View from the Cockpit

Mustang Fever

2011-10-23T09:54:00.000-07:00

This P-51D Mustang was restored and is now owned by Mark Peterson. "Hell-Er-Bust" was the mount of WWII ace Ed Heller of the 352nd Fighter group and appeared at the Chino Airshow this year carrying 2 bombs underwing in addition to the six wing-mounted machine guns. Photo credit, David Brown

In company with countless pilots who normally take to the skies at weekends in small aircraft, I’ve often looked enviously at the North American P-51 Mustang. All the cliches are there: Fire – breathing Fighter, Exceptional Performance, Noisy, Fantastically expensive…OK....OK That’s enough.
But this does not help… It’s an addiction. Just watch a pilot…any pilot… when a Mustang flies by. Their eyes swivel, they drool over the sound of the Merlin. It’s incurable, and it’s called Mustang Fever.

Tony Banta flies his beautifully restored P-51D Mustang "Kimberly Kaye" during a visit to Southern California. A marvel in polished aluminum, the Mustang is painted with the black and yellow checked nose of the 353rd Fighter Group, and the black rudder of the 352nd Fighter Squadron. Photo credit David Brown

But how does one ever get to fly aboard one of these classic fighters?… well, there are just a few ways…inherit the money…be a film star…own the company….or be lucky.
So I was lucky.
On my first Mustang ride some years ago I flew with veteran Mustang pilot and owner, Elmer Ward. The mission was a two-ship flight from the Hawthorne Air Faire in Elmer’s Mustang “Man O’ War” in company with a second Mustang “What’s Up Doc” flown by Ross Grady. Just a quick ferry from Hawthorne in California to Elmer’s base at Chino.

Although this Mustang of course was built as a single-seat fighter, the cockpit had been modified to accommodate a second seat behind the pilot, in the place normally occupied by a fuel tank. It was a bit cramped, but a small price to pay for the experience.
"Man O’ War "sat on the ramp at Hawthorne in a line of eight Mustangs. Silver with red nose and tail, it was painted in the colors of Claiborne Kinnard, 334th Fighter Squadron of the 4th Fighter Group, operating in Europe in the latter part of 1944.

Before start our two fighters were pulled out of the lineup and parked on the ramp parallel to the crowd behind the ropes, to keep our slipstream away from the audience.

Elmer gave a through briefing and pre-flight introduction before we flew. We donned parachutes and helmets. Flying a Mustang is done as a no-kidding military mission and is briefed as such. When his victim was strapped in the back seat Elmer finished his emergency egress briefing with a question, “Have you ever done a parachute jump? (Pause) I’ve been flying these things for years and haven’t done it yet.” Then, still grinning he climbed into the front seat and strapped in.

"Man O’ War" was immaculate, Red nose and tail, squadron letters on the fuselage and with distinctive black stripes along the fuselage and on the wings to break up the outline in combat. It was not your average flying club aircraft. It’s a no-compromise fighting machine.

Elmer Ward's P-51D Mustang "Man O' War" on the ramp at Hawthorne, Southern California.
Six machine guns and excellent performance and range made the Mustang one of the top fighters in the Second World War. Photo Credit: David Brown

So what’s it like to be sitting in the back seat of a Mustang? Visibility in all directions through the bubble canopy is superb, apart from the total lack of vision ahead. The hardware in the cockpit is in some ways familiar to me, with some items identical to the AT-6 of the same era. But the big throttle, the supercharger and the whole Merlin powerplant are different. With the complication of the liquid cooling, the Merlin engine is more complex. And the aircraft handling is different. It's a big, fast and heavy aircraft by light plane standards. Stories abound of new Mustang pilots coming to grief with the torque roll induced by opening the throttle too quickly on a go-around, or having directional control problems on takeoff or landing. The average pilot requires a lot of training before leaping into the air in the Mustang.

Once strapped securely into the back seat, parachute straps and harness prevent any movement. It’s getting quite hot, with the sun beating down through the partially-open canopy. I can see some of the instruments and switches over Elmer’s shoulder, and monitor the action through my headphones as Elmer goes through his pre-start checks.
One thing the Air Force training did was to instill in the student pilot the absolute necessity to follow the appropriate checklist.

Next the Elmer sings out “ CLEAR PROP”. This gets a thumbs up from our ground crew.
I duck my head as Elmer winds the canopy forward part-way and fires up the Merlin
This is followed by a series of loud barks from the engine and a burst of smoke from the open stacks. The huge four-blade prop jerks to life, then blurs into a shimmering disc in the late-afternoon sun. From the back seat it sounds like a huge and very loud tractor chugging away as it idles, even through my helmet. At least the biggest fan in the world is blowing some cool air in my direction.
We are looking good so far. Elmer checks in with me on the intercom, then calls Hawthorne tower for taxi clearance.
Elmer waves our chocks away.

While we have been starting up, Ross Grady in his camouflaged Mustang, ahead and to our left, has also fired up and is ready to go.

“What’s Up Doc” starts to move and Elmer eases the throttle forward. “Man O’ War” starts rolling gently forward as we follow the other Mustang down the taxiway.

As the Mustang has a tailwheel, it has no forward vision on the ground because of the long engine cowling obscuring the view in front of the nose. So the pilot has to S-turn down the taxiway, looking alternately down the left, then the right side of the fuselage to clear the blind spot ahead.

At our run up area, Elmer winds the canopy fully closed, makes sure the brakes are on, brings the stick back and pushes the throttle forward.

The noise of the Packard-built Merlin engine is quite awesome. It’s standard practice to wear earplugs in addition to the noise-canceling headset. With a twelve-cylinder piston engine running only a few feet in front of you, there’s a real feeling of power when the throttle is advanced.
With 12 open exhaust stacks pointing straight at you, IT IS ALSO EXTREMELY LOUD.

Pretakeoff checks complete, Elmer looks across to Grady and signals that we are ready.

”What’s Up Doc” pulls onto the runway, and we follow him.
We line up on runway 25 cleared for a formation takeoff .We are to the right of the other Mustang, and on the right side of the centerline.

Both pilots increase power. Grady looks across at us, gets a thumbs up from Ward, and gives a head nod to signify brake release. Both Mustangs start to move and accelerate together. In “Man O’ War” the noise is overpowering.
Both Mustangs become airborne. I see the gear doors of the other Mustang flash in the sunlight, then his gear starts up and the Mustangs start an exhilarating climb into the sunlit California sky.
We bank left and turn through 180 degrees until we are on a downwind leg, then settle into a slow climb heading east.

Ward brings the engine back to cruise at 35 inches MP and 2300 rpm. Airspeed settles down at 200mph. I’m in the enviable position of having nothing to do but look around me.

There may be some things in life more satisfying than riding in the back seat of a Mustang, with one of the best Mustang pilots in the world at the helm. But only a few. The other Mustang is riding just feet away, so close that I can see the tiny movements of his controls, the lazily turning arc of that huge propeller strobing through your own propeller.

“What’s Up Doc” is in full camouflage and military markings, a real fighting machine. The sun is setting behind us, so a golden glow is illuminating every detail of the fighter. Downtown Los Angeles is clearly visible in the crystal-clear air, with the San Gabriel Mountains towering in the distance. The ground is scooting past perceptibly faster than I am used to seeing it move. We head East for Chino, past Fullerton, Anaheim, over the Prado Dam and turn left up the Chino Hills and then in over Chino airport for an overhead break to Runway 21. Every second of flight is magic as I watch the other Mustang against the background of the hills, then the dairy farms surrounding Chino.

As the Chino control tower floats back beneath us, Grady banks away to the right. After another couple of seconds we follow him, banking hard right and onto the downwind leg.

Elmer calls the tower “ Finals, Three greens ”.

Over the fence the throttle came back and the Merlin started its characteristic popping
then we touched in a perfect three-point landing and taxied in to Elmer’s hangar at Square One Aviation where he restores Mustangs, in addition to flying them.

So am I a happy person after this flight? Well, yes and no. I've been flying in a Mustang. It was a great ride. There are only a handful of these hot fighters still around. But I must admit, there are limits to a ride as a passenger. Any pilot really wants to get his hands on the controls after all…Let’s fast forward a few years to a subsequent occasion when an opportunity presented itself of flying a two seat dual control Mustang, “Tempus Fugit.”
With a few days advance warning , I took the opportunity to read up the pilot manual of the P-51 and caught an airliner to Reno, for the Air Races, Air Display and who knows what else…

Tempus Fugit (Time Flies)

This motto is painted on a polished aluminum cowl. The cowl is attached to N 151TF, which just happens to be a North American TF-51 dual control Mustang. The paint scheme is distinctive, with red nose, yellow-striped wings and a striped red tail. This Mustang is painted to represent the mount of Colonel William Daniel when the aircraft flew with the 31st Fighter Group with the 15th Air Force in Italy during 1944.

It has been raced during the week and still has its race number 23 on the vertical tail.
And this aircraft just happens to be parked on the ramp at Reno Stead Airport.

After a hectic week of flying, problems, late-night maintenance and engine runs, we are on for my flight, as long as we do not run out of daylight.

Tempus Fugit ready for engine start prior to a test flight after some engine work at Reno Stead Airport. The Mustang is painted in the colours of Col William A Daniel, CO of the 31st Fighter Group operating in Italy in 1944. The 5 kills marked under the cockpit made Daniel an ace. Photo credit David Brown

It is shortly before sunset on the last day of the week-long event. After the display, everyone wants to fly….. I'm crossing my fingers.... and then the wait is over. I am to fly this fighter with Mustang pilot Robbie Patterson.

When it’s time for me to climb aboard I remember that the approved way to mount this beast is to climb up on one mainwheel, avoiding the machine gun ports on the leading edge, step up onto the metal connecting links of the gear leg, onto the leading edge of the wing, then walk inboard to the cockpit. When you are a young cocky fighter pilot this somewhat atheletic climb is a breeze.

As I lean into the cockpit I take note of a placard on the canopy rail to lower one’s head before jettisoning the canopy in the event of having to bail out. The reason being of course that the canopy jettisons rearwards and might take your head off as it goes.

In the rear seat, this time I have a full instrument panel, stick, throttle quadrant etc, everything you could wish for.

The cockpit of this dual-control Mustang looks practically the same from front or rear seats. Engine instruments for the Merlin are on the right hand side of the panel. The throttle quadrant is on the left hand cockpit wall. It's brand new and still has a new car smell.

Photo credit:Provenance Fighters

The cockpit, in a spirit of déjà vu, is very much like the T-34 which I have been flying recently, which is not surprising. The Mustang was designed in the 1940s, rather than the 1950s of the T-34 but they are similar. The systems of the T34 are just a bit simpler. In the Mustang I note the extra dials and controls for the coolant system (and a power increase of around 1250 HP) and an airspeed indicator that is marked up to 700 mph ( We have a dive speed of 505mph)
“Tempus Fugit” has been recently restored and is in pristine condition.

I have my checklist out and once we establish communications between front and rear seats, I follow through as Robbie does his pre-start checks:

Flaps up
Carb air cold
Coolant auto
Rudder trim six right
Elevator and aileron trims zero
Fuel quantity left and right (Maximum of 90 gals per side, but he has just flown and we have enough for a short flight)
Mixture idle cutoff
Prop full forward
Throttle cracked one inch forward..
Fuel on Main LH tank

The pilot’s manual makes no concessions. Getting this far involves a number of critical items. Any interruption of fuel on takeoff, or setting the rudder trim incorrectly could lead to a sudden return to earth, or a swing on takeoff and a fatal crash.

The Mustang start procedure is no different in principle to any piston engined aircraft, with the addition of moving the coolant and oil radiator switches to OPEN.

Starter ON. The prop starts to turn.
Count six blades passing in front of the nose and switch ignition to BOTH.
Fuel boost pump ON and PRIME
Mixture to Normal.

The Packard-built Rolls-Royce Merlin comes to life. We start up with much popping and banging, with the exhaust stacks blowing smoke both sides of the cockpit.

Check oil pressure up to 50psi.
Warm up at 1300rpm.
Check dead cut on each magneto in turn.
We get our clearance and taxi out with the callsign of RACE 23.

Starting to taxi out to the runway. In addition to S-turning to see his clear path ahead, the Mustang pilot has to use differential brakes for directional control, helped by the steerable tailwheel , has to remember not to use too much power which could tip the Mustang on its nose. He is kept quite busy. Photo credit: John Rayner

Our taxi is westbound into the setting sun, so Patterson keeps S-turning to maintain visibility, wary of other traffic, and swings us into wind at the runup area for Runway 08.
At the engine runup area Patterson advances the throttle to give 2300rpm. He checks manifold pressure, cycles the prop, and checks both magneto drops are within limits,.
One complexity that is new to me is to check the supercharger in high gear.

There is a stark line in the handling notes in bold lettering.
Do not exceed 40 inches MP (Manifold pressure) on the ground.
Unless the tail is tied down this amount of power will tip the Mustang onto its nose. The cost of replacing the prop is horrendous, so caution is the watchword here.

Robbie throttles back to 1500 rpm, checks that the coolant and oil radiator switches are AUTO, left tank is selected with boost pump on. Our flaps are up. Trims are rechecked at rudder 6 right, elevator and aileron zero. Finally the canopy is wound forward and locked.

With the exhortation, “Watch your knees” Patterson verifies we have full and free movement of controls. I’ve been wacked on the knees before so make sure I’m clear of the controls.
ATC talks to us, “Race 23 continue to hold for landing traffic”

We wait for the traffic and I’m anxiously watching the coolant temperature creeping up. Mustangs, with their liquid-cooled engines are notorious for overheating on the ground.
Here is the traffic, a B-25 and a pair of Mustangs,. They fly in from the west in formation, perform an overhead break, then one at a time roar past us for a landing.

Finally it is our turn. We are cleared onto the runway.

From the tower, "Race 23 is clear for takeoff."

We line up on the centerline.
Patterson brings the stick back to lock the tailwheel.
Throttle forward to 30” MP. Full right aileron. Right rudder.
We release the brakes in a crescendo of noise.

There is no turning back at this stage.

We are on the centerline but the stick and rudder pedals are moving significantly to keep the Mustang on its arrow-straight track. Engine torque is trying to pull the nose left and force the left wing down.

At 50 mph the tail comes up and as the control effectiveness increases, power is further increased to 46 inches, together with the noise level.

We leave the ground

Race 23 gets airborne at Reno and the gear is just starting to retract. The rudder is deflected to the right to counteract the effects of the Merlin at full power trying to pull the nose to the left. Photo credit: John Rayner

Once the gear is up, Patterson reduces power, we turn north and clear the field.

“Want to fly it?…..” asks Robbie. I take the stick, wiggle it to confirm I have control and do a couple of gentle turns to left and right. The controls are nicely balanced. Not like the hydraulic flight control systems of a jet fighter. This is a classical rod and cable system connecting me directly to the ailerons, elevator and rudder. I head north along Highway 395, heading towards the slopes of Granite Peak.

We are climbing at 2700 rpm, 46inches MP and 180mph. Barely a couple of minutes later we are at 8000 feet, with Pyramid Lake off to our right.

I ease the stick forward until we are in level flight, and retrim on the elevator and rudder. It's time for some turns, so I check we are clear to the left, ease the stick towards the left and co-ordinate with the rudder. The Mustang is nicely balanced and I reverse the bank to the right.

I steepen the turns, first to 30 degrees and then a couple with 45 degrees of bank. I'm having to work a bit harder as the g comes on, but the Mustang is steady in the turn.

No surprises there and I come back to level flight.
In cruise we are loafing along at 280mph, engine running at 2500rpm and 42 inches MP, while burning a mere 80 gals per hour (Mustang operation is not for the thin of wallet)

Tempus Fugit has the same Merlin engine as the single-seat P-51D. The second cockpit has a full set of controls to enable training to be carried out in this powerful warbird. The vertical tail is taller than the original fighter. Photo credit Doug Fisher, Warbird Digest via Platinum Fighters.

Visibility out of the bubble canopy is superb. In fact it is Awesome. We are heading north and I can see Stateline Peak out in front of us with Honey Lake on the horizon. Pyramid Lake is over my right shoulder and the sun is dropping rapidly towards the mountains to our left.

"Let me have it for a minute," says Robbie, and I relinquish control. He pulls the nose up above the horizon and does an immaculate slow roll.

"Want to try one?" Sure .
I do a roll, repeating the maneuver.
We are at 35”MP and doing 240 mph. At the end of the valley I reverse course. Now a 60 degree bank and pulling 2g. This is fun.

Southbound, I do another roll. We are following the valley with Pyramid Lake now off to our left. Again I reverse course, gaining confidence and pulling to 60 degrees of bank this time, finding that the Mustang likes to climb in the turn. We soar up into the sky in a majestic arc as I squint into the setting sun. This is a world of difference from the staid T-34 I normally fly. I try to keep the ball in the middle. Power and airspeed changes require a lot of trimming on the elevator and rudder trim wheels, it’s a little bit…different…

We are northbound again and I go for a four - point roll. I pull the nose above the horizon to start. Over we go to the left, with wings vertical, halt momentarily, continue to inverted, and our world is momentarily upside-down. Stick left again and we continue the roll, stopping wings vertical to the right, and then back to level flight again. I'm kept busy on the rudder pedals co-ordinating the maneuver. I find myself grinning. Handling is good.

But all good things …..depend on our gas gauges. It’s time to head back to the field. Banking hard left round the hills we start letting down towards the setting sun. I ease the big throttle back. Speed is up to 300mph and as we bend round to the south over the hills Robbie points out an aerobatic plane in a vertical climb at our 1 o’clock.

Squinting against the sun I convince myself that this is an FW 190… against a Mustang he would not have a chance… but reluctantly I have to let him go, steer clear and continue on , pointing the nose towards the bulk of Peavine Peak to the south of the field.

The view you do not want to see. A Mustang at your six-o-clock would be bad news for any enemy aircraft. The 11 feet diameter propeller dominates this photo of Tempus Fugit on a photo shoot. The TF-51 has a full second cockpit and dual controls. It dispenses with the six wing-mounted machine guns of the P-51D single-seater. Photo Credit Doug Fisher, Warbird Digest via Platinum Fighters.

Reno Stead airport comes into view at my 11 o'clock. Patterson calls the tower that Race 23 is five miles out on initial. I (reluctantly) hand control back to him.

By now we have our nav lights on and the sky to the east is darkening rapidly as dusk approaches.

We bank left, line up with the runway and zoom across the field in a low pass, then soar up until we are on a close-in downwind leg.

Downwind checks

Fuel on fullest tank
Boost pump ON
Throttle back to 26 inches MP.
Speed dropping through 190 mph
Continue slowing on downwind.
Usual checks:
Gas. Fullest tank
Undercarriage Down Below 170mph Hyd pressure OK.... 3 greens.

Mixture Normal
Prop-Forward to 2700rpm
Flaps, initially - 20 degrees
We curve round onto base at 165mph
Onto final approach at 150mph and we roll out on finals, lowering flaps to 50 degrees

Check 3 green lights to confirm the gear is locked down, then flaps are lowered in stages as we curve round onto base leg, the Merlin popping loudly, and onto final approach.

Airspeed hovers around 130 mph as we come down finals for a gentle wheel landing. As the speed drops so does the tail.
We taxi back, canopy open, swing the tail round and shut down.

Wow.

Thanks to John and Simon at Provenance Fighters for giving me the opportunity of experiencing the Mustang.

I’d be the last person to claim that on the basis of one back seat ride in a dual-control Mustang that I was a Mustang pilot. Any more than someone who sits down at a piano for the first time can claim the capability of giving a recital at Carnegie Hall….

But having said that…Later that week, heading for the east coast, looking out at the sunrise from my seat on a Delta airliner eastbound from LA, I’m relaxing with scotch in hand and reading through the Provenance Fighters brochure when the attractive young lady in the seat next to me, noticing the colorful Mustang on the cover, says in all innocence, “Are you a Mustang pilot?”
“Funny you should ask that,” I’m forced to reply, “ as it happens…”

It’s Mustang Fever after all.

Specification of North American P-51D Mustang

Wingspan 37 feet
Length 32 feet 2 inches
Height 13 feet 8 inches
Engine 1 x Rolls-Royce Packard Merlin
Two-stage supercharged V-1650 (1490HP)
Empty Weight 7050lbs (TF-51 7320lbs)
Takeoff Weight 9600lbs
Armament 6 x 0.5 inch machine guns
Crew 1 (2 for the TF-51)
Fuel 180 gals internal + 2 x 75gal drop tanks.
G limits +8/-4

Performance

Max speed at sea level 360mph
Service ceiling 35000 feet
Range 750miles

Source: Platinum Fighters.com

Fait Accompli !

2011-10-09T18:21:00.000-07:00

ZA 001 flying over the Oregon coast during flight testing. The clean lines of the 787 are evident in the photo, as is the distinct curve of the composite wing, typical at light weights without a heavy fuel load in the wing. Photo credit Boeing

It’s done. Complete. Finished and signed off. The flight testing of the Boeing 787 has been finished after a three-year marathon. On 26th September the first 787 was handed over to launch customer All Nippon Airways at the Boeing facility in Seattle. It was flown to Japan on the following day.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Original Boeing plans claimed an orderly ramp-up of the 787 to first flight, an eyebrow-raising 8-month of flight testing effort to certification involving 5 aircraft, then a switch to the 747-8… Very neat. Of course, the 747-8 was only a development of the 747-400, so that should have been a piece of cake….(more at a later date on this)

(I’ve done similar flight test planning so I know that life/reality and engineering problems will inevitably play havoc with any schedule..the best laid plans of mice and men etc.)

It was an ambitious plan. For a new composite airliner, it was very optimistic.
Things started unraveling early, with fuselage barrel sections for the first aircraft delivered with temporary fasteners. World-wide suppliers turned out to have world-wide problems.
Then a weakness in the 787 wing-to-body junction caused a massive delay, due to the need to redesign and then fix the problem on the first four test aircraft.

(The first four 787s cannot be sold to the airlines as their structures are not certifiable.)

Boeing 001 eventually was cleared for flight and flew in December 2009……

According to Chuck Killberg, Chief Pilot and Director of Flight Operations for Boeing Test and Evaluation it took 210 pilots and 3000+ engineers in the Test and Evaluation group to complete the testing. It basically took six flight test aircraft working full time, and another three production aircraft which were pressed into service in the later stages of the program.

The flight testing took 1782 flights and a whopping 5049 flight hours. It included the spectacular crosswind testing at Keflavik, the tail-scraping minimum unstick speed testing (at Edwards Air Force Base) and rejected takeoffs ending up with glowing brakes. You’ve probably seen it on You-tube.

Less spectacular was the steady progression of flutter flying, which required hour after hour of painstaking testing to higher and higher speed on the first aircraft (while the rest of the fleet was restricted to a pedestrian pace as they flew about the country) The day they achieved flutter clearance was a big milestone as all the aircraft could then fly at normal cruise speeds.(This chopped an hour off the cross-country time from Seattle to Victorville)

Boeing flight testing of the 787 was carried out at Victorville in Southern California, to take advantage of the good weather, in addition to Boeing Field in Seattle and Moses Lake in Washington State. One of the prototypes is seen here at Victorville in 2010 when the flight test program was in full swing. Photo credit David Brown

Boeing 001 spent weeks at Edwards doing takeoff performance testing, mainly single-engine testing, starting in the early morning.

What is probably just as impressive is the high-altitude takeoff and landing performance testing, done at El Alto International Airport at La Paz, Bolivia by ZA 005. This airport is at a mind-blowing altitude of 13,325 feet, and the air is so thin that hotel guests are provided oxygen in their rooms at night to help them to get to sleep.

The whole program stumbled when an electrical fire on ZA 002 in October 2010 caused a halt to all flying, a big investigation and a redesign of an electrical panel (not untypical, but very public and time-consuming) with a further delay while all the aircraft were upgraded.

Among the last tests was the proving of the ETOPS performance, which involved climbing to 37,000 feet, shutting one engine down and cruising for 345 minutes on the remaining engine. Not spectacular, but one of the boxes to be checked off to certify a safe, cheap and efficient aircraft. Similarly the trials to prove cruise air nautical miles per gallon(anmpg). The 787 is claimed to be 20% better than existing airliners, so it has to be proven. I would often see one of the 787s climbing out of Victorville and heading out over the Pacific on its testing for anmpg. Not exciting or glamorous flying, but absolutely necessary to prove performance to the customer.

787 design.

The 787 is 50% composite with one-piece fuselage barrel sections which are simply bolted together, so making construction faster and simpler than conventional metal aircraft. The composite structure does not suffer from corrosion.

Passengers enjoy the benefit of larger windows (which can be dimmed with a switch) and lower cabin altitude. The air in the cabin will be cleaner and have higher humidity, so improving passenger comfort on long flights.

The wing is 7% more efficient. It is a clean wing with smaller flap and wing to body fairings, together with raked wingtips rather than the fashionable winglets. The ailerons are digitally controlled and will float upwards to offload gust loads. (in this way the structure can be made lighter, so saving 5000lbs. )

The last certification flight is complete, with the Boeing 787 seconds from touchdown in Seattle. Pilots can use the velocity vector symbol in the HUD to ensure they hit the precise touchdown point. Photo credit Boeing

The 787 cockpit is similar to that of the existing 777. In fact Boeing is offering a common 5-day course for the crew to qualify for the 777/787.

The Boing 787 Flight deck features five Multi-Function Displays and both pilot and co-pilot have head up displays directly in front of them. The cockpit layout is similar to the Boeing 777 and a common conversion course is provided for pilots new to the 777/787. Photo credit:Wikipedia

The cockpit is dominated by a total of 5 Multi-Function Displays with two Electronic Flight Bags (EFBs) as a step towards the ultimate paperless cockpit. Checklists are electronic. Conventional control columns and throttles enable the pilots to interface with the digital flight control and autothrottle systems.

Each pilot has a Head Up Display.directly in front of him. Long used by Miltary Aviation, the HUD is especially useful for approach, when its flight path vector enables precise tracking of the touchdown point all the way down to the ground.

Building on the TACS system (Thrust Asymmetry Compensation System) used for the 777, the 787 has an improved version (ITACS) which senses thrust asymmetry and moves the rudder to compensate for loss of an engine and achieve co-ordinated flight.

Engines are either the Trent or the GenX. Package A Trents gained certification on August 13, with Package B and the GenX coming later.

Noteworthy about the 787 engines is that there is no engine bleed. So engine performance is retained during takeoff. (Older aircraft suffer a takeoff performance penalty with some air bled off for the air conditioning .) As the 787 is largely electric, it has 6 generators, with two on each engine and another pair driven by the APU.

Passengers will notice the improved and spacious cabin layout.

Overhead bins have been redesigned and are larger and more convenient to use.

The 787 is QUIET. Engine nacelles incorporate low-noise chevrons to improve the acoustic performance. The 85db noise contour around the typical runway on takeoff for the 787 is significantly smaller than that produced by current jets.

The bottom line

In summary, the 787 has 20% lower fuel consumption together with 15-25% lower operating cost.
The 787-8 has 242 seats and already on the horizon is the 787-9 with 280 seats.
This will have longer range, to enable it to operate between more city pairs.

The 787-9 is two years away (flying in 2013) so in theory the flight test teams at Boeing have a chance to catch their breath. But with the Boing 747-8, KC-46 tanker and P-8I to complete flight testing, and the 787-9 flight test looming on the horizon, chance of a rest may be just a dream.

A Touch of Class

2011-09-14T17:03:00.000-07:00

My Flight Evaluation was carried out on N208FD, sister ship to N208ED pictured above
Photo credit: Cessna

A Touch of Class

Flight Evaluation of the Cessna Grand Caravan

Originally built as a utility aircraft, the Cessna Caravan has evolved into a useful addition to the turboprop market for the personal owner. With an impressive load capability, and stretched to become the Grand Caravan, it has a huge cabin. Equipped with fully integrated avionics, and powered by the reliable single PT-6A turboprop, it is an easy aircraft to fly. Over two thousand of the single-pilot Caravans are now in service and it is flying in over a hundred countries. A recent avionics upgrade has added Garmin 1000 displays to the instrument panel.

Caravans now feature a 3-screen Garmin 1000 instrument panel, with two LCD Primary Flight Displays flanking a central MFD with moving map. Photo credit Cessna

After an increasing number of Caravan owners opted for customized interiors, Cessna introduced an STC for the luxurious Oasis interior, installed by Yingling Aviation of Wichita. Oasis options are available with 10, 9 or 8 seats including the crew. Sumptuous leather seats are standard. In each case two forward-facing seats are positioned behind the crew, together with four-place club seating with executive side tables.

The leather upholstery is an option from Yingling Aviation and adds a further touch of class to the Caravan. Photo credit Cessna

The Oasis cabin blends large scenic windows for each passenger with sumptuous leather seats and stylish cabinetry.

The typical Caravan purchaser these days increasingly is an owner-pilot, rather than the traditional fleet manager, purchasing multiple aircraft for commuter and cargo operations.

(Having said that, Caravans are finding use in many Air Forces, not forgetting Federal Express.)Many Caravan owners are trading up from piston twins. Insurance experience requirements are typically less stringent, because of the single engine, simple systems, and lack of the complexity of pressurization or retractable gear. Another selling feature is the size and convenience of the cabin, coupled with load-carrying ability. The option to have the Oasis interior is the icing on the cake.

Price of a typically equipped Grand Caravan is around $2M. Operationally the Grand Caravan can be very flexible on approach and at Mid-Continent the Cessna pilots regularly fly approaches between 160 and 75 knots to merge in with other jet and piston traffic.

My Grand Caravan flight was with Greg Pavlish, Manager of Flight Operations at the Cessna Wichita facility. During our preflight walkaround Pavlish pointed out the easy access to the engine, with the inertial separator (a movable vane for protection against foreign object ingestion from contaminated runways), oil filter and standby generator all accessible. There were two crew doors, which open 180 degrees, each with a fold-away ladder, so that the pilots could board without disturbing the passengers in the cabin. Two rear doors supplemented the crew doors, with a large two-piece door for cargo on the left side, and a regular passenger airstair door on the right.

N208FD was destined for eventual delivery to Australia. As befitted an aircraft living in warmer climes it had no “flight into known icing” systems but instead had anti-abrasion boots on the leading edges of the horizontals. All Caravans were plumbed for the icing system option that included boots for wings and tail surfaces, windscreen and propeller de-icing. For the bush-flying role at its ultimate destination, this Caravan was fitted with the optional larger 29 inch diameter tires and extended nose gear fork to increase the propeller clearance. The rugged steel-tube gear was designed to handle rough runways.

The wings were fitted with Fowler flaps, with slot-lip spoilers supplementing the ailerons to give excellent low speed roll control. Outboard flaps had Wheeler vortex generators and trailing edge Gurney angles to keep the airflow attached at low airspeeds. This was to keep the stall speed with flaps down below the 61 knot limit for FAR 23.

An underfuselage pod had 112 cubic feet capacity. It has little effect on cruise. Our Grand Caravan with the pod would cruise around 170 knots TAS at medium altitudes. The pod will carry 1,090 pounds with a maximum floor loading of 30 pounds per square foot and typically all baggage is carried in the pod, leaving the cabin free for the passengers. The four cargo pod compartment doors were all on the left hand side, easy to latch and with lockable doors. With our preflight completed it was the work of a minute to close all the doors and cowlings.

Into the Air

I climbed the short ladder, slid into the left seat, folded the ladder into its stowed position next to the seat, and closed the door. Pavlish did the same in the right seat. I adjusted my seat, which had ample vertical and horizontal movement, then clicked into the 5-point harness.
Before start our fuel was 900/960 pounds and our takeoff weight was 6,800 pounds

I appreciated the spacious cockpit. I’m over six feet tall and found that I was not cramped at all, and all the controls and displays were conveniently placed. The overhead panel contained fuel tank select handles and the standby flap motor controls. Starter and electrical switches were on a panel conveniently located on the left hand cockpit wall. The circuit breakers were arrayed vertically below this panel.

Engine start was simple. I just switched the battery and boost pump ON and hit the start switch. At twelve percent Ng I moved the Condition lever from cutoff to low idle. I heard the engine light up and the engine ITT wound up to a cool 750 degrees. I brought up the avionics displays. We switched on the air conditioning. ATIS informed us that the wind was blowing from 220 degrees and was 20 knots gusting 35. Temperature was 80 Fahrenheit. A typical hot,windy day in Wichita.

Releasing the brakes I taxied out for Runway 17L. The mechanical nosewheel steering was light and effective. We held for a moment while a Citation taxied across in front of us also heading for 17L. Our large windows provided excellent all-round visibility from the Caravan cockpit. I taxied after the Citation. With the strong following wind we tended to accelerate even at idle and to avoid having to use the brakes I twice pulled the propeller back into Beta (Reverse) to slow down.

Pretakeoff checks were quickly accomplished while we were holding short of 19L. We checked the overspeed governor and standby alternator. I checked the Inertial Separator operation by pulling the T-handle and observing a drop in torque and rise in ITT, then ensured that we had full and free control movement, and trims were set for takeoff. Fuel was selected to feed from both tanks. We were ready to go.

Cleared into position and hold, I lined up on the centerline. The tower cleared us for takeoff. I advanced the power lever, watched the torque increase through 1,000 foot/pounds and released the brakes. I needed only moderate right rudder to keep on the centerline. (The engine is canted three degrees to the right, to reduce the torque effects) With the strong headwind, after a short run we reached 70 knots and I rotated into a positive climb. Switching to Wichita Departure frequency we were given a turn to 230 degrees and cleared to climb to 6,500 feet. I stabilized at 120 knots, the recommended climb speed. Rate of climb was a solid 1100 fpm on this ISA +10 day. I trimmed out on the electric switch on the yoke. The Caravan was stable in the climb, despite the rough air at low level. At four thousand feet I selected the autopilot ON, with heading, altitude and yaw damper selected. We were flying this mission without headsets. Noise level was acceptable and we could converse across the cockpit without having to raise our voices.
As we reached 6,500 feet, the autopilot smoothly leveled the aircraft. Stabilized in cruise at 6,500 feet, we had 1,750 foot pounds of torque, the prop was turning at 1,900 rpm and at an OAT of +10C our TAS was 167 knots. The PT 6 was burning 370 pounds per hour of Jet A.

To assess the roll performance I hit the autopilot disconnect button on the yoke and rolled into a turn. Roll performance from a bank angle of thirty degrees left to thirty right was sprightly, with the spoilers supplementing the ailerons to give a good roll rate. There was no adverse yaw. I realized that, despite its size, the Caravan maneuvered like a Cessna 182. It was quite fun.

We turned south, and into the wind, for some low speed flight and I extended the flaps. Quickly decelerating we stabilized at 70 knots IAS. We were heading into the wind and almost in the hover relative to the ground. Southbound highway traffic far below was pulling away from us. I continued slowing into a stall. We had a forward center of gravity and the yoke was almost to the back stop when the nose finally dropped straight ahead. The stall was well-mannered, there was no wing drop and I simply relaxed backpressure and advanced the power to recover from the stall.

The reliability of the PT-6A turboprop is legendary, but Pavlish pointed out that in the unlikely event of the engine quitting, all was not lost. First he had me retract the flaps and accelerate to 95 knots, our best glide speed, then pull the power lever back to flight idle. I lowered the nose to maintain 95 knots. Rate of descent stabilized at 1,500 feet per minute. At his bidding I then pulled the prop lever round the gate, and back into the feather position. The propeller rpm wound down to around 200 rpm and the individual blades came into view. With the decrease in propeller drag, the rate of descent reduced until we were whispering along, losing height at a mere 500 feet per minute. The Caravan was a good glider.

To get back to cruise I switched the boost pump and ignition on, and brought the prop out of feather. The prop spun up, I reset the power lever for 1,000 feet per pounds of torque and we regained level flight. With autopilot engaged I rotated the heading bug on the EHSI to north, the Caravan banked to the new heading, and we adjusted the autopilot altitude selection for a gentle descent down to 3,500 feet. Pavlish turned the radar on as we headed towards the ICT VOR, west of Mid-Continent airport. On this sparkling Kansas day, we had no thunderstorms, and no mountains appeared on the display, but ahead of us we could see an antenna farm on the ground. The radar picked up the antennas, and the TAWS also warned of obstacles ahead and below. I appreciated the reduction in workload given by the autopilot while I experimented with the avionics.

We selected the ILS for 19L on the Garmin 530 and set up for a coupled approach. A Learjet was preceding us on the ILS and crossed left to right across our bows. We needed to keep up with him. Here was a chance to use that flexibility of raising the approach speed mentioned in our pre-flight brief. I initially set Torque to 1,500 foot pounds , which gave us 160 knots IAS rather than the usual Caravan approach at 120 knots. Cleared for the ILS approach we were directed initially to fly 090 degrees and to descend to 3,000 feet. The controller then vectored us onto 160 degrees two miles from KECHI, the outer marker.

I simply hit APRCH mode on the autopilot to arm the system and as the localizer came alive the Caravan banked right and intercepted the localizer. Still at 160 knots we were matching speed with the Learjet. To avoid catching up as the Learjet landed I simply reduced torque to 1,000 feet pounds and stabilized at 120kts. As we crossed the outer marker, the glideslope came alive and we started descending. The wind was still in excess of twenty knots, from the right of track, and the tower was reporting wind shear as well. Despite this our autopilot was tracking us easily down the final approach, with the nose angled off to the right against the strong crosswind. I eased the power back and we slowed to the recommended 85 knots final approach speed as I progressively lowered the flaps.
TAWS gave a “500 feet “ audio warning as we descended on the glideslope. I disconnected the autopilot and continued the approach for a touch and go.

The Caravan had ample control effectiveness to cope with the gusting crosswind, and once we were on the runway, Pavlish retracted the flaps. I advanced the power, and took off for a left hand pattern on 19L. Leveling at 2,800 feet downwind I brought the power back and extended the flaps. As we turned from base leg to finals, the tower asked us to go around for traffic on the ILS approach. No problem. We did a go-around, completed an abbreviated pattern, and this time as we turned base were given a change of runway to land on 19R. Still no problem. The Caravan’s maneuverability enabled me to offset to the other runway with no problem. I completed a touch and go on 19R with full flaps, and came round onto 19L again for a final landing, this time with zero flap, before taxiing back to the Caravan hangar. Surrounded by jets on the ramp, Greg Pavlish demonstrated the ease of parking the Grand Caravan in a confined space. Using differential brake increased nosewheel deflection from 15 degrees to 56 degrees, enabling the Caravan to be swung round in a surprisingly small area.

With this version of the Grand Caravan, Cessna has found a niche market. There are other single-engine turboprops around, such as the TBM 700/850, the PC-12 or the Meridian, designs geared for the high-flying, longer-range mission. All three come with increased complexity, pressurization and retractable gear, stringent insurance requirements …and around a million-dollar increase in the price.

I found the Grand Caravan easy to fly and it offers a lot for a person wanting a capable aircraft combining rugged simplicity with load-carrying capability and full IFR capability, with the option of a luxurious interior.

Specifications and Performance Cessna 208B Grand Caravan

Engine PT6A-114A turboprop of 675 SHP
Propeller MacCauley 3-blade Constant Speed, fully feathering and reversing.

Span 52 ft 1 in
Length 41 ft 7 in ft
Height 14 ft 10in

Cabin dimensions

Length of passenger cabin 12 ft 4 in
Height 4 ft 3 in
Width 5 ft 2 in

Weights

Ramp Weight 8785 lb
Takeoff Weight 8750lb
Landing Weight 8500lb
Empty Weight 4364lb
Useful Load 4548 pounds
Fuel Capacity 2224pounds

Wing Loading 31.3 lb/sq, ft
Power Loading 13.0 lb/HP

Performance

Cruise 10,000 ft 175 kts TAS

Range 10,000 ft 870NM
(includes takeoff, climb, cruise, descent and 45 min reserve at max cruise power)

Sea level rate of climb 925 feet per minute

Service Ceiling 23,700 ft

Certified ceiling 25,000 ft

Takeoff ground run ISA 1405 ft
Distance over 50 ft 2500ft

Landing run ISA 950 ft (no reverse)
Distance from 50 ft 1740 ft

Stall speed,
landing configuration, 61 kts.

