What follows is a variation on what he practiced earlier at Nellis:
The bull’s-eye is a set of concentric circles on the ground: the outer circle is 2,000 feet in radius, the next is 1,000 feet, the next is 500, and the smallest is 100. The lead’s immediate task is to fly over a spot upwind from the bull’s-eye. For example, if he has a wind from the northeast at 20 knots and he is heading north on the run-in, he lines up his jet over the ground to the right of the bull’s-eye, waits until he is past the bull’s-eye at the prescribed offset point, lights the afterburner, and presses the pickle (the bomb-release button on top of the stick). At that point, he starts an Immelmann. At a preset angle, nose up (which primarily depends on the outside temperature and wind velocity at release point), the bomb is automatically released. Sometimes this is a twenty-five-pound practice bomb, but often it is a 2,000-pound bomb shaped like a nuclear weapon (when he releases one, his aircraft bounds like a kangaroo). The bomb then climbs to more than 30,000 feet above the ground, runs out of speed, and turns around and heads to earth. When it strikes the ground, a shotgun shell filled with white phosphorus puts out a large puff of smoke. This allows the range crew to score the hit by referencing it to the circles. Since the pilot is dropping a simulated nuclear weapon, a satisfactory score is well over 1,000 feet.
Meanwhile, at release he calls, “Off on top wet,” which means that a release light lit in his cockpit, and the bomb is in the air headed for the ground. He then rolls out so his wingman can start his run. As he comes off on top, they both enter the bombing and strafe pattern. After they expend all their bombs and bullets, they join up and start for home.
As they cross the Channel, the lead checks in with the British, so the cousins don’t scramble a fighter on them, and enter the holding pattern at Hopton beacon on the English coast (which served as the initial fix for airfields in East Anglia), until the expected approach clearance time, EAC.
When control informs him that he is cleared to penetrate, the lead switches to the Lakenheath GCA frequency and contacts the controller, who talks him down. He breaks out into the fog at 300 feet above the ground a half mile off the end of the runway, touches down, deploys his drag chute, and gingerly steps on the brakes as the jet slips and slides on the always wet runway. He turns off on the end and jettisons his drag chute. The armorers then disconnect the gun plugs and put safety pins in any remaining bombs. About this time, the wingman lands. The lead waits for him to get safetied, and then he taxis back to the ramp in front of the squadron, shuts down the jet, climbs out, and stops by maintenance debriefing. Then he goes back to the squadron and stows his gear.
After that, he and his wingman spend maybe half an hour debriefing the flight: what went right, what went wrong, why the bombs were good or bad.
No small part of the discipline of a fighter pilot derives from the debriefings after a mission.
Since these can be brutal, the lead makes very sure that in the mission he follows the game plan, and if he’s made a mistake during the mission, he had better be the first to admit it. If he doesn’t, or if he wasn’t aware that he had made a mistake, or if he tried to cover up his mistakes with self-serving excuses, he was probably dead meat in the debrief.
Debriefings in operational units often involve heated debate, for the stakes are incredibly high, and the participants have strong and differing opinions about what will survive and work in combat and what is just fanciful thinking. On the other hand, the debriefings in combat crew training units tend to be much more structured and much less heated. The students do not have the experience to know what is functional and dysfunctional, and the missions themselves are usually very structured. However, since every mission includes unexpected events, there is always room for differences of opinion.
The most respected pilots are the ones who can identify their own shortfalls and learn from them. And the best instructors are the ones who can tell them the root cause of their failures in the air and give them tools to avoid them—either new physical techniques or different thought processes.
★ Another typical mission out of Lakenheath was called a night MSQ. This was a single-ship mission in Germany. Ground radars with very accurate beams had been placed near the East German border, in order to direct a fighter in wartime to a point in space for bomb release of a nuclear weapon. The bomb would then fly a predictable route to the target.
