Fighter Flow

As I take a step back from my day to day profession for a few weeks and reinvent my personal operating model, I'm carving out time each morning to read and write. To drive accountability, I'll regularly post a number of my thought pieces.

It was clear and a million with a few wisps of clouds on the horizon. Two Super Hornets hung loosely off my port wing as we cruised at 25,000 feet. A few miles in front of us was a random point in the middle of the Pacific Ocean that was to be our reference point for the next 45 minutes. Behind us was a carrier battle group slowly cruising East, en route to Hawaii after six months at sea.

Although our ships were on their way home, we were still the carrier on call for the 4-star Pacific Combatant Commander. Should any trouble arise in his area of responsibility, we could be redirected at a moments notice. 

We had spent the last four months flying close air support over the mountains of Afghanistan. The mission we were about to practice was a stark departure; our task was to defend the battle group from a simulated high-end enemy with fourth generation fighters similar to our own.

“Dealer flight, deploy”

The planes flying off my wing sharply cut to the left, giving me an underside view of their captive missiles and auxiliary fuel tanks. A sense of nervous excitement fluttered in my stomach as I advanced the throttles to full military thrust and slightly bunted the nose. Soon, my wingmen were barely visible against the dark blue ocean.

We knocked out some final admin in our deployed formation. Then, my weapons system officer kicked off the battle with a smooth, low pitched drawl:

“Tapes on, fights on. Bangor – snapshot.”

***

There is something magical about waiting to start your engines on the slightly rolling deck of an aircraft carrier amidst the endless expanse of the Pacific. The canopy sits open with your arm lazily hanging off the side of the cockpit. The eight point harness is snug, but comfortable. Lap belts and shoulder straps meld your torso with the ejection seat; 4 leg restraints encircle your calf and thighs, ready to pull your feet away from intersecting the control screens in case you pull the yellow and black handle. Around your right legs sits your kneeboard, with mission parameters and checklists waiting to be referenced. 

And in that moment, silent stillness. The double hearing protection of your foamies and flight helmet drowning out whatever flight deck preparation remains to recover the aircraft circling overhead and launch your own set of planes. Small white caps gather sixty feet below the deck while a slight breeze hits your face as the ship slowly turns into the wind.

The moment of quiet is the calm before the storm. And with one announcement over the flight deck loudspeaker, the games begin.

“Welcome to another beautiful day Old Salt. Event 4 – start ‘em up!” 

The announcement from the Air Boss is followed by multiple low whines as auxiliary power units kick in, pushing air through jet engines to begin the suck-squeeze-bang-blow reaction that powers our chariots.

Soon, the canopy is down. For the next ten minutes, switches are flipped and radio chatter fills my ears. Fuel checks. Weapons checks. Tailhook checks. Plane captain gives me the thumbs up. We’re up and ready. 

As we wait to taxi to the catapult on the bow of the ship, our aux radio comes alive as our flight lead – a friend of mine we call “McLovin’” - reports that his jet is having generator issues. After a couple minutes, a frustrated voice comes back up and lets us know his jet is down.

I was dash-2 of the flight of four and have now been promoted to flight lead. While not technically qualified, my skipper gives us the go ahead to take charge. In my back seat is a TOPGUN trained weapons officer, and the original dash-three pilot of the flight is a seasoned department head who can act as the technical mission commander. They’re gonna give me a shot to lead the division.

Which is a pretty big deal. The mission we briefed was our squadron’s chance to defend the ship in an inter-Air Wing competition. Our Defensive Counter Air flight will be going up against an unknown number of bandits trying to get past our defensive screen. It will put all of our tactics to the test in a high-g, high speed show down. 

You get points for shooting down “enemy” aircraft flown by our sister squadrons. You lose points if you lose your own planes, shoot simulated missiles you don’t have, or worst yet – an enemy gets within range to launch a missile at the carrier. 

“Prof, you ready to do this?” Focker chirps from the back seat.

“Bring it.”

We taxi to the catapult. Full sweep of our control surfaces. Throttles pushed to full afterburner while the restrained Rhino quivers in anticipation for the cat shot. Salute the yellow shirt to my right. Head straight.

BANG – the steam-driven shuttle drags our aircraft forward, accelerating us from nothing to 150 miles per hour in a matter of seconds. Momentary disorientation sets in before a meaningful jolt indicates we’ve cleared the end of the deck and are safely airborne. 