Going the Extra Mile

2010-12-16T20:49:00.000-08:00

Going the Extra Mile

Diamondstar DA-40XLS Flight Report

The long-winged Diamond DA-40 has been steadily entering the market in the four-seat fixed-gear general aviation aircraft long dominated by the Cessna 172. With sleek and sturdy composite construction, the DA-40 has been capable of showing a clean pair of heels to the competition.

Diamond has not been resting on its laurels, but has been continuously improving the DA-40. I was eager to fly the latest version, the DA-40XLS.

I met up with the XLS on the ramp outside US Aero at Long Beach Airport in Southern California. The day did not seem promising for our mission, with a thick overcast blanketing the area, but Rob Stewart, my pilot for the day, and US Aero Territory Manager for Diamond aircraft in the South Western USA, was not dismayed. With a full avionics fit and integrated autopilot, the DA-40XLS was fully IFR capable, and the inclement weather would give us a chance to see the advantages of the system under instrument conditions.

A walk around of the sleek composite aircraft revealed a number of obvious differences from the previous generation of DA-40s I had flown. The most noticeable was the 3-bladed scimitar MT propeller, driven by the familiar 180 HP IO-360, now coupled to a distinctive chromed Powerflow exhaust. Although the rated HP is still 180, the improved efficiency of the Powerflow exhaust gives better climb rate and cruise speed.

High aspect ratio always promises aerodynamic efficiency for the wings. Based on the Diamond sailplane heritage, the wings on the DA-40 also sport small winglets which further improve the aerodynamics of the wing. On the safety side, the long and efficient composite wings have double spars which also protect the aluminum fuel tanks. Tank capacity is increased to 50 gallons in the two wing tanks.

The sleek fuselage provides adequate capacity for the four-person cabin.
Stewart pointed out that in the XLS the whole cabin was higher and wider, with a larger cabin area. The canopy sides bulge out further to give more elbow room.
This gives better headroom and more room for the occupants. I am over six feet tall and it must be admitted in flying the earlier Diamond DA 20 Katana and the DA-40 had found the cockpit size rather constricting.

One aspect of the DA-40 I had always liked, in addition to the entrance either side for the front seaters, is the huge gull-wing door on the left hand side for the rear seat occupants. Having first-hand experience of the contortions required when climbing into the rear seats on other aircraft with only two doors or (horrors) only one door, good rear-seat access has always been high on my requirements list. There is extra baggage space behind the rear seats. If the mission calls for no rear occupants, the rear seats fold flat, and bulky or long items can be carried in this flying SUV.

The characteristic T-tail of the DA-40 is unchanged.

It was time for us to board. We started with the canopy open. The canopy incorporates the windshield and is hinged at the leading edge. I found it an exceptionally easy entrance to the left seat, using the step at the leading edge of the wing to climb up onto the wing walkway then step down into the cockpit. Meanwhile Stewart mirrored my actions to slide into the right seat.

Entry to the DA 40XLS is exceptional. The canopy hinges open, with the front seaters stepping up the leading edge of the wing and then down into the cockpit. Entry to the rear seats is via a huge door on the left hand side of the fuselage. The sturdy fixed gear with its speed pants is low drag, while the castoring nosewheel provides the ability to maneuver easily on a crowded ramp.

The cockpit is roomy and luxurious, with leather seats and trim. The twin sticks are built into the seats, so freeing up the all important view of the various panels and controls.
The instrument panel is dominated by the two screens of the Garmin G-1000, although it was to be revealed that this was not the standard G-1000 capabilities that I had been flying for the past couple of years in other aircraft. This system is fully integrated with the GFC-700 autopilot, and is WAAS capable. We were to demonstrate this during the flight.

The twin 10-inch screens of the Garmin 1000 dominate the instrument panel. The center console contains engine controls and the fuel selector. The leather seats and trim seem transposed from a high-end luxury automobile, but the two control sticks are pure high-performance aircraft.

The cockpit is by any standards luxurious, with leather upholstery and finished with plenty of polished wood ...... just think BMW.
I particularly like the electric adjustment of the rudder pedals. The seats do not adjust, but the pedals can be driven through an impressive range.
Ergonomically, the cockpit is comfortable and just feels right. The short sticks are unobtrusive but effective, with each stick containing the usual trim, radio and autopilot disconnect buttons.
Airbags are built into the seat harness for extra safety, and a hefty roll cage protects the occupants. The DA-40XLS is built for survival.

Once strapped in, it is a simple process to go through our pre-start checks, bring down and lock the canopy in its partially-open position with the lever near my left elbow and then start the engine.

The center console has the fuel selector together with the trio of engine control levers with the Throttle, Prop and Mixture. A trim wheel is inset into the console in addition to the electric pitch trim.

I use the usual procedure for starting the IO-360, priming first, then mixture back while I key the starter, and then forward on the mixture lever once the engine fires.

ATIS confirms the ceiling at 1200 feet over the field, with the maritime layer persisting as an overcast south of us to the coast and out to sea.
Stewart calls up Clearance Delivery and requests an IFR departure to VFR on top.
Our answer is a rapid-fire response:
“Diamond 695DS is cleared to PADDR intersection. After takeoff maintain runway heading to 800 feet, then left turn to 200 degrees to intercept LAX 145 radial to PADDR
Departure freq 124.65. Climb and maintain 3,000 feet. Report reaching VMC on top
Expect Further Clearance 10 minutes after takeoff ”

The Bose noise-canceling headsets give us crystal-clear comms.
Now switching to ground control we are cleared to taxi to runway 25L via Taxiway Foxtrot to Delta intersection. The SAFETAXI display on the MFD shows the various designations on this complex airport. I have no problem turning from ramp to taxiway with the castoring nosewheel.

As on previous DA-40s, we taxi with the canopy cracked open for ventilation, with the rear edge up a foot or so. On a normal California sunny day it’s a very good way of keeping the temperature down to acceptable levels.
At intersection Delta I turn into the runup area, and complete the standard engine and control checks. I cycle the prop.
With all in order in the engine department, I lean the mixture and set up our simple flight plan from KLGB out to PADDR on the Garmin 1000. I set up a target altitude of 3000 feet on the G1000.
On my PFD I tun in the LAX VOR frequency of 113.6 and the 145 radial from LAX.
Then I input our squawk code.
Stewart shows me a nice touch. This is the Takeoff/go around button on the throttle which biases the flight director bars 7 degrees up to give the correct climb attitude….. another example of Diamond going the extra mile.

I complete my pre-takeoff checks, which includes lowering takeoff flap.
We wait a few seconds for IFR release. A Jetblue A 320 lands on the intersecting runway 30 and noisily crosses in front of us.
“Diamond 695DS is cleared for IFR Departure as requested and cleared for takeoff on 25L from intersection Delta"
I complete my check list: Lower and lock the canopy, All doors are closed and locked,
Flaps set for takeoff, Strobes and landing light on, Trim set, mixture forward and a final visual check that final approach is clear.
A touch of power moves us past the hold-short line onto the runway. I line up and push the throttle forward. Some right rudder is needed to keep straight, as expected.
I rotate at 63 knots,followed the FD cue on my PFD for the 7 degree nose-up pitch, and accelerate to 80 knots for our initial climb. With flaps up and trimmed out, our climb rate settles at over a thousand feet a minute

At 800 feet I turn left to 200 degrees. Once on course I engage the GFC 700 autopilot , with Heading mode selected and 3000 ft as our target altitude.

By now moisture is streaming back over the canopy.
We plunge into the mist, and the ground below disappears. I simply have to monitor the PFD as the autopilot maintains our attitude as we climb through the cloud deck. The MFD map display confirms that we are tracking towards the coast. At two thousand feet I get an audible warning that we have one thousand feet to go to our target altitude. By twenty three hundred feet the clouds thin, then we are speeding through the tops of this maritime cloud layer and emerge on top into brilliant sunshine. A minute later feet we cancel IFR and start checking for traffic, as we are heading into the busy Long Beach practice area. The Traffic Information System (TIS )uses radar returns from the radars which blanket the LA Basin and we have 3 or 4 targets displayed in our map view on the MFD, with one actually holding at PADDR in front of us. The traffic is also displayed on my PFD, with the correct orientation, either below, above or at our level, giving a good cue where I need to look to spot the bogies.
I scan the sky to confirm the traffic and am struck once more with the amazing visibility from the cockpitwith the extensive transparencies. At the same time I am aware of the extra headroom and elbow room in the revised cockpit. No banging my headset on the roof or side-window in the DA 40XLS.

The synthetic vision (SVT) also depicts, in addition to the aerial traffic, the rocky coastline of Catalina, hidden under the cloud deck in front of us.
I select PATHWAY on my PFD soft key to produce a line of boxes tracing our path out to sea to PADDR intersection.
As we reach 3000 feet we intercept the line of rectangles.
Due to the density of traffic ahead, we curtail our leg outbound and reverse course back to the coast, climb to 4000 feet and I reacquaint myself with the DA 40s handling in medium and steep turns, then slow for a stall series with and without power which confirms the innocuous behavior I remember from earlier DA-40s. Behavior clean and with flap is fairly innocuous. Full aft stick results in the DA-40XLS just sitting there with the nose bobbling up and down. Stalling in the turn under power in other aircraft can sometimes be dramatic. Not so in the DA-40XLS. In turning flight with the stick full aft, and stall warning blaring, we were now into buffet, in turning flight and still under complete control. No problems.

With its sleek lines and efficient high-aspect ratio wing, the four-seat DA-40XLS cruises at 150knots TAS on the 180 HP of the IO-360. This equates to about 16mpg while eating up the
distance at over three miles a minute. The composite construction results in a smooth airframe. Fuel capacity has been increased to 50 gallons in a pair of wing tanks.

Handling with the short stick is a pleasure. The ailerons and elevators use rods and the rudder uses cables. Control inputs and the resulting maneuvers are smooth and precise.

By this time, we are heading north to the coastline on the mainland where the rapidly thinning cloud has broken to reveal the slate-gray Pacific now visible below us.

Stewart points out the long horizon line and flight vector on the PFD which help with SA during maneuvers.

I embark upon a series of medium and steep turns from cruising speed. The G1000 certainly helps in maintaining the correct attitude. I realise that I'm really having fun flying this aircraft as I reverse from a right to a left bank, keeping altitude locked on 3000 feet.

Then, as I am pulling into a steep left turn , Stewart looks across the cockpit, past me and says, ”Let me have it for a minute, you might want to look down there” I relinquish the stick and turn my head to the left, looking down to the surface of the Pacific. Down below the left wingtip as we turn is the streamlined shape of a blue whale, eastbound at 3 knots. On cue the whale spouts, and a cloud of vapor drifts back over the whale. It’s a majestic and impressive sight. I muse that maybe the FAA should consider “ turns around a whale ” rather than the more prosaic turns around a point for us California-based pilots...before I return to my pursuit of perfection in the steep turn.

It's time for the speed run to see how fast we can go. I set up 75% power and we accelerate to 150 knots without fuss. It's an impressive number for any fixed gear four-seater.

I look at the latest capabilities of the avionics We have an impressive list of capabilities, with satellite data link, WAAS, TAWS-B for terrain avoidance, and the TIS traffic capability.

To try out the system I push the NRST softkey on the PFD , which identifies the nearest airport as Torrance. While the radios switch to TOA frequency, the synthetic vision on the PFD displays the rugged coastline, marks and identifies the airfield as TOA on the perspective view on the PFD, and, more importantly, shows that there is a hill (Palos Verdes Hill at 1500 feet) in between us and the airport (we have TERRAIN selected on the MFD and PFD for extra insurance.)
As I head towards the hill, now clearly visible out of the canopy, as we near the coast the terrain on the PFD and MFD goes yellow as our vertical clearance decreases. It would go red and I would get an audible TERRAIN, PULLUP audio warning as we closed on the hill.

That's enough to convince me that the system works, and I pull round out to sea again.
We head eastbound over the Pacific, for a look at the approach capability of the system.

Rather than the usual ILS approach into Long Beach, we choose to sample the WAAS capabilitiy of the system and select the RNAV (GPS) Zulu approach for Runway 30.
Stewart brings up the Approach chart on the MFD so that I can review the approach and set the minimums on my PFD

I switch to Socal on 124.65 to request the RNAV (GPS) Zulu for Runway 30 at Long Beach and we are vectored over DRIFY, heading 120 degrees, and down to 2400 feet while we input the procedure for the approach. We will do this all on autopilot. I input the 290 feet minimums for the LPV mode of this WAAS approach. The system will effectively generate localizer and glideslope inputs which replicate the usual ILS signals, and heads us for the Initial Approach Fix at ALBAS . With APPROACH mode selected the autopilot turns us at ALBAS, heading north east, in over the coast near Huntington Beach, finally turning us at OYSUP to the final approach course of 301,with LPV mode presented on the HSI.
Once established we switch from SOCAL to the Tower on 119.4
I set up speed at 80 knots and approach flap configuration.
The glideslope becomes active and automatically directs us into a descent. I reduce power. We are at 1600 feet at the FAF of GUNEY and we come down to the DA of 290 feet (we get an audible warning-female voice “Minimum altitude”) while I monitor the approach.
Synthetic vision gives a perspective view of the runway and even identifies the runway in this case RW 30.

At minimums I disconnect the autopilot and land. It's all commendably simple and accurate.

After landing, SAFETAXI comes into play again. I am grateful for the depicted plan view of the field on the MFD as we are directed by ground control through a maze of taxiways. We hold momentarily for traffic before we can cross 25L again, then finally are cleared back to the US Aero Ramp .

I'm impressed. Diamond has coupled good performance with a safe, rugged aircraft with avionics that are comparable to that found on a bizjet. And it's undeniably fun to fly.

Specifications of the Diamond DA-40XLS:

Engine Lycoming IO-360-M1A
With Power flow Tuned Exhaust 180HP at SL

Propeller 3 blade constant speed composite MT

Fuel 50 gallons

Seats 4

Weights Max takeoff weight 2645 lbs

Useful load 860 lbs

Baggage 100lbs

Dimensions

Span 39 ft 6 inches
Length 26 ft 5 inches
Height 6 ft 6 inches

Cabin width 45.5 inches

Performance

Cruise speed at 75% power:150 knots at 10 gph

Range at 75% power (45 minutes reserves) 720 nm

Max speed (KTAS) 157 knots

Best rate of climb at SL 1120 fpm

Service ceiling 16,400 feet

Takeoff ground roll 1175 feet

Landing ground roll 1155 feet

Landing over 50 ft obstacle 2093 feet

The Next Generation

2010-12-06T16:00:00.000-08:00

Just after dawn, Mark Stucky and Mike Alsbury get airborne from Mojave in White Knight 2, carrying Spaceship Two under the centersection of the mothership. The crew of White Knight Two sits in the right hand fuselage, so always land offset from the centerline of the runway.

Photo - David Brown

The end of 2010 is a time of change in space. The last NASA Shuttle flights are being completed before the retirement of the Shuttle Orbiter, and both Scaled Composites and Spacex, with totally different vehicles, are making their first steps towards getting humans into space, hopefully at a much lower cost than the Shuttle. Will private enterprise succeed here? It’s a real David vs. Goliath situation.

The philosophies are different. Scaled Composites will use the rocket-powered Spaceship Two to reach space for a few moments above the 100km altitude. Spacex is on the point of flying a conventional vertically-launched rocket (Falcon 9) to achieve orbital flight which will eventually carry humans in a capsule (Dragon) in the same style as the Apollo program. The Spacex rocket is due to be launched within a few weeks.

Spaceship Two is air-launched from a Mothership, White Knight Two. Captive tests and two drops have been completed. Today is the third glide flight during this phase of flight testing.

The sun rises at Mojave on 17th November to reveal White Knight 2 (WK 2) on the ramp. SS2 is nestled beneath the center section of the twin-fuselage WK2. Both crews are already on board. Pete Siebold and Clint Nichols are flying SS2 today, with Mark Stucky and Mike Alsbury piloting the Mothership WK2. The engines are running and the control surfaces on WK 2 move as the pilots check them. Finally the large airbrakes on the trailing edge of the wing are deployed, then retracted. Mechanics on ladders are fussing with the engines on WK 2, and eventually the cowlings are buttoned up and WK 2 slowly taxis out to the east end of the field, to complete the pre-takeoff checks.

By this time I have made my way down to the base of the Control Tower, the nearest accessible vantage point to the main runway.

0710 WK 2 turns onto the runway, the engines come up to power and it starts its takeoff roll. After a surprisingly short run WK 2 is off the ground and by the time it passes the Tower the big aircraft is already a hundred feet in the air.

With the thrust of the four big turbofans, WK 2 is soon off the ground and climbing away.

The high aspect ratio of the WK 2 wing is optimized for the climb, while the low aspect ratio wing of SS 2 gives the required supersonic performance.

Photo: David Brown

The back end of Spaceship Two, a flat plate where the rocket nozzle will be on future flights, today sports plumbing for the water ballast carried inside. Today's flight will include flying at an aft cg, and the water will be jettisoned before landing to regain the normal c.g. position.

Photo: David Brown

Climbing steeply WK 2 banks right and continues to climb northwards towards California City. It will take a long time, well over an hour, to climb to altitude. WK 2 can climb at 1500 feet/min during most of the climb, although above 40,000 feet the rate of climb will drop to a few hundred feet per minute. I can still see the white shape of WK 2 far off in the distance as they turn southwest and head towards Tehachapi, then some minutes later reverse course and make for California City again.
WK 2 reports on the radio that they are at 25,000 feet. Later in the climb, contrails start streaming from the four turbofans of WK 2 as it passes over California City then heads north.

0825 and the photo chase Extra flown by Mike Melvill snarls off the ground and heads north. Chase will pick up SS2 on its return but his lot today is also to make a climb to over 15,000 feet to eventually rendezvous with SS2.

0830 The contrailing WK2 reappears heading south, heading for Mojave. They fly overhead, then make a lazy circle and head back north. Not quite high enough to drop yet.

Like a time-lapse photograph, I have been conscious during this period that each time I look around more people have joined me at the base of the tower. Eventually I count fifty or more. These are mainly the young and very enthusiastic engineers from Scaled Composites who have been wrapped up in producing SS2 for the last couple of years. They have made the trek down the ramp to see their pride and joy actually fly.

Another fifteen minutes and WK 2 appears again, once more flying south with the contrails heading straight for Mojave airport.

At an altitude of well over 40,000 feet, and approaching the launch point. All pre-launch checks have been completed and SS2 is trimmed out. The SS2 crew of Pete Siebold and Clint Nichols are ready for the drop.

Photo: David Brown

As WK 2 comes overhead, SS2 silently drops away. The crowd audibly shows its delight. SS2 starts accelerating out in front of WK 2, heading south towards Mount Soledad, while WK 2 banks away to the right in a tight spiral, deploys those big speedbrakes and comes downhill rapidly, joining up on SS2s right wing.

SS2 is going through its test card, in a wide left hand turn to keep it close to the field.

This includes expanding the flight envelope to 246 knots, 3.5 gs and to look at the stall boundary at aft cg.

While south of the field SS2 vents a white cloud as they jettison the water ballast, marking the conclusion of the aft-cg tests.

In the gin-clear desert air, I can see the Extra dash in from the north and join in on the SS2s left wing.

After the drop over Mojave, the crew of Spaceship Two are completing their test cards as they glide down over the field in a left hand turn. WK 2 with speedbrakes deployed is keeping station on the right wing, while the Extra chase plane is maneuvering to get on the inside of SS2 to take photos.

Photo: David Brown

Back overhead now and the formation continues through a second left hand orbit to land back on runway 30. It has been about 12 minutes since the drop. SS2 flares for a perfect landing and the two flanking chase planes do low approaches, then power back into the sky for their individual landings.

Another day of testing complete.

Another step on the way to commercial flights into space.

World Aviation News- Focus on Flight Test (Updated)

2010-08-17T21:37:00.000-07:00

ZA 001, the first Boeing 787, has completed over 620 hours of flight testing and is back at Boeing Field in Seattle after a hectic time at Roswell in New Mexico and Edwards AFB in Southern California for a variety of testing. -Boeing photo

The Boeing 787 flight test program is in full swing and going well. October starts with almost two thousand flight test hours completed, most of them in the first half of this year, and five aircraft now flying. Hot and high trials have been conducted in Arizona. Performance testing was completed at Colorado Springs. Climatic testing (hot/cold and wet) was completed in the climatic Hangar at Eglin AFB in Florida. Crosswind testing was completed in Iceland.
The Southern California good weather has been a powerful inducement for Boeing to send their 787 testing south from cloudy Seattle. I briefly shared airspace in September with Dreamliner 004 (aka Boeing 4)during its visit to Victorville. With testing finished, it moved on to Glasgow Montana for community noise testing before recently heading back to Seattle.
#5, the sole 787 powered with GE engines, continues testing out of Boeing Field

Boeing 1 arrived at Edwards AFB on Monday 16th August for its next phase of testing, including the establishing of minimum unstick speeds at various weights and flap settings. This involved rotating to the maximum possible angle at the lowest possible speed, and letting the rear fuselage scrape the ground, pulling the aircraft off the ground at the minimum unstick speed. To save the rear fuselage from damage, traditionally a low technology skid plate is bolted under the rear fuselage to protect the skin and structure from impact with the runway.

With this task completed, the 787 headed off to Roswell, New Mexico, but suffered an engine surge on the ground which required an engine change.It returned to Edwards last week to complete its maximum energy braking ground tests (rejected takeoff) and then last Monday headed back to Seattle.
The #6 787 is on the point of flying this month.
It's a busy time for the hundreds of flight test people involved in this complexcertification program.

Boeing 747-8 testing is also proceeding at Palmdale and Victorville. The fourth aircraft, RC 503, resplendent in Cargolux red and white colors arrived at Palmdale on 10th August from Paine Field north of Seattle. I happened to be flying out of Palmdale as this neat (and large) aircraft taxied in. Boeing spokesman Tim Bader confirmed that the test fleet would be split between Moses Lake and Palmdale, due to pressure of 787 testing in the Seattle area. It turned out that 503 was only in Palmdale on a brief visit for HIRF testing before heading back north. Cargolux is the launch customer for the freighter version of the 747-8.

The Fourth Test aircraft of the Boeing 747-8 fleet (RC 503) is painted in the colors of launch customer Cargolux. It joined the other test aircraft at Palmdale on 10th August.-Boeing photo

The flight testing has revealed a number of problems which threaten to delay the entry into service of the new freighter. Originally the aircraft was plagued with vibrations of a landing gear door. A series of fixes cured this, however two more problems have now surfaced. The first is a limited cycle oscillation (LCO) of the inboard aileron, attributed to a problem with the Power Control Unit of the control surface. Use of an OAMS (Outboard Aileron Modal Suppression)system may solve this problem. The second is an occurrence of structural flutter at mid weight and near cruise speed. Solution of this problem may take longer to fix and require extra flying.

View From the Cockpit

2010-08-15T15:25:00.000-07:00

The Book:

View From the Cockpit: an Aviation Memoire that takes you into the Pilot Seat of a Pitts Special, within the ranks of the Blue Angels, and Rising tales of the Goodyear Blimp... David M. Brown brings these and other aviation stories into your hands.

Contact: David M. Brown
Watch for future Calendar events.

Chapter 30: Full Circle

2010-08-09T21:05:00.000-07:00

For a few years this was my corner office, and many enjoyable hours were spent flying the brightly painted Robin Sport, which introduced many of my students to the world of flight test and aerobatics.

Once again I was immersed in the demanding world of fighter design, and teaching aircraft design to a new generation of enthusiastic university students. My weekends now gave the opportunity for flying a variety of smaller aircraft. All were challenging in their own way…

I eased my stick a fraction to the right to level my wings as our two aircraft came out of the gentle left hand bank where we had been circling out over the channel between Los Angeles Harbor and the island of Catalina, just visible between banks of low stratus. With the wings leveled, I scanned the sky through the bubble canopy of my French-built Robin Sport, carefully checking for other traffic, then looked back at the aircraft riding off to my left. Propeller shining in the sun and resplendent in a red, white and blue sunburst, it was a mirror image of my own aircraft. Twenty feet off my left wingtip fellow pilot and aerobatic instructor Rick Remelin was grinning across the intervening space.

A product of the eighties, the little Robin could give a creditable account of itself in basic aerobatics, but had enough avionics to make it capable of transporting me through the intricacies of the Californian Air Traffic Control system in comfort, yet still be a fun machine to fly. It was a useful way to introduce my aero engineering students to the basics of flight test, without having to incur the exorbitant costs of a more sophisticated machine.

As my logbooks slowly filled with a variety of aircraft, looking back I was struck with the thought that as I gained in experience the differences seemed smaller. The aircraft were, after all, just machines. It was fascinating to see how engineers and designers had solved different problems. But the aircraft themselves were just contrivances of metal, wood, fabric and composites. They were tools to do a specific job.

It’s the pilots who make the difference. Pilots as a breed tend to be rather matter-of -fact. They fly for a profession and sometimes look askance at the notion that anyone would think their way of life out of the ordinary. But listen sometimes to test pilots, bush pilots or instructors as they let drop some nugget of experience. I’m still learning. I’m indebted to those military and civilian pilots with whom I’ve shared cockpits around the world.
In particular I thank former US.Navy Test pilot Joel Premselaar. Joel started his career being catapulted in a floatplane from the deck of a battleship, and rounded off his military career flying some rather hairy test hops in Navy jets. Now there is a story. Joel took the time to show me how to really fly a Bonanza. Some of the tricks are not in the book, but as aids to survival, they are good ones.
As one who now spends his working life designing aircraft that will be around for many years, I have asked myself where the future may lead us.

What next? The aircraft designed by competing teams are now very similar in behavior, with handling qualities determined by the computers of their fly-by-wire control systems, rather than the idiosyncrasies of aerodynamics which drove former generations of designers and flight test engineers wild with exasperation. Aircraft shapes are changing dramatically. Powerplants are more powerful and more reliable. The areas of the unknown are shrinking in aircraft design.
But pilot physiology is still very much the same, and it is a fact that the pilots cannot take as much g-force as the aircraft. So the emphasis is changing in that field and unmanned vehicles will be increasingly popular on the military side at least. Pilots must now master complex systems rather than the techniques of stick and rudder as in former days.

But the challenges are still there in different forms. Flying of itself is a series of challenges. First solo, gaining the various ratings and advancing to more complex machines are all rewarding. Flying a Piper Cub down to a crosswind landing is just as challenging as scorching across the landscape at a significant fraction of the speed of sound.
I have had an enjoyable opportunity to sample a wide variety of flying machines. All of them unique in their way, from jets to sailplanes.
Vintage airplanes and warbirds are again different, nostalgic and in their own way just as challenging to fly as more modern machines…
But that, as they say, is another story.

Chapter 29: Practice Makes Perfect

2010-04-28T20:05:00.000-07:00

Perfection in the air. The six-ship formation of the Blue Angels at El Toro MCAS. The two-seater F/A-18 flown by the author the previous month is in the slot position.

As the orange ball of the sun heaved itself over the mountains to the east of the Imperial Valley in southern California, the first rays of the sun sparkled from canopies and polished metal skin. On the flight line six blue and gold Hornet jets were lined up precisely in a row. I had arrived here early at NAS El Centro, the winter training quarters for the Blue Angels jet demonstration team of the US Navy, but the day had started hours previously for the team, with the crew chiefs beginning with a 4.30am inspection of their jets. By six o’clock the Blue Angel leader, Commander Gil Rud was already briefing the six-man team in their unpretentious wooden building.

Dawn had arrived this crisp March morning in 1988 with a cloudless sky and unlimited visibility. All was going according to plan. The good winter weather and clear airspace was the raison d’être for the Blue Angels moving here from their base at Pensacola in Florida every year for their winter training.
As briefing finished, on the ramp three Navy crewmen stationed themselves at parade-ground readiness with each plane, two at the wingtips and the crew-chief at the nose. In front of Hornet #1, the leader’s plane, the pilots lined up shoulder-to-shoulder in their blue flight suits. Lock-stepped together they marched off to their aircraft. On reaching his own jet each pilot saluted his crew chief, turned out of line, briskly climbed the ladder and swung into his cockpit. With the clock ticking, and all pilots now aboard, in a burst of rising sound the engines were started and in an intricately choreographed and synchronized ballet, each crew chief semaphored the control surface movements of his ship. It was impressive. Every Blue Angel practice was like this, treated as if a crowd of thousands was watching. This day the audience was smaller, consisting of the rest of the detachment, maybe thirty people, but their critical gaze promised no respite for any minor shortcomings.

On an unseen signal the chocks were pulled simultaneously and with a burst of engine power Commander Rud’s Hornet, identified by the stylized #1 on the verticals, pulled away, turning right onto the taxiway. Immediately #2 started rolling and then #3 and #4,the remaining pair of the diamond four, and lastly the two solo aircraft, #5 and #6, followed in pairs to the head of the runway.

Team leader Commander Rud starts to taxi with the next Hornet close behind. The Blue Angel aircraft, despite their glossy blue and gold paint, retain their operational capability, but have a smoke tank in place of the internal cannon.

At 0800 hours the diamond four were airborne, sending waves of sound crackling across the field and the surrounding agricultural countryside. A moment later the two solo aircraft lifted off the runway. This was a practice session for the whole team; pilots, groundcrew and the team narrator. While the narrator went into his patter over the public address system, the diamond formation thundered in from our left, changed formation into trail during a roll, then exited to our right.

The lone two-seater, Hornet #7 is tucked into the center of the formation during a six-ship pass in front of the crowd. On a cloudy day such as this the Blue Angels have to adapt their display to ensure that they stay clear of the clouds during the vertical maneuvers.

"And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, look to your right to see the 4-ship diamond of the Blue Angels running in."

For the next forty minutes the Blue Angels practiced their display over the field, sometimes with the six-ship formation, or alternating their passes between the diamond of four, then the solo aircraft. Maybe twenty individual maneuvers. Then they went through it again. The pressure was on with a vengeance as it was only a matter of days before the display season started. The performance looked good to me. But here in the blue skies over El Centro the team was honing their performance to perfection, practicing over and over again.

The Diamond Four pass in front of the crowd. The two wingman are concentrating on maintaining their position relative to Lead, while the slot pilot also keeps an eye out for the well-being of the other aircraft.

But I was not at El Centro just to watch the Blue Angels fly. On this occasion I had been invited to fly in one of the Hornets. It was a rare privilege. This was the first time a British aviation writer had flown with the Blue Angels.

Before the team practice had finished I was kitted out with a blue flight suit and gold helmet, then briefed on ejection seat operation. The building shook as the final bomb-burst maneuver sent one Hornet blasting straight overhead our roof.

The jets landed individually. Back on the ramp their arrival was treated as a display by all concerned. Once again the ground crew actions were synchronized with no visible signs of communication. In a synchronized sequence the pilots removed their helmets, donned their uniform caps, swung out of their cockpits and climbed down their respective ladders as one man.
I was waiting in the maintenance office, crammed into the tiny room with the six crew chiefs, when the pilots entered. There was tension in the air. If all went well, I would fly in the spare aircraft, #7, the lone two-seater, before the next full team performance scheduled for 1100 hours. A major snag in any of the team’s aircraft at this stage would require #7 to be substituted and my ride would be postponed.

To my relief, there were no major snags, although #4 –Donnie Cochran- complained of a failing radio to his female crew chief. This provoked a flurry of activity, with radio boxes scheduled to be rapidly replaced.
Meanwhile team leader Gil Rud was discussing with his #2 the effect of a low level wind shear during the display just completed. Apparently on one of the tricky cross-over maneuvers , with each aircraft assigned to a precise altitude, the wind difference between 200 feet and 600 feet altitude had been enough to affect the split-second timing, although not enough for the result to be apparent to an outsider.

I met the pilots in the four-ship diamond. Commander Gil Rud joined the Blue Angels in November 1985 and took the team through the transition from the A-4 to the vastly more sophisticated Hornet. His wingman in Hornet#2 was Captain Kevin Lauver, a Marine Pilot and a former Harrier (AV-8) driver, in his first year with the team. Left Wing was flown by Lieutenant commander Mark Ziegler, who previously flew Hornets with the East coast Hornet training squadron VFA-106. Slot man, in the #4 ship, was Donnie Cochran, a former F-14 pilot and veteran Blue Angel, who flew left wing in the last A-4 season before transitioning to the Hornet in 1987.

For this season Lieutenant Wayne Molnar was lead solo. Lieutenant Cliff Skelton was opposing solo. The team’s narrator, and my pilot in #7 for this sortie, would be Lieutenant Doug McClain.

Assignment to the Blue Angels was extremely competitive, although selection did not require previous Hornet experience. Pilots were normally assigned to the Blue Angels for two years, but when the team transitioned to the Hornet, after thirteen years with the A-4, some pilots stayed on to ease the transition. These pilots were now entering their third season.

Since joining the team in October and November, the new pilots had qualified on the Hornet and at this point in time now had about 200 hours each in the aircraft. Their training started simply enough, using two airplanes in formation at altitude. Progressively, altitudes were decreased and more aircraft brought into the formation. It was now March and two weeks before the first display of the season. By now about 150 flights had been completed. The display program was daunting, with a total of seventy-five displays scheduled between April and October. It was a grueling existence, with the team on the road for 300 days during the year.

The Blue Angels proudly boasted that they had never had to cancel a display through a mechanical failure. On the road they were largely self-sufficient and traveled with ”Fat Albert” a C-130 transport which carried the ground crew and support equipment. Six Hornets normally were assigned to the team, with one aircraft kept as a spare and plugged into a ground power Unit, Inertial Navigation Unit aligned and ready to go.
A runway alert van carried a back-up crew of specialist technicians, in the event of anything going wrong between the ramp and the runway. Nothing was left to chance. On the road, many individuals had multiple jobs. It was a professional and motivated atmosphere, one which combined professionalism with showmanship to form the high-visibility point of the Navy’s recruiting effort.

I met Doug McClain, a former A-6 pilot who flew the two-seat F/A-18B Hornet #7 in addition to his task of team narrator. We walked out to our Hornet for an 0930 engine start. Our Hornet #7 stood at the end of the flightline. This aircraft, painted in glossy dark blue and gold, looked considerably slicker than the regular matt-gray Hornet which I had flown at NAS Lemoore.
Despite the fancy paintwork, the Blue Angel aircraft retained their normal fit of avionics and their radar. The only major modification was that a smoke-generating system was now mounted in the nose, replacing the standard 20mm cannon and ammunition tanks.

Climbing the ladder pivoted out of the portside LEX I lowered myself into the rear cockpit, strapping into the Martin-Baker ejection seat. The first thing I noticed was that the harness was modified to provide greater restraint during violent maneuvers. Donning the gold helmet, trademark of the Blue Angels, I tightened my harness straps while Doug McClain climbed straight into the front seat, strapped in and started the APU.

This was another departure from the norm. Blue Angel pilots did not preflight their aircraft in the display environment. The crew chief for each aircraft bore the total responsibility for his machine. This trust was reflected by McClain’s actions.

There was one more feature unique to Blue Angel operations. All my previous jet flying had been done wearing a g-suit to combat the effects of the high-g maneuvers. But not today. Despite the high performance of the Hornet, the Blue Angel pilots did not wear g-suits. Consequently the pilots kept themselves in superb physical condition to counter the effects of the repeated high-g maneuvers. They lifted weights, ran for miles, all were superb athletes. Flying twice every morning during winter training , the pilots kept their afternoons free for physical conditioning. This should have been a warning for this largely desk-bound writer, who only flew aerobatics at weekends…

The Star Wars cockpit of the Hornet came to life as the APU brought the electrics on line. At exactly 0930 a calm female voice started incongruously to recite the various audio warnings in my earphones: “Left engine fire…APU fire…”
The digital fuel counter down by my left knee confirmed that we had 9,800lbs of JP-5 jet fuel on board. We mutually checked in on the intercom. No oxygen masks would be needed during our low-level mission, so we would use the lighter boom microphones.

As the right engine lit and whined up to sixty-three percent the three Multi-Function Displays in my cockpit came alive. I noticed that one display showed that we had a 7g limit on the aircraft at our fuel weight. Then the Built-in Test sequence for the flight controls started. Progress through the automatic test was shown on both left and right screens in concert with much thumping from behind me as the computer drove the various control surfaces automatically through their full ranges in a predetermined sequence. The flight controls checked out OK.
My displays changed as McClain selected a pre-takeoff checklist on the left hand display. Navigational information was on the center display. Even our total weight of 34,300lb was displayed.

“Hands In?” asked McClain, and I tucked my elbows in as the big bubble canopy sighed down, then slid forward and locked. A burst of power got us moving, with nosewheel steering helping us to negotiate the sharp turns on the taxiway.

At the head of the runway we lined up. McClain received permission from the tower for a Maximum Performance takeoff. Hearing this, warning bells started to go off in my head. I watched the twin throttles go forward for a power check. As the digital rpm gauges spun up to eighty-five per cent the nose dipped under the thrust of the two F404 engines. My displays changed again as McClain switched displays so that his HUD information was now repeated on my left screen.
I could hear my own breathing loud in my earphones. One last look around the cockpit. No warning lights and everything seemed in order. McClain released the brakes and pushed the throttles forward into the afterburner range. Our gauges showed both nozzles opening and then both burners lit.
“Blowers look OK,” said McClain laconically.
There was a rumble behind me and an inexorable acceleration pushed me hard against the seatback. My eyes were fixed on the rapidly changing and green glowing numbers of the HUD repeater as thirty-two thousand pounds of thrust made the Hornet accelerate down the runway like a drag racer.

We were barely a thousand feet down the runway when 130 knots appeared on the HUD and a slight backward movement on the stick got us airborne. As the gear retracted and the gear doors snapped shut, McClain held the Hornet down and the speed really started to wind up. As the end of the runway flashed beneath we were accelerating through three hundred and fifty knots.
“Here we go,” said McClain and pulled back on the stick. Braced in anticipation against the g-force, I nevertheless felt my cheeks sag, my helmet dramatically get heavier and my peripheral vision started to fade. As the grayness progressively reduced my vision I strained against the g-force, concentrating on the HUD to see 5g as we continued pulling to the vertical.

As the Hornet rocketed upwards, my normal vision returned as the g-force reduced.”Look over your shoulder,” said McClain. I twisted round and looked past the twin tails to see the plan view of the El Centro runways receding at a dizzying rate. Still climbing vertically, McClain rolled the Hornet ninety degrees to the right and pulled through to inverted. Passing through five thousand feet we came out of burner, rolled upright and then banked hard left to exit the pattern, heading for the desert range near Superstition Mountain where the practice aerobatic area was located.

Only then did I remember to breathe again.

Visibility was excellent from the rear seat. We were flying in a cloudless blue sky with mountains rimming the horizon. As the irrigated agricultural areas and the runways of El Centro receded behind the tails of the Hornet, I looked around. The blue expanse of the Salton Sea lay off to the north, while below was a lunar landscape of sandy desert and raw rock. Only moments later we were overhead our practice display area. There was little to set it apart from the miles of featureless and rugged desert surrounding us. Just an ersatz runway scraped out across the dirt while an orange-painted trailer acted as show center.

