Hobo 404, group Baltimore 195, 20, low, track west, bogey. Hot Dog red at 20 miles" Turning back into the threat, the lieutenant snaps his visor down against the sun well-risen in the east. He selects his Sidewinder missile, hears the raspy growl of an uncooled seeker head, switches the coolant on, hears the growl fade to a reptilian hiss. He changes missile mode to AIM-120, the advanced, medium range air-to-air missile. He turns his HUD tape on and selects the master armament control switch to "arm." He arms his chaff and flare dispenser. Whatever happens in the next few minutes, he will be prepared. And he will by God have it on tape. "Leads' fenced," he says on the aux radio, prodding his wingman to complete his own combat checklist, and to report it complete. "Standby," replies the wingman. |
Credo
"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 "Blogito Ergo Sum" - Neptunus Lex About Me Email me: Solidarity
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