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Brett Justus |
| from the Flight of the Common Man Collection
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If you're an actor, like Tom Cruise or Harrison Ford, or a
well-known TV reporter, it's usually not too hard to get a ride in a jet
fighter, just ask. But for the common man, they are extremely hard to come by
— even for a member of the Air Force team. I earned my chance though, in
1988, by being a member of the winning crew of the quarterly F-16 weapons load
competition.
Having been submitted to a rigorous physical examination and
ejection-seat training, the day finally came for a 20-year-old Airman First
Class to get the flight of his life. I went over to the squadron ops building
and was introduced to my pilot, who was — as are all fighter pilots in the
Air Force — a commissioned officer, 1st Lieutenant in his case, still pretty
young. He told me to call him Steve, as long as his boss, the squadron
commander wasn't around. "We'll be taking off in two hours, right after your
partner returns, so we better get moving," he told me. He told me we had a
block of range time allocated, for "aerobatics," but it wasn't until the last
half-hour of our two-hour flight. He laid out his prescribed solution to the
dilemma: "We're going to have an hour and a half to kill and a bunch of fuel
to burn out of the auxiliary wing tanks so we can pull max G-forces. I planned
out a little cross-country trip, have you seen the Grand Canyon from the air?"
I told him I hadn't and that the combination of sightseeing and then
aerobatics over the range would be perfect.
Steve stepped up to a large, angled table with many partitioned slots
underneath. He grabbed a couple of maps from different bins, then searched for
awhile before securing the third, and final one. He unfolded them and took a
razor knife to each, cutting out the sections he wanted. He tossed the excess,
more than two-thirds of each one, into a large trash can, nearly full with
many other cut-up map discards. How wasteful, I thought, but then again, when
you're burning ten gallons of fuel a minute, what's a four- or five-dollar
map? I looked at the Plexiglas sheet that covered the table and the countless
cuts scored into its surface. I multiplied this scene times four considering
the other three squadrons on base and thought, Man, I could afford to get
my pilot's license, own my own plane and fly twice a week if I had the money
this base spends on maps!
As we walked out to the flightline, a crowd of my peers was forming and
they challenged my pilot to get me sick. They promised him a case of beer if
he could do it. He blew them off with a light chuckle, and climbed up behind
me on the back ladder to help me strap in. He showed me a little bit more
about the REO (Radar/Electro-Optical Display). It was a small TV screen that
was in the lower-right portion of the instrument panel in the front cockpit of
an F-16, but in the rear cockpit of this two-seater it was right at top
center. The front seat had a HUD or "Head's Up Display" top center that shows
pertinent information from main flight instruments on a glass panel right
where you're looking out the canopy as you fly.) The rear-seat REO was
different in that it had a switch, which converted it from the radar screen to
a monitor of the gun camera. The gun camera was very small, about the size of
an AA battery, and was mounted so as to have a constant view through the HUD
in the front cockpit. This way I could see what otherwise would have been
blocked by the pilot's helmet and his seat.
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The throttles moved all the way forward, the
plane rumbled, and Steve called out increasing "stages" of afterburner as they
lit unseen in the daylight behind our jet. I was forced back in my seat from
the acceleration, but not nearly so much as I had envisioned. With the two
huge auxiliary wing tanks installed, Steve had decided not to do the
max-performance takeoff. I have watched many of these takeoffs and still am
awed when I see one today. The plane lifts off early, and remains right above
the runway flying level in full afterburner and gaining speed. At the end of
the runway the plane pulls straight up and climbs like a rocket until it is
but a mere speck, about ten thousand feet high in practically no time. At the
top of the climb the plane pulls back so that it is going the opposite
direction, now inverted. The plane is then rolled over to right side up again
and continues on in the opposite direction two miles above where it was mere
seconds before.
We pierced the sky with our pointy bird. I looked at the familiar, dull tan
hangers and buildings from this different perspective. I looked down at our
own ramp area and could see several friends waving. I told Steve this and he
said, "Oh, let's give em a wing wave then." He rocked the wings. Later they
would tell me, they thought this was the result of the pilot allowing me to
take control.
Steve pulled a trick on me. "See the Golf Course over there on the left?"
"Oh yeah," I said, "the base golf course really looks beautiful from the
airrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-uuuugh ugh!" And I was introduced to the concept of
unexpected G-forces. He had initiated an instantaneous 60-degree banked
turnout to the right just as he had suckered me into looking the other way.