Just to warm up, Doug McClain did a couple of aileron rolls, then invited me to try the same maneuver. No sweat, I thought, I’d done this before in the Hornet. As my hand moved the stick a couple of inches to the right the horizon whirled. The Hornet slammed into the roll much faster than I had anticipated. Too late I remembered that this Hornet was not encumbered with a heavy centerline fuel tank to slow the roll rate. By the time I centralized the stick we had rotated through 360 degrees and were more or less upright again.
I licked my lips, gently held the stick between thumb and forefinger and tried a gentler approach. Aileron rolls through 360 degrees to left and right to start with. Then I progressed to four-point and eight-point rolls, rapidly becoming attuned to the sensitivity of the hydraulic flight control system. By now we were nearing the edge of our reserved airspace and I pulled into a 4g turn to reverse our course. Lack of a g-suit was bearable, now that I was flying the Hornet , rather than a passenger, although straining against the prolonged application of g-forces as we completed the course reversal was proving more fatiguing than I had anticipated.
“ I’ll show you how we normally fly a display,” said McClain.” We have a 35lb downspring that we hook into the pitch control system. This takes out any slop and gives more margin for trimming in inverted flight.”
As he connected the spring into the system, the stick tried to move forward and bury itself in the panel. So I had to pull back against that 35 lb force just to stay in level flight. It was not too bad at first as I tried more rolls and wingovers. But over the next few minutes, as I constantly maneuvered between 3 and 4 g just to keep within our proscribed airspace, the physical effort just to keep the Hornet turning was noticeably increased. McClain said drily, ”Blue Angel pilots develop strong right arms.”
As McClain had said, the inverted capability of the Hornet was now even better. When I rolled the Hornet upside down, if I released the back pressure the aircraft even tended to climb. All Blue Angel Hornets had been modified to have forty-five seconds of inverted capability. If fuel pressure dropped, a warning light would give a five-second warning of impending flameout. (This was small comfort to me. One solo pilot the previous year had been forced to eject when he cut the margin too close and both engines quit on him during practice over this exact spot.)
Not wishing to see if the light worked, I tried a couple of shorter inverted runs, just long enough to show me that the Hornet handled well while inverted

My modified harness included a lap belt, thigh restraints, shoulder straps and a chest strap. When all was snugged down correctly, even prolonged inverted flight was not uncomfortable.

This was fun.

Eventually I rolled back upright, then immediately had to bank into another steep turn as we approached the limits of our airspace, marked by another range of mountains. By this time it was becoming a chore to be constantly pulling back against the 35lb of nose-down trim in addition to the normal stick force of maybe twenty pounds required during each 4g course reversal. Despite my positioning the air vents to blow cold air on me, perspiration was running down into my eyes and my right arm was on fire. Finally McClain took pity on me, unhitched the spring and we reverted back to the standard pitch control system for some vertical maneuvers.

I started with a half Cuban eight, a half loop followed by a descending roll. Maintaining my correct line on the way up was complicated in the Hornet because the wings were way behind the cockpit, so my normal cues of lining up the wing with the horizon were absent. On the other hand, with no propeller scything the air out front there was no torque to pull the nose off line. Momentarily weightless, I floated over the top, pointed the nose downhill and rolled out as the desert started to expand towards us.

Next came a loop. Attempting to hit the recommended ten AoA on the HUD and pulling up into the sun, I found the pitch control was sensitive and overshot to 5g during the pull-up. But the Hornet was forgiving and again we floated over the top, whistling down the far side of the loop without fuss.

Once we were straight and level, McClain said,” I’ll show you a minimum radius loop, It’s an eye-watering experience in this aircraft.” He accelerated to four hundred and fifty knots as we approached show center. Anticipating what was coming I braced for the onset of the g-force. As the orange trailer slid below the nose, the stick came right back in my lap. Concentrating my vision on the g-meter I read 7.3 before the lights went out. I could still hear my loud breathing and feel the aircraft buffeting, but it was only as g reduced fractionally as we slowed inverted at the top of the loop that my vision suddenly returned, with the instrument panel appearing in monochrome for an instant, then flashing back into full color, just as McClain asked solicitously, ”Still with me?” I grunted out an affirmative, but then my vision went completely at 7g again in the pull-out, not returning completely until we pulled out into level flight. Eye-watering, you bet. The pitch capability of the Hornet was awesome, with the diameter of the loop around 3,500 feet.

McClain then handed the Hornet back to me and we accelerated back to 450 knots to set up for a maximum rate climb. “ We might go supersonic on this one,” said McClain conversationally. The area was clear and I rolled over the vertical and headed down towards the desert and show center. McClain took the controls as we descended and we really started motoring as the throttles went all the way forward. The GE F404s were impressive, showing no signs of distress during all of our drastic maneuvers.

We arrived at show center, pulling up into the vertical in a 5g pullup in buffet and slight wing rock. As the nose reached the zenith, momentarily we both saw the rate of climb peak on the display at 51,200 ft/min. The desert dropped rapidly away below us. Still in this exhilarating vertical climb, McClain rolled the aircraft through 360 degrees, then pulled to inverted at 15,000 feet to complete our aerobatic session. As we rolled upright I took the controls again, glad of the respite and to have a breather as we cruised leisurely over the southern end of the Salton Sea.

The high technology used in these modern fighters was a mixed blessing. One problem was that the Hornet, with its quiet cockpit and auto-trim capability of the computerized flight control system, lacked the speed cues taken for granted by previous generations of pilots. So the pilot had to rely on his instruments, particularly the HUD. I started letting down using the HUD, leveled at 7,500 feet, then reversed course towards El Centro while McClain demonstrated the radar by picking up targets of aircraft in the pattern. We stepped down to 3,500 feet and Lieutenant McClain took us back into the pattern for a 7.3g break from over 500 knots. That was another eye-watering experience.

We landed, taxied back and shut down. As soon as we had climbed out of the cockpit, Hornet #7 was refueled. An hour later, with the radios on #4 still sick, Hornet #7 became the slot aircraft for the second team display of the day. The four-ship diamond this time did a spectacular formation “burner loop” on takeoff before vanishing over the desert to the practice area.

With the high thrust-to-weight ratio of the Hornet, and the exceptional low-speed handling characteristics, new maneuvers were constantly being introduced into the display. Opposing solo Cliff Skelton was at this time perfecting a low-speed and heart-stopping ”tail walk” across the field…

The spectacular "Tail Walk" by the Opposing Solo has the Hornet passing in front of the crowd at a mere 120 knots and lots of noise from the F 404 engines.

I next saw the team in action a month later, when the Blue Angels gave a display at El Toro MCAS. The performance in front of the crowd was slick and precise. The Hornets looked lethal. It looked tremendously impressive. Unseen, but equally impressive from my point of view, was the insight into the many hours of practice that had preceded it.

Chapter 28: Biplane Reprise

2010-04-03T20:21:00.000-07:00

The Stearman biplane had enough struts, wires and exposed engine parts to provoke a wave of nostalgia in onlookers and pilots alike. Once the engine was fired up and the wooden propeller was turning, the rumbling sound of the radial engine came echoing back between the lines of T-hangars on the field.

Chino, in Southern California, is another of those magic airports which exist, like Aladdin’s cave, for the delight of the soul. Among the hangars on any weekend one could find a range of P-51 Mustangs, a Swedish Draken supersonic jet fighter, a Korean-war vintage F-86 Sabre, and all kinds of strange and expensive aircraft. However the majority of pilots at Chino flew aircraft more suited to average wallets.

A clearing mist shrouded the perimeter of the field as a Stearman biplane was pulled out of the hangar. A silver N2S-5, this 220HP version was in complete contrast to the sophisticated jets I had been flying. Pre-flighting this biplane was necessarily a leisurely affair. The fabric-covered wings and empennage looked OK. All the wires and struts looked secure. The engine was the most complex item. One by one I checked the exposed plug leads on the radial engine. Then it was time to check the oil. Hangar lore said that if a radial engine was dripping oil, it was OK. The time to worry was when the ground underneath the engine was dry. As I looked at the state of the oil-spattered concrete under the Stearman we cwertainly seemed to have a sufficiency of oil. Nevertheless I climbed up on the port main wheel, unscrewed the oil filler cap and pulled out the dipstick. With nearly four gallons indicated, the oil level was sufficient. I jumped back down off the wheel.

As this was the first flight of the day I had to laboriously turn the wooden propeller through eighteen blades to clear the oil from the lower cylinders. Then I gave five strokes of the pump on the left hand cowling to prime the engine.

I swung back up onto the wing root walkway and carefully climbed into the cockpit, being careful of the fabric on the wings and fuselage sides while sliding into the leather-rimmed rear cockpit. Once my feet were on the floorboards, I wriggled down into the seat and carefully went through the ritual of donning the parachute and then the seat harness. It was a simple but roomy cockpit, designed to accept the bulkiest trainee pilot wearing heavy winter flight gear.

My hands and eyes worked together as I reacquainted myself with this simpler and older form of levitation. Checking from left to right around the cockpit, I set the trim lever down to the left of my seat to the takeoff position. On the power quadrant the throttle was closed and the mixture lever set to rich. The gust lock lever, further forward, was disengaged and the fuel was ON. Now I moved my attention to the instrument panel. Magnetos were OFF, altimeter and engine instruments were OK, with the familiar old E2B compass floating serenely behind its glass window. The radio on the right–hand cockpit wall was the only concession to the modern-day world of aviation. As I checked round the cockpit I was becoming aware of the unique smell of leather, dope and fabric unique to old aircraft. It was indeed a different age of flying.

One last look round to make sure we were clear to start, and I was ready to go. Flipping the master switch on, I cracked the throttle open a touch and pulled the stick back into my lap. With brakes set, I was clear to start. I turned the starter key and a rising wail assailed my ears as the inertia starter began to wind up. When the flywheel had reached maximum speed and was really screaming, I pulled the starting T-handle on the right side of the panel.

The big wooden prop kicked over. There was a coughing roar from the engine and a blast of blue-gray smoke belched out of the big exhaust collector stack on the right side of the engine.
As I checked that oil temperature and pressure were rising, the big radial engine settled down into a steady grumbling roar. It was time to check with the tower and then taxi out to the runway. We started between two lines of T-hangars and cautiously made our way out to the taxiway. Ground movement in this taildragger required lots of weaving to see past the nose, requiring much footwork on the brakes to maintain some semblance of visibility of the taxiway. I slowly made my way out to the main taxiway, slotting in between a P-51 Mustang and an SBD Dauntless from the Planes of Fame Museum further up the field.

I had a momentary feeling of déjà vue. It was an eerie sensation as I realized that momentarily there were only 1940s era military aircraft in sight. Perhaps I was in a time warp, the first step into the twilight zone…

Dragging myself back to the task in hand, I ruddered the Stearman into the run-up area, ran up the engine against the brakes and checked the magnetos and the carburetor heat. As usual I muttered imprecations against the designer who hid the carburetor heat control in the lower recesses of the fuselage; it required a good stretch to reach the carburetor heat lever, and it was easier from the front cockpit than the rear.

By the time I had finished, the Mustang was howling past on his takeoff. I switched to tower frequency and got clearance to takeoff, did a final check that the stick and rudder were free and moved their control surfaces correctly, released the brakes and rumbled out onto the runway.

Lining up as best I could because of the atrocious forward visibility from the back seat, and making sure I kept my feet off the brakes, I gently opened the throttle. The idling propeller vanished in a blur and a wave of sound erupted from the exhaust. The Stearman needed right rudder to keep straight. I eased the stick forward. Once the tail came up, visibility improved dramatically. There was a tremendous racket from the open exhaust. The wind wailing round the struts and flying wires added to the cacophony of sound as the Stearman decided to fly and lifted off the runway.

Once airborne, the Stearman climbed slowly into the sky, taking me back to an older era of aviation in the thirties and forties. This biplane trainer would be the aircraft that taught many of the pilots who would go on to fly the fighters and bombers of the US Army Air Corps and the Navy during the Second World War.

A glance at the airspeed indicator showed that we now had 70 mph, enough to start a climb. I throttled back slightly and slowly the Stearman climbed above the haze layer. It was crystal clear up here, with the San Gabriel mountains forming an impressive backdrop to the North as I lazily circled. It was summer , and the air was warm even with the torrent of air rushing past my cheeks. It was great fun. Navigating by following the roads and railroad tracks, I headed south to Lake Mathews, turning over the mirror-like lake.

Three dots in the distance slowly crept closer. Three of the T-34 Mentors from March Air Force Base, practicing their formation flying. The formation passed safely overhead and I continued on my slow perambulation round the lake. Another minute and it was a different situation. The

P-51D Mustang appeared over the lake, circling above me and obviously ready for some fast maneuvering.

I felt like a minnow, with a hungry shark circling overhead in the water. This was not the place to be. Eyes scanning the sky and craning my neck round to keep track of this speeding fighter, I decided to clear the area for a few minutes and head South in the direction of Lake Elsinore. It was well that I did, as the big fighter appeared high over my shoulder, inverted and in the middle of a beautiful slow roll. Ah well….
After a few minute’s sightseeing it was time to head back to Chino. As I banked round onto the downwind leg a black speck appeared in front of the biplane, one of the ubiquitous hawks that abound in this area. He refused to budge at the approach of this noisy interloper, but just continued circling in a thermal. Flight feathers outspread, the hawk ignored me, so I jinked to the right, evaded the hawk and came back to the correct heading.

My simple downwind checks complete, I frowned as a voice intruded into my small world. It was the tower, warning me that the Mustang was coming back into the pattern. I searched the sky to my right. There he was, speeding along, a silhouette of his plan view visible as he was already in the break for a right-hand pattern. The Stearman continued to rumble downwind.

The Mustang, now gear down, was lining up for a final approach to runway 21, which intersected runway 25 which I would be using. I came round onto final approach with the ASI needle quivering on seventy…don’t crowd the Mustang…I started gently S-turning, aiming to let the Mustang get well in front. I peered past the clattering engine and the exposed cylinders to see the Mustang crossing a mile ahead of me. Now that the runway was clear, I could bring the throttle back and start descending. That was enough. With the drag of those wires and struts, the Stearman would sink like a brick once the throttle came back.

Near the ground, flying the Stearman always started to get interesting. During the flare, the runway vanished behind the engine and peripheral vision came into play. Judging the instant to flare consistently was easier said than done. The Stearman could be a humbling machine and even very experienced pilots occasionally had trouble landing the beast.

As the speed dropped, it went quiet as the biplane floated over the runway. I brought the stick right back into my lap and the Stearman quit flying, with a squeak of tires. Working hard on the rudder pedals to keep the biplane heading straight, I kept the stick back to force the tail down and keep some directional control. I had to remind myself not to touch the brakes. A forceful application would flip the Stearman on its nose in the twinkling of an eye. The speed eventually dropped to walking pace, and I gently turned off the runway and taxied back to the hangar.
Flying the Stearman was an unabashed nostalgic return to the earlier age of flying. This open-cockpit aviating was a delight and completely different from the complex disciplines of jet flying.

Chapter 27: The Ultimate War Machine

2010-02-07T20:30:00.000-08:00

Marine fighter pilot Rich Karwowski flew the author in this Hornet, callsign RAIDER 55, on a sortie which demonstrated both the fighter and attack capabilities of this supersonic aircraft.

High over the desert, the MiG 21 was a silver delta-winged shape framed in the softly glowing green symbols of my Head-Up Display. In the cockpit of the McDonnell Douglas F/A-18 Hornet I armed a Sparrow missile. The display changed modes as the radar locked on. A SHOOT command flashed on the HUD and I pressed the trigger on the stick. The missile whooshed away, a smoke-trail arrowing out after the distant MiG. Five seconds later the MiG silently exploded in a ball of flame, and a trail of dark smoke arced towards the ground.

Turning back on course for my target, an industrial complex well into enemy territory, I made a single switch selection which brought up the attack displays. Through the HUD the target came into view, my weapons system already indicating the spot where the bombs would hit. I checked that the bombs were armed and ready to drop before I rolled into a steep dive attack from ten thousand feet. At three thousand feet the HUD commanded weapon release and I pulled out less than one thousand feet above the ground, accelerating away over the desert to Mach 0.9 to exit the target area at low level and high speed to evade the defenses. Behind me with unerring accuracy the bombs erupted in the center of the target.

Climbing up to altitude, I reselected my displays for the air-to-air mode. With MiGs in the area, I turned, the hunter looking for his prey.

High overhead there was a flash of sunlight on wings as another MiG rolled in to the attack. Catching the flash of light in my peripheral vision I pulled the Hornet into a hard turn to the left. Overshooting, the MiG shot across my bows.

Momentarily losing sight of the MiG, I pulled harder, the Hornet protesting and buffeting while I craned to look over my shoulder to reacquire the MiG. Pulling harder still, and my vision started dimming under the effect of the high g-forces as I hovered on the edge of a black-out. Using stick and rudders I rolled the Hornet quickly from side to side to find the deadly MiG. There was still no sight of the enemy fighter and with a growing dread I realized that he must be in the blind spot at my six o’clock. The hunter was now the hunted.

This thought was punctuated by the deafening and unearthly sound of cannon fire as the MiG blasted the Hornet and everything went black.

There was an innocuous click and the lights came back on.” Don’t feel so bad about it,” said Captain Bob Knoy, standing by the side of the simulator cockpit,” that’s about average for a non-fighter pilot the first time. We start off with an easy target for our pilots who have just started to fly the Hornet. As their Air combat maneuvering (ACM) training progresses, we introduce them to more difficult targets. Our computer is programmed with five levels of difficulty. The one that shot you down was a Level Five maneuvering target, the most difficult. Level Five is Top Gun standard.”

I climbed shakily out of the cockpit. We were perched on a platform inside one of the forty-foot diameter domes of the Weapons Tactics Trainer at Marine Corps Air Station El Toro, in California. Although the computer had now frozen the action, it was still an extremely realistic scene projected on the inner face of the dome. The computer-derived Mig now flew formation with the Hornet against the blue sky, with the desert landscape, rimmed by a jagged mountain range, some two miles beneath us.

There was a lot to learn about the Hornet. The Hornet was a sophisticated dual-role supersonic fighter attack aircraft. In mastering the complex weapons systems of the F/A-18, the Navy and Marine pilots underwent comprehensive combat training in this simulator without the necessity of actual flight operations and the expenditure of fuel and the very expensive missiles. ACM could also be practiced without risk to aircraft or pilot.

Giving the pilot actual experience of the mission or task in the simulator, before he had to do it in the air, proved a tremendous advantage. Marine pilots who had not flown the Hornet for fourteen days were required to fly the simulator before they flew the aircraft again. Hornet pilot could operate all the necessary systems from switches and buttons on the stick and throttles. This awesome capability required a manual dexterity which had been described as more appropriate to a clarinet player than to a fighter jock. There was no disputing that the training was intensive.

Talking to the Marine Hornet pilots, I asked them how they liked the aircraft. They just grinned. The nearest I got to an answer was from one crew-cut Marine pilot who said firmly,” No one has traded a Hornet in yet.”
But you could see it in their eyes. To a man, they all had Hornet fever.

This attitude was understandable. Pilots jealously defend their favorite aircraft. I was no different in that respect. At weekends for fun I was flying a Pitts Special. This pugnacious, cocky biplane had a snarling 260HP engine which would try to swing the aircraft off the runway at the slightest provocation. The Pitts had character. It sat on the ramp, barrel-chested and resplendent in its red,white and blue paint scheme, daring you to fly it. But once in the air it was a magical machine. The controls were feather-light, so sensitive that a thought was enough to send you twisting and turning through space. The Pitts had a special place in my affections.
I had flown a variety of aircraft, ranging from seaplanes to jets, from vintage biplanes to warbirds. But there was one aircraft I dearly wanted to fly. It was the hottest ship in the US inventory - the F/A-18 Hornet.

One day, the phone rang. It was the Pentagon.”Would you like to fly a Hornet?”
Would a fish like to swim?
This was the first time a non-military British pilot had been given the opportunity to fly the Hornet.

In order to experience the Hornet at first hand, I was invited by the Department of the Navy to visit NAS Lemoore, near Fresno. Strike Fighter Squadron 125, the west coast training squadron for Hornets, was a unique organization, operating under a dual command structure with personnel split between Navy and Marines. The duality was complete. The aircraft had NAVY stenciled on the right side of the fuselage, MARINES on the left.

There was one snag. Before being permitted near this aircraft, I was put through a baptism of fire worthy of the Marquis de Sade. Try swimming a couple of lengths of an Olympic-sized pool wearing forty pounds of waterlogged flight gear. My instructor had forbidden me to inflate my life preserver. As my flight boots filled with water and my life flashed before my eyes, I began to wonder why I had volunteered.

Next on the list was a trip in the high-altitude chamber. A rubber glove, tied at the wrist, hung on a string from the ceiling of the chamber. At sea level the glove was flaccid. Breathing through an oxygen mask I sat on a bench in the chamber with other pilots on their refresher training. As air was pumped out, the atmosphere in the chamber became as thin as the air found at the summit of Mount Everest. The air airside the glove had expanded and the glove was now bulging. Our instructor, evilly twirling his mustache, then instructed us to “Take off your masks.” This was to expose us to the various effects of hypoxia, which rapidly degraded our abilities for constructive thinking, and caused various symptoms in different individuals. My subsequent observation that our instructor also had horns and a tail was no doubt a result of the hallucinations common to victims of hypoxia.

To dispel any doubts that this was a serious business, I was then given a ride on an ejection-seat rig which blasted me and the seat upwards on a rail, out of a dummy fuselage. Rubbing an aching neck, I consoled myself with the thought that those who happened to survive this course of refined torture were actually allowed to fly in the Hornet.

Kitted out in flight suit, life preserver and g-suit, I waddled out to the ramp at NAS Lemoore early on a hot summer morning to make my first acquaintance with the Hornet. My pilot was Captain Rich “Ski” Karwowski, USMC , who it turned out as we briefed before the flight, also flew a Pitts Special in his off-duty life.

The Lemoore ramp was crowded with single-seat and two-seat Hornets and I was struck by the lack of ground equipment round each aircraft. Engine start was accomplished by an Auxiliary Power Unit (APU) built into each Hornet, thereby eliminating the clutter of power generating equipment necessary to launch previous generations of tactical jets. A pair of ground crew personnel was sufficient to launch each F/A-18.

The Hornet was a wicked looking aircraft, with the leading edge extensions giving a sinister hooded look to the aircraft when seen from head-on. The lethal M-61 Vulcan cannon was mounted just in front of the cockpit. While Captain Karwowski pre-flighted our F/A-18B, I climbed up the integral ladder on the port side, walked back along the portside leading edge extension and climbed down into the rear cockpit. Our female crew chief assisted me in strapping into the Martin-Baker ejection seat. My four-point torso harness was connected, then the leg restraints to the seat, g-suit hose connection, and lastly the oxygen and intercom connections. Conscious that I was sitting on a rocket-powered ejection seat which would blast me out of the aircraft in case of serious trouble, I made sure that my kneepad was well clear of the actuating handle at the front of the seat.

I reviewed my notes from the briefing. We were about to embark on a two-ship training mission. Our callsign was RAIDER 55, while RAIDER 58 was a single-seat F/A-18 flown by Captain Ron “Buzz” Berlie, Canadian Armed Forces, on an exchange posting with the US Navy. We would take off as a pair, fly in formation to our practice airspace, and then split to complete our individual tasks before rejoining and heading back to base.

Once strapped in, I took stock of the spacious rear cockpit. The rear instrument panel was equipped with three multi-function displays (MFDs) The HUD display seen by the front-seat pilot was repeated on my left MFD, with a navigational display on my center MFD and a pre-start checklist on the right hand display.

Once Captain Karwowski was aboard, the ladder was folded away into the underside of the LEX and the left engine was started. The digital engine instruments wound up and a pre-flight controls menu appeared on my right-hand MFD. Once the second engine was running, the aircraft went through an automatic flight controls test sequence, with much thumping and shaking from the control surfaces. Spreading our hands outside the canopy rails, away from all the switches, we waited while our crew chief gave a final check of the underside of our aircraft. RAIDER 58 checked in on the radio, and once we were given the all-clear from our crew chief, RAIDER 58 pulled out of his parking slot and taxied across in front of us. We taxied out, following RAIDER 58 to the head of the 13,500 foot runway.
Pre-takeoff checks complete, canopy down and locked, we pulled close to RAIDER 58 on his right hand side. Buzz would be leading us for a military power takeoff as a pair. As our engines spooled up, Karwowski held us on the brakes, then at a nod of the helmet from the other cockpit, brakes were released and the two Hornets accelerated down the runway together . At 145 knots we rotated, lifted off and the ungainly gear folded away. We climbed in formation, banking eastwards towards the spine of the Sierra Nevada.

En route to our working area, we are wingman to RAIDER 58, a single-seat Hornet flown by Captain Buzz Berlie, a Canadian pilot on an exchange posting with the U.S. Navy

We widened out into battle formation and Rich gave me control of the Hornet. Let me digress a bit here. In battle formation, the idea is to keep far enough apart to cover the other pilot’s six o’clock to make sure no bandits can bounce him. So we were a few hundred feet apart as I settled down and got used to the highly sensitive hydraulically powered flight controls of the Hornet. It was almost as sensitive as the Pitts. But there the similarity ended. Instead of 260HP and an 1600lb aircraft, our Hornet was loaded to the gills with internal fuel and an external tank. It weighed in currently at around 34,000lb The twin throttles I was holding with my left hand controlled a pair of general Electric F 404 turbofans whose maximum thrust translated to something over fifty thousand horsepower in afterburner when the aircraft was traveling at supersonic speed. We were not using all that power by any means, but I rapidly realized that the inertias and throttle response were a little different from those I was used to. They were certainly not the same as the average light aircraft. After a few exploratory curves and switchbacks I managed to keep us in the same piece of sky as RAIDER 58.

We neared the spectacular backdrop of the Sierra Nevada mountains, still snow-covered on this summer day despite the 100F heat back at Lemoore. It was an awesome view on this cloudless day and the visibility from the rear seat of the Hornet was outstanding under the bubble canopy. I handed control back to Rich and looked down into the cockpit to check my oxygen.
I looked up, startled, when a shadow fell across my cockpit.
There’s formation flying, and there’s formation flying. This was formation flying.
This was the way the Blue Angels performed. This was regular military close formation flying. At this point the other Hornet was seemingly welded just off our left side with the wingtip and its Sidewinder missile rail a couple of feet above our cockpit, so close that I could count the rivets in the missile rail which was almost near enough to touch.
Our two Hornets zipped around the snow-covered summit of Mount Whitney while in the background a female voice warned, “Altitude, altitude” as the mountain ridges rose towards us. This audio warning was one piece of the Star Wars gadgetry in the Hornet. Driven by the radar altimeter, this device warned of rising ground beneath us.

RAIDER 58 leads our two-ship formation of Hornets over the Sierra Nevada mountains near Mount Whitney.

Now RAIDER 58 broke hard left and floated off into the distance to complete his own airwork, while we headed east for Panamint Valley, a huge dry lakebed to the east of the Sierra Nevada, rimmed by saw-toothed mountains.

Rich handed the Hornet controls back to me and we were cleared by ATC to climb to 30,000 feet. I climbed initially at a constant airspeed, showing a 6,000ft/min climb on the HUD, then switched to a Mach number profile.

Once at altitude, I leveled out to assess the low speed handling. Rich brought up the controls display on the right hand MFD in both cockpit. I retarded both throttles. As the Hornet slowed, the flaps were in AUTO mode and the display showed the leading edge flaps inching down, while the trailing edge flaps remained up. Unlocking my shoulder harness and twisting round to see behind me, I could see the leading edge flaps now fully down on the wing some feet behind me.
As I monitored the HUD repeater indications, I was steadily bringing the power up as the drag increased. Angle of attack was increasing. As speed dropped through 150 knots we entered buffet which got progressively heavier until the Sidewinder rails at our wingtips were visibly shaking. I continued slowing the Hornet to 120 knots. This gave an impressive thirty degree nose up pitch angle. Both throttles were now forward to Military Power and yet we were gradually descending because the induced drag was so high.
At this point Rich said,” See what lateral control is like…without using rudder”
Did I hear correctly? In over twenty years of flying I had learned, and then in turn taught others that in slow flight you always use the rudder. Never use aileron near the stall, lest you provoke a stall on one wing and roll yourself inverted.
“Without using rudder?”
“Sure”
I gingerly moved the stick to the left. The left wing went smoothly down to forty-five degrees, then stopped as I centralized the stick. We were still flying, although the ride was uncomfortable, like riding an unsprung cart over a washboard road. I moved the stick to the right. Obediently the Hornet reversed its bank and we turned to the right.

I was in awe. Any other aircraft from an earlier generation of tactical jets would have been spinning wildly by now. “Look at your controls display” Rich said. I looked down at the controls display and remembered from our briefing. The Hornet of course had a fly-by-wire digital flight control system. Built into this was a spin protection system. At low speeds any aileron input was automatically washed out. As the display now showed, as I rolled back to the left again, the horizontal stabilators, moving differentially, the leading edge flaps and the vertical rudders were all moving to roll the aircraft, while the ailerons remained at neutral. Turning round to look at the wing, I watched all the surfaces move in concert as I moved the stick. It was a humbling experience to realize that the computers could fly better than any human pilot under this flight condition.

Captain Karwowski took control and we descended to 19,000 feet to demonstrate some Air Combat Maneuvering (ACM). First came a Horizontal Scissors, to force an opponent to overshoot. Starting from 150 knots in afterburner, Rich pulled the nose up to sixty degrees, we came out of burner and the stick went fully forward as the throttles slammed back to flight idle. A negative alpha warning tone sounded in my headset. My feet tried to float off the rudder pedals as we arced over the top at no more than ninety knots.

In contrast to earlier aircraft the Hornet had no restrictions on throttle movement. The rugged F404s responded well to this harsh treatment. By now our sudden stop in mid-air would have caused our imaginary opponent to overshoot in front of us.

At 140 knots we commenced a Split-S, lighting afterburners and rolling inverted, pulling full aft stick to pull back into level flight at the same speed but a mere couple of thousand feet lower and on a reciprocal heading. Not many opponents could follow that.
Next we performed a high-g evasive maneuver. With an imaginary bogie at our seven o’clock, both afterburners were lit and we snapped into a steep left turn, rapidly pulling to 6.6g (the limit allowed by the flight computer for our present weight to prevent overstressing the aircraft) This was the first move in an out-of plane maneuver to get us away from the danger area in front of the bandit’s nose. The pitch rate was impressive. My g-suit inflated cruelly, and I now weighed over half a ton. It felt as if I had been jumped on by an elephant. Immediate application of bottom rudder started our nose slicing down towards the lakebed floor, and then a continuing pull brought our nose up above the horizon, to a point where our imaginary target would still be floundering along, wondering where we had gone. This ability of the Hornet to swap ends rapidly was disconcerting to any adversary and had caused embarrassment on a number of occasions when other types of aircraft had attempted ACM against Hornets for the first time.
In the space of about five grueling minutes we covered the complete gamut of Air Combat Maneuvering between ninety knots and 400 knots.

In this apparently limitless blue bowl above the desert, there was a lot of jet traffic. Now a pair of targets appeared on the scope and we locked onto them with our APG-65 Radar. As they came closer, I got a visual on a pair of smoke trails, then the pair of grey Marine F-4 Phantoms as they slid across the jagged mountain backdrop below. We would have splashed them both.
So far I had seen the F/A-18 Hornet in its F(Fighter) role. How about the A (Attack)?
We dropped down towards the edge of Panamint Valley, skirting the outer rim of the mountains surrounding the valley. Again that “Altitude...Altitude” warning sounded in our ears. Rich switched the radar to the ground mapping mode and the radar began to paint the rising ground in front of us. A notch in the lunar landscape in front of us was Rainbow Canyon, a sinuous sheer-sided valley which ran down to the lakebed. We entered the canyon, descending below the rim for maximum cover. At 400 knots and pulling 3g round each convolution of the river we whistled down the canyon. The ride inside the Hornet was impressively quiet and smooth. In mere seconds we descended the length of the canyon, emerging 1,000 feet above the dry lakebed into Panamint Valley itself, maintaining altitude by radar altimeter. We were now loitering at 200 knots and looking for trouble, multi-mode radar searching for targets on the ground.
Throttles now went forward to the Military Power detent and we accelerated effortlessly to 300 knots before going into afterburner. We continued to accelerate, with a growing whine from the canopy above 500 knots. My digital airspeed flickered up to 600 knots, the cockpit still uncannily quiet as the desert blurred past outside at over a thousand feet a second.
To prevent us going supersonic and decimating the jackrabbit population with our shock wave, Rich pulled the nose up and, sitting on the twin arrows of flame crackling from our jetpipes, we soared up and over into a giant loop, coming back to Military Power and topping out inverted at 24,000 feet.
We were still fat with fuel, with ten minutes before we were due to rendezvous with RAIDER 58 for the homeward flight. Rich rolled us out from inverted, raised his gloved hands from the stick and throttles and said, “OK, it’s your airplane.”
What do you do when you are given control of eighteen million dollars worth of fighting machine? First of all you gingerly take hold of the button-encrusted stick with your right hand. Secondly your left hand wraps around the pair of hefty throttles. Thirdly, I must admit, under your oxygen mask, you start grinning. Walter Mitty never had it so good.
So here I was, sitting under a bubble canopy under a cloudless deep blue sky, while on my instrument panel three green displays give a good imitation of a Star Wars control room whilst monitoring our progress. The left hand display showed as a repeater of the pilot’s HUD display, with airspeed, altitude and g, together with a few other flight parameters. On the right hand scope our radar was busy painting airborne targets, in anticipation of meeting up with RAIDER 58. On the central MFD the navigation display pinpointed our position with uncanny accuracy over Panamint Valley. I confirmed this by looking westwards to see the Sierra Nevada stretching majestically to the horizon off our left wing as we headed north. With the shoulder harness unlocked I could turn round and see the twin verticals some feet behind me. The sky was empty.
I hesitated, then asked, “Anything I shouldn’t do?”
Older jets were hedged around with airspeed and g-force limitations. Rich shrugged, then shook his helmet.”Just fly it like a Pitts”
The statement was not as casual as it appeared. The Hornet’s computer-driven flight controls included a sophisticated g-limiting system which would back off on the controls if an over-zealous pilot tried to pull round a corner too hard. This could otherwise bend the airplane. Even so, Hornet pilots were very aware of blacking themselves out as the aircraft could then take more gs than the pilots.
I started with a few basic aerobatic maneuvers. An Immelmann first, initiated from 350 knots. I pushed both throttles forward through the detent at Military Power and through into full afterburner. There was a dull rumble from somewhere behind me and a strong shove in my back as the afterburners lit. I hauled the stick back, intending to keep the pull-up in the loop to 4g, but the Hornet was so responsive that I overdid it, with the g-meter reading an accusing 5.4g on the display. My g-suit inflated hard, squeezing my thighs and abdomen. Floating over the top of the loop, as the horizon slid down under the nose I pushed forward until we were in level flight, then moved the stick sideways, rolling out from inverted to complete the Immelmann turn.
The controls were certainly light and precise.
Rich said,” Want to try a split S?”
For the Split S I slowed to 140 knots, heading south, then selected full afterburner and rolled inverted, pulling the stick full aft to get the nose pitching down at this low speed. The HUD repeater display showed me that we were now snow-ploughing through the air, forcing the wing through the air at thirty-five degrees to the relative airflow even though the nose was pointing straight down towards the salt flats of Panamint Valley. Our lift was increased by the vortices being produced by the Leading Edge Extensions. As we fell like a rock towards the desert the engine’s thrust balanced the tremendous drag. An audio warning beeped in my ears…don’t pull any harder. The whole aircraft was buffeting in protest and the speed remained uncannily stabilized at 140 knots.

Unbelievably, to one used to previous generation jets which used miles of airspace to carry out a maneuver, as we hammered round into level flight, heading north again, our Hornet was only 2,000 feet lower than when we started. It was an awesome display of the capability of the aircraft. In a classic dogfight even the Red Baron would have had trouble following that maneuver. Coming out of afterburner, we continued accelerating to 400 knots in an uncannily quiet cockpit, with only the green digits on the HUD confirming the increasing speed.
I pushed the stick a couple of inches over to the left and playfully rolled the Sierras around us. Once we were level again I tried a full deflection roll, banging the stick over until it hit my knee. The Hornet zipped round with alacrity at over 200 degrees/second. Control was precise and instantaneous. As I centered the stick we flipped back into level flight. Rich’s helmet vanished behind his seat headrest, and reappeared on the other side. In this aircraft the roll rate was limited by the neck-snapping acceleration on the unfortunate crew.

I tried wingovers and reversals between 300 and 150 knots. These were just plain fun as we wheeled and soared above the mountains. It was only when the g-suit inflated that I realized that I was pulling nearly 4g during this effortless series of maneuvers. A single-handed pull at 300 knots gave an effortless 6g. Low-speed handling was remarkable. Behavior was viceless and the handling was more appropriate to a light aircraft like the Pitts than a heavy tactical jet.
All too soon it was time to go back to work.
We locked up the radar on a head-on target at twenty-eight miles. A minute or so later I picked up the target visually as it flashed down our right hand side some two thousand feet below. It was a Hornet. Gray-painted and with smokeless engines, the Hornet was much more difficult to acquire visually than the F-4s.

Then our radar picked up RAIDER 58. I was flying at 20,000 feet heading northwest over the Sierras when RAIDER 58 closed with us and slid into close formation on our right side. Engaging the ALTITUDE HOLD mode of the autopilot lowered my workload as I tried the various radar modes. The radar controls on the throttle made it simple to vary the search elevation of the radar and to move the cursor on the screen. As I switched from air-to-air mode to air-to- ground mode, the ground –mapping capability of the APG-65 radar built up a picture of Fresno. Individual buildings and roads could be seen. I could zoom and freeze the radar picture at will. It was far superior to earlier generations of radar.
Meanwhile our navigation system was indicating the direction for us to steer to head back to base at Lemoore. We let down with RAIDER 58 on our wing for an overhead break over the field for our individual landings.

Following normal Navy practice, all landings at Lemoore, for Hornets and A-7s, were done as simulated carrier landings. Rich Karwowski followed the meatball of the mirror landing sight down to a purposely firm touchdown on the carrier deck painted on the runway before spooling up the engines to get us airborne again. We cleaned up and climbed to the downwind leg. Once established on downwind, Rich went momentarily to full afterburner as a graphic demonstration of the amazing acceleration at light weight. My helmet slammed back against the headrest as we accelerated like a dragster up to three hundred and fifty knots. Before we rocketed out of state he cut afterburner, extended the airbrake, then flaps and gear to bring the Hornet round on final approach. Rock steady on approach we touched down for a short landing with anti-skid brake system cycling, speed brake still raised, stick back to fully deflect the stabilators to maximize aerodynamic braking.

The Hornet was typical of the latest generation of all-weather attack aircraft, but additionally was a hell of a fighter, often flying from the pitching deck of an aircraft carrier. The Hornet’s flying qualities were exceptional, the capability of the weapons system was awesome. It was the ultimate war machine.

An F-18B Hornet on the crowded ramp at NAS Lemoore. Wings folded to save space on the cramped carrier deck, the F-18B is still able to carry a full load of stores and external tanks. The second seat replaces one fuel cell, but the two-seat Hornet retains all the warfighting abilities of the single-seat aircraft.

Chapter 26: Electric Jet

2010-01-25T20:23:00.000-08:00

The versatility of the F-16 is shown by this F-16D of the Edwards Test fleet. The mission flown by the author was in an F-16B with a clean aircraft carrying only Sidewinders on the wingtips. 87-0392 has two external tanks, HARM, AMRAAM and Sidewinder missiles, and a targeting pod on the inlet. Lockheed Martin

At 40,000 feet the sky was impossibly blue as our F-16B headed south over the Mojave Desert. The view from under the bubble canopy was awesome. We were arrowing across the sky, a snow-white condensation trail marking our track across the heavens. Off to our right the snow-capped Sierra Nevada marked the backbone of California. In front lay the expanse of the Mojave Desert, backed by the San Gabriel mountains. Nearer to hand, dotted about the desert, lay the dry lakebeds used as emergency landing sites back in the rocket flying days of the X-research craft.

Close below under our nose were Cuddeback and Harper Dry Lakes. Further away lay the expanses of Rosamond and Rogers Dry Lakes, the latter bordered by the cluster of tiny dots of the huge hangars at Edwards AFB, where we had taken off less than an hour previously.

In the front seat of the diminutive jet fighter was John Fergione, Chief of Flight Operations at Edwards AFB for Lockheed Martin, builders of the F-16. Now, with the throttle eased forward to the Military Power detent, we were accelerating. It was still quiet in the cockpit and uncannily smooth. Cabin altitude was 15,000 feet and the doll’s eye of my oxygen flow indicator blinked rhythmically in time with my breathing. The ACES II ejection seat in the F-16 was reclined thirty degrees. Primarily designed that way to increase the g-tolerance of the pilot, the result was a very relaxing posture, unlike more upright seats in other jets I had flown.