***

Our airborne controller returns the snapshot call with a verbal description of what they’re seeing on their radar scopes. Numerous bandits inbound.

We have the newest radars in the fleet and quickly correlate contacts on our screen with what our overwatch asset has called out. Its a complicated picture. 

The tactics we employ are relatively new to the Fleet – the advancement of our adversary’s capabilities mean we need to deploy new techniques to be effective. Instead of the closely tied flight groups of the 1980s and 1990s, we rely on more autonomy. Being a flight lead is about loosely coordinating a number of assets that can make individual decisions based on a changing combat picture.

We train to a fight that may fortunately never happen. The actual fight we just returned from required a very different skill set – dropping precision munitions on the ground in support of real humans in the midst of a firefight is a step change from the high speed strategy of aerial chess. And while our close air support mission is more meaningful from a tangible impact perspective, I loved flying air-to-air mission more than any other.

Five minutes into the fight, I could feel true Flow setting in. Numbers and memorized combat checklists ran through my head while my body automatically executed throttle and stick movements. My head swiveled between our fast approaching adversary on the radar screen and the sky outside. Symbols and numbers were projected into my helmet, giving me information that helped me make instant decisions. 

The jet and I had melded into one being. The electronic flight control surfaces seamlessly reacted to every movement I made. Where I thought, the plane went. The three dimensions of flight infused my body with endorphins as a natural high set in.

We broke the sound barrier time and again. Stretched our bodies to the limit pulling six and seven gee’s. Inverted flight, hard cuts, throttles swapping between the kick of full afterburner and the brake of flight idle. We pushed the high altitude limits of the Rhino and flew mere hundreds of feet above the ocean, zipping across the wavetops. 

Expert calls crisply came from my WSO in the back, as I locked on to declared enemies and pulled the trigger time and again to fire simulated AMRAAMs. 

I silently kept count of how many missiles we had left. Five…four…three. Soon we expended our last radar-guided munition. But we still had our within visual range weapons – guns and heatseeking sidewinders.

In moments, the heatseakers were gone too. 

On a DCA, protecting the carrier is paramount, and sometimes you have to transition to “knife fights in the phone booth.” Our team had done its job well, but one potential enemy group remained. It had almost slipped through our net and was not identified as an enemy…yet. 

We were the closest asset and maneuvered aggressively to intercept as the unknown plane trundled near the red line where it could potentially launch an anti-ship missile.

Our intercept was clean and fast – and passing within 1000 feet at over 1000 knots of closure, we saw it was an enemy.

“Hostile! Dealer engaging!”

As soon as I blew past the adversary, I pulled hard into the vertical and selected full afterburner, seeing my vision slowly collapse into grey as I executed a high-g maneuver to quickly bring my guns to bear on the target. He tried to mirror my maneuver, but as a bomb-truck, was no match for our agility. Soon, I had him in my gun sights and pulled the trigger.

“Kill Prowler in a right hand turn.”

We were out of gas and out of missiles. But the battlefield was clean. The ship was safe. And with only three jets, we ended with the highest score in the Air Wing.

Soon our three-ship formed up for the return flight to the ship. 

The clear day called for a Case One, comm out recovery. Circling overhead Old Salt at our marshal altitude, we saw our sister squadrons “break the deck,” turning sharply prior to the stern of the ship, executing a flawless shit hot break into the three wire. 

Soon, it was our turn, and I led the light division overhead Mom at carrier break altitude and a…few knots…above the proscribed 350. 

Rapid stick movement to the left and pull back on the stick, throttles to flight idle while extending the speed break. Six gees to bleed off the airspeed while keeping the plane level. Look left to see the ship. Get to the right abeam distance. Airspeed low enough. Actuate the gear handle and flaps. Keep the turn in. Throttles back up. 

Crossing the wake, on speed and on altitude with slight negative VSI rate. Double flash of the green lights on the Fresnel lens, as the LSO silently acknowledged I was looking good. Little left for line up with a cresting ball. Keep it coming. Slight throttle movement, slight lineup adjustment.

Back of the ship flashing below me and all of a sudden a rapid tug and decel as the plane comes to a stop. Throttle back, hook up, right hand turn with the rudders and slight bit of thrust to clear the deck for my wingman landing 45 seconds behind me.

As I shut down the engine after our plane was chained to the deck, I looked back over the calm and crystal blue ocean.

What a day.