Despite his best efforts, I did manage to peel my helmeted head from the left
side of the Canopy. As I struggled to get my head first looking straight, then
to the right to see where we were going, I felt a very strange and uneasy
sensation in my lower body. Oh, I realized, that's the G-suit giving
me a little squeeze. I looked down at the G-meter. There is an indicator
needle showing the current G forces on the plane at any given time. When the
indicator needle moves it pushes over another needle, the "tell-tale," which
remains at the highest point the indicator has traveled until it is reset. The
indicator of current G was now back on 1. One times the Earth's gravity
pulling down against the lift the wings produce as they slice through the air,
the same single "G" I would feel if I were sitting on a couch down below. The
other needle had been pushed to 2.2. It had seemed like a lot more force than
that to me. Bill said he pulled 9 Gs on his ride, this is going to be an
experience.
I was disappointed we had to fly so high; desert can be fairly bland
scenery, but especially from 17,000 feet. We flew over the VORTAC. He asked me
if I saw it. "Nope," I told him, "can't see it." He flipped the plane over on
its right side momentarily, "now you got it?" Sure enough, it had been
directly underneath. "Yep." I acknowledged. From here we would turn to a new
radial going out from the same beacon that would take us toward the Grand
Canyon.
He rolled the plane on over completely upside down, "easy way to find your
checkpoints when they're hiding from you." I was surprised I didn't really
feel much of a tug against my restraints. The seat and restraint systems are
well-designed to hold you in place. They have to be, considering all the Gs
you pull in the fighters. And if one has to eject, that imposes something like
20 Gs on the body. The view above was of below, a light brown world distorted
by the curvature of the Plexiglas canopy. With head tilted back, I consumed
this moment, a rare opportunity most people will never have. Looking up
to the ground was a thrilling new experience! All too soon we rolled back
over.
Steve carefully explained the simple but crucial
procedures of turning over control of the airplane from one pilot to the
other. "It may seem dumb the way I am about to say this, but it really is
important. Planes have rolled right off the end of runways, and hit mountains
because there were two pilots sitting in the cockpit, each thinking the other
was controlling the plane. What I'll do is tell you, 'Brett, you have the
aircraft,' when you assume the controls you respond, "I HAVE the
aircraft.' You don't say 'I got it,' 'my plane,' 'your plane' or anything
else, OK?"
"Yes sir!"
My body chemistry bubbled with excitement as I tried to give myself a crash
— er better call that, "quickie" course — on flying an F-16. The REO screen
was woefully inadequate at providing me with a good view out the front. The
picture was horrible, and seeing the actual horizon peripherally at a
different level than the portion I could barely see in the screen was
disorienting. I had a general idea how the artificial horizon instrument on
the panel in front of me worked and I could use that for reference. I knew the
pedals on the floor were for the rudder and that they were used along with the
ailerons (controlled by the wheel or in the case of this airplane, the
stick).
"OK, Brett, we are straight on a radial of one-two-zero degrees from the
TACAN, a little wind from the left, so steer one-one-five degrees to keep us
on it. Make sure you keep the altitude right at 17000, you HAVE to make sure
you don't vary by more than plus or minus one hundred feet, OK."
"OK." I promised. My hand was poised, ready to grab the stick. "One
question, before I fly." I asked, "how do I know how much rudder to use?"
"Oh, don't even bother with the rudder, the computer's set up to mix em for
you automatically right now. You won't be turning much anyway, we have to stay
at this altitude and heading since we're IFR, but you can turn about five
degrees left, then ten right, etc. Just keep us within five of our course
heading and average it out."
I frantically searched for a reference to the heading, it was on the HUD
display in my monitor, but unreadable, I scanned the panel and found a dial
pointing out the heading at the top, just a hair left of 120 degrees. Ok,
now I'm ready.
(And just in time.) "Brett, you have the aircraft."
At once I was thrown down and right as the plane surged up and left. A
slight grunt over the intercom as air escaped my lungs, squeezed out by the
unexpected Gs. Another, tighter, squeeze from the G-suit then and I sneaked a
quick glance at the G-meter. I had just put almost two Gs on the airplane just
taking hold of the stick! "I have the aircraft." I said shakily as I
over-corrected back down and right. Man this thing is sensitive!