At Mach .86 there was a barely perceptible shudder as the airflow started to go supersonic over our wings. We watched our Machmeters creep upwards. At Mach .98 my Machmeter needle hesitated as the airflow piling up in front of the aircraft increased the drag. Fergione eased the nose down a fraction. We continued to watch the instruments intently. At 39,000 feet and Mach .95 the altimeter needle quivered, swung crazily and settled down again as the shockwave eased back over the static ports. Simultaneously the Machmeter swung up to Mach 1.05. It was an event marked only by its lack of drama.

We were supersonic, still in dry power, and the F-16 was not even breathing hard. If the throttle was fully forward, at the full afterburner position, the F-16 could zip out to better than Mach 2.0 but naturally would gulp fuel at a horrendous rate in the process of doing so.

I could not help thinking that it was only a few decades ago that Chuck Yeager had gone supersonic for the first time in the Bell X-1 in this very same patch of sky. In those days it needed a B-29 mother ship, a gaggle of chase planes, rocket power and a big step into the unknown to accomplish supersonic flight. We had just done it in a routine manner.

We continued descending, accelerating to Mach 1.2 as we neared the lower edge of our reserved airspace. Fergione throttled back into subsonic flight for me to fly a few maneuvers. By now our double boom from the shockwaves was heading off towards Edwards to rattle the windows and the hangar doors, just as similar sonic booms had cracked across the field periodically before we took off.

Another assignment had sent me on this visit to the F-16 Combined Test Force at Edwards. Operated, as the title implied, by a mix of USAF and contractor personnel, the CTF had given me an opportunity to fly on a mission which would take us through the low-level route north of Edwards before climbing up to the supersonic corridor for a brief look at supersonic flight. Then I would be given an opportunity to look at the handling of the F-16. This was the newest fighter operated by the US Air Force. It was a rare privilege to fly this fighter.

After I was fitted out with flight gear in the flight equipment section, (with the technician taking great care in lacing and tweaking the g-suit to fit my legs and lower body like the proverbial glove, and selecting and testing my oxygen mask and helmet) we had walked out to our gray-painted F-16B parked on the bustling flightline outside the CTF. The ramp was crowded with single-and two-seat F-16s. Some F-16s were tasked with testing of LANTIRN pods on low-level night missions. Another F-16, spin chute cantilevered out on a tubular framework behind the tail, was busy with high angle-of-attack investigations. Others were scheduled for performance testing with the new F-110 engine.

Our callsign today would be ZOOM 76. While John Fergione pre-flighted the ship I climbed the ladder and slid into the rear cockpit. Pushing my feet forward in the tunnels to the rudder pedals, I connected up the sidestraps, lap strap and chest strap linking me to the ACES II ejection seat. Then I carefully checked that the vitally important g-suit was correctly plugged in. As I donned my helmet and mask, Fergione climbed into the front seat. Leaning forward I adjusted my rudder pedals and got ready for business.

The canopy, a single-piece made of a three-quarter inch thick monolithic polycarbonate transparency, for bird strike resistance, sighed down and locked. On the F-16 the conventional windscreen and canopy were combined, eliminating the usual canopy bow which obstructed the forward view on earlier fighters. The resulting visibility was superb. There was a price to pay. Fergione had briefed that if we had to eject, I would go first, and my ejection would start a sequence which would eject the canopy, myself, then Fergione, in that order. I resolved not to eject unless things really looked serious.

The canopy rails were low down to either side, further improving the view. The hefty throttle, with multiple switches, was on the left hand cockpit wall, while the sidestick was on the right hand wall.

Our Jet Fuel Starter (JFS) whistled into life. At twenty-five percent rpm the engine lit up with a rumble, with the generator coming on line a few seconds later. The Inertial Navigation System (INS) was aligning as we checked our caution lights around both cockpits. The INS held up to ten waypoints, gave our present position, presented steering information on the Head Up Display (HUD) and also calculated the wind speed and direction. It was certainly better than following railroad tracks.

The F-16 was an unstable fly-by-wire aircraft, known as the Electric Jet to its pilots. Consequently an exhaustive flight controls automatic checkout was necessary before we could fly. We were still waiting for the INS to align when over the radio Edwards Tower cleared ZOOM 76 for the AMBER route for the low-level portion of our mission.

In the rear cockpit I had in addition to the normal flight instruments and CRT incorporating a moving map display, a HUD repeater which could be switched to show the radar display. This was currently showing a green-tinted video picture of the outside world, namely the hangar and the groundcrew walking on the ramp. I fiddled with the controls of this display. By the time I had adjusted the brightness to my liking, the INS platform was aligned and we were ready to go.

We taxied out and I checked my g-suit by pushing a button at the rear of the left hand console. The suit inflated, putting my legs and abdomen in a vice-like grip until I released the button. There was no doubt that the suit was working. With the tremendous agility of this fighter, F-16 pilots could lose consciousness if the g-suit became disconnected during hard maneuvers and the g-suit was an essential part of keeping the pilot away from the deadly occurrence of g-LOC (g-Induced loss of consciousness.)

Our groundcrew had by now piled into a van and had followed us out to the head of the runway, where they scurried about under the craft, checking the security of panels and giving us a final visual check. With a final thumbs up from the crew chief, we contacted Edwards Tower and ZOOM 76 was cleared onto the runway for takeoff. We armed our seats. I reminded myself of the numbers that Fergione had quoted at the briefing. We were loaded with just over 5,000lbs of fuel. This put our takeoff weight at around 23,000lb. Our F-100 engine provided 25,000lbs of thrust, enough to launch us vertically. This promised to be a spectacular takeoff.

Brakes could not hold the F-16 above eighty per cent rpm because the anti-skid system would automatically release. So Fergione set the throttle to eighty per cent and as the engine wound up he released the brakes. We started accelerating down the runway and as he advanced the throttle to military power, the rpm swung up to 100 per cent.
“We have five stages of burner. You can feel them all,” Fergione said conversationally, advancing the throttle smoothly into the afterburner range. “The last one is the biggest.”
As we accelerated, my helmet was forced back against the headrest and there was a jolt as each of the five stages of afterburner lit-up in sequence:
…three
…four
…five
There was no mistaking that last one.

With all that thrust we were by now accelerating like an arrow from a bow. Before we had reached the first thousand-foot marker board at the side of the runway we were rotating at 120 knots, with the wheels off the ground at 135 knots. The gear retracted and by the end of the 15,000 ft runway the airspeed was climbing through 450 knots. It was a breathtaking start to the flight.

We came out of afterburner and climbed towards twenty thousand feet at 450 knots. I took control of the aircraft and started getting used to the sidestick control of the F-16. Some time earlier I had flown the variable-stability Learjet rigged to simulate an early F-16 flight control system. That system had been actuated by force sensors alone. With no feedback from any motion of the stick, I had found it difficult to fly precisely. Other pilots had reported the same experience. But now, in the real F-16 the sidestick on the right hand console gave me about a quarter of an inch of movement, although primarily still a force-sensing device. It was surprisingly natural. An armrest supported my right forearm. Use of a sidestick certainly freed up a lot of panel space in front of the pilot. The cockpit was small but adequate, almost like the Grob sailplane, although price and performance of this aircraft were multiplied many times over that of the Grob.

I cautiously tried out gentle turns to left and right, getting used to the sensitive flight controls, then leveled off at twenty thousand feet as we headed north-west over Mojave and Tehachapi, into the mountains. Now it was time to descend, and Fergione took control and we spiraled down in a 4g turn, my g-suit squeezing, to enter the south end of the Amber low level route. At 420 knots we headed north, our clear visors down on our helmets to guard against possible bird strikes. Initially we headed north over the foothills of the Sierra Nevada which rose to 8,000 feet ahead of us.

The ride was smooth and the ground streamed past below. Lake Isabella slid past to our right. On the HUD Repeater I was intently watching my display. A pitch ladder occupied center screen, with speed presented on the left hand side. Our heading of 350 degrees was lower on the display with altitude indicated on the right. A circular symbol on the HUD showed the position of our next waypoint. Most importantly, at the moment, the velocity vector symbol, showing our projected flight path, was perched just over the next saw-toothed ridge.

As we flew north the wooded ridges in turn flashed past just underneath us. We reached our first waypoint, a cluster of radio towers on a ridge. The waypoint symbol on the display slid off to the right, pointing to the next waypoint. Our right wing went down and we banked hard to the right until the symbol centered again in the HUD. The ride was still smooth and we were now up to 440 knots. As we headed north the ground was rising. Signs of civilization were restricted to the occasional dirt road. Patches of snow were visible beneath the trees. The ridges, running east to west , became steeper and more and more spectacular as we hurdled over each one.

Waypoint 2 was a Forestry Service observation post. I looked down to see a lonely cabin located on a beetling crag, reached by a tortuous path etched across the face of the bluff.
Looking forward again I became aware of the snow-covered bulk of Mount Whitney off to our left. The mountains were rugged up here in the Sierras. We were heading north-east when turbulence started to buffet the plane. It was a washboard type of roughness, not the usual isolated jolts of convective heating. It felt as if the wind was rising. We climbed a few hundred feet but found no relief from the hard-edged jolting.

Between two ridges off to our right, Owens Lake slid into view. Stained red and white by the minerals in the water, it had the look of a surrealistic painting. The turbulence was getting worse and I was alternately jolted hard against my straps, and then back into the seat. It was difficult to breathe under these conditions.

Our flight planned path now led us down across the Owens Valley itself, with the sheer wall of mountains looming off our left wingtip. We could see that the weather was deteriorating to the north where a series of lenticular clouds barred the valley ahead of us. This celestial staircase climbed to maybe thirty thousand feet today and was the fabled Sierra Wave which was so useful for sailplanes to reach those extreme altitudes. The rotor system associated with the mountain lee waves was the cause of the turbulence that was battering us today. In between jolts I could not help thinking ” If only I was in a sailplane today…” But of course this day was reserved for more serious business.

We overflew our next waypoint, then banked hard right, now heading east across the valley towards the opposite sheer mountain wall. As a last veil of cloud drifted back above us the turbulence was suddenly switched off. Still heading for the wall of rock looming in front, Fergione pulled back on the stick, the nose came up and the velocity vector on my display rose to hover over the mountain ridge. Climbing more than a mile in a few seconds, we crested the ridge at ten thousand feet, banked right and flashed down the barren eastern slopes into Saline Valley.
As the F-16 dropped two miles in a few seconds my ears started complaining until I held my nose through the oxygen mask, blew hard and equalized the pressure. Leveling just over the dry lakebed we headed south with our shadow speeding just off to my left across the scrub-covered plain. Glaring white patches of dry lakebed flashed past and we climbed slightly to avoid a jagged outcrop of rock barring our path. Then we pitched down, and I floated against my straps momentarily, before we bottomed out, now hugging the lakebed and heading for our target.
It was an exhilarating ride. Operationally, this low altitude and high speed minimized exposure to enemy defenses, but the unremitting concentration of even keeping track of our position was very exhausting.

At the southern end of the valley this lunar landscape ended in another wall of mountains. We bored on until the rock wall was high above us, then Fergione smoothly pulled the nose up and we easily outclimbed the rising ground as the jagged ridges rose beneath us. Seconds later, our trajectory peaking at 7,000 feet, we flashed across the desolate ridge and plunged down into Panamint Valley.

I recognized this place, This is where I had flown with the Wild Weasels. Yes, there was the solitary road snaking across the awesome immensity of the dry plain, coming from Death Valley across the mountains to the East. Moments after we flashed across the road a glaring white lakebed blurred beneath our nose. It was incongruously quiet in the cockpit. Then a dirt road flashed diagonally beneath us. I caught a glimpse of a white RV trailing a plume of dust behind him. It was too bad. At this speed we were barely a second behind our noise. The driver might with luck have seen us in his rear-view mirror, giving him a split-second warning, before the thunderclap of sound hit him…

Three miles to the target. I could see it coming up on the HUD, under the target cross. There…in a split second, my mind recorded images…a cluster of buildings…a radar dish revolving…parked cars around the radar station…then we were fleeing across the valley floor, trailing our banner of sound.

At the southern end of Panamint Valley, we again were heading straight for the mountains, but this time Fergione pulled the nose of the F-16 up and kept it pointing towards the vertical. The F-16 stood on its tail and kept climbing out of the low-level corridor, aiming for 40,000 feet and our supersonic run.

Once our supersonic run was complete, remembering that the F-16 was a fighter after all, I took control of the jet while we searched for targets. Reaching forward I switched my display from HUD to RADAR mode. Our radar was sensitive enough to pick up trucks on the Antelope Valley freeway. However as we looked for aircraft targets our respective screens remained blank for a moment. Then our ATC controller warned us of two aircraft heading for us. We searched with the radar, varying the elevation of the beam using a throttle-mounted switch.

Suddenly, there they were, two targets coming towards us, head-on but lower than our F-16. The computer-generated targets had symbols showing aspect angle and target speed. Moments later we had a visual on them, a pair of white F-4 Phantoms from the test fleet at Edwards, maneuvering in their own block of airspace beneath us. Our Sidewinder missiles would easily have destroyed these bogies, or we could have gone after them with our built-in 20mm cannon in our left wing root. We pulled round after them. In the sun and ten thousand feet higher than the Phantoms we were in a perfect position for a bounce, but we reluctantly had to let them go on their way.

Decelerating and letting down to 15,000 feet enabled us to look at the low-speed handling of the F-16. Throttled back, I used the throttle-mounted speedbrake switch and we slowed to two hundred knots. I cleaned up and we continued slowing initially to 180 knots. I was watching intently the altitude and the angle of attack. By 130 knots we were at twenty units angle of attack. At 100 knots the nose was pointing skywards with much of the lift coming from the leading edge extensions either side of the cockpit. At this unusual flight condition we were definitely in the hands of the flight computer, another reason for the soubriquet of “Electric Jet” Above fifteen units of AoA the computer limited our roll rate. No matter how hard I pulled back on the side-stick, the F-16 was limited to a maximum of twenty-five AoA. Pushing the rudder pedals at this flight condition had no effect as the rudder was automatically phased out at high AoA to prevent the F-16 departing in yaw and entering a spin. Fergione then demonstrated the roll control at low speed by accelerating to 150 knots, then rolling the F-16 through 360 degrees with no problems. I was impressed.

Then he handed control of the aircraft back to me. We accelerated to a more normal fighting speed of 350 knots. I started with an aileron roll to the left. Light pressure on the sidestick got us rolling smoothly to the left. I reversed the pressure and the roll stopped after one complete revolution. Then I repeated the roll to the right. My first attempt at rolling using a sidestick gave a noticeable difference in feel between left and right rolls, like the difference between forehand and backhand in tennis. It felt very unnatural to me at first. The F-16 flight control system was set up for full control deflection in roll using only a 17lb force. With only wrist action available, that was a reasonable figure.

Progressing to four and eight-point rolls, I was now getting used to the sidestick, although the harmony between the light roll forces and heavier pitch forces took a little getting used to.
Next came a loop, where I pulled 4g in a huge arc, topping out at 25,000 feet. This was sheer fun and the F-16 was not even working hard. Hard turns were similarly easy, giving tremendous agility and the ability to reverse direction in an instant. My g-suit was constantly inflating and deflating. However I slackened off on my pull when I saw Fergione’s helmet start to slide down behind his headrest, warning me that the g was getting too high. I could easily have pulled to the 9g limit with a 25 lb pull and the F-16 would not have complained.

We were now heading eastbound and were down to our BINGO fuel of 1,200lbs, so to reverse direction I pulled up into an Immelmann turn, pulling an easy 4.5g, until the horizon floated back down to the nose, rolling out from inverted on a westerly heading for Edwards.
“ZOOM 76. Continue your descent. We have a B-1B climbing out towards you. One o’clock at three miles” said the controller. I continued letting down towards Edwards and the distinctive white landmark of Rogers Dry Lake, getting a visual sighting on the dark arrow-like shape of the huge bomber, already two thousand feet above us as it sailed past. I leveled at pattern altitude some fifteen hundred feet over the high desert.

We overflew the dry lakebed, offset to the right of the main 22 runway and I entered the break at 300 knots, throttled back and airbrakes out, turning through 180 degrees to level out on the downwind leg. Fergione took over for a touch-and-go landing.
Three green lights winked on the panel as the gear locked down.

The F-16 curved round in a steep descending turn onto finals. As we came round onto final approach it became apparent that there was a strong crosswind from the right. We were crabbed slightly against the crosswind down final approach, then without fuss we were down, although the narrow-track gear meant that judicious use of aileron and rudder was needed to keep straight in the crosswind.

We had briefed for a touch-and-go and so the throttle went forward to the Military Power detent and the F-16 leaped off the ground again. The red light in the gear handle winked out as the doors closed. Fergione curved us round in a tight turn over South Base, setting us up for our final landing.

Gear down, we started on our descending turn on finals. Then something unexpected. The MASTER CAUTION light on the coaming started to flash and the audio warning sounded.
“That’s the forward fuel,” said Fergione,” It’s normal at these fuel states.” I glanced down. Sure enough the FORWARD FUEL light on the right hand console was illuminated, showing that we were down to 250lb in the forward tank group.

In deference to the gusty conditions, Fergione flew the approach at eleven units AoA, rather faster than the thirteen units of AoA in the flight manual. He explained that the thirteen unit approach equated to a speed of 133 knots at this fuel weight but could result in a certain amount of wallowing on the approach in gusty conditions. This approach worked as advertised. We touched and Fergione kept the nose up for aerodynamic braking throughout our landing run until the speed dropped down to eighty knots.

The F-16 was an impressive fighter in a small package. Smaller by far than the huge F-15 Eagle, it could give a very good account of itself and had amassed an amazing number of kills in combat. For myself, it was a very productive and enjoyable flight, one which had shown to good effect the latest fighter in US Air Force service.

Chapter 25: Eagle Country

2010-01-10T10:14:00.000-08:00

The rectangular inlets of the F-15B had their own computers which adjusted the position of the internal ramps. The inlets themselves would move with changes in flight condition to optimize the airflow into the F-100 engines.

Daylight came grudgingly to the winter desert, then suddenly the first rays of the sun cast a blinding reflection from the salt of the dry lake bed. I screwed up my eyes against the glare, squinting at the hulking silhouette of the fighter looming before me on the ramp. That January day at Edwards Air Force Base marked my initiation into the world of the fourth generation supersonic fighter. The United States operated three of these: the F-15, F-16 and F/A-18. It was rare for a non-military pilot to fly one of these potent machines.

During a visit to Edwards to write an article about the F-15 Combined Test Force, I had been offered the rare opportunity of flying in the F-15. Arguably the best air superiority fighter in the eighties, the F-15 was a large aircraft, powered by two Pratt & Whitney F-100 engines which gave it a thrust-to-weight ratio greater than one, so enabling the aircraft to accelerate vertically upwards at light weight. I had first seen the awesome performance of the brightly –painted F-15B in bicentennial red, white and blue colors at Farnborough back in 1976. It was a long-standing wish of mine to see how this aircraft performed.
Flying the Eagle on this mission was Squadron Leader Rick Pope, a Royal Air Force Test Pilot on an exchange posting with the USAF. Our mission objective was simple: to look at the handling and performance of this fighter throughout its flight envelope.
The usual walk-around confirmed the awesome size of this gray-painted fighter. The delta wing was high enough to allow me to walk under it with ease and inspect the gaping box-like structures of the sophisticated all-moving air inlets flanking the cockpit. The lethal mission of the Eagle was confirmed by the muzzle of the M-61 cannon inset into the wing at the right wing root.
The twin vertical tails of our F-15B, flanking the huge afterburner nozzles of the engines, were emblazoned with the IFFC badge. This acronym stood for Integrated Fire/Flight Controls system which could couple the flight controls and armament system together. In a series of trials prior to my flight this aircraft had been used to wring out the system, with live gun firings culminating in the spectacular destruction of a maneuvering F-102 jet fighter converted into an unmanned drone.
Just after dawn, it was still below freezing as I carefully climbed the ladder to the F-15’s rear cockpit. My caution was well-founded, as I could see a veneer of ice on the top of the inlet. Having negotiated the inlet and slid down into the cockpit, I strapped in while Rick Pope finished pre-flighting the aircraft and then climbed the ladder to the front cockpit. Getting ready for business I checked that my g-suit was plugged in, oxygen was switched on and my helmet and mask were adjusted. Reviewing my briefing notes I reminded myself that the limits on the aircraft were thirty units angle of attack (AoA) Mach 1.5 and 660 knots, respectable limits even with our 600-gallon centerline external tank. All the numbers were large with this aircraft. Fuel capacity was a couple of orders of magnitude than my little aerobatic aircraft. We had a total of 15,200lbs of fuel on board, with 11,200lbs in the internal tanks plus the 4,000lbs in the centerline tank. It was a lot of fuel for a lot of aircraft. At takeoff the Eagle would weigh over twenty tons.
The Eagle had a roomy cockpit. Flight instruments were spread out on the panel in front of me with engine gauges of to my right. Two gray-painted consoles flanked the cockpit, crammed with systems controls and switches. The two hefty throttles were under my left hand.
Just above my left knee on the panel was the electronic navigation display, surrounded by a multiplicity of mode buttons. This panel also held the radar display and my HUD repeater.
By now we were ready to go and the Jet Fuel Starter (JFS) wailed into life. One the JFS was running, Rick Pope started the right engine. As the big engine wound up the needles on the engine gauges began marching round their dials. Once the engine lit with a rumble the exhaust gas temperature (EGT) shot up, then slowed as the engine settled at fifty-five percent at ground idle.
While I was head-down in the cockpit, familiarizing myself with the NAV display, suddenly the right hand inlet slammed down, banging against the stops and then eerily going through its own automatic sequence of pre-flight checks. Despite causing a momentary jump in my heart rate, all this was normal. In fact Rick Pope had warned me of this inlet behavior during our pre-flight briefing.
I was now thoroughly awake as the left engine started winding up and was anticipating the racket as the left inlet clanged down. With electrical power now available, I motored the ejection seat down to its lowest position, primarily to get out of the still freezing air while Pope carried out more flight control checks. This F-15 had a non-standard digital flight control system and we would be assessing it during the flight.
These big engines were thirsty. Just sitting in the chocks we were burning 700 pounds of jet fuel per hour with each engine at idle. I quickly reviewed my checklist for my impending role in setting up the navigation system, a necessary step before we could fly. If it did not initialize correctly the first time I would be forced to recycle the system to retrieve the situation.
The latitude and longitude of our exact position on the ramp had been inserted into the navigation computer the previous night. It was time for me to set my NAV control panel rotary switch to GND ALIGN. When I got the expected mode indications on the NAV display, following my checklist I pushed the third (NAV) button down at the side of the NAV display, then breathed a sigh of relief as the computer accepted the information and the ALIGN TIME counter(ATIME) started to count up from zero. It could take up to five minutes –three hundred seconds - for the nav system to align. Until then we could not move the aircraft and while I monitored the upward march of time on the counter we completed our radio checks and listened to ATIS, the recorded tower information. Unemotionally ATIS informed us that the air temperature was still thirty degrees Fahrenheit, still below freezing. I shivered, it was cold.
“Arms in?” Pope sang out and I made sure that my hands and elbows were clear of the canopy rails. The canopy came down and slid forward an inch or two to lock with a solid clunk. As the canopy seal inflated the canopy warning light extinguished and I felt pressure build up on my ears. Pope completed our control checks, continuing a dialogue with our crew chief on the ramp who was patched into our intercom circuit. Lastly the speedbrake and flaps were cycled while our crew chief mimicked the action. Everything checked out OK and at last, I noted with relief, the temperature in the cockpit was rising.
After what seemed like an eternity, ATIME counted up through 300 seconds. I informed my pilot, then switched to NAV mode. From that moment, our inertial system could monitor our movements in space and continuously update our position. Brakes were released, the throttles were eased forward and we taxied forward a couple of feet. The nose of the Eagle nodded as the brakes were checked and we started the long taxi out to the head of the runway.

The two-seat F-15 was the biggest and most powerful fighter in the USAF inventory in the eighties. Capable of Mach 2 when clean, it could also carry a range of tanks and weapons as shown by this example at Edwards AFB.

Appropriately in its role as the main landing base for the Shuttle Orbiter, Edwards AFB now had a new and futuristic concrete pinnacle for a control tower, replacing its old red-painted corrugated iron predecessor whose stairs I had climbed on previous visits. Once we had dog-legged past the tower it was another mile to go to the runway. Pope swung the F-15 off to the left in the aptly-named “last chance “ portion of the concrete ramp just before the head of the runway. We stopped in the run-up area. While we kept our hands clasped on top of our helmets, visibly away from any controls, ground personnel scurried underneath the jet, checking for leaks or loose panels.
Despite the early hour we found ourselves in line behind the morning contingent of test aircraft from the Test Pilot School. As we waited, one all-white T-38 of the TPS developed a snag. The jet shut down and the disgruntled crew climbed out of the T-38. I crossed my fingers, hoping that nothing would go wrong with our complex machine, and breathed again when we were given the thumbs up and were waved on our way.
The Edwards Tower Controller cleared us onto the runway. This was the main shuttle landing runway where I had seen Challenger return on a previous visit. Nearly three miles long, it was plenty long enough for us today.
Rick Pope ran the engines up to eighty percent rpm against the brakes. It got noisy in the cockpit and the nose dipped under the thrust of the engines.
“This will be an afterburner takeoff,” Popes voice reminded me,” We’ll rotate at 120 knots and will be off the ground at 155”. Engines were now stabilized at eighty percent, the highest that could be held on the brakes. My pulse rate was a little higher than normal. Pope released the brakes. As we started to move I punched my stopwatch. We passed the big “14” marker board at the sign of the runway, signifying 14,000 feet of runway in front of us. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the throttles go forward to Military Power and then smoothly advance into the afterburner range. There was an increasing push in my back and a rumble from somewhere behind me. The nose wavered a hairsbreadth to the left, then recovered, ”Left’s a touch slow to light,” commented Pope, then we were accelerating powerfully, both nozzles fully open and 23,000 lbs of thrust from each F-100 giving that inexorable shove in the back of my seat.
The”13” marker board was by now hurtling towards us and my stopwatch was still reading under ten seconds when we rotated and floated off the ground. There was the flash of a red warning light down by my left knee as the gear started to retract. The gear locked up, we came out of afterburner and there was a heavy vibration from the nosewheel, still spinning and retracting virtually under my seat. As the vibration died away we were accelerating through 250 knots. In military power the cockpit was relatively quiet. Seconds later, as our Eagle flashed over the western end of the runway, we were cleared to climb to altitude.
This promised to be interesting. On numerous occasions I had watched F-15s flying out of the McDonnell factory at St Louis. Scorning the more pedestrian airliner departure profiles, the Eagles invariably performed spectacular VIKING departures, with a sharp rotation just after liftoff, and roaring almost vertically upwards until lost to sight. Now it was my turn to sample this experience.
“Burners going in now”
As the burners lit we rotated nose up to about seventy degrees and that awesome acceleration kept pushing me back into my seat. I unlocked my shoulder harness and twisted round to see the ground dropping away between the twin tails. Eyes front again, with my eyes drawn hypnotically to the altimeter. The needle was spinning round the dial as if demented, while the digital counter was already indicating that we were nearing 20,000 feet in less than a minute. We were still climbing like a rocket, almost vertically, when Rick Pope rolled us inverted, pulling the nose down to the horizon as we came out of afterburner.
I remembered to breathe again.
We rolled out, level at 25,000 feet and heading north. Pope handed control of the jet over to me. Still mentally trying to catch up, and very aware of the sheer size of this machine, I wiggled the stick from side-to-side, expecting to have to use a lot of muscle on the controls. I was wrong. With the Eagle’s fully –powered hydraulic controls, a little effort went a long way. The ailerons seemed to have a mind of their own and I over-corrected at first, setting up a small-amplitude oscillation as the horizon rocked gently from side -to-side. It took a few seconds to get the hang of it. Once I started holding the stick lightly between finger and thumb, the aircraft went back to flying smoothly. It was time to relax and admire the view.
It was a beautiful cloudless morning over the ochre sandy wastes of the Mojave Desert. The rising sun behind us was casting long shadows on the desert below. Our flight plan today would take us round the Blue Route, one of the low-level routes used day and night by the CTF for systems testing and for the LANTIRN testing on the new F-15E. Following the low-level portion of the mission, we would look at the aircraft handling with the digital control system.
Visibility from the bubble canopy was superb. Sliding into view to the left of the nose, some five miles below, was a circular tank on the ground. This landmark was our Initial Point for entrance to the circuitous Blue Route. As California City slid by to my left, it was time to descend. I pushed over, banked to the right and started descending to the start of the Blue Route. We whispered down, down, down, paralleling a rocky spine of hills rising to our left. Flying with my right hand, I took my left hand off the throttles and blipped the switch to raise my seat upwards, craning to look past the headrest of the front seat.
We whispered down to 500 feet above the rocky slopes. Easing the throttles forward, we stabilized with the speed around 350 knots. I settled down to the unaccustomed feeling of low-flying this large aircraft in this environment. At that moment my Nav display screen decided to go blank, so robbing me of my primary navigational aid. So I was left basically to navigate the hard way, with a map, compass and stopwatch. I got no sympathy from Pope, who, as he pointed out, used to do his navigating the same way when flying Hunters in the RAF… Consequently I was kept working hard as our turnpoints and landmarks came up very quickly. I had traced our route on my chart with a thick black marker before we flew, and the chart was tucked into my knee-board.
The exceptional visibility helped. In all directions we could see out to the saw-toothed horizon. Over to our left sprawled the Naval Weapons Center at China Lake. There were buildings ahead, so we climbed to 1,500 feet over Searles dry lakebed, weirdly patterned with salt evaporators, and streaked over a steam-belching industrial complex. Passing the small civil airport at Trona I was cleared to descend again, heading for a saddle in the hills that would take us into Panamint valley.
As our Eagle overflew the ridge, there was a jolt from air turbulence. The big wing, designed primarily for a turning dogfight, did not take kindly to turbulence. Now the valley floor was falling away beneath us, although off our starboard wing Sentinel Peak jutted two miles into the sky. Further east lay Death Valley which in parts lay below sea level. We pressed on north into Panamint Valley and our target of Ballarat radar station.
Pope took over for some serious low flying. Almost alongside my cockpit I could see our shadow speeding over the scrub-covered wastes. Low down over the desert, my view was restricted to a kaleidoscope of impressions: scrub…rocks…vehicle tracks…all blurred past. We flashed overhead the radar station at Ballarat, its antennae rotating.
Still accelerating, airspeed was now up to 500 knots as we made our escape from the imaginary ground defences. Pope, a former Tornado Test Pilot at RAE Bedford, was at home at these low levels. I could see, over his helmet, a rocky knoll jutting skywards at the end of the valley. This marked our next turn point.
There was a tremendous impression of speed. This low down, and this fast, we would be almost invulnerable from interception. Our escape now assured, we pulled round the knoll. Pope handed control back to me. Easing the stick back and the throttles forward, I flew westwards up the steep slope of the mountain until in seconds we crested the ridgeline at 10,000 feet and sailed out into space. The sight was awesome. Below us was spread the expanse of the Owens Valley, with Owens Lake in the foreground, and the spectacular snow-covered range of the Sierra Nevada barring our path from horizon to horizon.

The bubble canopy of the F-15B gave an exceptional visibility through 360 degrees. Avionics in the rear cockpit replicated that available to the pilot in the front seat. Up to three external tanks could be carried, as shown here, but CTF aircraft usually flew with a single centerline tank which would give an endurance of about an hour and a half on a typical test mission.

The cockpit was quiet as we threaded our way into the Sierras, following the valley as we climbed, with the great rock pile of Mount Whitney jutting skywards off to our right. Occasionally an ice-covered road wound its way up a valley and we passed over frozen lakes covered in drifting snow. It looked unbearably desolate. We had dressed warmly for this flight, in the eventuality of us having to eject and then walk out, but I gave an involuntary shiver. In this frozen landscape the only color was on the sides of Mount Whitney, where large sheets of vertical yellowish-gray rock were revealed where the snow had lost its frigid grip on the rock faces.
Following the marked track on the chart clipped to my kneeboard, I banked the F-15 to the south and headed towards Lake Isabella. More confident now, I was getting used to flying the big fighter, letting down over a thickly wooded valley on our route. A frozen stream slid past below as I eased lower, heading for a notch in the mountains which would take us into the next valley. A glance at the barometric altimeter revealed that we were flying at an altitude of just over eleven thousand feet. It was a strange feeling to me, being this close to the ground with the altitude over two miles high. By now I was peering intently past the front seat, aiming for the notch. As we sped through the notch the trees whipped past on either side. The radar altimeter jiggled down to show a very low altitude, then went up as the ground dropped away again.
I said thoughtfully to Pope:”…and you do this at night during the Lantirn testing down this same route?”
“Yes,” came the casual rejoinder.” The worst bit is when the rotating beacon is illuminating the trees on either side…”
Before I could ponder too much on this statement, I was pulling hard round a turn in the valley only to be faced with an impenetrable bank of cloud filling the valley and blanketing the mountains further south. Obviously that finished our low flying on the Blue Route today, strictly limited to VFR for this mission. I pulled up out of the valley, eased the throttles forward to military power and climbed away.
We still had sufficient fuel and time to look at the handling of this air superiority fighter in its natural element. Aerobatics in such a powerful aircraft promised to be exciting. I leveled the Eagle at fifteen thousand feet over a snow-white rumpled cloud deck. We were alone in a brilliant bowl of cerulean blue.
I started with a loop. Even with the throttles at Military power in level flight the F-15 was accelerating through 380 knots within seconds. A slight backward pressure on the stick started the nose rising. I continued the pull, slackening off slightly as we floated inverted at the top of the loop at 20,000 feet. Easing back on the throttles as we started plummeting towards the cloud deck, I pulled harder. The Eagle was now up to twenty-five units angle of attack and the whole aircraft was buffeting. My g-suit inflated, squeezing hard and the g-force was forcing me down into my seat until I unloaded, pushing the stick forward to get us back into level flight.
At this point rick Pope said,” To make things interesting, I’ll show you a 250 knot loop.” Setting up the aircraft in level flight at 250 knots, he selected both engines into afterburner and pulled hard on the stick. Trailing flame and thunder, the F-15 stood on its tail and gracefully arced up into the blue, with the needle of the angle of attack indicator wavering almost at our thirty unit limit. With the thrust just balancing the high induced drag of the big wing, we topped out inverted a mere 4,500 feet above our starting altitude. Then we were powering vertically down the other side. We completed the loop with the airspeed still at 250 knots, some three hundred feet higher than when we started. It was an amazing demonstration of the tractability of this big fighter.
I tried a few rolls. Aileron rolls were no problem and the roll rate was impressive even with partial stick deflection. I then got a little over-enthusiastic and performed a four-point hesitation roll which involved some pretty hefty roll accelerations. As we snapped to the inverted position Pope’s map book of the Blue route was torn from its Velcro stowage, sailed out of the forward cockpit, pirouetted in mid-air between us, bounced off the canopy , then floated into my cockpit where I grabbed it as we came upright again.
How was the turning performance of the Eagle? Pretty impressive. Turns at military power with only a moderate single-handed pull force, pursuing an imaginary Mig, resulted in high sustained turn rates with my g-suit squeezing hard on my abdomen and legs.
I had long promised myself a look at the Eagle’s low speed handling. Having flown in the F-4 with the Wild Weasels, I knew that the F-4 had low-speed handling problems. Hard maneuvering at low speed could result in a departure from controlled flight, a maneuver known as, ”The Thing” to former Vietnam-era F-4 jockeys. In contrast to the automatic flaps and slats on the F-16 and F/A-18 fighters, contemporaries of the Eagle, the F-15 had nothing more than a big cambered delta wing bereft of sophisticated high-lift devices. So I pulled back on the throttles and we started to slow down. Sailing out over the edge of the cloud deck we headed out over the rust-colored palette of the Mojave desert and towards the white glare of Cuddeback dry lake. To lose speed more quickly, I thumbed back on the slide button on the right throttle and the speedbrake popped out from the top of the fuselage behind the canopy. The speedbrake was visible in my rear-view mirror on the canopy arch. As speed dropped off to 150 knots, I retracted the speedbrake and nudged the throttles up to stabilize the speed.
At this low speed, although we were in buffet, I still had full aileron control. I banked left, then right, and the Eagle responded without fuss. Rick Pope then took control, maneuvering more aggressively and using the rudders to point the nose at an imaginary target, finally completing a full aileron roll with the ASI hovering around 150 knots throughout.
The whole sequence was made more impressive by its lack of drama. As the desert rolled to fill the canopy above me, Pope said drily,” By now, an F-4 would be out-of-control and spinning”
It was time to recover to base. We continued descending, over the mines at Boron and banking right onto the ILS for Runway 22 at Edwards. With gear and flaps down, our flight path crossed Rogers Dry Lake and suddenly we were in the middle of a crowded piece of airspace with an F-4, a T-38 and another F-15 competing for slots in the pattern. Pope let me continue the approach and I motored my seat up to maximize my visibility over the nose.
Meanwhile on the lakebed below another F-4 had landed, dragging a rooster-tail of salt crystals and pursued by the crash trucks. The lakebed at Edwards was used almost every day for practice or real emergency landings. This was not regarded as unusual and having the option to use the lakebed made life much simpler for a pilot whose aircraft had hydraulic or brake problems.
Close-in now, and I could see that the F-4 and the F-15 were both down on the runway. We overshot in Military power, cleaning up and pulling hard left over South Base to the downwind leg of Runway 22 for a touch-and go.
Downwind, we nailed the altitude and pulled back the throttles to slow below gear limit speed of 250 knots. The was a blast from the audio warning as we lost speed with the gear still up, and a touch forward on the throttles spooled the engines up until the warning tone stopped. The gear and flaps were lowered. I needed another four per cent of rpm to offset the increased drag and a touch of nose-down trim as the aircraft tended to balloon upwards. The drum altimeter was locked on 3,800 feet, pattern altitude for the jets at this high desert base, as the end of the long landing runway slid past our nine o’clock and we headed north-east over the lakebed, patterned by the weird array of lines and triangles painted on its surface as cues for the landing Shuttle Orbiter pilots.
We started a descending turn, airspeed steady on 150 knots and AoA reading twenty units. As we curved round base towards the runway, the air was calm and as the runway vanished under the nose the wings were rolled level and the stick eased back. That big wing took over in ground effect and we floated for a second until a rumble signified that we were down. An exceptionally smooth landing. With the throttles pushed forward to the Military Power stop the Eagle got smartly airborne again.
We went once more around the pattern, finishing with another touchdown for a full-stop landing. Pope kept the nose up to thirteen degrees, standard practice in the F-15 for a full-stop landing, to maximize aerodynamic braking above ninety knots to save burning out the brakes. Fifteen degrees of pitch would scrape the tail. Airspeed dropped below ninety knots and the nose came down. We continued slowing and turned off at the mid-field taxiway. During the long taxi back I began to realize what a tremendous jump in performance and handling had been achieved in this generation of fighters.
Back at the CTF we swung into our parking slot in the line of dark gray F-15Es and the lighter F-15 As and Cs being readied for the day’s flight test schedule.
As the engines whined down into silence and we unstrapped, I had to agree that the Eagle was indeed a mighty machine.

Chapter 24: Free as a Bird

2010-01-01T19:45:00.000-08:00

As I pulled the yellow cable release knob there was a bang and the tow cable snaked away, dragging with it the noise of the straining L-19 pulling me up to altitude. I trimmed out the sailplane, letting the airspeed drift down to the forty-two knots which would give me the most efficient glide. Happy with the speed I then fussed with the rudder pedals to ensure that the yaw string was streaming back down the centerline of the canopy. Foolproof and cheap, the yaw string reacted to any change in airstream direction and was a good indication of whether I had been inadvertently flying with sideslip.

It was a weekend in Southern California and here I was comfortably reclining under the bubble canopy of the Grob sailplane. As the towplane spiraled away in his dive, it was very quiet in my cockpit, with only the soft hiss of the wind rushing past the Plexiglass to mark my progress through the air.