On an MSQ mission, a pilot might take off single-ship near the end of the day and fly at 40,000 feet to a contact point on the East German border. At the contact point, he’d call in the blind; that is, he’d broadcast without receiving an answer. Meanwhile, in the upper-left-hand side of his instrument panel was a four-inch-round dial on which were a number of small symbols, windows, and icons. One arrow pointed to the left, another arrow to the right; one window said one minute, and another said thirty seconds; and at the top of the dial was a single red light. When that one lit, he knew the radar was locked on to his jet. Then he followed the instructions it was sending him, which were relayed through the arrows, windows, and icons on the dial. Most frequently, they sent you north along the western edge of the East German border. To be on the safe side, the pilot would also tune the low-frequency navigation set on the floor between his legs to a series of twenty-five-watt navigation beacons. These gave him a cross check to make sure he didn’t stray over the border.
Meanwhile, in the darkening sky, he would see the contrails of a Russian fighter shadowing him, hoping the pilot would stray over the border so he could try to shoot him down.
Soon, the one-minute light would come on, meaning that the pilot had sixty seconds to release. At the same time, he would be getting left or right arrows, while maintaining his altitude and airspeed at the prebriefed values. Then the thirty-second light would come on, and thirty seconds later, he’d hit his bomb button. This would cause his radio to emit a tone, which the radar site would score. (Both the pilot and the radar site were given a score.)
Afterward, he’d turn away to the west and either return to the contact point for another run or head for home, hoping to hit his bed by midnight, because he had to be at work at 4:00 A.M. for a six o’clock takeoff the next day.
★ Fighter pilots never get enough of air-to-air training—dogfights—yet, for some reason, probably having to do with the nuclear delivery mission, U.S. pilots in the late fifties and early sixties were given very little air combat training; and what they were allowed was rudimentary. As a result, they all went underground. They practiced against other NATO fighters that happened to be in the air at the same time they were.
So, for example, if a pilot was flying the nuclear delivery profile above, a Mirage fighter might well start a practice intercept run on him. When the pilot saw the Mirage, he tried to do what he would do in actual combat. He’d push the power up and turn into the attack. Then he and the Mirage pilot would conduct a series of maneuvers aimed at foiling the other while winding up at his six o’clock for a heat-seeking missile or gun attack. All of this was unbriefed and there were no rules. In fact, it was illegal. Worse, you were often in a dangerous configuration, carrying, say, four external fuel tanks and a practice nuke bomb, which made the fighter apt to go out of control.
Those who did well in this school learned how to fly their aircraft on the edge of the envelope and how to fight a broad range of aircraft and pilots.
Mirages, for instance, tended to be more maneuverable than Super Sabers, because the F-100s usually carried external fuel tanks, but Mirage pilots often entered the fight in afterburner with speed brakes out, thus negating the advantage of either function. As a result, it was pretty easy to get them to overshoot initially. After that, a pilot had to be careful at slow speed because the Mirages could out-turn him. The British Hawker Hunter was a sweet jet and tough to beat, but U.S. aircraft had afterburners and Hunters did not. While F-100s could not out-turn them, they could use the vertical dimension (that is, they could climb faster) to gain some advantage over a less skilled pi
lot. On the other hand, the Javelin (also British) was heavy and underpowered, so it didn’t take much to gain the advantage on it. The British Lightning had both superb turning ability and outstanding thrust, but didn’t carry much fuel. So if a pilot got jumped by a Lightning, he’d just stay defensive and fend off his passes with hard turns, nose low to maintain energy, until the fight wound up on the deck and the pilot’s turns now became level. Then he’d spend about ten pain-filled minutes looking over his own tail while the Lightning tried to get off a valid shot. Eventually, if he “survived,” he’d see the Lightning level his wings and turn for home, meaning that his meager gas supply was about gone. Then the pilot would light afterburner, fly after him, and place his nose on his tail just so he got the message.
Fighter pilot ecstasy.