I had spent some time in F-16 cockpits doing weapons functional checks so I
knew the stick only moved an eighth to a quarter of an inch or so in each
direction. But it's hard to comprehend that so little movement on the control
makes the airplane react so quickly. The F-16 has a fly-by-wire system, making
the stick essentially no more than an electronic joystick. In most planes the
wheel or stick is connected directly by cables and pulleys to the control
surfaces on the wings and tail, but the F-16 uses electronic impulses directed
to electric servomotors that move the control surfaces. I'm told many pilots
were leery of this at first, but the system has redundancy built-in throughout
and has proven to be excellent.
I finally managed to get the plane somewhat stabilized as far as the
heading was concerned, but couldn't get it to stay level; up and down in small
oscillations we went. I tried a few turns within the pre-discussed parameters,
making it even harder to keep the altitude. I was relieved when he said,
"We've got to do a better job of keeping our flight level, why don't you let
me have it back and you can do more flying when we get to the range."
"YOU have the aircraft."
"I have the aircraft."
With a deft touch and in less than two seconds, he had the plane perfectly
stabilized and humming along at exactly 17,000 feet and one-one-five degrees.
The gauges were able to continue their declaration of perfect position all the
way to the Grand Canyon, because I didn't have the
aircraft.
I had never seen the Grand Canyon. When he told me it was coming
up I began to search as best I could for this gaping wound in my world. Yes
the world I observed right now was mine! The people down there: on the roads,
in the houses, camping in the desert with motor-homes, shade canopies pulled
out, they were in my world, and I was in theirs, but only as a
sound. Two very different worlds, one known by billions, one known by just a
few. We were too high to be readily seen, but not high enough to make a
telltale white contrail of condensation. Our jet was but one of a host of
other sources of miniscule vibrations in the eardrums of the few who were
capable of hearing us. A fly buzzing by one of their heads could easily
overpower the faint sound of our distant vehicle, and while a sound is
a part of their world, we are not.
We flew over the Canyon. It was very disappointing, from 17,000 feet. I
knew there were sharp details and contours and sculpted reliefs, thousands of
millions of details that would make up the breathtaking view of something that
was ominous and huge and would make me feel small, as it should. However, from
this height its perceived size was small, its details ... nonexistent.
It made us big and the canyon small, as it should not be. I realized I was
being greedy, to discover my world, was enough; the magnificence of the Grand
Canyon would have to be a later discovery, a present tucked away for later
unwrapping. I felt smug for checking my greed, and sublimating it to a
realization that I had many packaged discoveries waiting for me throughout my
newly discovered world, I would be patient. The ol' deja-vu feeling hit hard.
Seemed as though I had previously poised this scene to be played at just that
moment in my life.
The mighty canyon soon slipped behind us, summarily overcome by our sheer
speed and lofty height. I vowed to return some day to view its splendor on
more equal terms. Just what was the perfect height to explore my world anyway?
Certainly not 30,000 feet or more, the height at which the airlines fly.
Seventeen thousand had been a little better, enough for a firm preview of its
dimensions and detail. But what was the level where I could find full intimacy
with my newly found but always present source of wonder?
"About 200 feet," he said, awaking me from my
thoughts.
"Huh?" I muttered.
"Two hundred feet is the lowest we can go as we work the range. We'll start
our descent as soon as we go hot." This I looked forward to. I knew the
perceived speed that close to the ground would be incredible. He announced
crossing the line into the operations area, called on the radio to let them
know it was going "hot" because we were in it. The controller acknowledged,
and confirmed we were the only ones in there. Excitement bubbled within me
once again at the anticipation of what was to begin. In stoic resonance his
voice announced, "While we're still up here we'll go ahead and break through
the sound barrier, so you can experience that, and tell everybody you did
it."
Steve was appropriate in his lack of wonder and excitement, for it was a
very non-exciting event. I watched the airspeed increase as he jammed the
throttle all the way to afterburner; the initial thrust was impressive, but
then there was just the rumble and steadily climbing airspeed needle. He told
me to watch the gauges as we broke through Mach 1, the speed of sound, and I
would see them jump a little bit. I did and they did, the needle got up to
about 600, but our actual airspeed he told me, was really about 950 miles per
hour. I looked down and could tell no difference; we were too high to feel the
effect.
As far as I'm concerned, the sound barrier has only been "broken" once.