Slowly, as I became attuned to this machine again, I became aware of a familiar feeling. Unsure for a moment, I searched my memory. It had been over twenty years since I started gliding back in England. In those days we flew rather primitive wood and fabric gliders. This sleek fiberglass ship was a world apart. So it wasn’t that.

The clean lines of the Grob 103 can be seen moments after lift-off from the gravel runway at Pearblossom behind the L-19 towplane. The bubble canopy provides good all-round visibility.

The countryside slowly passing underneath was still an alien and parched landscape, punctuated with scrub and Joshua trees, upraised arms frozen in supplication. The neat English fields, green with the perennial rains and bordered by hedgerows, were half a world away from this. Then realization crept up on me. It was a case of déjà vu. Although this cockpit was lacking the usual plethora of avionics, the sensation was not unlike that of flying a modern jet fighter. The smoothness of flight, the lack of vibration and the barely sensed sound were all the same.
But here the similarity ended. Here there was no sense of urgent motion, no watching the fuel gauges sinking inexorably towards EMPTY as a thirsty jet engine gobbled up kerosene. I was not streaking across the sky, outrunning the noise. On the contrary, I was suspended over the Mojave desert, reclining comfortably in my sheepskin-lined seat, almost stationary and heading into a natural bowl on the north side of the San Gabriel mountains.

The two-seat Grob 103 sailplane is pulled to altitude at Pearblossom airport by the L-19 towplane. Once at altitude the cable will be released and the Grob pilot is on his own to look for lift.

The source of the power keeping my sailplane aloft was simply the sun shining benignly down from a winter sky in California. A few degrees of temperature difference between the desert floor and the wooded slopes of the bowl was enough to trigger a thermal, a bubble of warmer air which would break free from the ground and ascend invisibly into the sky. If I could intercept the thermal, the rising air would be enough to keep me airborne. This sleek fiberglass Grob still amazed me with its performance as I drifted slowly towards the bowl, barely losing altitude.

Two miles behind the tail of the Grob lay the tiny airport at Pearblossom, east of Palmdale. The small hut containing the Flying Club at Pearblossom had tacked on the wall a list of recent flights made from the field. Sailplane flights originating from this field had ended in such faraway places as Cedar City, Utah, Las Vegas, Nevada and Bishop in Northern California. These were destinations I normally would consider worthy of a respectable cross-country flight in a power plane. I would achieve nothing like that on this flight. In fact so far I had not located any lift at all. The sky was an unrelenting blue, with none of the haziness associated with rising air, or even a wisp of forming cloud topping a thermal. The altimeter needle was slowly and inexorably creeping downward round its dial. Disappointed, I banked around and headed back towards the field, checking for other traffic and then curving round into the pattern for landing. Airbrakes out the Grob slid down final approach, quickly losing altitude until I heard the wheel rumble on the runway.

Later in the afternoon I tried again. Others who had launched after me had managed to stay aloft, circling like a swarm of white butterflies in weak thermals away from the field. No record trips were likely, but I would try again. Checking over the sailplane again, I wheeled it into position, climbed in, tightened my straps and started my pre-takeoff drill. The L-19 towplane whooshed past me and landed, settling onto the runway, swiftly turning with a burst of power to taxi back. A helper raised my wingtip. I completed my checks and was hooked up to the towplane.

Ready to go, I waggled my rudder as a visual signal to the tow-plane pilot. A blast of exhaust fumes wafted back from the L-19, percolating through the air vents in my cockpit. The cable tightened and we accelerated away, the wheel only inches beneath my seat rumbling over the gravel runway. The controls came to life as the airspeed increased and the Grob lifted off before the tow-plane. I concentrated on keeping station, maintaining the wing of the L-19 just on the horizon as he spiraled up to altitude.

My spirits rose again as my horizons expanded. Away to the north the jagged skyline of the Sierra Nevada marched into the distance, with the white frieze of the first snows of winter matched by the white brilliance of Rogers dry lake at the foot of the mountains. At 3,000 feet above the high desert I pulled the release. Once free of the tow cable, the Grob slowly lost speed. The readings on the other instruments seemed locked into place. This sailplane with its 35:1 glide ratio did not perceptibly lose altitude for some time.

I was looking for lift. No thermals at first, then I decided to try nearer the slope. Easing the stick and rudder over to the right, I let the sailplane sidle closer to the wooded slope. The variometer quivered to show a positive climb for a moment and the right wing twitched upwards. I started turning and managed to keep in the thermal for half of a circle before sliding out of the lift.
Making another lazy circle, I hit the lift again and this time managed to center in the thermal. The variometer bounced up to show an intermittent climb and every time I glanced at the altimeter it showed the altitude had increased by a few feet. Careful now, I reminded myself, don’t stall in the turn. I pushed on the right rudder pedal, eased back on the stick, backed off on the ailerons and kept turning. The inertia of the long wings and the relatively ineffective ailerons made it hard work to keep in the thermal. I worked the lift for a couple of hundred feet before it petered out. This was just enough altitude for me to head out of the bowl and track north, over a ridge before I would have to turn back to the field.

The Grob loitered along, trimmed at its best glide of forty-two knots as I hunted for thermals. When I started flying out here in the Mojave desert, to my unpracticed eye one spot of desert looked very much like another. My instructor, Ed Green, knew the countryside around the field like the back of his hand. Whereas I saw only dirt roads and areas of rocky ground, he saw each one as a possible thermal source even this late in the year.

After another tussle with an embryo thermal I ran out of altitude and headed back to the field, setting up for an approach to the west, into the light breeze. But no, the windsock now showed that the wind had switched round and was now coming from the east. The start of a Santa Ana wind, perhaps? I could see the tow-planes taxiing about on the field, setting up to launch from the western end of the field. So I turned overhead the field and set up for an approach for a landing to the east.

This is where the good visibility from the bubble canopy was a boon. Sailplanes spend a lot of their time turning, often in close proximity to others sharing the same lift. The pattern was clear. I increased speed to guard against wind shear, and completed my downwind checks. As the Grob arced round at the end of the downwind leg my left hand eased back on the airbrake lever and the rate of descent increased. Over the runway now and I flared, a fraction too high as I forgot just how low the Grob sat to the ground, then eased it down until I heard the mainwheel rumble. I pulled the airbrakes fully open to slow our forward rush, and I pulled the lever to its most rearward position, so actuating the wheel brake. In a minor victory, I had judged it correctly and the Grob coasted to a stop next to the waiting tow-plane.

The change of wind might do the trick. I was eternally optimistic. My father, when he was fishing back in England, was always confident that his next cast would connect him with the biggest fish in the river. Similarly, I knew that there was a thermal out there, just waiting for me.

Just time for one more launch. Five minutes later I pulled the release knob and the tan-colored L-19 banked left and dropped out of my world. Once clear of the tow-rope I trimmed the Grob, settled down and eased closer to the hillside, succeeding in finding some lift coming off the rocks. Wheeling and soaring over the wooded crags in these foothills of the San Gabriel mountains, I lifted the Grob easily over ridges in an exhilarating ride before gliding silently back out over the desert again. The air trembled under my wings and I looked down over the side. A park crammed with recreational vehicles lay below. Maybe some hot air bubbling up from their barbeques? I turned a full circle over the tiny oblong shapes of the RVs but the air remained smooth. I had lost the rising air. I tried the bend of the dry river bed…nothing.

The altimeter was creeping downwards and I was still some miles away from the field. It was too late in the day for thermals, I admitted to myself as I whispered back to the field. Almost there, and with a few hundred feet of precious altitude to play with, I decided to practice a stall in the Grob. I turned and made sure the airspace around me was clear of traffic. Stalls were fun. As I eased the stick back the airspeed needle wavered off the bottom end of the scale. It got very quiet as the airspeed bled away. Under my hand the stick grew sloppy as the controls ran out of air. Eventually the wing quit flying and the nose fell below the horizon. The Grob was just another flying machine after all and I gained airspeed by lowering the nose, although I found my left hand trying to push an imaginary throttle forward.
I flew back to the field, then drifted down to my last landing of the day.

As the sun set I drove home down the crowded freeway, tired from the concentration of flying but very satisfied even though the day had produced no spectacular results. Thermals would blossom during the summer. Winds today were not high enough form mountain waves strong enough to permit climbs to stratospheric altitudes. Flying the legendary Sierra Wave would have to wait for another day.

At home almost daily I could enviously watch kestrels and red-tailed hawks circling effortlessly over grassland behind our house on the lookout for field mice. Sailplaning was the nearest I could get to that condition. It was a challenging aspect of flying.

Free as a bird…just that we humans had to work harder.

Chapter 23: The Time Machine

2009-12-31T20:15:00.001-08:00

Perhaps the strangest aircraft to add to my logbook was the Avionics System Test Aircraft at Edwards AFB. Side-Force controller fins were fitted part-way along the wings and the bulbous nose housed a fighter-type radar.

One of the delights of visiting Edwards Air Force Base, and the USAF Test Pilot School, was the opportunity to fly in a variety of unusual aircraft. One of these was the Avionics System Test Training Aircraft (ASTTA) operated by a specialized flight test support company, Arvin Calspan of Buffalo, New York. Basically the ASTTA was an in-flight simulator. Starting life as a piston-engine Convair airliner this beast had been upgraded to a Convair 580 and now had turboprop engines. However in now had extra side force controller fins mounted part-way out along the wings, and a prominent proboscis containing a fighter radar, and a fly-by-wire flight control system.

However the most radical modifications to the aircraft were only to be found on climbing aboard. In addition to the regular cockpit up front, the ASTTA was equipped with an extra cockpit inside the cabin. Here the students from the USAF Test Pilot School could familiarize themselves with the new systems such as infra-red targeting devices and various types of radar.
There was more. Back in the blacked-out cabin the student also had a sidestick controller similar to that used in the F-16. Using these controls, coupled to a sophisticated fly-by-wire control system through the ASTTAs computers, and with a head-up display, he could fly the big transport which would respond just like the normal fighter.

For my flight Calspan pilot John Ball, up front in the regular cockpit, took off in the normal way and set us up for cruise before engaging the fly-by-wire system and turning control of the machine over to the student in the back. Thereafter Ball acted as safety pilot, and monitored the panel of lights signifying the operation of the flight control system. Ball could override the system if things started getting out of hand.

We flew on a brilliant autumn day, operating against a T-38 jet which was scheduled to carry out a series of head-on passes against us so that the students in the cabin could in turn practice acquiring targets on the radar and IR scopes in the cabin. From the cockpit I could hear the reports of target range and distance coming from the cabin. As the range closed a tiny dot ahead of us would grow rapidly into the T-38 which would flash past us, then turn to set up another run.

While the Calspan crew flew from the regular cockpit up-front in the ASTTA, the student test pilot rode amidships in a simulated F-16 cockpit, with all the displays and controls provided

With the air-to-air portion of the mission completed, we flew over to one of the ground ranges in the desert to assess problems of acquiring ground targets using the IR and radar systems. It was absorbing work, and the safety pilot and the relatively slow cruising speed of 180 knots gave more time for the students to appreciate what was happening throughout each run, and was also safer than if the students had been trying to fly an F-16 at 400 knots while assessing the system. By the end of the flight I was thoroughly convinced that this was a cost-effective way of training pilots to carry out systems assessment.

The ASTTA still sported the FDL of the Flight Dynamics Laboratory on the vertical tail. Fitted with a fly-by-wire flight control system, the aircraft could maneuver more like a fighter than the transport aircraft it was based upon.

However Systems testing was only a part of the syllabus at the Test Pilot School. The classic test pilot role of stick and rudder work to assess aircraft handling was a different matter. Training test pilots in the assessment of aircraft handling qualities is a difficult task. Student Test Pilots need to be exposed to a variety of aircraft, but this only provides experience on aircraft which have already been through a flight test development program and had most of the bugs ironed out. The problems can be covered in the classroom, but teaching the pilot to recognize the handling deficiency in flight and then to deal with it in the appropriate manner is not simple. If the aircraft turns out to be unstable, it could be downright dangerous. Ground-based simulators can go part of the way to allow a test pilot to assess the behavior of an aircraft prior to flight, but the subtleties of the flight environment make it desirable to use an in-flight simulator to achieve a realistic cockpit environment.

In order to provide a safe demonstration of the various aspects of aircraft handling qualities in flight, Calspan had modified a Learjet 24 with a variable stability flight control system. This Learjet was operated under contract to the USAF Test Pilot School at Edwards Air Force Base and also flew for the Navy Test Pilot School at Patuxent River, Maryland.

Calspan and the Air Force invited me to fly the Learjet at Edwards AFB.

During the forty-six week course at the Test Pilot School the student test pilots and flight test engineers flew three flights on the Learjet.The first flight demonstrated the various stability and control parameters associated with longitudinal stability. On the second flight lateral-directional handling was covered. The third was a review flight where the student was exposed to an unknown configuration and could assess and identify the problem.

On my single flight I would cover all three of these.

This workload, in addition to other Calspan flight commitments, kept the Calspan test pilots busy, with the three pilots rotating between the Learjet, ASTTA and a variable-stability
NT-33A. As a result they spent a lot of time on the road, completing a two-week stint at each location before moving to their next assignment. It took some time before our schedules were able to mesh. I took the opportunity to read the Pilot Manual for this very unique aircraft.

Under contract to the USAF and USN Test Pilot Schools, the Learjet is based at Edwards or Patuxent River to fly the student test pilots and Flight Test Engineers, and to demonstrate aircraft handling.

This Learjet 24, N101VS was converted into a variable stability aircraft by the Calspan Flight Research Department under joint funding from the USAF and Navy Test Pilot Schools. The evaluation pilot’s station at the right hand seat was fitted with a fly-by-wire flight control system which coupled on-board computers to electro-hydraulic servo-actuators on the control surfaces. Meanwhile the left seat safety pilot’s control system remained directly connected to the aircraft control surfaces and reflected the commanded surface movements during simulation.

The system could be manually disengaged by either pilot at any time, when the aircraft reverted to the basic Learjet handling for operation by the safety pilot. A safety-trip system was incorporated so that whenever pre-set limits were exceeded, the simulation system would trip out, with the aircraft reverting to the control of the safety pilot.
So here we had the ability to simulate hundreds of different aircraft, with their handling quirks and idiosyncracies, together with the ability to fly any future aircraft that could be dreamed up by an aircraft designer. And to do it in safety. In all there were 128 pre-programmed configurations readily accessed in flight together with another 128 variations that could be punched in during flight.

This Learjet had an awesome capability.

We briefed for the flight at the Test Pilot School at Edwards Air Force Base. Calspan pilot Jim Baker was a former Navy test pilot whose qualifications included a medical degree which led to him spending a tour at the Institute of Aviation Medicine at Farnborough. However, Baker said with a smile, flying was more fun than doctoring, so here he was flying the Learjet and the other Calspan research aircraft.

Our afternoon demonstration flight would be Baker’s third flight that day, TPS flights having started early in the morning to ensure the calmest air for test work. During our pre-flight walk-around the sleek red and white jet, Baker pointed out the two extra angle-of-attack sensors on the nose which characterizeds 101VS from the standard Lear 24. These sensors, together with a sideslip vane under the nose of the aircraft, fed the computers for the Variable Stability System (VSS) whose electronics filled the rear part of the cabin. Baker would be in the left hand seat and I would occupy the right hand seat as the evaluation pilot.

Once we were in our seats, with the cabin door left open for the moment to keep some air circulating in the ninety-degree desert heat, Baker pointed out the cockpit differences from a standard Learjet. The VSS was controlled by two panels, one being a gain-change panel and keyboard located on a console between the pilot’s seats, the other being on the left hand cockpit side wall. The main instrument panel additionally had meters displaying pitch, roll and yaw angles. Red sectors on the meters showed the limits at which the system would trip. If things got out of hand, either pilot could disconnect the system independently. The trip warnings and VSS reset buttons were in front of Jim Baker. On my side of the cockpit, the panel was that of a standard Learjet, with just the addition of a meter showing stick-force per g. While on his side of the cockpit, Baker retained the control yoke which operated the standard Lear cable-operated flight control system, I had a fighter-type stick operated by the VSS which was connected solely by electronics to the control surfaces.

The cabin door was then closed and we were ready to go. Once both engines were running, Jim Baker checked the VSS and the fly-by-wire(FBW) systems to ensure that control could be maintained from the right seat in case of safety pilot incapacitation. As always, the greatest danger was from birdstrike, the Lear being limited to 306 knots below 14,000 feet because of windshield bird strike considerations. Having had to avoid the local turkey vultures around Edwards on previous occasions , I practiced the actions required of me in the event of Baker being put out of action by a birdstrike. I could re-engage the system by simply hitting the FBW switch and then the three FEEL, PRESS and ENGAGE buttons on the instrument panel to regain control.

Having checked that the VSS was serviceable, Baker engaged nosewheel steering and got us moving. The nose dipped as he checked the brakes. With callsign COBRA 37 we were cleared to Runway 22. We taxied down the Edwards ramp past the T-38s, A-7s and F-4s of the TPS fleet and past the B-1s and their chase F-111s. Once lined up on Runway 22, Baker increased power, carried out a power check at 80 per cent and released the brakes. Acceleration was rapid and we rotated at 125 knots. Once established in the climb, Baker pulled the power back to ninety-five per cent and engaged the VSS.

We climbed out over Lake Isabella and got clearance to enter the military airspace known as Eddie 2, north-west of Edwards over the Sierra Nevada. We set up in the cruise at 240 knots and 16,000 feet. As we whistled on over the rugged mountains, I played the role of a student test pilot. Jim Baker started our demonstration of longitudinal handling with the aircraft set up with positive static stability, as in the standard Learjet. Initially we looked at the long-period oscillation or phugoid. This standard flight test maneuver was entered by pulling the nose up to twenty degrees, then releasing the stick, at the same time starting the stopwatch on the panel. The aircraft arced up into the sky, trading speed for height. As the Lear’s nose came down to the horizon, speed had dropped to 190 knots. Then the nose continued to drop and we headed down towards the mountains. In an act of faith we kept our hands on our knees and away from the controls.

After a few seconds the positive stability of the Learjet caused the aircraft to self-recover from the dive and the maneuver bottomed out at 14,800 feet. As we passed through 16,000 feet after having completed one full cycle of this oscillation, seventy seconds had elapsed. The subsequent oscillations, with no pilot inputs, diminished gradually in amplitude and the Learjet gradually regained level flight as the motion damped out. It was a graphic example of textbook behavior.

The short period mode, a potentially more risky maneuver, was next to be demonstrated. Jim Baker had briefed me that we would start by carrying out a frequency sweep in pitch, initially moving the stick slowly fore-and-aft and gradually speeding up the frequency. At the resonant frequency the aircraft would exhibit the maximum response. A sharp fore-and-aft input on the control stick would excite the Short Period Oscillation. Sure enough, when the stick was pulsed, the aircraft nose rapidly oscillated up and down twice, and then the motion damped out, confirming the positive damping of the basic Learjet.

O.K. so far, and next to see how this behavior translated into the operational world, in this case a ground attack maneuver, we would attempt to acquire and track a ground target. With a grin Baker pointed out “our Calspan five-cent bombsights”, tape crosses on our respective windshield panels. Picking a spot on the mountains below, Baker banked the Learjet past the vertical, pulling back on the yoke to roll into a typical ground attack maneuver, then demonstrating the technique of changing his aim point to different targets during the dive. It was apparent that the basic Learjet’s response was sluggish compared with a regular attack aircraft as he attempted to track four separate targets during the dive. When it was my turn, I appreciated the difficulty of shifting the target in the dive with this aircraft designed as a stable business jet.

We climbed back to level flight at 16,000 feet and Jim Baker reduced the damping ratio for me. The aircraft started to behave in a squirrelly fashion. Pitch disturbances after the fore-and aft stick pulse now took five oscillations to damp out. As we headed downhill for my attack maneuver, it was noticeably harder to track the target, with the nose overshooting in pitch each time. It felt like driving an old car with ineffective shock absorbers. During this oscillatory maneuver I hit the lower limit of .15g and the VSS system tripped out, illuminating the panel in a blaze of warning lights.

Once back at 16,000 feet and with the VSS once more engaged, Baker then reduced the damping to zero. The aircraft was still stable but with the lack of damping the handling was disastrous. Not only was it virtually impossible to aim the aircraft, but it was all too easy to excite a Pilot Induced Oscillation (PIO); I had a wholesome respect for PIOs, having seen film of an F-4 Phantom come apart during a high-speed pass when a PIO developed. But all was not lost. Even though the motion was violent, Baker demonstrated how the aircraft could be recovered from the PIO by catching the oscillation at the top or bottom of the maneuver.
Baker now increased the damping ratio. This changed the character of the motion completely, the heavily damped motion giving no overshoots but resulting in a sluggish feel to the aircraft.

“ Like trying to carry out ground attacks in a B-52” one Edwards test pilot, Colonel Bob Behler, subsequently described flying this configuration.

Having reached the northern end of our allotted airspace, we turned south-west of Owens Lake and headed south again over the rugged Sierra Nevada. The next phase of the assessment was to show the effect of varying the center of gravity of the aircraft. This was not done by shifting weight around, but done electronically by feeding in an angle of attack value from those extra sensors on the nose. With the pitch damping restored to the standard Lear value and the c.g now artificially shifted forward, the normal stick force gradient of 8lb/g had doubled to 16 lb/g. When I pulsed the stick fore and aft to excite the short period oscillation, the frequency of the motion increased and the damping went down, giving five oscillations of the nose before we were back in level flight. This felt pretty weird. Here we had drastically changed the damping of the motion simply by moving the c.g forward. Baker explained that the task of the test pilot at this point was to observe, not to try and analyze the motion which could have a number of parameters varying due to one specific change.

Baker then adjusted the VSS to artificially move the c.g rearwards to the aft limit. I tried flying this configuration. Stick forces were lighter, although the other flying qualities were basically unaffected. Moving the center of gravity further aft resulted in marked changes to the flight characteristics. As I pulled the stick back, tracking was still possible but there was no speed stability or speed cues. In this configuration, as I pulled back on the stick the nose just kept pitching up at a constant rate.

With the c.g further aft still, my aft deflection of the stick resulted in the Learjet pitching up to a constant 1.8g. The stick deflection was now translating into a pitch acceleration and the stick forces had decreased to zero. This felt most uncomfortable…like balancing on the head of a pin.
I suddenly remembered, in the first World War pilots flying the Sopwith Camel biplane described it in the same way. With an aft c.g and virtually no stability, it could turn like a flash in combat to overcome its enemies, but killed many of its own unwary pilots in doing so. Seventy years on, flying this time machine, I was learning what flying a Camel must have been like.
Flying cautiously, I determined that it was just possible to fly and maneuver the Lear in this condition, but it was ever-so-easy to get it into a PIO. As I deliberately initiated larger inputs to simulate a landing approach the aircraft started to oscillate in pitch. The motion became divergent, with the nose plunging below the horizon , then rearing up to the sky. I was too late in clamping the stick and the VSS tripped out at zero-g during the oscillation and I was jammed up against my seat harness, floating clear of the seat for a few seconds. Luckily Calspan does not carry paying passengers during these flights.

This was a challenge. Licking my lips, when the VSS had been reset I repeated the sequence and this time after I had let the PIO develop I caught it at the top of the oscillation, timing my correction at the top of our arc through the sky by applying steady back pressure each time the nose started to drop. This was successful in damping the motion and demonstrated the advantage of Baker being able to demonstrate and teach recovery from what would have been a dangerous situation if inadvertently encountered in test flying. Flushed with success I repeated the exercise and deliberately initiated a PIO, this time trying to catch it at the bottom of the oscillation. This proved more difficult. As the nose dropped, mountain peaks filled the windshield and again the VSS tripped before I could arrest the motion. I was doubtful that the aircraft could even be landed in this configuration.

Baker then returned the system to the basic Lear characteristics and then demonstrated the effect of varying the stick force gradient from the 8lb/g of the basic Lear, over a range between a bomber like 25lb/g(only pilots with Popeye-like forearms need apply) and a gradient of 2lb/g (almost like the aerobatic Pitts Special). Again I found tracking was difficult at the heavy end, when during maneuvers it was necessary to pull with a 50lb force with one hand, and uncomfortably responsive at the light end. It was a strange sensation one moment to be flying a lumbering heavy aircraft, then the next moment to be flying a sensitive aerobatic mount.
“Have you flown at F-16 yet?” Baker asked. I shook my head and admitted that opportunity had not yet come my way.

Baker punched in another combination of gains on his panel, explaining as he did so,” This next configuration gives the fixed stick that we flew on the early F-16s. It was sensitive to pressure only. See how pilot performance is affected, It’s very sensitive.”

That was an understatement. In this configuration my stick was locked and I found the Lear responded briskly to the lightest pressures on the stick. This was the way the flight control system on the F-16 was set up for initial flying. I had seen the film of the prototype getting into a roll-axis PIO during what was supposed to be a high – speed taxi run. After one horizontal tail had scraped the ground and the aircraft had departed off the side of the runway the pilot had chosen to pull it off the ground to resolve the situation, resulting in an inadvertent first flight. Sure enough as I cautiously tried my tracking maneuvers on a puffy cumulus cloud, this led to some bobbling in pitch and roll as I got used to this ultra-sensitive system.

Baker punched in a small degree of motion to the stick. This greatly improved the response and was in fact the solution adopted on later F-16s. Then he added a few more changes to further increase the stick deflection. My comment now was that the handling felt like a sailplane, where the resulting control was loose, adequate for thermaling, but not good enough for a tracking task. Baker then wound up the stick friction electronically. I found this awkward for tracking. Baker pre-loaded the stick back to neutral with a simulated centering spring to oppose the friction. This improved tracking considerably.

The CALSPAN Learjet N101VS was the first to be fitted with the Variable Stability System that enabled it to reproduce the handling of a huge range of aircraft, past, present or future.

We were now ready for some lateral-directional work. I slowed the Learjet to 170 knots for this because of sideslip limitations. We started with the baseline aircraft, which has positive dihedral. I pushed on the right rudder pedal. The nose swung to the right and the left wing rose because of the dihedral effect. Just a normal airplane. Positive dihedral was designed in and tended to level the wings if the aircraft was disturbed by a gust. Nothing unusual to report so far.
Baker punched a few more buttons to give me an aircraft with zero dihedral. Now when I pushed the rudder, the wings stayed level throughout the sideslip. This felt strange. I had flown aerobatic aircraft like this. More button pushing. Negative dihedral was now set up. As I pushed on the right rudder the left wing started to drop. This was a most uncomfortable feeling. I had never experienced this in flight before, having only seen reference to it in textbooks on stability and control. It was an undesirable and potentially unsafe phenomenon, and something to be avoided.

Baker reset the VSS to the baseline aircraft again. At his bidding I lined up my tape cross on a distant cloud, then initiated a dutch roll at 170 knots by pushing on the left rudder pedal, then the right. This started a classic dutch roll oscillation, with the tape cross moving in an ellipse against the cloud as the basic yawing motion was accompanied by a rolling motion as each wing dropped in turn. After a couple of oscillations the motion died away. I had seen this characteristic on tactical fighters. It looked conventional enough so far.

Jim Baker now started varying the parameters as he had done with the longitudinal motion, challenging me to identify what parameters he was varying. Correctly assessing the situation for the first couple of changes, I was caught out the third time. As I kicked the rudder to the left, then the right, the nose swung left, then to the right. But instead of the motion damping out, the nose wandered off to the left again, hesitated and then came back.
“What have I done?” asked Baker innocently. “Decreased the damping?” I said tentatively. Baker grinned. “Sure, the damping has changed. But you are now flying an aircraft with negative directional stability. The damping has decreased, but as a by-product of the instability. "

In my previous experience with tactical fighters, I had met up with this type of phenomenon, but only at supersonic speeds. This behavior meant that the vertical fin was not big enough to restrain the sideslip. Many years previously, Chuck Yeager had barely escaped with his life in the rocket-powered Bell X-1 when reduced directional stability at supersonic speeds had caused the aircraft to go out of control. Here it was, demonstrated at low speed in a normally stable jet. It was as if we had suddenly lost the vertical tail. We were still wallowing on through the sky in a persistent dutch roll, albeit a very untidy maneuver. There was little the pilot could do to retrieve this situation (Way back in 1985 when a JAL 747 had lost its vertical tail due to a structural failure it had continued flying for over half an hour, with video taken from the ground showing it wallowing in just this way. It finally crashed with the loss of all on board.)

“Try applying a bit of sideslip,” said Jim Baker. “We still have rudder control.”
I cautiously pressed on the right rudder pedal. The nose lurched to the right, with the sideslip needle on the panel oscillating between six and eight degrees. It was very uncomfortable . We seemed to be flying sideways and the lateral g-force was squashing me into the corner of my seat. An extreme example of what could be demonstrated.

With fuel now down to 2,000lb, we had completed our planned mission. I brought the Learjet back to Edwards, descending to follow an F-15E on an approach over Rogers dry lake. Jim Baker disengaged the VSS and took over for a landing on Runway 22 after just over two hours airborne. The wind had increased during our flight and was now gusting thirty five knots, with the wind buffeting our aircraft during the lengthy crosswind taxi back to the ramp. We were marshalled efficiently into our parking slot and Baker shut down the engines. As the jets whined down into silence, I reflected that this Learjet provided an efficient platform for assessing the handling qualities of a vast range of aircraft, even to the extent of safely demonstrating some characteristics which would be too dangerous to be demonstrated in a fixed-stability aircraft.

The capability was awesome, giving the pilot the ability to fly maybe twenty different aircraft within a single sortie. It was an invaluable tool for this task of teaching student test pilots. All aircraft designers should have access to such an aircraft before finalizing their designs.

Every pilot should have one.

Chapter 22: Grounded

2009-12-28T12:59:00.000-08:00

The trouble started one morning while I was shaving. Suddenly I was aware that I could not hear my watch ticking. The watch sat in its normal position on the tiled surface adjacent to the washbasin. I lifted the watch up, shook it and checked that it was running. Sure enough the second hand was still marching round the dial. But I could not hear it. Puzzled, I held the watch to my left ear. Yes, the watch was ticking, albeit faintly. Still framed in shaving cream, the face in the mirror looked back at me with a puzzled expression.

Had I gone deaf?

Yes. Overnight I had apparently gone deaf in my left ear. Worried now, I held the watch up by my right ear. Again, as I moved the watch closer I could hear a faint ticking. It was slightly louder than the other ear, but nothing like the normal ticking.

Then I remembered. A week or so previously I had been suffering from a cold. This temporary deafness was probably no more than the lingering effects of the cold. Thus rationalized, the problem seemed of little concern. I finished my shave and went downstairs to breakfast.

Later that week I was flying again. I had no problems with my ears during climbs or descents. However when the deafness showed no signs of clearing up, I began to get concerned and went to see an ear specialist. After a battery of hearing tests was completed, the results were devastating. The specialist informed me that I was suffering from progressive otosclerosis in both ears. Basically the problem was calcification of the chain of tiny bones in the middle ear. Instead of vibrating as normal to transmit sound, the bones were slowly but surely fusing together. The process was irreversible, and eventually I would go completely deaf.

For a time the situation was manageable while I was flying. I simply turned up the volume of the radio and could hear the controllers perfectly well. However on the ground the situation in day-to-day living became increasingly frustrating as my hearing deteriorated. I could not hear telephone messages, conversation became increasingly difficult and my wife and family suffered as my deafness got worse.

In front of me loomed the frightening prospect of complete deafness. I was still flying, but it was rapidly becoming apparent that I would soon be requiring the volume on the radio turned up to its maximum. I was increasingly worried that despite having the radio turned up to full volume, I would miss a vital message from Air Traffic Control, so presenting a risk to others as well as myself. Whichever way I argued to myself, my assessment was that the risk was getting too high. There was no way out.

I reluctantly quit flying.

Others must have gone down this path before me, but it did not make life any easier. In all other respects I was still fit to fly. In my work I was still surrounded by aircraft. Every day I was still working with engineers and pilots. But the uncertainties kept multiplying. Could I ever get back to flying. Even on the ground my future was uncertain. How long would I still be able to continue in my career of aeronautical engineering, where teamwork was everything?

There were ways to compensate. I could still write. I experimented with painting. My family was supportive, and we did many valuable things as a family, but there still seemed no way of properly compensating for the loss of an important part of my life.

Then came a ray of hope. A relative of a colleague of mine had suffered from a similar loss of hearing. She had been treated at the House Ear Institute in Los Angeles and treatment had resulted in a dramatic improvement in her hearing.
I arranged to travel to downtown Los Angeles and visited the Institute where I had still more hearing tests. At the Institute my consultant, Dr. James Sheehy said that there was a good chance that the condition could be rectified. The otosclerosis could be treated by removing the offending stapes bones in each ear and replacing them with metal prostheses. This stapedectomy operation had been pioneered by the House Institute and there was a high probability of success. There was a cautionary note, he added: some patients were prone to balance problems after the operation.
This latter part was not good news. Balance problems would be the death knell for flying if it happened to me. Still, this was the only long-term solution that presented itself. So I agreed to the proposed treatment. Dr Sheehy explained that the technique was still fairly recent. He would perform two separate operations, one on each ear. There would be a wait of a year before the second operation just to make sure that the first operation was a success.

An appointment was made for the first operation. My wife drove me to the hospital for Dr. Sheehy to operate on my left ear. I am not at ease in hospitals. To compound my discomfort this operation was to be carried out under local anesthetic. It was all rather unnerving as I was conscious throughout the procedure and aware of the surgeon’s progress during this delicate operation. My overwhelming worry, as I lay on the operating table, was the need not to sneeze at an inappropriate time during the delicate microsurgery.

The House Institute was host to a constant stream of doctors from all over the world, intent on observing how this new procedure was carried out. So the progress of the operation was monitored by TV cameras for the benefit of this captive audience. Dr. Sheehy was terribly cheerful throughout and kept up a running commentary for the benefit of the observers.

All apparently went well and I was kept in the hospital overnight as standard procedure. It was unusual, said Dr. Sheehy, for one’s balance to be a little adrift for a while after the operation. Sure enough, I had to move a bit carefully for a few days. Sudden movements caused strange effects to my vestibular system. But as soon as the post-operative swelling had gone down and the dressings were removed, with elation I noticed an improvement in my hearing.

Coming back from deafness was like coming back from a dark tunnel into the light. I could hear phones ringing, birds singing, and I could carry on a normal conversation once more. It was like being reborn.

As time went on, my hearing improved further in my left ear. It appeared as if things were going OK so far and I waited impatiently for the year to be up so that I could have the fading hearing in my right ear rectified.

The second operation was a mirror image of the first. Again after a few days there was a perceptible improvement in the hearing of my right ear. About a month after the operation I was checked out by Dr. Sheehy and his staff and given a clean bill of health. My hearing was back to normal.

By this time I was driving around California again, had started running to keep in shape and had encountered no balance problems. Life on the ground was fine again. But for me there was no more hurdle to cross. Could I still fly?

My first flight was as a passenger in a twin-engine turboprop. There were no problems and my balance seemed OK during gentle maneuvering. But there was no way on earth to duplicate the complex effects on my inner ear that aerobatics would impose, short of actually flying. So I had to bite the bullet and chose to fly the Great Lakes biplane, with an instructor in the second seat to take over just in case things should go drastically wrong.

It was a beautiful California day when at five thousand feet over the Pacific Ocean with the wind battering around the open cockpit, I banked the biplane in a series of clearing turns. Emotionally, I was not at all sure if I wanted to find out the answer. If my balance was affected, I would have to ground myself permanently. The Pacific turned below us as I circled, ostensibly checking for other aerial traffic but in fact trying to postpone the fateful moment. Everything was very clear. The sun reflected from the struts, sparkled from the windshield and shadows swung across the instrument panel.

Eventually I could not think of a reason to prolong the turn further and I took a deep breath, rolled into a steep bank, let the nose drop into a dive and pulled up into a loop, the first maneuver in my sequence of aerobatics.

Thirty minutes later we landed after thoroughly wringing out the Great Lakes and my vestibular system in a series of aerobatics which had included loops, rolls, stall turns and spins. As the propeller jerked to a halt I had a grin from ear to ear which needed no explanation. I was back in business.

After more than a year of an enforced stay on the ground, flying aerobatics in the Great Lakes Trainer proved that my balance was unaffected by the operations that had restored my hearing. I was cleared to fly again.

Later that week I flew again, solo this time, and got back into aerobatic practice after a few flights. Life was good. I was back to normal and flying was even sweeter after this enforced period on the ground.

Chapter 21 : Improving on Perfection

2009-12-23T08:11:00.001-08:00

Photo of N88EW via Neil Bilodeau

In many fields, excellence is represented by a single name which needs to further explanation. In music it is a Stradivarius, in automobiles it is a Rolls-Royce. In aerobatics it is the Pitts Special.

I had first flown the Pitts Special when taking an advanced aerobatic course just after I arrived in southern California. It was hard work but it was fun. At the end of the course I was left with a lasting impression of the exhilarating performance of this diminutive biplane. The controls were light and the roll rate was phenomenal, equaling that of many high-performance military jets. It excelled in inverted flight. I was captivated. Since that time I had flown aerobatics in a variety of military and civil aircraft and found nothing to approach the handling of the Pitts S-2A. I had flown a number of S-2As and had fun in all of them. However, the S-2A did have one shortcoming. With two on board the 200HP S-2A would inexorably lose altitude during a training sequence. After a few minutes of aerobatics it was standard practice to break off and climb back to altitude. It was an inconvenience at best for my type of flying, but a distinct handicap in serious aerobatic competition.

So the Pitts Aircraft company of Afton, Wyoming, shoe-horned the 260HP Avco Lycoming AEIO-540-D4A5 six-cylinder engine into the Pitts airframe to give improved vertical performance. The resulting two-seater S-2B had the capability to complete an unlimited aerobatic sequence two-up without losing altitude. The single-seat S-2T with the same engine would outfly just about anything.
But was the S-2B much different to fly that the S-2A? I had the opportunity to fly Bill Hare’s S-2B N88EW from Hawthorne Airport in Southern California.

ChristenAircraft built this aircraft.

During the walk-round Bill pointed out the differences from the S-2A. The engine of course was much bigger and heavier. Consequently the wings and main landing gear had been moved forward five inches to compensate for the c.g shift. The wings remained the same two-spar spruce construction, the top wing of NACA 6400 section and the lower wing of 00 series. The wings were of symmetrical section to make inverted flight easier.

I marveled at the attention to detail. One example could be seen on the inboard side of the airfoil-section strut linking the upper and lower ailerons. A wire was doped along the length of the inboard side of the strut. Bill explained: ” The older S-2A had round –section struts. This new airfoil-section strut on the S-2B reduced drag, but sideslip caused the strut to produce lift and could cause it to vibrate. The wire effectively spoils the lift and prevents any vibration.”
Bill/s S-2B stood noticeably higher off the ground than the regular S-2A, with the pointed spinner almost at eye-level. The propeller was an eighty-inch constant speed Hartzell two-blade metal prop. Tightly re-cowled, the engine compartment was all new. The characteristic cheek air outlets at the back of the engine bay were deleted and there was now a controllable cowl-flap in the bottom of the engine compartment for cooling.

Naturally enough, a full inverted fuel and oil system was standard. Minor changes to the center fuselage included provision for a smoke system tank and plumbing. The fuselage framework was constructed of welded 4130 steel tube with wooden stringers, together with aluminum top decking and side panels. The fuselage sides were now metal –covered, extending back to the rear cockpit and replacing the fabric- and-stringer cockpit walls of the earlier models. On the S-2B the two-seat bubble canopy introduced on later S-2As was now standard. The four ailerons were of symmetrical section with aerodynamic “spades” on the lower pair.

Digressing for a moment, I’ll explain. As if the roll rate was not fast enough on the regular Pitts to make your eyes water, aerobatic aces had started fitting spades to further increase the roll rate. The spades were basically rectangular metal plates cantilevered forward from the bottom of the lower ailerons. Their function was to provide a degree of aerodynamic balance. As the aileron was deflected up, the spades were forced down into the airstream and this in turn helped push the aileron further up. In effect this felt rather like power steering on a car, as the aileron forces in flight were reduced dramatically.