★ Combat units are tested periodically to see if they can do their mission. The Super Bowl of tests for Horner’s wing was called an Operational Readiness Inspection, or ORI. Since for the 48th TFW the primary mission was to load their nuclear weapons and deliver them on the Soviet enemy situated throughout Eastern Europe, an ORI usually began when the wing received an alert message (plainly marked “Exercise Only”) that warned of an impending crisis. Soon inspectors flew into the base, and the commander was briefed on the nature and rules of the exercise. Usually the wing was expected to break out the nuclear weapons, deliver them to each combat-ready aircraft, and get them uploaded in a specified number of hours. If all that took too long, or if there were any unsafe practices, the exercise was stopped and the wing flunked. This often resulted in the appointment of a new wing commander, followed by a period of months to practice, and a retest.
Meanwhile, as the weapons were loaded, the pilots were briefed on the flying phase of the exercise. This usually meant they were given simulated targets in France or Germany. After the weapons were all successfully loaded, they were then downloaded and returned to the secure storage area. Once that was done, dummy bombs—concrete shapes—were uploaded; the exercise clock was restarted; sorties were launched in accordance with the tasking from the IG team (often the IG team threw in disruptive events, such as an enemy air attack on the airfield, to complicate matters); and the pilots had to figure out in the air how to fly their route and reach the bombing range on time to make their assigned Time over Target (TOT). As the pilots flew their routes, the IG had people in France or Germany on the ground at various checkpoints, noting if the pilots passed by there and the time. When the pilots reached their bombing range, they got a single pass to release their weapon, and this was scored by the IG team.
Much could go wrong: the jet could break (pilots often took off with a mechanical failure and sweated it out until they released their bombs and could declare an emergency); or the bomb might not release during the over-the-shoulder delivery. If there was weather, as there often was in Europe, crafty pilots would reset the switches while upside down in the overcast, near a stall, do a loop on instruments, and jettison the bomb while heading back toward the ground. The IG on the ground would see only this ton of concrete and steel scream out of the clouds into which the plane had just climbed, and score the hit.
Other missions were less demanding. Pilots would simply fly to a simulated target and do a dry pass. No practice bomb would be released, but the IG team would score the pilot’s time over target and whether he hit the proper offset point at the target.
ORIs were exhausting, and it was all too easy to fail. If a pilot didn’t get a high percentage of his weapons to release on the range on time with a given Circular Error Probability, for example, he died . . . or at least the wing commander died, and he usually took others along with him.
Horner was called to make what turned out to be his last flight at the “Heath” because of a surprise ORI. It was supposed to have been his last day in England, and he hadn’t expected to fly. Meanwhile, the Horner household goods were packed; Chuck and Mary Jo had moved into the officers’ club guest house in Brandon Forest, and they were waiting for transport out.
About noon, the housekeeper came looking for him with an urgent request to call the squadron. Major Nogrowski, the operations officer (they called him Nogo), was desperate. The wing was being given an Operational Readiness Inspection; they were short on pilots; and they needed Horner to fly one more mission. As luck—and planning—would have it, Chuck’s flying gear was stashed in his personal baggage. He’d gotten into that habit whenever he made a Permanent Change of Station move (PCS), so he’d be ready to start flying first thing at his new station.
“Okay,” he said, “no problem.” Then he kissed Mary Jo goodbye, caught a ride to the base, and checked into the 492d Fighter Squadron. Nogo briefed him at the duty desk. They needed to fly two more sorties to pass the ORI. Nogo had a new pilot he could send on one of them, but he’d run out of flight leaders.
“No problem.”
Horner changed into his gear and briefed the new wingman: easy mission takeoff, climb out, and cruise over to France. Let down through the weather, fly low to an abandoned air base in northern France, and conduct a simulated attack. The Inspector General team did not have observers at that target, so the attack would not be scored. The weather was clear, and there was a full moon for their return to England in the early evening. As usual in those days, the wingman was inexperienced, a green lieutenant; but all he had to do was stay in formation, follow Horner’s orders, and avoid the ground with his aircraft during the low-level navigation and target attack portions of the mission.
The first half of the mission proceeded without a hitch. But as they were climbing out from the target toward the setting sun, Horner’s wingman called him on the radio—an unusual event, since new guys were to maintain strict radio discipline and speak only when spoken to.