Chuck Yeager, with the first machine capable of punching through this
transparent barrier, did so, and when he did, it shattered and fell away to be
a barrier no more. But equal credit belongs to the brilliant minds who
studied, engineered, designed and built the machine which apexed this lofty
goal with Mr. Yeager at the controls. And there we were, in our modern machine
improved upon and refined to a much higher level of efficiency and capability
than Chuck's machine. And we simply advanced the throttle. And smoothly went
from a true airspeed that is less than the speed at which sound travels to a
true airspeed which is faster than the speed at which time travels; nothing
less, nothing more.
We slowed back down to a speed that was less than the speed sound travels.
We started to descend and as we did he reminded me to clear my ears as
necessary using the valsalva technique. The valsalva technique of course, is
that very attractive gesture in which you pinch your nose and blow to equalize
ear pressure. Even more attractive though is the other technique the flight
surgeon had taught me the day before, when I got my flight physical. The
doctor had explained how G-forces can pull the blood to the lower parts of the
body and the extremities and cause one to lose consciousness or "black-out."
"It's done like this," he demonstrated. "You just tense up every muscle in
your body as if you were struggling on the pot when constipated." He had me
practice a few times and then pronounced me qualified on the "M1" technique
(closing off all air too) and the "L1" technique (continue normal
breathing).
Steve said, "See how we're gaining airspeed as we descend?"
"Yup," I affirmed.
"Here's where the speed brakes come in handy, I'll open em up. And you'll
see what happens."
I felt what happens! It seemed my face was being pulled from my
skull. I couldn't believe how effective those speed brakes were. An F-16's
speed brakes are located at the back of the fuselage either side of the engine
nacelle, and really look diminutive. However, introducing even that much
surface area to hang out in the 600-mph breeze has a pronounced effect on
one's forward motion. We slowed to about 400 then he retracted the brakes and
let the airspeed start increasing again. We leveled off about 1000 feet and
close to 600 miles per hour. Already the speed sensation was incredible. He
said, "here we go." We dropped down into a shallow valley and flew straight
toward a hill. For the first time, ever, in an airplane, I was scared. That
hill approached at such a speed it was almost surreal. Steve pulled us over
the top at the last minute in a momentarily gut-wrenching 4.5-G climb. We
rolled over to the right and dropped right down into a deeper valley to scream
along and twist around more hills. I relaxed now, seeing that Steve was
obviously intimately familiar with the area, and I proceeded to enjoy the
thrilling ride.
After we finished our low-level escapades it was time to simulate
the high performance "takeoff" I was robbed of due to the full auxiliary wing
tanks. Playing around within the range boundaries and using several hits of
the afterburner had emptied the drop-tanks so that we now had a "9-G-capable"
plane, according to Steve.
"Ok, Brett, the max-performance takeoff is essentially an Immelman from the
ground. You get just off the deck, hold it level down low till you pick up the
airspeed," he described as he performed, "then you pull baaaaaaack."
"(UHHHHGGHH)," I involuntarily grunted. "Climb straight up to your desired
altitude, pull it back, level and inverted — then roll her back over. Here,
you try it, you have the aircraft, but I'm going to do the throttle for
you."
"I have the aircraft, you have the throttle." I said. How in the world
do I know when I'm heading straight up? I thought. Oh well, I'll just
watch the artificial horizon gyro and surely there will be some sort of center
marking or obvious indication.
"Too far, push it forward a bit," he coached. "That's too much, just ...
there, now just keep it straight."
I was still too busy marveling at the incredible sense of rocketing
straight up in an airplane to concentrate on a precise maneuver. I struggled
for a few more seconds and he gave up, "what the heck, just turn it into a
loop ... do a loop Brett."
"Will this thing do an outside loop?" I joked.
"WE are NOT going to do an outside loop Brett, pull
BACK on the stick."
I pulled back carefully on the stick and soon I was able, by rolling my
eyes up as far as I could, to see the edge of the planet again. As the nose
became level with the horizon once more, albeit upside down, it was hard to
make myself keep pulling into it, and I let off a little control pressure.
Steve coached me, "Keep it back now, keep it well back to pull us on
through."
I got a little nervous at the straight down point, seeing nothing but
ground everywhere. I almost started to let off again, but knew I had to just
keep coming back. Back up to the horizon, stopped right on it.
"Alright! You just did a loop, a very passable one too, I might add. Do
another."