N88EW still had that new plane smell, having only fifty hours on the Hobbs meter at the time of our flight. Resplendent in an eye-catching red, white and blue sunburst paint scheme on the upper surfaces, with the undersides a red and white checkerboard design, it squatted pugnaciously on the ramp. Every line was purposeful. This airplane was made for serious fun.

Strapping into the rear cockpit I found that even with a back-type parachute I was not unduly constricted. This Pitts was flown solo from the rear cockpit and the front office was less comprehensively equipped, although full dual controls were fitted. Squeezing my six feet plus frame into small aircraft is sometimes accomplished only with some effort, but the S-2B’s rear cockpit was entirely adequate.

The cockpit layout was familiar, being mainly as I remembered from the S-2A. A hefty throttle lever was mounted on the left hand wall. Mixture and prop plungers protruded from the left side of the panel. The panel had normal VFR instruments with room for the obligatory Aresti aerobatic sequence card on the rear panel. One prominent addition was the cowl flap control plunger down on the left hand side of the bucket seat. My rudder and brake pedals were now enclosed in fiberglass tunnels, a precaution to stop them from becoming entangled with the loose strap ends from the front seat. A clear plexiglass floor in the cockpit was an aid to orientation over the ground markers during competition. Before Bill climbed into the front seat we carefully checked the operation of the sideways-opening canopy. I swung it shut and slid it forward an inch or two before it locked home. Bill warned that on the S-2B the canopy had to be positively locked before engine start. An unlocked canopy could be lifted open by the slipstream and slammed into the top wing. At $1,500 for a new canopy, it seemed prudent to follow Bill’s bidding.

The engine started easily on the first turn of the key. With the oil pressure in the green I listened to ATIS, switched to ground to obtain taxi clearance, and taxied out. We had a five knot wind from the west. As we taxied to the runup area for Runway 25 I realized that forward view was of course minimal, so I had to weave to clear the blind spot ahead where the oversized engine blanked out most of the forward view. Another problem turned out to be trying to keep the speed down without riding the brakes. Even throttled back the S-2B kept accelerating. I kept the cowl flap closed during taxiing to raise engine temperature as quickly as possible.

Under the bubble canopy the temperature was rising rapidly as the sun blazed down on us. I wasted no time in finishing my pre-takeoff control checks, then ran the engine up for the normal magneto and propeller checks. Checks complete, I checked that there was no other traffic, and requested takeoff clearance.

Hawthorne is a historic field. The Northrop Flying Wings and F-89 jet fighters originally flew from here before civilization encroached upon the field. Now the area around the field is completely built-up, causing Northrop to switch their flight test activities some ninety miles away to Palmdale. These days Hawthorne is normally restricted to general aviation aircraft with the occasional visiting Warbird or executive jet to enliven the proceedings.

Cleared for takeoff I swung out onto the runway, with a last visual check that there was no traffic on finals. I appreciated the good view around given by the bubble canopy. Rolling forward a couple of feet to straighten the tailwheel , I checked that the brakes were off and smoothly advanced the throttle.

The S-2B leaped forward. My headset cut down the racket of the six-cylinder engine to a throaty growl, but the acceleration was awesome. I needed right rudder to keep straight and barely had time to raise the tail before the Pitts flew itself off the runway. When we had briefed for the flight, Bill had told me to climb at 100mph. I pulled the stick back, only to find that the airspeed was still increasing. I pulled further and finally got us stabilized at 100mph but in a very steep nose-high attitude. In the absence of other visual cues the transparent floor panel already was proving useful in maintaining reference eith the centerline of the runway as it receded rapidly below. Abeam the tower, half-way down the five-thousand foot runway, we were already passing through 900 feet and by the end of the runway the Pitts was at 1,500 feet.

This rocket-like climb gave one unusual operational advantage. With the Los Angeles Class B airspace extending to the boundary of Hawthorne airport on its northern side, aircraft leaving Hawthorne usually had to circle the field to the south, climbing to 2,500 feet over the field before entering the VFR corridor which traversed the Class B heading north. The S-2B, as Bill pointed out to me, could reach this point in a straight climb from takeoff.

Levelling from this initial climb at 2,500 feet in less than a minute from brake release, I started breathing again and banked south towards the local aerobatic area over the Pacific, south of the Palos Verdes Pensinsula. Setting up for cruise with cowl flap one-third open and prop pulled back to 2,400rpm gave us a comfortable 140mph witht eh mixture leaned to give a fuel flow of fifteen gallons per hour. Manifold pressure was back to twenty inches. I gently weaved every few seconds to clear the airspace ahead of us. An intercom switch on the panel enabled us to talk without the embarrassment of transmitting inadvertently to the world at large. A boon for training.

I gingerly retrimmed in pitch with the lever on the left-hand cockpit wall, reminding myself that in a Pitts a sensitive hand was required. Even during that steep climb-out I had been aware that I was over-controlling with the light ailerons. Now I tried a few exploratory control inputs. It took a few minutes to reacquaint myself with the lightness of control of the Pitts. Rudder response seemed even more sensitive than I remembered from the S-2A. Inputs of a quarter on an inch banged the nose to either side, while lateral control was such that merely thinking of applying aileron gave a thirty-degree bank almost instantaneously. With this sort of response, the days of thought control didn’t seem far away at all.

Arriving at the aerobatic area, I checked for other traffic before setting up for our first maneuver. Aerobatic practice in California has its own set of problems. Ideally for this assessment we would fly over the desert, using straight roads as markers. Here over the ocean occasionally the wakes of yachts or boats could be utilized, but today the pacific was an unrelenting blue beneath us from horizon to horizon.

Initially I set up for a loop using the mountains of Catalina Island, some twenty miles offshore, as a reference in lieu of any conventional markers. After making sure that everything was ship-shape on board, I jiggled the prop control forward to 2,600rpm and pushed the mixture control to RICH. Today I would use 3,500 feet as my reference altitude. With the TCA airspace extending down to 5000 feet over us at this point, this give me a buffer zone to stay underneath this ceiling.
After a last look around to check for stray Cessnas, I dived slightly to 160mph, pulled back to level flight momentarily and eased back on the stick. My initial effort at a loop proved embarrassingly untidy, as the light elevator forces caused me to oscillate above and below the perfect arc and the g-meter needle jiggled either side of 3g.

Bill chortled. A subsequent loop proved easier, and I even remembered to open out the loop the correct amount at the top as the speed dropped off. This time we bounced in our own propwash at the bottom of the loop. As we came back into level flight, the altimeter read exactly at our reference altitude of 3,500 feet.
I progressed to maneuvers in the rolling plane. Half-rolls proved as precise as in the S-2A. With these magic ailerons it was easy to flip to inverted flight and just play about until you were tired of seeing the world upside down. I tried a number of full rolls with various amount of stick. Full stick gave a mind-blowing roll rate of 240 degrees per second and the roll happened so quickly that little co-ordination could be achieved. I slowed things down by trying a conventional slow roll, giving me more time to observe what was going on. I found that the controls were well harmonized, with little adverse yaw from the ailerons.

The Pitts flew perfectly, any bobbles in our flight path being due entirely to my rusty technique. The spades on the ailerons certainly made a difference. Roll rate was even higher than the S-2A and rolling was no effort at all compared to the sedate Great Lakes Biplane which I had recently been flying. Inverted flight proved to be simple and comfortable, with the five-point aerobatic harness and back-up lap belt giving confidence-inspiring support to my lower body. It made a change to fly prolonged inverted maneuvers without the necessity of having the straps so tight that the circulation to my legs was cut off altogether.

Rolling upright once more, I progressed to Cuban Eights. I initiated the maneuver from 170mph, pulling round the loop and floating over the top, waiting until we were inverted in a forty-five degree dive before rolling upright. No problems here and I repeated the maneuver to complete the Cuban Eight. I tried it again, refining my timing on the roll-out to equalize the inverted and upright segments of the dive. It all felt very natural and for variety I tried a couple of reverse Cuban Eights, pulling up to a forty-five degree climb before rolling inverted and pulling through.

“Look at the altitude,” said Bill. Sure enough, at the end of this sequence, our altitude was still at 3,500 feet and at fifty-five percent power the AEIO-540 was not even breathing hard. This was all rather fun. I spent a few minutes trying to perfect my stall turns, managing to do a reasonably tidy maneuver but finding a consistent vertical line on the exit somewhat elusive. However it eventually came together. Once back in level flight I even remembered how to do the odd inverted turn without disgracing myself. The Pitts did it all without hesitation.

Bill remarked from the front cockpit that time was getting on and we had better check the fuel remaining. I reluctantly rolled the Pitts upright and checked the fuel. The S-2B is limited to fifteen gallons of fuel with two on board to keep away from the aft c.g. limit. Aerobatic sorties are limited to somewhat less than an hour. As our maneuvering had consumed a fair amount of gasoline, it was time to head back to Hawthorne. With the blunt nose of the Pitts pointed north, the whole of the LA basin was spread out on this clear morning, with Mount Wilson visible through the shimmer of the prop and the whole of the San Gabriel mountain range athwart our path. We coasted inland over the Palos Verdes Peninsula, past the white golf balls of the LAX radar on the hill below. Once past the traffic pattern at Torrance airport, we started downhill towards Hawthorne over the urban sprawl of the South Bay.

I was impressed by this machine. When Curtis Pitts first came out with his diminutive 90HP single-seater in 1944, little could he imagine that forty years down the road his design would still be in production. But the basic Pitts Special had been constantly refined to produce a stable of factory-built and home-built variants of progressively greater power and performance, culminating in the potent machine I was flying. First appearing in September 1982, the S-2B took first place in the Advanced Category as the US Nationals held at Sherman, Texas that same year. The pilot was Clint McHenry and the unusual part of this story was that McHenry carried a passenger, having had his first-class medical pulled by the FAA and getting permission from the authorities to compete only on the condition that he flew with a safety pilot. It was an impressive performance for both plane and pilot.

As the white strip of the Hawthorne runway came into view, I checked ATIS, then switched to tower frequency to obtain clearance to land. Down to 1,100 feet I set up a downwind leg at 100mph for runway 25, turning tightly round onto finals. When flying a Pitts, approach involves either a tight continuous turn to finals, or a sideslip in order to keep the runway in sight for the longest possible time. We were cleared #2 to land, with traffic in front of us, so I set up a straight-in approach, cross-controlling with stick and rudder to give some sideslip. With more headroom under the big bubble canopy than in the S-2A I could see further along the side of the nose. Even so, the runway disappeared under the nose as I scooted in over the fence and I killed the sideslip. As the nose swung to track down the runway I eased the stick back to flare. The Pitts adopted a three-point attitude. But I had not got the stick back quite far enough asnd we touched prematurely on the main wheels, causing them to skip an instant before the tailwheel hit the ground and then we were running down the rather rough runway. Keeping straight required some dexterous footwork. Just the same as the S-2A, I remembered, and one of the penalties of attaining the superlative aerobatic performance of the Pitts aircraft.

This was a short flight and one in which I did not explore the furthest reaches of the flight envelope of this aircraft. The G-meter after flight gave evidence of only +4.6g and -1.5g, well within the +6 and -3g placarded limits of the Pitts. Flying a Pitts well requires constant practice. A single flight could do no more than scratch the surface. In the hands of an expert a Pitts could still dazzle an airshow audience or hold its own against the latest aerobatic competition monoplanes. The S-2A had been fun. The S-2B was improving on perfection.

Chapter 20: Wild Weasels

2009-09-09T19:42:00.000-07:00

En route to the training area in Panamint Valley, this F-4G of the 37th Tactical Fighter Wing sports the WW tail markings of the Wild Weasel Unit from George Air Force Base. These aircraft were to play an important role in protecting strike aircraft during the Gulf War.

Wild Weasel missions started in Vietnam back in 1965 after US forces started to lose aircraft to Soviet-built SA-2 missiles. Aircraft were urgently needed to locate and destroy the radar defense system controlling the SAMS. In the event, F-100s, F-105s and F-4Cs were modified to hunt out these radars electronically.

The Wild Weasels supported strike missions over North Vietnam, going in ahead of the strikes to clear a safe corridor to the target. By detecting and attacking SAM sites along the route, the Weasels forced the SAM operators to turn off their radars in order to survive. The Weasel motto-“First In, Last Out”-earned them the approbation of their colleagues, but resulted in high loss rates. Their mounts originally were two-seat versions of existing aircraft. Avionics were rudimentary. However, a big upgrade in Wild Weasel capability came with the F-4G Phantom.
The F-4G resulted from an Advanced Wild Weasel program in the 1970s. Starting with the basic F-4E, a total of 116 F-4Gs were produced, fitted with smokeless engines and with an APR-38 targeting avionics system incorporated. The chin-mounted Vulcan cannon was replaced by a fiberglass fairing containing the avionics of the APR-38 and a number of associated antennae. Fifty-two antennae were dotted all over the aircraft.

The result of these modifications was the ability to determine the bearing and distance to an emitting target by triangulation using the APR-38. This information was presented to the Electronics Warfare Officer (EWO) in the rear seat of the Weasel, who was incarcerated behind wall-to-wall displays for the APR-38. The EWO could designate any target and unleash an attack using anti-radiation missiles to home in on the radar transmissions, or use conventional unguided weapons.

On a clear November day in 1986, I flew with the 37th Tactical Fighter Wing at George AFB, near Victorville in Southern California, on a Weasel training mission.
This two-ship mission started from the Ops Building of the 562nd Tactical Fighter Training Squadron of the 37th Wing. Our lead ship, callsign FERRET 1, was an F-4G flown by the commanding Officer of the 562nd, Lieutenant-Colonel A.J.Thrush, with Major Mike Esters driving his APR-38. I was to be in the back seat of FERRET 2, an F-4E flown by Major Jack Byrne. Operating as a Hunter/Killer team the F-4G would use its APR-38 to identify and attack the target and the F-4E would deliver the coup de grace by dropping extra ordnance on the target.

FERRET 1 was loaded for bear. It carried four AGM-88A HARM missiles on its underwing pylons, together with a pair of AIM-7s in the aft missile wells. A 600-gallon fuel tank was mounted on the centerline pylon. FERRET 2 carried only a centerline tank with our four empty wing pylons incorporating chaff/flare dispensers. Normally we would carry bombs on these pylons. A veteran of the air war in Vietnam, our Phantom sported a red star signifying a MiG kill, dated 1972, on the left intake splitter plate.

I clambered up the ladder to the rear cockpit of the Phantom. Once strapped in and with the engines started I selected our inertial navigation to ALIGN. While the navigation system was aligning, Jack Byrne proceeded through the complex ritual of checking the flying controls with our crew chief. I could hear the litany of checks in my earphones as I reviewed my briefing notes.

Our target would be a radar site in the middle of Restricted Airspace R-2508 in Panamint Valley. Just west of Death Valley, Panamint Valley contained a gap filler surveillance radar, near the ghost town of Ballarat, which monitored military traffic from Edwards AFB, the Naval Weapons Center at China Lake and the Hornets from NAS Lemoore in addition to our F-4s from George AFB.

The game plan was for us to fly north at altitude as a pair, then let down and enter Panamint Valley, while Mike Esters in the F-4G carried out his Electronic Order of Battle (EOB) intelligence gathering using the APR-38. This would give range and azimuth to the threat emitter, in this case the enemy radar. Both aircraft would then fly the appropriate profile to hit the target with missiles and bombs. Colonel Thrush had said during our briefing, ” We may want the radars to look at us, so our buddies can be sneaking up on them at low level and dropping bombs on them”.

The idea of deliberately exposing yourself to the enemy, letting them see you, and hope that your missiles took him out before his missiles got to you, took a bit of getting used to.

Needless to say, we would not be dropping bombs or firing missiles at anyone during this training mission. R-2508 is Restricted Airspace only. Panamint Valley is open to the public and we would be skimming over Highway SR-190, not to mention the hapless radar operators at Ballarat.

A flashing green light on my panel told me that the system had finished aligning. This allowed me to switch to NAV on the Inertial Navigation system. Now that the system had pin-pointed the Phantom’s position on the face of the earth, we could taxi out. With a burst of power the Phantom rumbled forward and turned onto the taxiway.

We lowered our canopies during the taxi out. I was careful to check the alignment of my canopy actuating rods under the left hand cockpit rail. A yellow stripe had to line up on the rods, confirming that the locks were engaged. Phantoms had been known to lose their canopies if the locks were not completely closed. I was relieved to observe that the stripe was in the correct place.

We reached the arming pad and swung the Phantoms to a halt. With our hands up on our helmets, visibly clear of any switches, we waited while the ground crew armed our chaff/flare dispensers and the centerline tank. FERRET 1 went through a more lengthy procedure as each of the four HARM missiles and the centerline tank had to be armed. In case of an engine failure on takeoff, the heavy stores would be kicked off to lighten the load.

As we waited, we reviewed the bird strike procedure. Visors would be down during the low-level portion of our flight. In case of a bird strike, I was to pull back on the stick and get it away from the ground. If my front-seater was incapacitated, my best option was to get the crippled bird over to Edwards for a lakebed landing…. This drill was not an abstract academic exercise. The wing had suffered three bird strikes within the previous week.

A quartering gusty wind was blowing from our right as we pulled onto the runway. FERRET 1 went into afterburner with a roar that could be heard in our cockpit, then released his brakes and accelerated away at the head of twin tongues of flame. We followed suit in FERRET 2 ten seconds later. Once off the ground we cleaned up, turning north over the Mojave desert and cutting the corner to close up into formation. At 17,000 feet and 480 knots TAS our Weasels flew north through R-2508, then descended along the Eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada. Now flying line abreast, both Phantoms were streaking below the ridgeline, while the pilots mutually warned each other of rocks coming up ahead.

I kept losing sight of the camouflaged shape of FERRET 1 against the wooded hillsides. As we flew north the ground rose under us. The Sierras were snow-covered on this November day and the mountain lakes were starting to freeze over. At this point we were a few minutes early on our schedule and had to wait while our airspace was vacated. Over the radio I could hear CHEETAH flight still practicing ACM somewhere above us.

So we circled the snow-capped peak of Mt Whitney, waiting for CHEETAH flight to finish their fight and clear the area. At 14,505 feet, Mt Whitney was a spectacular sight underneath our wing, with the jagged skyline of the snow-covered Sierras stretching to the horizon to north and south. As CHEETAH finished its last engagement we started letting down into the Owens Valley. After the recent rains Owens Lake, normally a dry lakebed, was partially flooded, and was an eerie bloodshot hue due to the salt-loving bacteria covering its surface.

FERRET 1 fast and low over Owens Lake, east of the Sierra Nevada. Attacking radar sites was a challenging business, with the two-man crew of the Wild Weasel busy trying to entice enemy radar operators to transmit, so revealing their position and enabling the Wild Weasel to launch its radar-seeking HARM missiles.

We banked over the town of Lone Pine. I attempted to correlate the ground returns on my raw radar display with the view outside. Although it was a day of unlimited visibility, I met with little success in coaxing a meaningful picture from my radar. At least the F-4G had a computerized display which made life easier for FERRET 1’s back-seater.

FERRET 1 carries a full complement of radar-seeking HARM missiles under its wings. The sophisticated avionics of the APR-38 resides in the lower nose, in the fairing formerly housing the Vulcan cannon. The red background of Owens Lake below the Phantom is caused by the salt-loving bacteria which turns whole areas of the lake red at times.

As CHEETAH flight cleared the area we skimmed over the last range of hills and dropped down into Panamint Valley. Mike Esters in FERRET 1 started calling out range and bearing to the radar site. Tension was rising. As we let down to 500 feet the desert was whipping past below us as our airspeed crept up to 450 knots. This was flying according to peacetime rules. In a wartime situation the Weasels would be down to 300 feet and accelerating to over 500 knots to minimize exposure to ground fire. We blasted on towards the target. For my benefit we flew overhead the radar site, banking vertically so that I could recognize the cluster of white buildings. Operationally, using the stand-off capability of the HARMS, this would not have been necessary, as the HARMS of FERRET 1 would have been fired and would have already homed in on the radar antenna and demolished the target.

Immediately closing formation and pulling round to the left we headed north for a pre-planned bomb attack. During our formation turn I noticed something strange about the shadows of the aircraft as they danced over the scrub-covered desert. Whereas our shadow of FERRET 2 was trailing the familiar dark plume of exhaust gases from our J-79s, the shadow of FERRET 1 had no such trail. The smokeless engines in the F-4G had at last cured the chronic smoke trail problem which had dogged the Phantom throughout its service life.
Sliding out of the turn, the Phantoms widened out, with FERRET 1 to our right.
When Mike Esters had achieved the required azimuth and distance from the target, now some miles behind us, he called ‘KILLER!” The word was still ringing in my ears when the scrub-covered landscape of Panamint Valley tilted crazily and the stick came back into my lap. I was left contemplating a g-meter which now read 5g. The reading was confirmed by the iron grip of the g-suit inflating around my legs and lower body. My helmet started to force itself down over my eyes and my oxygen mask was sliding down my nose as I struggled to continue breathing. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the ground flashing past.

The turn continued and the inexorable pressure did not let up as I felt myself sliding further down into the ejection seat. Straining against the load, and twisting round to see our partner Phantom, my discomfiture was further magnified by the perspiration stinging my eyes as we reversed course hard left with FERRET 1 turning into us. Everything was happening very fast through this 180 degree turn. As we rolled out of the turn, FERRET 1 was a mile away to our right, streaking low over the rolling terrain and slightly ahead of us. Jack Byrne pushed the throttles briefly into afterburner to get us back into line abreast. Speed crept up to 500 knots. We were really moving.

As briefed, when we had seven miles to run to the target, Colonel Thrush rocked his wings. Jack Byrne warned me, ” Turning!” and racked the Phantom round to the right through ninety degrees of heading change at 5g, crossing behind FERRET 1. Ten seconds later we turned ninety degrees left, now paralleling our leader but trailing him. We snapped wings level to see FERRET 1 starting to pull up for his simulated bomb delivery, four miles from the target.
As FERRET 1 rolled inverted and pulled down to the target, Jack Byrne already had a visual on our target. Banking left to get the target on our nose, he pulled up at 4g into our pop-up maneuver. Passing 6,500 feet we rolled inverted and pulled. As our trajectory peaked out at 8,000 feet I looked up through the canopy to see the cluster of buildings which was our target.
The nose dropped through the horizon into a twenty degree dive. Momentarily I floated at zero g, then the horizon spun as we rolled upright in the dive, heading down towards the mountain ridges. At 5,000 feet Jack grunted, ”Pickling” as we dropped our imaginary bombs. Just then FERRET 1 scooted out to our right, on the deck. A 4g pullout above the radar site squashed me down into my seat, then we were banking hard right, jinking furiously to avoid the anticipated ground fire. FERRET 1 was screaming along ahead of us down a canyon. Our throttles went forward and we regained line abreast formation for our mutual protection during this high speed tactical egress, checking behind our partner’s tail. At this low level it was hot and tiring work.

Exiting the area we climbed to a more economical 20,000 feet for the cruise back to George AFB. Major Byrne handed control of the Phantom to me and I spent an interesting few minutes getting used to the inertia of this heavy fighter and the unfamiliar response of the J-79s.
I was only just getting the hang of it when it was time to hand the Phantom back to its rightful owner. We started letting down for an ILS to George AFB in close formation. Wheels and flaps down, with leading edge slats extended, the Phantoms came down the glideslope like ungainly storks. We carried out a low overshoot as briefed and broke on to the downwind leg, curving round for individual landings in the fierce crosswind, with our drag chutes blossoming behind the Phantoms.

Our safe return was cause for celebration, with most of the squadron members clustering round our aircraft as the engines wound down, and I was greeted with buckets of water, thoroughly soaking me as I climbed down the ladder, marking my initiation into the challenging world of tactical jet operations.

There was no doubt in my mind that Wild Weaseling was a challenging way of life.

Postscript: The Wild Weasels in their F-4Gs played a vital role in protecting strike forces during the Gulf War. The Phantoms were ultimately replaced by F-16s, but the vital task of protecting other assets is still a vital one.

Chapter 19: Riding the Friendly Giant

2009-09-02T18:57:00.000-07:00

The blimp takeoff is impossibly steep by aircraft standards. Full power on the engines, and with the elevator wheel wound full back, the Goodyear blimp climbs noisily out of its Carson base in Southern California.

It was a sparkling winter’s day and Goodyear Blimp Columbia rode serenely at the mooring mast. Here at the Carson Goodyear Base in southern California I was about to be initiated into the world of lighter-than-air flight. Columbia was alone and as a fitful wind changed direction, the airship quietly turned, always pointing into wind, trundling on her single castoring wheel around a circular path on the concrete ramp. Heavy shot bags attached to the blue and white passenger gondola kept her helium-filled bulk in equilibrium, and every few minutes the sporadic hum of an electric fan drifted across the field. This fan was automatically topping up the air pressure in the internal ballonets deep within the airship.

A smart blue and white van drove out to the airship apparently grazing at the mast. An overalled mechanic emerged and went about his tasks preparing the beast for flight. Both engines were topped up with oil, then the blower rig which maintained the envelope ballonet pressure on the ground was disconnected. Moments later the tiny figure climbed aboard the gondola, dwarfed by the sheer size of the airship. One engine coughed into life and the pusher propeller blurred into a silver disc in the sunlight. Then the second engine sprang into life and the field echoed briefly to the blare of sound as the engines were run up. The sound rose and fell as propeller pitch was checked in both forward and reverse pitch before the throttles were pulled back to let the engines idle quietly. It was almost eleven o’clock, time for the first flight of the day.

Without ceremony, more than a dozen Goodyear crewmen materialized from the Operations building, walked out across the field and took up their positions encircling the ship. Three men attended each of the two nose-mounted mooring ropes, while others steadied the gondola. Columbia was unhitched from the mast and was walked sedately downwind to provide room for the takeoff run.

Together with Tom Matus, Columbia’s pilot, I walked out to the ship. Columbia could carry six passengers and we had a full load this morning. The passengers boarded one by one, with the crew unhitching shot bags to compensate for the weight of each passenger as they boarded. I was the last one aboard, replacing the crewman who had been running the engines. Tom waved me forward to take the right hand seat at his side. As I took my seat the door was closed and locked behind me.

The interior of the gondola was a cheery place, with a bench seat for three at the rear of the cabin under a brightly painted ballooning mural. A further pair of seats was situated amidships, with our two crew seats at the forward end of the cabin. After a lifetime of strapping into various flying machines I was mildly surprised to find that there were no seat belts. Still, I reasoned, Goodyear had carried over a million passengers safely over the years, so maybe I was worrying unnecessarily.

Meanwhile, Tom was carrying on a conversation through the open window with his crew chief as the final adjustments were made to the trim by moving shot bags in and out of the compartments located on each side of the gondola. Satisfied with the trim, Tom nodded and the compartment doors were slammed closed, the warning lights on the panel winking out as the doors locked.

We were not yet floating. I realized that although the ground crew was steadying the gondola, our single wheel was still on the ground. Tom told me that normal procedure was for the airship to start the day slightly heavy. As fuel was burned off during the morning the ship would become lighter. The heat of the day would increase the helium temperature and make the ship progressively more buoyant.

There was obviously an art to all this lighter-than-air aviating.

It was time to take off. With a concerted heave on the rail girdling the gondola, the crew bounced Columbia on her single wheel. As the ship rebounded gently into the air Tom pushed the throttles forward. In a blare of sound the airship accelerated and Tom wound back on the large elevator control wheel to the right of his seat. The nose rose and with the engines at full power we climbed at an impossibly steep angle by aircraft standards.

Engines snarling, with the propeller noise reverberating back from the taut gray fabric of the airship’s belly, we climbed rapidly to Columbia’s cruising altitude of a thousand feet. Tom pulled back the twin throttles with the nose of the airship still pointing skywards. I instinctively braced for a stall but of course the airship continued to head upwards, slowly pitching down into level flight.

Tom grinned at my discomfiture. ”It gets all fixed-wing pilots like that the first time,” I nodded wisely as my heart rate slowly decreased. By now Columbia was heading south at a leisurely forty knots. The view was superb from the panoramic windows of the gondola. To our right lay Torrance and the sweep of the Palos Verdes Peninsula. In front of us Long Beach Harbor glinted in the sunlight and away to our left the San Gabriel mountains, rimming the Los Angeles basin to the north, floated with their bases in the morning mist.

Tom let me fly Columbia. Sliding into the pilot’s seat I took stock of the instruments. The familiar faces of the flight instruments, the engine controls and radios I recognized. Others were labeled “DAMPER CONTROL, HELIUM PRESSURE and HELIUM TEMPERATURE” These gauges and their readings were strangers to me.

The overhead instrument panel of the blimp contains a mix of familiar radios and engine instruments, with unfamiliar controls for the ballonets and helium-filled portions of the envelope. A large rear-view mirror enables the pilot to check on the well-being of his passengers in the gondola.

“Let’s head down towards Long Beach for a moment,” said Tom. Using my feet on the rudder pedals I tried to target the nose on the distant silver dome housing the Spruce Goose flying boat. The dome lay on the edge of Los Angeles Harbor. Our twin handling ropes dangling beneath the nose started to edge round the horizon towards the dome as I gingerly pushed on one pedal.

Becoming impatient with the lack of results, I pushed harder. Tom grinned and said

” You’ll find it’s not like an airplane,” and I wondered why.
Long seconds passed before eventually Columbia decided to swing. The nose accelerated past the dome and way off to the far side. My heart sank. This was ridiculous. It took a couple of oscillations before I got the hang of this delayed response and persuaded the nose back on target. There was a knack to it. More like trying to get a grazing elephant to head in the right direction. Gentle persuasion was the name of the game with this friendly giant.

I noticed that the nose had risen slightly as we droned under a small cloud and ran into an area of rising air. In a powered aircraft we would have felt it as turbulence, in a sailplane it would have been classed as a thermal, but in this blimp it was no more than a gentle rocking which would be more appropriate to send a baby to sleep in its crib.

Trying to outguess this behemoth I wound the elevator control wheel forward; too far, in fact, and I managed to get the nose well below the horizon. We were now pointing downhill at an oil refinery below us and I felt as if we were about to carry out a dive-bombing attack on the unsuspecting citizens of Wilmington below. Apprehensively I looked across at Tom, who was unconcernedly chatting with the passengers and pointing out landmarks. It felt to me as if we were plummeting earthwards until I noticed that the altimeter needle was still floating at the one thousand foot mark.

It now struck me what Tom had meant when he said, ”It doesn’t fly like an airplane.” Of course it didn’t. Despite having flying controls it was still a balloon, albeit a balloon one hundred and ninety two feet long. Irrespective of whether I pointed the nose up or down we would float in equilibrium at this altitude, loafing along with engines throttled well back. To climb or descend the engines would have to be used in conjunction with the elevators to power us up or down from this height. With an airship this size, containing one fifth of a million cubic feet of gas, and with a weight of around six tons, the inertia of the ship was significant. It took a bit of getting used to.

While I flew, Tom gave me some background information on the Goodyear airship operations. Since 1917 Goodyear had built more than 300 lighter-than-air craft, and at the time of my flight in the mid-eighties operated four blimps for publicity and camera ship purposes. The three US-based airships were named after yachts which had won the Americas Cup yacht race: Enterprise (which won in 1930); Columbia (yachts with this name won four times between 1871 and 1958): and America, winner of the first race in 1851. The last member of the team, airship Europa, was normally based in England for the summer and operated from a winter base near Rome.

During the daytime, the blimps were familiar sights at sporting events, being used as aerial platforms to enhance coverage of many sporting events, from the Rose Bowl to the Daytona 500. Each blimp carried a video crew and was a self-contained TV transmitting station with color video transmission from the blimp being transmitted by microwave to the dish of a ground station. Night-time use was even more spectacular, with a giant computer-controlled electronic billboard on either side of the blimp blinking out animated public service and advertising messages to the world. For this task a generator slung under the gondola of the blimp provided the electricity to power more than three thousand seven hundred lamps. These formed the messages and patterns which appeared in red, green, blue and yellow on each 105-foot-long sign.

Although passengers were carried, this was not a revenue-producing service. Those selected to ride in the blimps were guests of the various Goodyear franchises. Others were members of the press, film crews and, luckily for me, aviation writers.

In a slow circle we droned almost to the harbor, then curved over the industrial areas, with freeways looking like gray spaghetti carelessly thrown across the landscape and railroad marshalling yards patterning the ground below. As we turned northwards our nose pointed towards King Harbor on the coast at Redondo Beach. King Harbor was almost a second home to the ship and Columbia only weeks before had been solemnly declared the official bird of Redondo Beach.

The airship spent a good deal of its working life over the South Bay and Redondo Beach in particular, even monitoring the local ten-kilometer runs, although its normal working area could stretch from San Diego to San Francisco, depending on the job at hand. In 1984 Columbia was so busy during the Olympics that she was joined by sister ship America for the duration of the games.

The Goodyear Operations field came into sight. We changed seats and Tom took control of his airship again. The field, nestled between two intersecting freeways, looked much smaller from the air than it did before we took off. From our lofty perch I could see the handling crew gathering at the center of the field. The launching mast had now been folded down out of harm’s way, leaving the field clear for us to land. As we approached the field Tom discussed the wind conditions over the radio with his crew chief on the ground. Down on the field a hand-carried windsock showed that the wind down there was from the east. But the wind at our altitude was different, as became apparent from Columbias’s drift over the ground. Tom elected to land from the north-west. We circled over the freeway, the huge shadow of the blimp sweeping over the cars scurrying below.

Nose down and engines roaring, Columbia started to descend. As the airship lurched in the bumpy air at the lower altitude it was a busy time for Tom, who had to use large deflections of wheel and pedals to keep us heading in the right direction. Despite this, everything appeared to happen in slow motion as we threaded our way between thickets of power lines bordering the field. We were settled on our approach when suddenly Columbia started drifting sideways.
The wind at ground level had changed again and the tiny hand-held windsock out on the field showed that a southerly wind had sprung up. This wind blew us off course at the most inopportune moment.

Engines roaring loudly, the blimp powers down final approach to the field, with the pilot often using full control deflections on rudder pedals and elevator wheel while battling stray wind currents and attempting to stay on course.

The ground crew could not catch us this time round. So Tom went forward on the throttles and back on the elevator wheel. Columbia climbed away for another approach. We circled the field and came in again. There were no problems this time. As the wind stayed on our nose during the approach the figures of the ground crew grew larger in the windscreen. Men grabbed the ropes and ran out to either side to steady the ship. With a soft jolt our wheel touched and we were down.

Nearing touchdown, the groundcrew prepare to grab the handling ropes dangling from the nose, and another group will grab the encircling rail to steady the gondola, while passengers carefully disembark one by one, being replaced one-by-one by the new passengers, so keeping the weight more or less constant.

Already the passengers for the next flight, an Australian film crew, were waiting off to one side. At the crew chief’s instructions we disembarked, one at a time, each person being replaced in turn by a boarding passenger. In this way the passenger weight aboard the gondola remained approximately constant and Columbia did not get too far out of trim. Goodyear ran a slick operation and it was only moments before the door closed behind the last boarding passenger. In a blare of sound Columbia climbed away on another flight, showing the Goodyear flag over the South Bay once more.

Chapter 18: Night Owl

2009-08-16T09:53:00.000-07:00

Night had long been a cloak of invisibility for military movements on land, sea or air. Radar had its limitations, especially as the radar transmissions acted as a beacon for any enemy missiles to follow. A partial answer was found in the use of night vision goggles which could amplify available starlight. Goggles in turn had their limitations, however. For use in the inky blackness of a moonless night under an overcast, various types of Forward-Looking Infra-Red (FLIR) systems were developed. FLIR was passive and did not radiate signals as did radar.

I had flown a daylight mission to assess a FLIR in the unique and strange-looking ASTTA aircraft, a twin-turboprop transport fitted with a radar and FLIR. The acronym ASTTA stood for the Avionics Systems Test Training aircraft, modified from a Convair 580 transport. The ASTTA was a one-off research aircraft and was flown from a fighter-type cockpit back in the cabin, with a safety pilot up-front in the standard cockpit. Fitted with a fly-by-wire flight control system, the transport had been modified to fly like a fighter. The FLIR had proved useful during the flight, but of course I only had to look out of the window to see the target in the eighty-mile visibility of the high desert out at Edwards AFB.

Shortly afterwards came an opportunity to fly a real FLIR mission at night with the US Marine Corps. At that time, in the mid-eighties, the Marines at Camp Pendleton in California flew a mix of OV-10As and OV-10Ds for Forward Air Control. I had previously flown a tactical mission with the OV-10A in daylight, so was familiar with the capabilities of this twin-boom turboprop.

Prepared for battle. The writer preparing to embark on a daylight tactical mission in an OV-10A out of Camp Pendleton. With a pair of 715HP turboprops and a relatively small airframe, the Bronco was fast, maneuverable and heavily armed.

The North American Rockwell OV-10A was designed as a counter-insurgency aircraft. Airesearch T-76 turboprops of 715 HP each good good acceleration on takeoff. When this was combined with the lift improvement given by the double-slotted flap system, a spectacular takeoff roll of under eight hundred feet was possible. Counter-rotating propellers eliminated the normal swing on takeoff, and reversing propellers gave a remarkably short ground run on landing. A long-stroke trailing link tricycle landing gear mopped up any bumps and permitted the Marines to operate their Broncos from roads and primitive airstrips.

A pair of OV-10As from VMO-2 embarking on a Forward Air Control mission. Capable of 240 knots on the deck, and with a better endurance than jets, improved further by the use of under-fuselage fuel tanks, the OV-10s served in Vietnam and the Gulf War.

In flight the bulged canopy gave good visibility. The cockpit was spacious and rugged. Reversals and steep turns during tactical maneuvering confirmed the OV-10s ability to turn on a sixpence, invaluable in the battlefield environment. Even at low speeds the combination of ailerons and spoilers on the upper surface of the wing gave a good roll rate. The Bronco packed a considerable punch. Fixed armament was a quartet of 7.62mm guns mounted in the sponsons under the cockpit. For the normal Forward Air Control task, Zuni rockets or 2.75 inch rockets could be carried for target-marking. The Marine pilots of VMO-2 swore by their Broncos.

The OV-10A was operated by the USMC in the Forward Air Control Mode. Normally armed with guns and rockets for daytime operations, it was to have an expanded capability in the more powerful OV-10D version with a nose-turret with FLIR and laser sytems for night operations.

The OV-10D was modified for the night surveillance mission. It was distinguished by infra-red suppressors on the exhausts and larger engines of 1040 SHP each, driving new fibreglass propellers. An extended nose was fitted with a slewable chin turret which mounted a combined FLIR and laser. This system provided automatic target tracking together with laser target designation and ranging. The laser could be used to direct laser-guided munitions such as the Paveway Laser Guided Bomb and the Hellfire missile.
VMO-2 naturally used the night observation capability of the OV-10D as an extension of its daytime capability. For example, the squadron had monitored aircraft suspected of drug smuggling coming up from Mexico. The pilots of VMO-2 were tight-lipped about this, but said that very little could outrun the turboprop Bronco.

At low level under normal starlight conditions, they had found that the best results came when the pilot used night vision goggles for terrain avoidance and pilot navigation, with the back-seater using the FLIR for target identification.

I was briefed on the aircraft FLIR system by Major Russ Looney of VMO-2. Sitting in the rear cockpit of our OV-10D on the ground I found the rear cockpit similar to that of the OV-10A. There were some additions. The FLIR display was a nine-inch screen up on the left glareshield. A smaller repeater unit was provided in the front cockpit for the pilot. The electrical load of the FLIR was such that a third inverter had been added. Until the engines were running, the power to activate the FLIR was provided by a ground power unit, sitting on the ramp beside the Bronco, and connected to the fuselage by a thick electrical umbilical. The FLIR display, together with a radar warning display on the right side of my instrument panel cut down on the excellent visibility I had noted from the OV-10A.