“Blue Leader, this is Blue Two. The bottom of your aircraft is dark. Request permission to join to close formation and take a look.” Horner rolled his eyes in exasperation and cleared him in as they leveled off en route home.
But the next call really got his attention. “Sir”—Horner had just made captain—“there is a bunch of fluid all over the bottom of your aircraft.” Horner scanned his cockpit gauges, and all was normal. The engine was running fine. Perhaps the setting sun, he thought, had caused a lighting condition that was playing tricks with the lieutenant’s vision.
The wingman’s next call, as they crossed the English Channel, was even more alarming. “Sir, you’re streaming so much fluid it’s making a vapor trail behind the aircraft.”
Horner rolled the aircraft to the left, looked over his left shoulder, and saw a trail of white mist arcing out from the tail of his jet. As he wondered what could cause this, the darkening cockpit lit up with red and yellow warning lights. Much of his hydraulic systems had quit. The system needed to operate the flight controls remained, but the second flight-control system and a third system that lowered the landing gear and powered the wheel brakes registered zero hydraulic pressure. The fluid Horner and his wingman had observed was the hydraulic fluid from these systems leaking overboard.
Okay, no sweat, he thought, I have good flight controls, at least enough to fly home and land, an emergency one-shot backup system—to lower the landing gear—and a backup electric motor-driven system, for braking action. This and the drag chute (a parachute packed in the back end of the F-100 that was deployed after touchdown to slow the aircraft down and save wear and tear on tires and brakes) should permit the aircraft to stop safely on the runway. Maintenance will have to tow the jet into the parking area, and I’ll have to declare an emergency with the tower, which means extra paperwork; but what the hell, the weather’s good—rare in England—and I’m in control.
When they arrived at Hopton Radio Beacon on the East Anglia coast, Horner called the Tower at Lakenheath. “Lakenheath tower, this is Blue One at Hopton, I have an emergency. One has lost his primary flight control and utility hydraulic systems, and am bingo fuel.” Meaning: he had only fuel enough to proceed to the field and land. He
then informed them he would depart the fix (that is, from the radio beacon’s location on the English coast) and fly to the field, and asked for a weather update.
The supervisor of flying (SOF ) called back with unwelcome news: a fog bank was moving in, the ground-controlled intercept radar (GCI) was not in operation, and he was fixing to close the field and go home. Because the weather was supposed to be good enough for a nonradar approach, they had shut the GCI down for periodic maintenance. Because it was England, the fog had just come up unexpectedly. He directed Horner to fly back to France and land at a suitable base; there were several possibilities.
Horner looked at the clear night sky, then at his sick jet’s flashing warning lights, and then at the fuel gauges, all seeming to read zero fuel left, and let the supervisor of flying know where he could go. “I can’t make it to France,” he went on. “I’m coming home, I have to land, and can you get the crash crew out?” He was thinking that the presence of the big fire truck with its yellow-suited firemen might come in handy in the event he couldn’t get his landing gear down, or if it collapsed on landing, or if he lost heading control after landing because he didn’t have nose wheel steering, or if his drag chute failed and he ran off the end of the runway and wound up in a fireball.
As the night sky grew dark and the moon started to slide above the horizon, he could make out wisps of white fog filling in the low spots in the English countryside.
As they let down into the night, he began to check in his mind all the things that could go wrong, then instructed the wingman how to react—that is, how to avoid getting caught up in the explosion of Blue Leader’s jet. Meanwhile, to his credit, the SOF stayed cool (it occurred to Horner about that time that the SOF could afford to be cool, seeing as how his ass wasn’t in a sick jet trying to get on the ground before the field became socked in). By then, Horner could make out the lights from villages and from cars on the roads shining up through the wisps of fog. He had flown into the field hundreds of times, in far worse weather, but always with the calm assuring voice of their British air traffic controllers guiding his actions as they observed his flight path toward the field. Tonight, he thought, they’re all drinking ale in some pub because the weather was supposed to be good and we were the last flight and the radar needed periodic routine maintenance.