I obliged without delay, performing a very consistent vertical circle in
the sky. This one I did tighter and with more Gs. I think I heard both of us
grunt a little on this one. A little too far up coming through the horizon
this time though. After I leveled off he said, "Ok, try a roll now, just slap
it over to the left and recover after one or two revolutions."
I found it very fun to make the world spin around me by simply pushing a
joystick a fraction of an inch. But it was extremely difficult to stop where I
wanted. I asked Steve, "now show me how it's supposed to be done."
"Alright, I have the aircraft."
"YOU have the aircraft." I affirmed.
He did a few precise rolls: right side up to
exactly level upside down, one revolution, two, and three. Then he executed a
four-point roll just like the Thunderbirds do during their demonstration. He
asked if I was ready to pull some serious G's, "You know this won't be a real
incentive ride unless we get you to nine G's — you game?"
"Oh yes, let's try about six first."
"Ok, six-G turn coming up."
He rolled the plane over to the right and did a complete 360-degree circle,
sustaining six Gs for several seconds, which seemed like much longer. We both
did our best grunt technique, and the G-suit squeeze, this time, was
practically indiscernible as my entire body was getting the mega-squeeze from
being pressed down with the pressure of six of me. That's 1020 lbs. of me in
this seat now, the other five me's must be doing a lot better than this one
trapped on the bottom and getting pressed unmercifully into the seat. We
pulled out of the turn, instant relief. Steve asked, "Ok, how'd you do with
that, are you ready for more?"
"I guess so." I realized at this point I had revealed my lack of
intrepidness about pulling nine Gs. Is it really necessary? I asked
myself. I really think I have the picture by now, been there done that,
know what it feels like, what's the point in going to the point of near loss
of consciousness?
Because EVERYONE will ask if I pulled nine Gs, that's why! Might as well
get it over with. "Ok, here we go, this time to the left," he announced,
as the G-meter was already rolling through 4.5. We both started grunting,
nothing else could be heard, he struggled to form the words as he called out,
"there's seven ... eight ..." His voice really began to labor, and I tried to
calculate the weight on my lap now, heck, it feels like an elephant is sitting
on my lap and trying to recline. "Eight point five, aaaaaaate point seven,
eeaaaaaaa good enough!" He rolled out. Relief didn't seem so instant this
time. Whew! Now and for the rest of my life I can say I pulled 8.7 Gs in an
F-16B Fighter.
He let me fly some more just doddling around the sky. Apparently, my random
control inputs began to irritate him. "Don't push on the stick, I hate that,
gets my stomach. If you want to lose altitude, just bank it into a fairly
steep turn without pulling back and that'll get you down." This, I couldn't
believe. A fighter pilot with a weak stomach! Hmmf! And that was the most
fun for me, doing little 100-foot dives like a roller coaster. Oh well, our
range time was just about to "expire." He took the controls again and
pointed the nose toward home.
As we neared the base, the approach controller told him, "Casa One, be
advised aerial demonstration in progress, five mile radius, six thousand and
below until two-two one five zulu, please acknowledge." Translated, that meant
the Thunderbirds were practicing over the base, as they often did getting
ready for the show season, and we had to stay away for another 10 minutes or
so. Steve grumbled something about them being late, that they should have been
done by then, must have been late starting.
Since the Thunderbirds were based at Nellis AFB, as I was, I had seen their
routine many dozens of times. They did most of their practicing and
experimentation of new maneuvers out over their desert practice area. But
closer to the spring/summer air-show season they would do frequent afternoon
practice sessions right over the runways. I assumed this was to get them
visually used to "air-show center" — their reference to the middle of the
runway or crowd upon which they orient for their maneuvers.
I imagine there probably aren't too many people who can say they've seen
the Thunderbirds' show from above. We circled over the field and watched until
they finished. During the low-level routines it looked like they were right on
the deck. Even these brightly-painted jets could be hard to see. A few times I
would lose one and then pick it up again somewhere else. A couple of months
ago my dad taped a documentary for me about rich people going to Russia for a
ride in a fighter. I believe the cost was running about $25,000 or something
like that. I can't imagine what my seat would have been worth that day, had it
been for sale. We followed the last T-bird in and landed.
My special thanks to Robert "R.B." Gibbons, an old F-16 stick actuator
who helped me make sure the details were
accurate.
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