I went carefully through the sequence of switching necessary to activate the FLIR, firing up the FLIR and then selecting the various modes, while the ground power unit howled away, providing the power to run the FLIR. The display gave a black and white infra-red picture, similar to a TV. I practised tracking other Broncos and helicopters moving about the ramp. While the aircraft appeared as various shades of gray, the hotter engine exhausts were white.Using a hand controller on the right hand side of the cockpit I could swivel the FLIR, while the laser tracker also mounted in the turret was activated from a hand controller on the left hand panel. As this required the back-seaters hands to be fully occupied, a floor-mounted intercom button could be operated with his left foot while a radio transmit button was operated by his right foot

As the sun went down over the Pacific, we briefed for the mission. Our night mission, piloted by Lieutenant-Colonel Don Persky, Commanding Officer of VMO-2, would take us initially round the populated local area to give me some familiarisation with the FLIR system. We would then head east towards the Mountainours area around Mount Palomar and Lake Henshaw to practise using the system against various targets. The desert of the Borrego valley would be an ideal place to carry out simulated diving gun attacks before heading back to the coast to look for any maritime targets.

Just after sunset we walked out to our olive-drab aircraft, silhouetted menacingly against a western sky glowing eerily with multi-colored swatches and curlicues of light, the aftermath of a satellite launch from Vandenberg. We strapped into our ejection seats and carried out our respective pre-start checks. The night air was cooling fast and I lost no time in closing down the large transparencies flanking my seat. The instrument panel sprang to life. Once both engines were running I pushed in the inverter control to power up the system and then switched the FLIR to standby mode. This started the automatic sequence to cool down the sensors. In a couple of minutes my FLIR display started to brighten up, so that by the time we were ready to taxi, my system was fully operative. Switiching the FLIR to the manual tracking mode I practised using the hand controller to slew the nose turret in elevation and azimuth to track a pair of unsuspecting seagulls flying past in the twilight.

We taxied out to the runway. With power levers forward and brakes released, the combined 2,080 HP of the T-76s smartly accelerated us to our 110 knots lift-off speed. During a lazy left-hand orbit after takeoff I practised slewing the seeker with the hand controller, easily picking out roads and houses.

We initially headed east to the mountains. By now it was pitch dark, although the moon was rising in the east. Looking over the side I could just make out the hazy blur of the ground, but no details could be seen. Overhead Lake Henshaw, I looked with the FLIR to see if any boat traffic was visible. In fact I confirmed that all the boats had been beached for the night. The display was amazingly clear, so much so that I was surprised to see even the image of the mountains reflected in the lake.

A flashing strobe light at our ten o'clock provided an opprtunity for tracking an air-to-air target. Slewing the turret to our nine o'clock, in a wide-angle scan, I found the white dot of the target at the appropriate bearing, westbound on a reciprocal course to us. Switching to a higher magnification revealed that the target was an unsuspecting Piper Cherokee heading for Oceanside airport. Any Bronco pilot would become a night-fighter ace with no trouble at all.

Further east over the unlit desert we identified a rectangular pattern of solar collectors on the ground. While I kept the turret slewed to this target using the hand controller, then pressed the trigger to lock it on the target, we initially flew away from the target until it was way behind my right shoulder. We then turned through 180 degrees back towards the target for an attack. Despite this maneuvering the FLIR stayed locked on the target. Range to the target, displayed on the bottom of the screen, started counting down. When the target was at our twelve o'clock I locked the system to the boresight mode. Lt. Col Persky, using his FLIR repeater display, entered a simulated ten degree dive gun attack.

Weapons attacks at night are never routine. Diving into the inky blackness of the Borrego desert with mountainous terrain around is always going to gain your attention. However with the target displayed on the screen, together with its range, it became a much more civilised affair. On the display the target expanded as we dived until a 4g pullout pushed me down in my seat and got us heading back upstairs.

I reset the FLIR in manual tracking mode, searching for more targets in the desert. Initially my attempts at locking onto smaller targets were unsuccessful. I found the trick was to fine-tune the size of a small rectangular box on the display which had to overlay the target. Choosing the right size was important in achieving lock. My success rate improved as I reduced the size of the box to just encompass the target. In a few minutes I could even lock onto cars driving down the desert roads.

Cruising at 160 knots and 8,700 feet we turned westbound to return to the coast. Locking the FLIR into the boresight mode I took control of the OV-10D for a few minutes to try a few tracking maneuvers using only the FLIR for reference. The OV-10 had fairly light control forces and was quite responsive. I used my FLIR display, offset on the left hand side of the cockpit, for reference. Despite the offset it was easy enough to pick a ground target and fly the aircraft until the cursor crosshairs overlaid the target in a simulated gun-aiming situation.

While still some miles inland and scanning seaward with the FLIR again, I could clearly see a power station complex on the coast. Anchored some way offshore was a large supertanker, stern on to us. I obtained a good lock on this ship. We flew out over the sea while I practised locking-on in various modes. The target was an attack pilot's dream.

We turned inland again and flew back towards Camp Pendleton. Runways and hangars came up clearly on the display, As we ran in to an overhead break I practised locking-on to an aircraft on the runway. Even as we entered the break, and headed downwind the system maintained lock on this other aircraft as it took off.

We landed, taxying back while using the FLIR in a surveillance mode, demonstrating that it would be possible to steer the Bronco around the taxiways and between other aircraft to our parking space even if the field were to be blacked out. Our ground crew were clearly visible on the display as they marshalled us into our parking spot.

I was mightily impressed. The FLIR system was similar to that used by the Coast Guard to combat contraband smuggling. It was a powerful tool, could see through darkness, haze or smoke, and multiplied the capability of the Bronco immensely. The Bronco was a handy aircraft. It was apparent that an experienced crew could use the FLIR and laser systems to good effect to carry out observation and ordnance delivery at night. Technology and teamwork combined to give this Night Owl a devastating punch.

Chapter 17: The Training Game

2009-08-12T21:44:00.000-07:00

Owner Bob Schindler brings his T-34A Mentor up close to the photo Bonanza despite inclement weather over Apple Valley. The writer found this T-34A with an IO-520 engine to be a spirited aerobatic mount, with good handling qualities.

My initial flying training was carried out on the DHC-1 Chipmunk, an experience shared by thousands of other Royal Air Force-trained pilots. I had also flown the Chipmunks’s predecessor, the Tiger Moth. I had found the Chipmunk to be a delightful aeroplane. Having a fixed undercarriage(landing gear), fixed pitch propeller and minimal blind flying aids it was a simple aircraft to operate. The Tiger Moth had been even simpler but demanded different flying techniques because of the high drag biplane configuration and the relatively ineffective ailerons. On both aircraft, takeoff and landing was an acquired art. The Tiger Moth had a tailskid and no brakes. Landing on wet grass could be exciting. The Chipmunk was another taildragger and I witnessed one or two tire-squealing ground loops on the runway during my University Air Squadron days.

By the time I learned to fly in the sixties, all-through jet training was already in full swing in RAF Training Command, using the Jet Provost. But back in the fifties the RAF student flew the Chipmunk before transitioning to the Hunting Percival Provost, powered by a 400HP Leonides piston engine. Now that was really moving up in complexity. But by then of course the RAF student pilot had a respectable number of hours under his belt.

At the same time, training in the USA was proceeding along a different track. The USAF student pilot was thrown in at the deep end, starting his flying on the Beech T-34A Mentor. The Mentor had a retractable gear, constant speed propeller and all of 225 HP. To my way of thinking this was a big step, but then I had only seen the Mentor in photographs, barely remembering shots of these silver trainers droning over the American heartland. Of course they had long since been retired, to be replaced by the T-37A jet trainer, just as the RAF had gone to all-through jet training on the Jet Provost.

Shortly after arriving in California, I had noticed an immaculate T-34A in USAF colors tied down in the transient parking area at Hawthorne airport. I was curious to see a Mentor in the flesh and took time out to walk around the trainer. I had flown a Beech Bonanza and been impressed by the performance. The Mentor had been derived from the Bonanza. I could see the resemblance. The Mentor looked just as it had in those old photos.
Or did it?
At close range this Mentor was not the standard T-34A that I remembered. It had a three-blade propeller instead of the standard two-blader, and it sported a glossy silver-gray Imron paint scheme, while still carrying those 1950-vintage buzz numbers on its fuselage. Closer inspection revealed the small legend N574 on the rear fuselage. My curiosity over this civilian-registered aircraft increased greatly.

I eventually met Bob Schindler, owner of this T-34A, who told me the saga of N574. This particular Mentor 55-274 was manufactured by Beech Aircraft in July 1956 as one of the last production batch of 350 Mentors. The T-34A served with the USAF until its training task was eliminated by the introduction of the jet T-37 during 1960. At this time the T-34As were declared surplus to requirements and made available to USAF Aero Clubs, the Civil Air Patrol, and a few civilian owners. So 55-274 served with the Civil Air Patrol, was eventually declared surplus to requirements and was bought by Bob. He ferried it back from Garland, Texas to Long Beach and started restoring the aircraft.

Bob’s photos of the Mentor taken at that time showed a well-used airframe suffering from neglect, with peeling paint giving the aircraft a final touch of weariness. It was his aim not to just restore this machine. A simple restoration would not be enough. Bob had a dream of the precise machine that he wanted to own at the completion of his work. His goal was not to have just a cross-country machine, but a sprightly aerobatic mount.

As the original IO-470-13a in the Mentor was as weary as the airframe, it was replaced by an IO-520b with this bigger engine driving a new three-blade propeller. Extensive work on the airframe, a new paint scheme, and both cockpit interiors took countless hours over the years before the aircraft was transformed into its current pristine condition. At the time when I first saw it at Hawthorne, Bob was using it to commute from his home in the desert community of Apple Valley into Hawthorne, the nearest airport to LAX, where he flew DC-10s for Western Airlines.

On a windy November day at Apple Valley, my curiosity about this potent warbird was to be satisfied, as Bob had invited me to fly his aircraft. As I strapped into the front cockpit, carefully tightening first the parachute straps, then the lap and shoulder straps of the aerobatic seat harness, I felt again the military atmosphere of this aircraft. The feeling was reinforced by the gray cockpit interior, the crowded panel flanked by switch-laden consoles on both sides of the pilot, the floor-mounted stick and a hefty throttle lever mounted amidst a cluster of prop and mixture levers in a quadrant on the left cockpit wall.

The unmistakable military cockpit of the T-34A Mentor, with a crowded instrument panel, a beefy throttle on the left hand cockpit wall in a quadrant, and all painted standard military gray.

I had a momentary struggle to reach down and release the gust lock from the base of the control column. I should have known. Designers in those days always had at least one trick up their sleeves to catch the first-time student after he had strapped in. (The Chipmunk had a floor-mounted fuel selector hidden at the base of the stick.)

Bob was riding shotgun in the rear cockpit and we fired up the engine while I retightened my shoulder harness. I slid my canopy forward, shutting out the gusty wind and the propwash from the idling engine. Then I took stock of the situation. Full instrumentation for the complete training task, including instrument flying, was fitted in a logical manner on the wide instrument panel. The seating position was a lot higher than in the Bonanza. Visibility over the nose was good, and the fighter-type sliding canopy gave superb all-round vision.

I taxied out, nosewheel steering making the task of maneuvering on the congested ramp an easy one. The civilian instructors at the contract primary flying schools must have been overjoyed at the arrival of the T-34A. The Mentor had replaced the AT-6. I had flown the Marine SNJ version of the AT-6 and could sympathize with the task of teaching students to taxi that unwieldy taildragging monster with its forward view restricted by the great radial cowling. The days of S-turning along taxiways vanished forever with the arrival of the T-34A.

Reaching the run-up area at the mid-point of the single Apple Valley runway, I set the parking brake and went carefully through the pre-takeoff checks. Fuel selector on the left tank, then I checked from left to right around the still unfamiliar cockpit. Easing the throttle up to give 1800rpm brought a healthy roar from the engine. I checked the magnetos with the big rotary switch down by my left knee, and then cycled the prop. Once assured that everything in the power department was in order, I visually checked that the approach was clear, released the parking brake and rolled gently out onto Runway 18.

A thirty-knot wind was blowing from the south-west across the desert. As I opened the throttle I held aileron into wind as we accelerated, to prevent the upwind wing from rising.

The noise level was impressive, as was the acceleration, and I rotated at seventy knots, raised the gear, stabilized in the climb at 100 knots and pulled the power back from twenty-eight inches of manifold pressure, setting up for the climb at twenty-five inches MP and 2,500 rpm.
The Mentor climbed smoothly, despite areas of choppy air which made it difficult to stabilize the rate of climb. On our flight out to Apple Valley in the Bonanza that morning, we had been pursued by the advance guard of an approaching Pacific storm. Clouds had been increasing and the wind had been constantly rising throughout the morning. It was forecast to get worse.

At 7,500 feet I set up the Mentor in a cruise at a leisurely 145 knots at 2,400 rpm. The aircraft initially tried to climb until I realized that I was subconsciously using the same visual cues that I normally used on the Bonanza. As I was sitting about two feet higher than my seating position in the Bonanza, the nose was now too high. A quick correction on the big knurled trim wheel down by my left knee rectified the situation and we settled down in the cruise over the dried-up river bed of the Mojave River.

The IO-520 rumbled away ahead of me. Fuel flow was down to 14gph in the cruise, making the Mentor a reasonably economical machine for cross-country flying. The cockpit was roomy, even with a parachute restricting the available space. Visibility was impressive and more than adequate for operation out of a crowded training base or for visual navigation.

“Want to try some aerobatics?” Bob asked. “ Do anything you want to apart from snap rolls.” I needed no second bidding. I started with a loop. As the nose passed the vertical during the climb I looked upwards, past the windscreen arch and up through the canopy in anticipation of the horizon appearing. There was the jagged skyline of the San Gabriel mountains hanging inverted above me, silhouetted against a sky full of ominous lenticular clouds as the approaching frontal system crept in from the Pacific. Airspeed and g-force increased as we dived easily out of the loop, tracking along one of those endless desert roads to keep straight.
Pulling the nose up through the horizon I checked that the speed was exactly 130 knots, checked forward to hold the nose at fifteen degrees above the horizon, then pushed the stick over to the left. The Mentor rolled effortlessly and I snapped the stick back to kill the roll rate as the desert floor came level underneath us again.
This was fun.

I twisted round in my seat, checking for other traffic. The sky was clear, but I suddenly realized that I was looking at the stars and bars on the port wing. A glance to my right revealed USAF on the starboard wing. Of course. The military trainer. The handling was very like the old Chipmunk after all. In those far-off days I used railway tracks for orientation during aerobatics over the Isle of Wight. My wings then were adorned with RAF roundels rather than the USAF insignia, but the aircraft handling was very similar. The controls were well harmonized and all the basic maneuvers were accomplished with no trim changes or unexpected behavior. Stalls were docile, with just a murmur of pre-stall buffeting before a straight nose drop. Steep turns were enjoyable, those precise ailerons making it easy to roll into the turns. It was all rather exhilarating.

After our brief aerobatic session we descended on a northerly heading for Apple Valley. An encounter with rough air during the descent reminded me that this was a very stable aircraft. The T-34A maintained its trimmed attitude despite the chop. There was none of the directional tail-wagging which we had encountered earlier that day in the V-tailed Bonanza.
Entering the pattern at Apple Valley I set up for a 4,000 feet downwind leg (one thousand feet pattern altitude above field elevation of 3,000 feet) and let the airspeed bleed off to 100 knots. At mid-field I reached forward and pushed the gear handle down. The three magnetic indicators changed in turn from UP to show the three wheels down and locked.
Now with prop fully forward and partial flaps I came round in a curving descent, letting the speed taper off to eighty knots on finals. The windsock still showed a strong crosswind from the right, but the T-34A came down the centerline as if on rails. Touchdown was gentle and there was no problem controlling the aircraft directionally despite the crosswind. As the Mentor tracked down the centerline I advanced the throttle, retracted the flaps and we climbed away again. As the gear locked up, the lamp in the gear handle winked out and the indicators tumbled back to show UP again. In the strong wind we were already almost at pattern altitude as the upwind end of the runway passed beneath the wings. I banked round on to the downwind leg and pushed the gear handle down as we passed mid-field.
This time only two down-and-locked indications appeared, suggesting that we only had the nose and right main gears locked down. I looked apprehensively at the panel, like a first-time visitor to Las Vegas willing the last window of the fruit machine to produce a winning selection. The third window remained obstinately showing UP. I mentioned this to Bob, fearing the worst.
“Tap the indicator” he chuckled. I tentatively tapped the panel and sure enough the reluctant indicator flipped over to show the third wheel down and locked. I curved round on to final approach, in a steeper turning descent now that I was more familiar with the handling. Touchdown was uneventful and we turned off at mid-field. I taxied back to the terminal building, parked in our slot and shut down. As the engine died I slid the canopy back. The gusting desert wind reminded me to slip the control lock into place before disembarking.
As we dashed for the shelter of the terminal building to escape the wind I turned for a last look. The Mentor still looked a purposeful training machine and I had found it a very sprightly aircraft.

The T-34A did not have a long career in the USAF. It was introduced on course 55-M at Marana, Arizona in May 1954 and was phased out in 1960. This was not a reflection on the design; it was just that the aircraft was overtaken by events. The Mentor originally superseded the AT-6 because of the need for a more suitable trainer for budding jet pilots. Students aiming for qualification as jet-rated pilots in the fifties flew forty hours in the T-34A, followed by 90 hours in the big radial-engined T-28 before graduating to the T-33 jet trainer.
Beech had developed their two-seat military primary trainer from the civil Bonanza. This was the A45 which flew for the first time on 2 December 1948. The USAF acquired three Model 45s, and designated them as YT-34s, for evaluation and testing at Randolph Field during 1950. The Mentor was subsequently selected as the primary USAF trainer under the designation of T-34A, with three hundred and fifty eventually being produced for the USAF.
But in the training game, through-jet training was the coming thing. Beech saw the writing on the wall and redesigned the Mentor for jet power, flying its Model 73 Jet Mentor prototype on 18 December 1955. However it was Cessna who won the contract for the new jet trainer. It was their T-37 which was to shoulder the burden of primary training until the last one retired in 2009.
Other air forces around the world were to continue to fly T-34As for many years. The U S Navy operated their own T-34Bs, then turned to turbine power with the T-34C, using a derated PT-6. The Navy eventually bought a total of 155 T-34Cs most of which have now been retired.
These days, mainly private owners keep the T-34 fleet flying. Massed formations of T-34s have been featured at the annual EAA Convention at Oshkosh every summer. Not bad for a fifty-year old design.

Chapter 16: Sunset Delight

2009-08-10T21:20:00.000-07:00

In 1985 the Mooney 231 was one of the fastest piston-engined retractables around, with its turbocharged TSIO-360 giving a 200 knot cruise, very useful for cross-country flying. Immediately recognisable by its raked-forward vertical, the Mooney was fast, but demanded careful handling of the engine, and accurate speed control on landing.

From more than two miles above the desert resort of Palm Springs, I looked down to see streamers of dust being scraped up from the desert floor by near gale-force winds. Off my port wingtip Mount San Jacinto was clear of clouds, but ahead and below me lay a deck of clouds stretching westwards towards the Pacific coast. The cloud blocked the mouth of the Banning Pass, the only VFR low level route back home to Los Angeles. Listening to the radio traffic I could hear that the Cherokees and Cessnas were having a hard time fighting the rain and turbulence down in the Pass. Having been down there in the Pass on previous occasions I could sympathize with them. The edge of the cloud deck was hovering just above the entrance to the Pass, and it looked dark and dismal in that gloomy cavern.

But up here in the sunlight on the airway, the Mooney was humming along effortlessly, the turbocharged TSIO-360 pulling me along so that the DME was clocking off the miles at three miles for every minute. I was heading into the setting sun on Airway Victor 16. On the shadowed panel the glowing amber numerals of the state-of-the-art KNS-80 area navigation equipment confidently monitored the Mooney’s progress between the waypoints I had programmed into it. Instead of bucking the turbulence at low altitude, my task of flying the airways was one of comparative comfort. I was thankful for the fact.

It was time to change frequency to Coast Approach, who would be monitoring the last part of my IFR flight. My route lay from Palm Springs to Paradise VOR and thence via the Seal Beach VOR, culminating in an ILS approach at my home base in Torrance. I contacted Coast Approach and at their direction started to step down in altitude, constantly adjusting power and tweaking the cowl flaps to keep the engine temperature within limits. This engine could easily be damaged by thermal shock. I was careful not to cool the engine too quickly on descent.

I was by no means the only aircraft in the sky. Five miles to my right a constant double stream of heavy jets paralleled my course. They were heading for Los Angeles International airport. In turn the airliners were dipping down into the cloud deck far ahead on their final approach to the parallel runways at LAX. To the north the summit of Mount Baldy poked above the cloud deck. On this spring day the mountain was topped with snow. Further north still a tremendous arch of lenticular clouds hung in the sky. This was the awesome Sierra wave.

I was always impressed by the sight of the Sierra Wave. It meant that away to the north, sailplane pilots had a few hours to ride the wave to altitude. This weather had been forecast. At my weather briefing earlier that day I had learned that a depression over the Pacific was bringing rain to the west coast. This rain stretched in a wide belt from Seattle down to San Francisco. The edge of this weather was forecast to hit our area this evening. It looked as if that forecast was correct.

Coast Approach cleared me down to 6,000 feet as I approached Paradise VOR. The cloud cover rose to meet me and as I leveled off I found myself surfing just over the top of the cloud. There was now a rare impression of speed as the Mooney skated over the top of this apparently solid cloud deck. By now the sun was almost on the horizon in front of me, turning the cloud into a golden carpet being pulled past below at breathtaking speed. It was a beautiful sight.

But I had work to do. With my approach plates for Torrance already on my lap, I checked that the various radio aids were set to the correct frequencies and were operating correctly. I checked my missed approach procedure. Once I started to descend on the approach, it would be busy in the cockpit. The art of instrument flying was to be prepared.
The VOR To/From flag flipped as I crossed Paradise VOR, unseen below the cloud. I returned the receiver to the Seal Beach VOR. On a heading of 238 degrees on Victor 8 I headed for Seal Beach.

The radio was busy, my controller at Coast Approach having to deal with a series of commercial jets descending into Long Beach airport some ten miles or so ahead of me. His task was complicated by jet traffic descending into Orange County airport which lay off to my left. The controller at Coast Approach finally solved his problem by asking me to orbit for spacing while he cleared an MD-80 airliner of PSA into Long Beach. It was not an unusual request in this crowded Los Angeles airspace. I had been asked to do a 360 degree turn on an ILS approach before now.

Acknowledging, I banked gently right, putting the Mooney’s right wingtip down into the golden carpet of cloud, now deeply furrowed by purple shadows. As the Mooney turned, the sun swung round behind me, sending shadows moving across the panel. On completing the orbit I leveled the wings, westbound again, heading into the eye of the sun, which was by now half-hidden between low battlements of mist which were tearing past to either side.
It was a moment of magical splendor.
By this time Coast Approach had moved the MD-80 out of my way and the controller now cleared me to descend over Seal Beach.
“Mooney 231 Bravo Sierra leaving six for four thousand.” I responded.

I was reluctant to leave the beauty of the sunset, but started descending, the clouds closing quickly above me. It was dark in the cloud, although smooth for the moment and all the instrument needles were behaving themselves. The panel lights cast a cozy glow over the instruments, and the haloes of my navigation lights rode at each wingtip. On the panel the green light of the transponder flashed intermittently as the probing radar beams from the various ground stations interrogated the receiver.

I kept my scan going. Something was not quite right. There it was again, a glimmer of red light from the voltage overload light. Throttled back as we were, the alternator could not keep pace with the electrical load. Another quirk of this aircraft. The Mooney was fast but, like a thoroughbred horse, needed a watchful eye kept on it. I eased the throttle forward fractionally and the red light flickered and went out. As we passed over the Seal Beach VOR the VOR flag flicked from TO to FROM. Coast Approach started to vector me south-west out over Los Angeles harbor, where I would intercept the ILS into Torrance.

Now I was cleared down to 2,000 feet, the Controller vectoring me round to 300 degrees. The localizer needle started moving in from the side of the dial and I gently corrected until it centered. The clouds were darker down here and raindrops started sliding back across the windshield. I switched on the landing light, dropped the landing gear, then the flaps in anticipation of intercepting the glideslope. Switching to the ATIS frequency I listened to the latest recorded weather for Torrance. Home base had a visibility of one mile in rain, with a 600 foot cloudbase. Just sufficient for an ILS approach.
A blue light started pulsing on the panel, signifying that the Mooney was crossing the outer marker. Completing my pre-landing checks I switched to tower frequency for my final clearance. As the glideslope needle started sliding down from its perch at the top of the dial, I started to descend. With decreasing altitude the air started to get rougher. This was not unexpected. Experience told me that the bumpiness was due to the wind blowing around the Palos Verdes hill, just south of the airport.
Knowing this act, however, did not make the task of flying the ILS any easier as the needles insisted on jiggling about in the turbulence. As the altitude decreased and the beam got narrower I had to ride this tightrope with tiny control corrections, trying to anticipate the movements of the instruments.

Time for a final check of gear and flaps. I eased the mixture forward and put the prop into fine pitch. At fifteen hundred feet the rain hit in earnest with fire-hose intensity. As the altimeter inexorably dropped towards a thousand feet I started looking for the first glimpse of the approach lights. Nothing yet. If no lights appeared by 300 feet I would have to go missed approach. Check the airspeed needle was on 80 knots. Check again for gear and flaps down.
At 600 feet through the blurred windshield the first faint glowing balls of the strobe lights came into view, arrowing towards the runway. Then the runway lights materialized. I slid in over the green threshold lights to a world of color once more. Don't forget to trim back. The Mooney floated for a second until the main wheels finally touched. It was still raining hard and I was careful not to apply hard braking lest the Mooney start to aquaplane.

I sped past the first two taxiways before our momentum was dissipated, finally braking gently and letting the Mooney roll right to the end of the runway. As the red lights barred my progress I turned off the runway between the twin lines of blue lights which led towards the tie-down area.

I switched to ground frequency for taxi clearance. It looked as if I was the last one home at this normally busy airport. All other aircraft were tied down for the night, their glistening shapes silhouetted against the glow of the street lighting. With a final interchange with the unseen ground controller “Torrance ground, 31 Bravo Sierra, Goodnight” I pulled into my parking slot and shut down.

Rain still beat heavily down on the cabin top and I waited for a few minutes hoping for the noise to slacken. Meanwhile I packed my charts into my briefcase in the darkened cockpit, lit by the alternating green and white flash of the airport beacon slanting down through the side window.
The drumming of the rain on the metal skin of the Mooney lessened. Inside the cabin the only noise was the gyros whining down into silence. I slid quickly out of the cabin, locked the door behind me, chocked the wheels and attached the tie-down ropes before making a dash for the car. The rain was strangely warm by European standards. It was late, and I was tired. But the memory of that sunset would linger.

Chapter 15: Flying Heinemann's Hot Rod

2009-08-05T20:57:00.000-07:00

The A-4 Skyhawk was operated by the Marines in the Forward Air Control role in Vietnam. The author flew a Skyhawk FAC mission out of MCAS El Toro in Southern California
With a small delta wing featuring leading edge slats, long-stroke landing gear and an arrester hook, the Skyhawk was equally at home on a forward airfield or an aircraft carrier.

Skyhawk! An evocative name indeed. The A-4 Skyhawk had been mainstay of Navy, marine and foreign air force light attack squadrons for more than thirty years. During this time the diminutive attack bomber had been known as "Scooter", "Tinker Toy", Bantam Bomber" and "Heinemann's Hot Rod", the latter name in honor of its designer, Douglas Chief Engineer Ed Heinemann.

The Skyhawk history was a classic. In January 1952 Ed Heinemann stated that he could build a lightweight interceptor with a weight of 12,000 lb. The same principles could be applied to a light attack bomber. The Navy challenged him on this. At that time the US Navy attack bomber specification called for a speed of 500 knots, a combat radius of 300 nautical miles and a maximum allowable weight of 30,000 lb. The challenge that Heinemann faced was to produce a lightweight, high performance attack aircraft. The El Segundo team was convinced that they could exceed the specification by ninety knots with an aircraft of half that weight. Others were skeptical. Even as piston-engined AD Skyraiders continued to roll off the line at Douglas's El Segundo plant adjoining Los Angeles International Airport, Heinemann's team worked on the design of this revolutionary attack aircraft.

Exceptionally rigorous efforts to reduce weight led to a number of innovations, such as integration of much of the avionics, and design of a special 40lb ejection seat. A takeoff weight of 14,600lb was achieved, thus vindicating the team. In June the Navy issued a contract for two prototype aircraft. The price was to be less than $1 million for each aircraft.

The design of the Skyhawk stressed the use of simple standard sheet, strip and extrusions. Forgings were almost eliminated. The wing was a one-piece structure, small enough that it could fit on standard carrier elevators without requiring the complexity of a wing-fold. The 260 square foot delta wing formed an integral fuel tank, with top and bottom skins machined from single sheets. Spars and stringers were made continuous from tip to tip. To further simplify the structure, the front spar was machined in a single piece, then bent in a heated die. The gear retracted forward, with the main wheels turning through ninety degrees to lie flat in the forward part of the wing. Following the trend set in the design of the F-4D Skyray, the stick could be extended to increase mechanical advantage to retain manual control in the event of hydraulic system failure. The rear fuselage and tail unit could be removed completely to change the engine.

Douglas test pilot Bob Rahn first flew the XA4D-1 on 22 June 1954. Buffeting of the rear fuselage led to the adoption of a “sugar scoop” fairing at the base of the fin to smooth the airflow over the rear fuselage. A simple flight test expedient, this was to be retained on all production Skyhawks.
During the Vietnam conflict Skyhawks flew from south-east Asian airfields and carriers to hit targets in North and South Vietnam. The agile Skyhawk proved well suited to the close air support missions. A 300 US gallon buddy refueling store was developed by the El Segundo team to permit the A4D to double as a tanker. A fixed flight refueling probe was fitted on the starboard side of the nose of later production Skyhawks. Over Vietnam this flight refueling capability of the A-4 proved itself many times in keeping Skyhawks airborne when the carrier’s flight deck was temporarily fouled. On occasion “wet-winging” was practiced, when Skyhawks with battle damage and losing fuel were simply plugged into the tanker and continued refueling all the way back to the carrier.

This Marine A-4 is carrying three external fuel tanks, and is hooking up to a Marine KC-130 tanker in preparation for the long over-water deployment from California to Hawaii.

Ordnance carriage was originally limited to 3,000lb on the centerline and 1,000lb under the wings. In addition to bombs, the Skyhawks could also carry HVAR rockets, tactical nuclear weapons, Zuni or Mighty Mouse rockets, or Bullpup air-to-surface weapons. A pair of 20mm cannons with drum feed was mounted in the wing roots.
For many years the Blue Angels Demonstration team used the A4F version of the Skyhawk. It had exceptional control harmonization, good thrust/weight and engine acceleration. The Blue Angels flew very close formation, stacking their dark blue Skyhawks only a couple of feet apart. They were very skilful pilots.
A two-seat version, the TA-4F was produced, with the fuselage extended twenty-eight inches and the fuselage fuel reduced. The Marines used this in Vietnam as a FASTFAC Forward Air Control aircraft. The orange and white TA-4J was in use as the advanced trainer for the USN.
In service the Skyhawk airframe proved very tough and previous versions were consequently in demand for retrofit. In fact the A-4B was turned into the A-4P and -4Q for the Argentine Air Force. These were used extensively in the Falklands conflict of 1982. Sixteen different models were built and a total of 2960 had been built by the time the last Skyhawk came off the line in February 1979.

By the mid-eighties, the US Marine Corps at El Toro in Southern California had one of three squadrons still operating the OA-4M version in the Forward Air Control (FAC) mode. The OA-4M was painted in low-visibility gray, carried an improved avionics fit in the humped fairing on the top of the fuselage and was liberally sprinkled with antennae.

I was invited by the USMC to fly a practice FAC mission in a Marine Skyhawk with Lt.Col Ed Schriber, Commanding Officer of H&MS-13. The task of the OA-4M Skyhawk being Forward Air Control in VFR conditions, it was primarily used as a high-speed platform for spotting and marking targets. We briefed for a mission in which Col Schriber was to demonstrate various Forward Air Control tasks, include simulated attacks, and to give me a chance to sample the handling qualities of the Skyhawk. On FAC missions the Skyhawks normally flew with two fuel tanks on the inboard pylons and two smoke marker rockets on the outboard stations. For our mission we carried a single centerline tank. This would give us a total of 6,400lbs of fuel for a takeoff weight of 19,500lb. Our mission duration of ninety minutes would get us back in the pattern at El Toro for some practice GCAs with 2,000lb of fuel.

After I was fitted out with my flight equipment, we walked out to the Skyhawk, one of the A-4s parked amongst the F/A-18 Hornets, RF-4C Phantoms and KC-130 tankers resident at El Toro. I climbed a ladder to the lofty cockpit of the Skyhawk, while Col.Schriber pre-flighted the Skyhawk. Once strapped into the Douglas Escepac ejector seat in the rear cockpit, and Col Schriber was aboard, I had a chance to view the equipment. Flight instruments and radio control panels were directly in front of me. The FAC aircraft were outfitted with UHF and FM radios to enable them to communicate with the FAC on the ground, the direct air support center or the airborne strike force simultaneously. By modern standards the Skyhawk had a simple avionics fit. Navigation was by fifties-vintage TACAN. Fuel and instruments occupied the right side of the panel. With full dual controls in my rear cockpit, there was not a lot of excess space compared with more modern fighters.
An air cart wound up our J-52-P-408 jet engine. Once the engine was running and the ground crew had checked the control surface movements were OK, we armed our seats by pushing up on the “headknocker” lever in the headrest. Aptly named, this gained your attention by giving you a smart rap on the head if you forgot to stow it.

With callsign OUTLAW 01 we taxied down to the end of runway 07, canopy still raised to let in some breeze against the oppressive heat of the 80F day. As we turned onto the active runway, the canopy was lowered and locked. Ed Schriber brought the J-52 up to full power and released the brakes. With 11,200lb of thrust thundering behind me, acceleration was rapid and we hit our target speed of 105 knots as the yellow 6000 ft marker flashed past. At 147 knots a firm rearward stick movement raised the nose. I felt the long-stroke gear extend as we rotated. Then we were airborne.

As the gear retracted we started turning left, heading south-west and out over the coast, over the Pacific towards San Clemente Island where we could practice our FAC work. For our airwork, our Navy controller, callsign BEAVER, allocated us airspace on the 185 TACAN radial of the San Clemente beacon. Once we were en route and level at 12,000 feet, Col. Schriber demonstrated the classical handling of the Skyhawk, starting with a clean stall. As our airspeed dropped through 150 knots, medium buffet started shaking the airframe. I twisted round in my seat and watched the aerodynamically-operated slats of the tiny delta wing creep out. Slats on the Skyhawk improved low-speed handling for carrier work, but during Air combat maneuvering (ACM) or formation flight they had been known to deploy asymmetrically, with dire results. Schriber drily informed me that when the Blue Angles flew their A-4Fs, they wired their slats permanently closed to prevent any unintentional deployment.

Another day at the office. This aviation writer trades his pen for the rear cockpit of the Marine A-4 Skyhawk, setting off for a Forward Air Control Mission

We continued to slow down and in heavy buffet eventually the nose dropped straight ahead in a classic stall. The addition of power and forward stick got us back into level flight. It felt just like a much smaller aircraft. As we accelerated, I looked back over my shoulder at the wing to see the slats inching back in.

When the TACAN showed that we had reached our assigned airspace, I tried a few aileron rolls. Roll rate in the Skyhawk was impressive, well in excess of 200 degrees/sec, even though I was not using full lateral stick deflection. Roll reversals were spectacularly fast. Rolling to ninety degrees of bank when entering a turn from level flight was abrupt and almost instantaneous, although I found that I could easily overpull into buffet. After a few minutes of maneuvering I started to appreciate how the agility and small size of the Skyhawk made it particularly suitable for FAC work, especially when combined with the low IR signature of the non-afterburning J-52.
I extended my repertoire to include wingovers, effortlessly soaring to 21,000 feet and ninety degrees of bank at the apex of the wingover while turning through 180 degrees of heading. Control harmonization was just right and the Skyhawk was a delight to fly. As we headed back towards San Clemente Island along our TACAN radial, we were flying above scattered alto-cumulus with the Pacific far below. I picked a cloud as an aiming point and found that barrel rolls to left and right were exhilarating and I found the Skyhawk a viceless aircraft.

We descended towards the island for our first simulated FAC attack, skirting the cloud and leveling at five hundred feet, turning tightly to the right with my g-suit squeezing my lower body as the g-force increased. We paralleled the mountainous spine of San Clemente Island which rose to 2,000 feet off our port wing with the peaks vanishing into cloud.
At the pre-flight brief, we had briefed for a FAC attack with our Initial Point(IP) at China Point. From the complexity of the briefing it was obvious required a lot of practice and co-ordination, with the front–seater flying and firing the smoke markers while the back-seater was responsible for mission planning, communications and cueing the pilot to landmarks while traveling at high speed. Extensive pre-flight planning was the key to success, said Ed Schriber, just as it was in Vietnam. Navigation was by 1:50,000 scale maps in the target area. The FAC Skyhawk was the pivotal point of the attack mission, and timing was critical to co-ordinate with the other strike forces.
I remembered Schriber’s words as China Point slid past the port wing. We accelerated to 350 knots under the stratus overcast. The clock was running down towards zero. There was not much room in the cramped cockpit to keep track of our progress along the line drawn on my folded map and as the coastline streamed past, one indentation of the coastline looked very much like another.

Our target was the distinctive shape of Pyramid Rock on the southern tip of the island. My radar altimeter sprang to life as we angled in over the coastline, the needle jiggling down from five hundred feet. Peacetime regulations kept us purposely high, and the speed was similarly kept down for my benefit. Wartime would see the Skyhawk streaking for the target at a mere fifty feet, with speed up to 500 knots for missile avoidance.

Even so, it all happened very fast. The target appeared momentarily over Ed Schriber’s helmet before he snapped us into a 4g climb, rolled inverted and pulled the nose down to the target. Pyramid Rock reappeared inverted in the windscreen, expanding visibly towards us. We rolled out smoothly , momentarily wings-level, as the clock hit zero. In wartime, the smoke rockets would now be on their way.

Jinking violently to the right to confuse any ground gunners, we reversed to the left so violently that my helmet bounced off the side of the canopy. A second later we were out low over the beach with the water streaming past below as we made our escape. During our flight back to El Toro I took the opportunity to regain my breath.

Back in contact with the Controller at El Toro, Ed Schriber completed the first GCA without fuss. I carried out the second GCA, with a less polished performance. It had been some years since I had flown a radar approach. Following the instructions in my earphones I was talked down and this time overshot from overhead the runway approach lights. A further GCA by Schriber culminated in a touch-and-go with a firm carrier-type landing, then as the power was brought up the Skyhawk leaped into the air again. We followed this with a couple of tight visual circuits. During each downwind leg, with the humid atmosphere at low level, my air conditioning vents spewed out jets of mist which added a sense of theatre to the cockpit. Our final landing, on cue, was ninety minutes after takeoff, with the anticipated 2,000lbs of fuel still on board.

Precision was the essence of FAC work. This mission had been a graphic demonstration of how the FAC Squadrons fitted into the overall scheme of things in supporting Marine Air Power.

Chapter 14: Warbird Restoration

2009-08-05T20:32:00.000-07:00

The SNJ of John Collver is impressively large as it sits on the ramp in Southern California . The 550 HP radial engine dominates the airframe. The paint scheme represents an aircraft based at nearby El Toro Marine base.

Generations of airmen were trained on the AT-6 advanced trainer during the Second World War and in subsequent years. North American built over 15,000 of them under the various designations of the AT-6: SNJ: Harvard and Texan. Across the United States many of the existing AT-6s and SNJs had been painstakingly restored. I had long wanted to fly one of these classic aircraft. Eventually I had the opportunity of flying with John Collver, airshow pilot and fellow Great Lakes biplane aficionado.

John’s SNJ-5 squatted pugnaciously on the ramp at Torrance airport. It was a large aircraft, stretching forty-two feet from wingtip to wingtip and almost twenty-nine feet from the silver dome of its constant-speed propeller to the tip of its tail. This big trainer, powered by a 550HP Pratt & Whitney R-1340-AN1 radial, was immaculately painted in 1950s - vintage Marine markings, as aircraft 90917, tail code WD. This aircraft had belonged to the training squadron VMT-2 based at El Toro, less than fifty miles away down the Californian coast. The chrome-yellow cowling and green identification bands on wing and fuselage made it a distinctive aircraft. Since its restoration it has been a frequent visitor at airshows on the California circuit, with Collver at the controls.

This aircraft had a fascinating history. Aircraft 90917 was completed at Dallas, first flying on 16 November 1944. It initially served with HQ Squadron 46 at El Toro, later moving to Fleet Air Wing 14 at MCAS Miramar, San Diego in 1946. After overhaul at the end of 1946, 90917 spent the next eight years with various training squadrons in Florida before being retired to the Navy storage center at Litchfield Park, Arizona. From there it was shipped to Japan as one of a batch of SNJs supplied to the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force under the Mutual Defense Air Program. The aircraft served in japan from 1957 to the mid 1970’s when it was stripped of its useful parts and auctioned off to the Kanai-Shoji Co. for the princely sum of $536.91 – for scrap.
At this point a savior appeared in the form of Dennis Buehn, an aircraft restorer from California who shipped the remains of 917 back to California, where the aircraft was completely restored by Warbirds West at Compton during 1979. It was a pristine example of the carefully restored warbirds seen so often in California.

We completed the pre-flight walk-around and I climbed aboard. The view from the rear seat was minimal, bringing back memories of many hours spent in the rear seat of the Chipmunk and Tiger Moth in England. Both of these old aircraft were taildraggers, just like the SNJ, so I knew what to expect when taxiing. I strapped into the roomy rear cockpit, while John strapped into the front seat and started to run through the pre-start checks with me.

Any vintage warbird has a fairly complex procedure to get started. In preparation I had read the Flight Manual and the cockpit was not too unfamiliar. John had just brought the aircraft in from its home base at Compton, so the engine was still warm and needed no priming.
Pre-start checks were first,” Parking brake on; mixture rich; prop lever to full decrease and throttle half an inch open; carb heat cold; oil cooler open; fuel on reserve tank; battery on, generator on…” the litany continued:”pump the wobble pump until you get four p.s.i on the fuel pressure gauge.”
Stick back for starting. Both ignition switches to the ON position, then John energized and engaged the starter.

The big radial turned over and the prop juddered round. One cylinder fired, sending a blast of blue smoke down the right hand side of the fuselage. The other cylinders fired in turn. As the engine caught the big prop spun into invisibility and the blare of the engine settled down into a steady rumble. Engine pressures and temperatures were OK and at 1,000 rpm oil pressure was satisfactory, indicating eighty p.s.i. We were ready to move. The tailwheel was steered through the rudder pedals, but remained locked fore-and –aft for takeoff and landing. John reminded me that I had to push the stick forward to unlock the tailwheel for taxiing.

I got us moving with a burst of power. Cautiously checking the brakes I turned the SNJ out onto the taxiway, swinging the nose cautiously from side to side to check the way ahead as we threaded our way carefully down a none-too-wide taxiway between rows of parked aircraft. With 5,000lb of aircraft strapped to me I could feel the inertia trying to swing the tail into an incipient ground loop even at this low speed, so I prudently kept the speed down. I could feel the tailwheel bouncing over the joints in the concrete during taxiing, amplified by my sitting well aft of the c.g of the aircraft.

At the runup area for Runway 29R we turned into wind and performed the pre-takeoff checks. A standard CIGFTPR check sufficed:” Controls free; instruments OK; gas checked feeding from all tanks, then put back on reserve for takeoff; flaps checked for operation and then selected up; trim tabs set, with elevator trim down on my left side set to eleven o’clock and rudder trim to two o’clock. Prop to high rpm…” At 1,600rpm the propeller pitch was cycled, giving the normal 200rpm drop.

Then the throttle was advanced and as the engine really thundered away the magnetos were checked at 2,200rpm. We were allowed a 100rpm drop for each magneto. We were within limits. Carburettor heat similarly checked out OK and I throttled back to 1,000 rpm to check that the vacuum was sufficient to keep our gyro instruments humming away. The hydraulic system was on and reading just under 1,000lb/square inch. We left both canopies cracked open a few inches in case of an emergency during takeoff that would require a speedy exit.
Checks completed, it was time to fly.

We got clearance from the tower and I turned onto the runway, locking the tailwheel once we were pointing straight down the runway. Releasing the brakes I progressively opened the throttle on the left hand quadrant. Full power brought the manifold pressure up to thirty-six inches. I had been anticipating a strong swing as we accelerated, but progressive application of right rudder kept things well under control. With my canopy open, the noise was deafening.
By forty knots it was time to ease the stick forward and the tail came up. At seventy knots we lifted off. A touch on the brakes stopped the wheels rotating. It was a busy time as John actuated the hydraulic power lever and raised the gear. By this time we were climbing well and I throttled back to thirty inches of manifold pressure and 2,000rpm in deference to the tender ears of the homeowners beneath our flightpath and the even more tender electronic ears of the noise monitoring stations which surrounded Torrance airport. The power reduction helped to minimize the strident blare from the supersonic prop tips so familiar to generations of airmen trained on the SNJ and AT-6.

We climbed out to the practice area over the sea. Sliding my rear canopy closed helped to shut out some of the noise. Once we were out over the Pacific I started with a few medium turns, then progressed into steep turns, being rewarded with a bump as we hit our own wake at the conclusion of the first three hundred and sixty degrees. Beginners luck.

I found that the controls were well harmonized and with each succeeding minute realized that this was a delightful aircraft to fly. The ailerons were very effective. Maneuvers in pitch were…well…different. Gentle wingovers were fun but the heavy aircraft certainly lost height quickly. It was just a matter of becoming accustomed to this. My aerobatics of late had been performed in an aircraft only a fraction of the weight of the SNJ.

“Want to try this with smoke?” said John. As a display aircraft, this SNJ was equipped with a full smoke system. So the smoke went on and I amused myself trying to draw lines and curves in the sky off the Palos Verdes Peninsula.

Smoke On...now. The SNJ makes an impressive sight in the California sky as it banks steeply during John Collver's airshow routine.

I found it really required a precise touch to fly this big trainer accurately. When we had completed this session of wingovers and rolls, it was time to get back to straight and level.
We cruised down the coast with the radial engine rumbling away, but all too soon it was time to wheel back over the Los Angeles Harbor and return to Torrance airport.

Back over the Vincent Thomas Bridge we set up on finals for the left runway. John was busy talking me through this approach as this was my first time. Gear down at 110 knots, mixture rich and twenty degrees of flap. Gently bring the speed back to ninety knots on the approach, and check again that the visual indicators on the wing upper surface ed that the gear was down. It was time to bring the flaps fully down, maintaining eighty knots on finals. Remember to put the prop pitch fully forward and watch that airspeed like a hawk. The SNJ had a violent wing drop at the stall, and generations of SNJ pilots have had accurate airspeed control drummed into them. It was a busy time for me.

The left runway was the shorter of the two parallel runways at Torrance and we came in low over the rows of hangers at the east end of the field, aiming to hit the first few feet of runway. Visibility from the back seat was of course abysmal. We touched in a normal three-point landing, stick fully back, with brisk rudder work keeping us straight. I remembered to get the stick forward to unlock the tailwheel before we exited the runway, and was more confident about taxiing back, adapting to the weight of this aircraft, but still wary of the large wingspan and lack of forward view with so many expensive aircraft parked close to either side.
Once we were back in our parking place, we let the engine cool down at 1,200rpm with the prop control pulled back to full decrease to get the oil out of the prop dome. Then mixture to lean, throttle open and fuel finally to OFF after the engine coughed into silence.

John Collver shuts down after a flight. The clamshell rear canopy of this SNJ is a reminder that back in wartime days, an air gunner occupied the rear cockpit, and swiveled the gun against banner-towing target aircraft

There was a lot to learn in flying a warbird, much more than I could hope to absorb in such a brief first acquaintance with this powerful trainer. This was not a machine for your average weekend pilot, any more than the bigger Mustangs and Corsairs which were the next step in the hierarchy of warbirds in California. Despite this, the AT-6s and SNJs which proliferated in the USA had a fervent band of followers, owners who swore by their noisy and expensive machines. They raced them, polished them and attended aviation meets in droves. One Civil Air Patrol squadron at Van Nuys, the Condor Squadron, operated a flock of AT-6s and SNJs in USAF and Luftwaffe markings, staging mock battles at airshows. At a later date I flew with the Skytypers, operating out of Long Beach and flying a quintet of smartly-painted SNJ-2s with military precision, skywriting in line-abreast formation over the southern California beaches.
These vintage warbirds were the most popular thing around.

Chapter 13: Test Pilot for a Day

2009-08-04T20:50:00.000-07:00

An NF-104 greets the visitor to the USAF Test Pilot School at Edwards Air Force Base. Flown by students in the 60s to give experience in high-altitude flight, it still sports the rocket engine at the base of the vertical tail which enabled it to reach over 100,000 feet altitude.

A scorching wind from the high desert of Southern California moaned around the needle nose of an F-104 Starfighter, permanently earthbound but pointing skyward on a pylon outside the low building housing the USAF Test Pilot School at Edwards Air Force Base. A rocket engine mounted at the base of the vertical tail showed that this was one of the handful of NF-104s which explored the edge of the atmosphere in the sixties.

Of the three original NF-104s with their 6,000 lb thrust LR-121 rocket engines and reaction controls, one of the three survived a mid-air explosion of the rocket motor and made it back to Edwards and the sanctuary of Rogers Dry Lake, landing with tail feathers in shreds. Another was lost when Chuck Yeager, then Commandant of the Test Pilot School, got into a flat spin during a ballistic trajectory flight at over 100,000 feet. He rode the bird down to fourteen thousand feet before baling out, only to be severely burned by the rocket of the ejection seat.
In those days, and for the previous twenty years, Edwards was the fabled home of the test pilots, later to be immortalized in Tom Wolfe’s book The Right Stuff. A breed who would fly anything, anywhere.

Now, in the eighties, had anything changed?
Test Flying, even during the time I had been involved with it in England, was becoming more of a science than an art. As aircraft became more sophisticated, test flying was increasingly concentrated on systems testing, not just the handling qualities of the aircraft. However, at the USAF Test Pilot School the classical techniques of performance and flying qualities were still taught in addition to systems testing. The performance phase included aerodynamics and test techniques, while students were taught the skills required to evaluate all aspects of aircraft performance. One unique part of this course was the low lift/drag flying applicable to lifting body or shuttle operations. (Most of the astronauts were alumni of this exclusive school)

During the flying qualities part of the intensive 46-week course the students learned to evaluate the handling of a range of aircraft in the school’s fleet. Resident aircraft ranged from the F-4 to A-37, from Beaver to KC-135, together with a variable stability Learjet and a T-33 to demonstrate both the problems and the solutions encountered when assessing handling qualities. The students and staff assured me that it was the best job in the Air Force.
What was it like, learning to be a test pilot? I was given the opportunity to find out when I was invited to fly with the USAF Test Pilot School.

Our mount for this mission was the supersonic Northrop T-38, nicknamed the White Rocket during its long career with the USAF and NASA. I flew with Colonel Mel Hayashi, commandant of the Test Pilot School, for a mission which would cover a sample of the teaching techniques used during the handling and performance portions of the course.

In addition to the handling points on our flight, we briefed for a simulated shuttle approach which would culminate in a lakebed landing. This was treated routinely as just another segment of the course dealing with low L/D flying. As Colonel Hayashi explained, we would simply aim for a triangular marker painted on the lakebed, then switch to another marker as we flared. From my point of view a 280 knots power-off descent with flaps, airbrake and gear down promised to be interesting. I had watched the NASA Gulfstream apparently dive-bombing the lakebed doing precisely this maneuver when the astronauts were training for their shuttle landings. It was terrifying to watch. I started to wonder why I had volunteered for this mission.

Before we walked out to the aircraft Colonel Hayashi gave me a comprehensive briefing on emergency procedures in the T-38, bale-out procedures and the actions required of me if we should have a bird strike. We were scheduled to fly at two o’clock in the afternoon and I had spent most of the morning being fitted with flight suit, boots, helmet and oxygen mask. Last of all came the g-suit. A tight fit was essential for it to do its job correctly, and I was carefully hooked, laced and zipped into the g-suit.

It was eighty degrees Fahrenheit and a hot dry wind was sweeping across the acres of concrete of the Edwards ramp as we walked out to the white stiletto of our T-38. It was a long walk out across the ramp,helmet in hand, with the buckles on my back-type parachute clinking and the bulky g-suit around my lower body and legs making it awkward to walk. The tower had given the visibility as eighty-five miles and the snow-capped San Gabriel mountains to the south shimmered incongruously in the distance as we approached the T-38. It was a small aircraft, but looked wickedly fast just sitting on the ramp.

The supersonic Northrop T-38 is used extensively by the USAF Test Pilot School, and provided the opportunity for the writer to be introduced to the world of a student test pilot, if only for a day.

I climbed the rear ladder and parked my helmet on the far cockpit sill, tucking my gloves and kneepad up onto the coaming of the rear blast screen. I swung the parachute into the rear seat, hooked up the survival pack connectors and then climbed in. Our crew chief helped me connect up the parachute harness, g-suit and the seat straps while Colonel Hayashi pre-flighted the aircraft and then climbed into the front cockpit.

Isolated in the rear cockpit, I donned helmet, oxygen mask and gloves. Plugging in the various connections I was reassured by the doll’s eye oxygen indicator blinking down by my right knee as I breathed in and out. As the intercom came alive we established communications.

As Colonel Hayashi hit the starter button the right hand J-85 started to motor over. At fourteen percent rpm the engine lit with a rumble, sending the turbine temperature needle scurrying round the dial. The engine wound up to idle power, whining away behind me while the left hand engine was started. With both engines running, the flight controls were checked for full movement. Forewarned, I made sure my knees were out of the way of the stick. By now our crew chief had stationed himself in front of the T-38 and pantomimed the control surface movements as the stick was moved. Here in the rear cockpit, way ahead of the wings, it was difficult to see the control surfaces, even in my rear view mirrors on the canopy arch.

The controls checked out OK. All that remained was to pull out the safety pins for the canopy jettison and the ejection seart, hold them up for the crew chief to see, then stow them away. Our callsign was COBRA 01, the number reserved for the School Commandant, and the tower cleared us to taxi for the active runway. A burst of power persuaded COBRA 01 into motion and we taxied down the ramp, our open canopies nodding as we rumbled over the joints in the concrete.

The Edwards ramp was crowded with the resident F-4s and F-111s. We rolled on down the taxiway, past the tower and out across the field until we stopped at the “Last chance” area near the end of the runway. Here two crewmen made a final visual inspection of each aircraft, checking for leaks, loose panels or other discrepancies. For safety’s sake our gloved hands were kept in full view, away from any switches. I rested my hands on my canopy arch, well clear of the controls while the crew scurried about under the aircraft. Satisfied, they ran clear and waved us back to the taxiway.

It was time to button up and I reached up and manually lowered my canopy, pushing the locking lever forward on the right hand wall until it clunked home and the canopy warning light extinguished. My head was almost touching the canopy and I blipped the electric seat adjustment down until I could get some clearance between my helmet and the canopy.
We rolled gently out onto Runway 04, checking that there was no-one on finals, and lined up precisely on the centerline that stretched out to the shimmering lakebed in the distance. Mindful of the warning about bird strikes I lowered my dark visor as COBRA 01 was cleared for takeoff.
As the power levers advanced to the Military Power detent and the brakes were released, we started to move. The T-38 accelerated rapidly, keeping straight initially with differential braking, then the power levers went fully forward to maximum power and the nozzles opened as the afterburners lit. The right hand nozzle was fractionally slow, but once both were lit the acceleration continued to increase inexorably. At 155 knots the T-38 flew off the ground and started to accelerate rapidly once the gear and doors were tucked away. As the ground dropped quickly away we came out of afterburner and the acceleration decreased perceptibly.

I set up the climb as briefed at 350 knots, still at Military Power. My task was made easier by the special instrumentation fitted in the School’s T-38s. In these aircraft the standard ASI and altimeter had been replaced by single-pointer instruments. As the ASI was graduated in knots, with one complete revolution reading one hundred knots, airspeed could be read to an accuracy of one to two knots. Initially I found that I could not match that accuracy and we pursued a slightly roller-coaster path as I got used to the powered controls of the T-38. Ailerons and pitch control were considerably lighter than the Cessna 172 RG that I had been flying the week before. We settled into the climb at 4000 ft/min and some three minutes later I leveled out at 15,000 feet.
Visibility was spectacular from the T-38. The rear seat was set some ten inches higher than the front seat and I could see straight ahead over the forward ejection seat. Apart from the canopy frames and the glass blast screen between the cockpits I had an unobstructed view out of the canopy ahead and to either side. By craning around I could just see the wings following us. It was easier to check to the rear using the rear-view mirrors on my canopy arch.

Colonel Hayashi pointed out the landmarks in the local area while we positioned for our first test point. We were heading towards Owens Dry Lake, some 60 miles to the north, with the white-capped saw-tooth bulk of Sierra Nevada range of mountains stretching off our left side and extending north for over a hundred miles. The highest, Mount Whitney, towering to 14,494 feet was clearly visible out front to our left. Below us stretched the dusty sagebrush wastes of the Mojave desert. Volcanic plugs dotted the plain below and although it was a completely alien landscape I realized with a sense of déjà vu that of course I did know this scene. While I had been growing up in England this had been the backdrop for all that spectacular footage of test flying from the X-1, Skyrocket and X-15 rocket plane projects. These were hallowed skies for anyone involved in any way with test flying. It was a strange sensation.

Colonel Hayashi started by showing me how a student was taught to set up a typical stable test point. No screaming dives to the edge of the envelope on this flight. The essence of test flying was accuracy. The limits for me to fly to were plus or minus two knots and we were aiming to establish a data point at exactly 15,000 feet and 300 knots.

In a strange aircraft, the test pilot first had to estimate the power to set up the first point, so we chose a deliberately low power setting to start. At exactly 15,000 feet the power was inched up to eighty-seven percent on the J85s; stick forces were trimmed out on the coolie hat trim switch on the top of the hefty stick grip and we waited for the aircraft to stabilize. Airspeed settled at 295 knots, so rpm was inched up to eighty-nine per cent.
This gained us two knots and so the power was increased in increments and the process repeated until at ninety-one per cent we were indicating exactly 300 knots. At this point our hands were taken off the controls to see if we were trimmed out. The T-38 hummed along, rock-steady. It seemed easy enough.

Now it was my turn. My task was to set up a test point at 240 knots. With throttles back to idle we slowed to about 220 knots and I started inching the power up. In my unpracticed hands the exercise proved to be a slightly more lengthy procedure than I had anticipated. By the time I had the situation more or less under control and had trimmed out the stick forces, we were within five miles of the eastern boundary of our Restricted Military Airspace and the controller wanted us to turn back west. I began to appreciate why the minimum requirements for entry to the Test Pilot School included a thousand hours of jet time. Flying to this accuracy had to be second nature before embarking on a venture like this.

Next on our flight card was an acceleration from 250 knots to Mach 0.9 while maintaining exactly 15,000 feet. At M0.9 we would bring back the power to idle, start a turn and decelerate under a constant 3g until we hit the aerodynamic limit which would be marked by heavy airframe buffeting.

As we accelerated I was aware that the tiniest corrections in pitch were constantly required to maintain us at constant altitude as the speed increased. As the angle of attack decreased I could see the nose inching lower against the horizon. Above M0.85 a small-amplitude directional snaking appeared. This was a transient effect of the yaw damper system.

At M0.9 as the power levers were brought back to idle we flipped into a steep left hand bank. As the needle of the accelerometer locked onto 3g my g-suit inflated, pressing against my legs and abdomen to restrict the flow of blood away from my head. The turn tightened and the speed drastically reduced as the induced drag increased.

It was now noticeably difficult to breathe as I strained against the g-force and tried to write notes on my kneepad. Below three hundred knots the ride started to get louder and rougher as the airflow started breaking away behind the canopy and over the wings. At 250 knots the T-38 was protesting by giving us a very uncomfortable ride. The stick went forward to unload the g-force and the T-38 came back into level flight.

Now it was my turn to try this. Bringing the power levers back up to Miltary Power, I watched the gauges start to wind up. Flying this accurately took me back to the days when I was sweating through my instrument rating. It was just as challenging. I found that by concentrating hard on the altimeter I could maintain altitude precisely at 15,000 feet, although as the Machmeter crept past M0.8 it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain altitude exactly.

At M0.9 I brought the power levers back to the idle stop and attempted to set up the required 3g deceleration in the turn. In an all-but-vertical bank my attention was divided between keeping the altimeter at 15,000 feet and maintaining the correct bank angle and the g. This task was easier said than done. There were few cues for speed and attitude outside the cockpit and while I was trying to keep the horizon in the right place I found that the g-force backed off and the g-suit deflated. My eye finally caught the movement of the g-meter needle and I pulled back on the stick until we hit 3g.

We hit the buffet at around 280 knots and it got progressively worse until I could feel the aircraft start to wallow around in the heavy airframe buffet. That was enough of a limit for me. Pushing the stick forward to unload the gs I powered us back into level flight to set up for the next point on the test card, a constant airspeed descent at 300 knots. After a suggestion from the front cockpit that I might try 80% rpm for this, I was on my own. I pulled the throttles back, checked that the speedbrake was out and we started sliding down the sky. It was difficult initially for me to keep the speed constant; I was still tending to overcontrol. In jets, small changes in attitude generate large variations in the rate of descent.

We leveled at 10,000 feet to demonstrate the effects of flying on the back of the drag curve. The T-38, designed by Northrop in the fifties to introduce pilots to the flight characteristics of the Century Series supersonic fighters, had all the characteristics of the early supersonic jets, with a low aspect ratio wing giving high induced drag at high angles of attack. This meant that the slower you flew, the more power was needed to combat the drag.

Flight behavior in this part of the flight envelope had its own characteristics. Our demonstration test point was 190 knots and 10,000 feet altitude, with gear down and flaps at 60 per cent. I tried to remember the classroom briefing. In this regime, altitude was maintained with power while speed was now controlled by pitch, reversing the normal technique at higher speeds.
For our budding student test pilot, accuracy was the goal, as it was at the higher speed. The technique demonstrated was to bring the power up in increments until 94%rpm on each engine kept the altimeter locked on to 10,000 feet; meanwhile the speed was maintained at exactly 190 knots by tiny fore-and-aft corrections on the stick. At this speed we were getting into an area of small-amplitude wing rock.

At this point I took control of the aircraft again to set up a test point at 180 knots and 10,000 feet. I met with indifferent success initially, finding that the power required just to stop us descending had the throttles almost up at Military Power. It was fast becoming a juggling act as my changes in pitch to keep the speed constant were in turn magnified by instrument lags and the fact that I was not letting things settle out. Gradually the situation was sorted out and we settled at the required 180 knots, nose way up in the air and engines almost all the way up to 100% as the engine thrust fought the induced drag from the tiny wing. This was the purpose of the exercise and I was learning fast.

At the eastern limit of our airspace again we turned west, pausing while an F-16 flashed past some 2,000 feet above on a reciprocal course. Edwards airspace was very congested and civil aircraft were warned to keep well away. With a dozen or so military jets airborne on various test missions at any one time, maintaining separation was a full-time task for the controllers.
My next task was to find the g-force value at 300 knots at which the T-38 could just maintain sustained flight at Military Power. This would give a check point on the specific excess energy curve of the aircraft. Combat aircraft live or die on specific excess energy in combat. Aircraft designers needed to know how their aircraft measured up to their calculations by checking on the specific excess energy curves relative to other aircraft. My life as a designer had centered on this for years.

I set up a level turn at Military Power and gradually increased the bank angle, pulling back on the stick to keep the g increasing while maintaining the speed at exactly 300 knots. We could just maintain 2.4g at this flight condition, with thrust equal to drag at this point. Easing the stick back gave fractionally more g and sure enough the speed started to drop. This checked out with the book figure.

Colonel Hayashi gave me a break from this hard work and we took five minutes out to fly the T-38 through some aerobatics. Barrel rolls were especially fun, using the distant snow-capped peak of Mt. Whitney as a reference point. I found the T-38 a delightful aircraft to maneuver but typical of any fast jet it certainly used a lot of sky as we effortlessly soared and rolled between 8,000 feet and 15,000 feet. Aerobatics were exhilarating and roll rate was spectacularly fast, as good as the Pitts Special.

Watching the fuel gauges, we could see that it was time to head back to Edwards. However, we found that Murphy strikes in flight test scheduling just as much as in other types of aviation. By now the wind had strengthened from the east and the traffic pattern in use now cut right across the airspace over the lakebed. We needed that airspace to complete our scheduled Shuttle-type steep approach and lakebed landing. Peering over the side I could see the aiming markers sharply contrasted against the white lakebed, but regretfully we had to pass that item by.
As a precaution, before flight we had briefed a couple of alternate test points for just this eventuality, so now we started to descend towards the lakebed for a practice tower fly-by. This was a pure flight test exercise in which the student had to set up a precise flight condition. Another of those tests requiring the utmost accuracy. The exact parameters of speed and altitude had to be maintained while flying past an observer who was in a special fly-by tower out on the lakebed. By sighting on the aircraft as it flew past, the observer could establish its exact altitude. Later comparison of the aircraft’s known position with the instrument readings in the tower and in the aircraft enabled a check to be made of the pitot and static pressure errors in the aircraft system.

The cockpit was very quiet as we descended. The tower gave us updated pressure readings for the altimeter which I set in on my panel. COBRA 01 was now cleared for a tower fly-by. As the throttles went forward we accelerated to our briefed speed of 400 knots, heading east, as the airfield slid past on our right hand side, with the gleaming white surface of Rogers Dry Lake beyond the base.

Down now to 200 feet over the desert the airspeed stabilized at 400 knots and the power levers were left alone from this point on. We banked hard right over the eastern portion of the lakebed, aiming for a stubby pylon which marked the beginning of the tower fly-by run. From the base of the pylon a black line arrowed off across the glaring white lakebed into the distance.
I strained against the g-force as the pylon flashed past less than a hundred feet below and we flicked back into wings-level flight, seemingly balanced over the black line while the lakebed streamed past to either side.

”This time of day would not be good for taking data,” Colonel Hayashi remarked conversationally as the turbulence over the lakebed was causing the airspeed to fluctuate two or three knots either side of our 400 knot datum, enough to invalidate our data. For serious training, these tests were invariably carried out in the early morning, before the sun had heated the desert floor.
We streaked past the tower and on across the airfield.

Still at low altitude, Colonel Hayashi showed me what the performance of the T-38 was like at low level. The throttles went forward and accelerating in Military Power the airspeed was now up to 500 knots. It was an exhilarating ride at this low level. Out of the corner of my eye I could see our shadow flicking across the sagebrush-covered desert. We were now heading north and as the terrain below got rougher the jolting ride became worse in the turbulence. Even at this speed the cockpit was still quiet. I was writing more notes when we ran into a patch of rough air and I was slammed against my straps, with the airspeed fluctuating violently.

Enough of that. The quickest way out of the turbulence was upwards and we pulled up at 5g. This was definitely enough to stop me taking notes. We arrowed up to 10,000 feet, coasting inverted over the top of a giant loop and rolling upright in an Immelmann maneuver to head back to base for some pattern work.

Descending to traffic pattern altitude, we ran in over the field. Fuel was down to 1,100lb as we broke to the right at 300 knots some 1,500 feet above the field. Power levers were pulled back and as the T-38 decelerated through 240 knots, gear and flaps came down. It all happened very quickly. Speed was down to 175 knots on a tightly curving base leg, tapering off to 155 knots on finals. Remembering the behavior of the T-38 at low speed earlier in the flight, I was not surprised to find that the power was way up just to keep us flying with the high drag from gear and flaps added to the induced drag from that vestigial wing. The angle of attack indicator on top of the instrument panel was in the green. Over the runway overrun we went to military power, cleaned up and overshot. We were now at 1,000lbs of fuel. The J85 jets were thirsty at low altitude and the fuel gauges were dropping rapidly.

Another T-38 and an F-16 joined us in the pattern and we decided to make the next landing a full stop. With fuel down to 900lb, this time we banked round on our curving approach with three greens, flaps full down and airspeed at 155 knots. We touched down on the numbers, then whistled along the runway, nose still high for aerodynamic braking until the speed dropped to one hundred knots. The nose was allowed to drop, then gentle braking brought the speed down to a reasonable pace and we turned off the runway.

This Northrop T-38 belonging to the USAF Test Pilot School taxies back from its test mission at Edwards Air Force Base. The Supersonic T-38 has been the mainstay of the TPS test fleet for many years. It is maneuverable, fast and a challenging aircraft to fly well. The T-38 is also great fun to fly

We cracked the canopies open to taxi back. The desert air was dry and pleasantly cool. At the end of the taxiway we waited while an all-white A-7 taxied past, part of the never-ending pattern of flying at Edwards. Colonel Hayashi wheeled the T-38 back into our parking slot. I inserted my seat pins as the J85s whistled down into silence.

This flight had given me an insight into the challenging world of teaching pilots to be test pilots. I had found out the hard way that there is a world of difference in some respects between theory and practice. Classroom work is not enough. Flying the T-38 and the other aircraft in the fleet at the TPS showed the students the practical differences in handling between various designs.
In this age of computers and sophisticated simulators, there is not a lot of mystique left in flying, but maybe it’s still there in test flying. The outsider rarely gets to appreciate the hard work that must be completed before a test pilot emerges from this Test Pilot School and the other military test pilot organizations around the world.

It had been a rare privilege to fly with the USAF Test Pilot School, to experience what it was like to be a student at the Test Pilot School, if only for a day…

Chapter 12: The Reason Why

2009-08-04T20:45:00.000-07:00

In addition to my widening experience of general aviation aircraft, aviation writing provided the opportunity to fly in a number of exotic military jets. Here a Marine A-4 shows off its purposeful lines. I was always struck by the sheer size of the western USA, with vast expanses of mountains and deserts, looking like a lunar landscape, with no sign of human habitation.

Coming to the USA was a breath of fresh air after the problems of private flying that to me had assumed an overwhelming importance in England by the late seventies. Operating costs of aircraft were much less in the USA, principally because of the cheapness of the fuel. On top of this the FAA gave lots of freedom to the individual pilot and landing fees were largely non-existent. Added to this, weather was generally more favorable –in California at any rate.
As I got back into flying, I started adding various ratings to my license in order to broaden my experience. My multi-engine license was obtained on a Piper Apache, one of the earliest on the US register. I found it an honest airplane, although this particular example could be cranky on occasion, having a left engine which could not be persuaded to restart in flight. Basically it handled like a big Cub and I occasionally landed the Apache on the shorter of the two parallel runways at Torrance airport without any fuss.

Next came the instrument rating, and I criss-crossed the Los Angeles Basin night after night wearing a hood to blank out the sight of the brightly lit fairyland of lights. Occasionally we flew in clouds and rain, doing it for real. Gradually the complicated clearances, to reporting points in the ocean with quirky names like LIMBO, PERCH and ALBAS became as familiar as street names to a daily commuter. Approaches to the commercial airports at San Diego or Long Beach would be enlivened by the knowledge that an airliner was following me down the approach.

My Commercial Rating was taken in a Cessna 172RG, almost the same familiar Cessna in which I had spent so many hours, but now with the complexity of a constant speed propeller and retractable gear.

Flying in California had its own set of operational problems as well. High temperatures in the summer led to frequent battles with engine cooling and oil temperatures often pegged on the upper limit during climb. High density altitudes were common during the summer months and flying a relatively low-powered aircraft out of a small field with the temperature over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit gave an appreciation of the performance figures in the manual.
Extensive forest fires were common in Southern California. When combined with the often-present inversion over the LA Basin, this could lead to a situation where visibility from the cockpit was drastically reduced by layers of smoke. One day in particular the LA Basin seemed ringed by fire as half a dozen large fires burned in the hills. As I climbed into the inversion flying a Citabria the smell of burning timber became strong. The air temperature rose twenty or thirty degrees as scorching blasts of smoke-laden air blasted into the cabin through the fresh-air vents. It was an uncomfortable few minutes until I climbed through the inversion into cooler air.

A further hazard was the Santa Ana wind. This was an offshore wind which blew out of the surrounding mountains when a high pressure area formed inland in the winter months. Below the canyons a venturi effect magnified the effects of the wind and it was not unusual for extensive gale damage to result. Aircraft were ill-suited to resist such a wind storm. Hangars were occasionally blown down, and aircraft were ripped from their tie-down ropes and flung carelessly across the ramp. If encountered in flight the Santa Ana wind caused problems ranging from dust storms and severe turbulence to having to cope with high and erratic winds on landing. All this usually took place under an innocuous blue sky. If a Santa Ana wind was forecast it was normally a day to leave the aircraft on the ground.

Aviation traffic in southern California was heavy. I flew out of Torrance, Orange County and Long Beach, airports which ranked high in the number of aircraft movements per year in the USA. Generally speaking the controllers managed to integrate the general aviation and airline traffic satisfactorily. However in bad weather often there could be quite a delay on the ground before you could be slotted into the system. Occasionally the only solution was to shut down until your allotted time slot arrived.

In the USA general aviation was much more necessary than in England. After all, Los Angeles still lay at the edge of the desert. Highways crossed the desert, but the average day’s drive could stretch to five or six hundred miles. The US system of flying, with access to the airways available even to the VFR pilot, proved well suited to the individual needing to cover long distances by air.
I could not help reflecting on the differences in flying in the USA and Europe while climbing out over Long Beach early one morning. The sky just after dawn was that translucent green found only on clear days as the sun rises. Looking through the arc of the Apache’s port propeller I watched Mount Baldy silhouetted against the growing light to the east. Visibility on this winter morning was unlimited and the range of the San Gabriel mountains stretched eastward for a hundred miles in snow-capped majesty. It was a privilege and a pleasure to be flying on such a morning. The only discordant note was a slight mismatch in the engine speeds, causing an unpleasant beat in the propeller noise. I fiddled with the pitch levers and succeeded in synchronizing the engines. As the engines settled into a smooth roar, I leveled off over the Seal Beach VOR and trimmed for level flight. Looking out over the nose towards the Cajon Pass to the east, I could already see the vapor trails of the Phantoms flying out of George Air Force Base, which lay a hundred miles or so to the East.

Even at our relatively modest 140 knots, Las Vegas lay less than two hours away across the burning desert, halving the time to make that interminable trip by road as I had done so many times before. The beauty of the system here was that the FAA operated largely for the benefit of all users. Airliners, general aviation aircraft and commuter airliners all used the airways here, in VFR or IFR conditions. From my point of view it made my life simpler. The various controlling facilities would monitor my journey across the state boundary and into Nevada. All this was largely free, in contrast to the growing tide of navigation charges which was strangling general aviation in Europe.

Basically the sky was a world in which I generally flew alone, but on occasion I could share it with friends or family, watching the beauty of a sunset, or sunlight playing along the coastline. Springtime was an especially pretty season when flying in California, as large areas of the coastline were rimmed with purple as patches of ice-plant started to blossom, while further inland the California poppies turned the desert in the Antelope Valley intoa riotous stretch of red and orange blooms. The sight of the Los Angeles Basin at night, with thousands of lights stretching for miles in every direction, made a spectacular sight. At night the freeways were turned into rivers of red lava tail lights and white headlights. Airport beacons flashed green and white and the sky was full of winking strobes and anti-collision beacons. It could be a crowded sky.

This same sky could also give rise to some strange sights. Did I believe in UFOs? Well, before coming to California I was not convinced either way. However, keeping an open mind was one thing, actually seeing something rather strange was a different matter…
One moonless night at Camarillo airport I was intent on copying down my instrument clearance for my return flight to Torrance, having switched the radio to a ground channel to do so. My engine was running, so I was oblivious to any external noise, when something made me look up, some sense of not being alone.

A hundred yards distant, directly in front of my idling propeller, hanging motionless thirty feet above the twin blue lines of taxi-way lights, was a weird Christmas tree of pulsating lights set against the dark mass of the hills. Red and white lights flashed and shimmied in the gloom, while strange flashes of red were spun off intermittently into the blackness.
For the first time in my life, I started to feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck. What on earth was I looking at?
Transfixed, I stared at this apparition, which bore no resemblance to anything I had seen before. At that moment I would not have been surprised if little green men had descended from it.
Then the radio crackled into life: ”52 Echo, be aware of a military helicopter coming past you. We are letting him air-taxi down the taxiway to the ramp.” Reason returned. I started breathing again. As this strange beast hesitantly crept nearer, the strange lights came from the anti-collision beacons reflecting off the twin tandem rotors of this dark-painted Chinook. In the slight wind the big helicopter was crabbed slightly so its green position lights were hidden from me, with the red position lights and landing lights combining to give this strange effect .

A casual approach to flying usually has tragic consequences. Occasionally the odds can be beaten, either by skill or by some favorable intervention from the gods.
One day at Hawthorne I was at the end of the runway, waiting to takeoff, when an unfamiliar Cessna appeared on final approach. It was against the morning sun and my attention was attracted to it as it drew nearer as the silhouette was somewhat different from the normal Cessna 172s. I looked again. As the Cessna came over the fence, I could see that trailing from the rear of the aircraft was a large concrete block on a four-foot length of rope. In the USA any aircraft not hangared is tied down overnight. Wings and tail are often tied down to these fifty-pound blocks, or to ropes or chains firmly inset into the ramp. Normally this is sufficient to tether the aircraft against any gusts of wind. On this occasion the pilot had obviously neglected to unhitch the block prior to flight.

However he had managed to taxi the length of the field dragging the block behind him, then succeeded in taking off despite now having a center of gravity somewhat further aft than normal. Once around the pattern with the control wheel pushed firmly forward to stay straight and level was enough to convince him that something was wrong, and he was now returning to rectify the situation.

The Cessna touched down normally, with the block simultaneously hitting the runway and exploding into fragments. Turning off at the next intersection he taxied back to his tiedown area, dejectedly dragging the rope behind him. It was a hard way for him to learn a lesson.
Nobody laughed. He was still alive. The controller closed the runway for thirty minutes while the maintenance crew swept the debris from the runway.

I found that working in the aerospace industry in California was quite different from the ordered way of life in England. It was a dynamic environment in which jobs could evaporate almost overnight as program budgets were slashed. Even for high-level positions, job security was defined as being employed until the end of the week. After this had happened to me a couple of times I added a second string to my bow by branching out as a freelance aviation writer. My previous writing coupled with my jet-flying background would provide opportunities to fly in a number of fairly exotic aircraft, including military jets.

Jet flying in particular had a magical quality. At 30,000 feet over the western United States, a good portion of California’s Central Valley lay beneath the wings of the speeding jet, and out of the bubble canopy I could see the sweep of the coastline from the Channel Islands behind the trailing edge to San Francisco over the nose. The Sierra mountain range had an almost lunar quality to them, with no sign of habitation from this altitude. The sheer size of the United States never failed to awe me, after flying for many years in England where it was possible to see right across the country from the North Sea to the Irish Sea on a clear day.

On occasion cruising at altitude over cloud I could look down at our contrail racing over the blinding-white cloud deck below. At the head of the contrail was the shadow of our speeding fighter. Surrounding the shadow was a perfect rainbow, a multi-colored halo, seen only by aviators and mountain climbers. Explainable completely by the laws of physics, it was nevertheless still a beautiful sight.

At these altitudes, a significant proportion of earth’s fragile atmosphere lay below. Breathing through an oxygen mask was sufficient to remind me that the environment at this height was hostile to humans and only technology enabled mankind to exist up here for any length of time. Seeing the sun redden through veils of smoke from forest fires, or watching steam ooze from the blasted volcanic stump of mount St. Helens was a reminder of the fragile hold we have on the surface of this planet, and overall we were still subservient to the powers of nature.