Bogeys and Bandits Page 3
In fact, there had been no such thing as an Air Group, let alone a Replacement Air Group, and certainly not an Air Group Commander, for well over twenty years. Those were ancient acronyms. But in the Navy, ancient acronyms carried almost as much sentimental weight as ancient airplanes and warships. So the skipper of a modern Carrier Air Wing, which in olden times was called an “Air Group”, was still universally known as the “CAG” (Commander, Air Group).
The Navy had three Hornet RAGs. Two were in California, one at Naval Air Station (NAS) Lemoore, stuck out in the cotton-and-soybean farming boondocks of the San Joaquin valley. The other was at the Marine Corps Air Station El Toro, which was now nearly surrounded by the sprawl of Los Angeles and already on the base closure hit list.
The “VFA” in VFA-106” was another example of Navy shorthand. It stood for Strike Fighter Squadron. Navy fixed-wing squadron designations began with “V.” The “F/A” stood for fighter/attack, the official prefix for all units and airplanes in the strike fighter community.
Which was one more quaint term in naval aviation: “Community” referred to the squadrons and units associated with any particular type of Navy airplane. The F-14 Tomcat people had their own community. So did the A-6s, the S-3s, and the F/A-18 Hornet units. Each community included at least one RAG—a training squadron—that produced replacement pilots for the fleet squadrons. By its very nature, the RAG was the cultural and spiritual matrix for its own community.
And so it was with the F/A-18 Hornet community. VFA-106 was the only F/A-18 RAG on the east coast, and it was there they trained fighter pilots for all the Atlantic Fleet F/A-18 Hornet squadrons.
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The McDonnell-Douglas F/A-18 Hornet was the newest, hottest fighter in the world. The Hornet was designed to perform both the classic missions of tactical aviation: air-to-air (fighter against fighter) and air-to-ground (surface attack).
Historically, the Navy had a dedicated type of aircraft assigned to each mission. It had the big Grumman-built F 14 Tomcat fighter, which had reigned for twenty years as the Navy’s principal air superiority weapon. The Tomcat was an exotic jet. It had a variable-sweep wing that extended straight out for take off and landing and slow speed maneuvering, then folded back into a sleek delta shape for supersonic flight. The Tomcat had always been the weapon of choice of real fighter pilots, like those portrayed in “Top Gun.”
The Tomcat was still considered a hot fighter—one of the few in the world that could rip along at more than twice the speed of sound. But it was getting long in the tooth, its 1970s technology outclassed by the hot new stuff in the modern fighters. And although the Navy was still sending new pilots through the F-14 RAG, the end was in sight. The Tomcat’s day had come and gone.
Likewise with the venerable A-6 Intruder, also built by Grumman. For thirty years the Navy’s all-weather attack mission had been performed by the homely A-6, which when loaded down with bombs and stores looked like a walrus with wings. Now the tough old A-6s were being retired, replaced by F/A-18 Hornets.
The Navy had bet its tactical future on a new concept—the strike fighter. It was a matter of economics. Gone was the day when you could afford a specialized vehicle for every mission. A modern fighter like the F/A-18 cost over $30 million per copy. With its state-of-the-art mission computer technology, the Hornet possessed the capability for both air-to-air and the air-to-ground mission. Built in to the Hornet was a quick-change upgradeability feature—an aerospace version of the plug-and-play feature of a desk top computer. The idea was, as new technology evolved, so would the Hornet.
The Hornet’s defining moment came on January 18, 1991. That was the day Nick Mongillo flew his first combat sortie—to bomb an Iraqi airfield. En route, Mongillo and his squadron mate, Mark Fox, took on two MiG-21 Fishbed fighters—while carrying eight thousand pounds of bombs aboard each of their jets. In previous wars, a strike aircraft under threat from enemy fighters would jettison his bomb load, yell for fighter cover, and dive for the deck.
No more. With their bombs still on board, Mongillo and Fox engaged the MiGs—and shot them down. Then they continued to their assigned target -- an Iraqi air base—which they duly flattened.
The strike fighter concept had been validated. The F/A-18 had proven that it could fight its own way to an objective, obliterate the target, and fight its way out. The Hornet was the fighter of the future.
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Road Ammons and the other members of Strike Fighter Class 2 95 (so named for the month they commenced training) spent their first morning of training sizing each other up. Like Ammons, most were “nuggets.” Only a few weeks ago they had completed initial flight training and pinned on their wings of gold. Each had graduated in the top of his flight training class, which had earned for them the most elite assignment in naval aviation: strike fighter training.
They were sizing each other up not just out of friendly curiosity. It was a reflexive activity. During their military careers they had become so accustomed to competing with their peers for everything—grades, class ranking, honors, assignments—it didn’t matter now that the competition was supposed to be over. Each of them, by definition, was already a winner. They had beaten out all the other nuggets and gained entrance to the Valhalla of naval aviation.
But here they were, assessing the competition. It was the same thing they had done since the first day they competed for a Navy scholarship, and it had been that way ever since. You sized up the other guy, then you figured out how you were going to wax his ass. That was just the way it had always been in naval aviation. You had to beat somebody out for every damned thing you wanted.
On this, the first day of strike fighter training, they were wearing their Navy or Marine Corps khaki uniforms, shiny gold wings pinned over the left breast pocket. After today, like all the other students, instructors, and staff officers at the training squadron, they would wear the ubiquitous gray-green Navy flight suits. The only markings would be name tags, the bright orange “Gladiator” patch (official emblem of the training squadron, VFA-106), and their insignia of rank on each shoulder.
Class 2-95 was a cross section of the “new” military: Five class members were Navy, three Marine Corps. Six were men, two were women. Road Ammons was the only African-American.
Of the Navy bunch, the least talky was a smiling, bland-faced young man named Chip Van Doren. Both women students were also Navy: Lieutenant Angie Morales, a diminutive hundred-five-pounder, and Lieutenant Sally Hopkins, a Naval Academy graduate who had already completed a tour of duty flying jets in a utility squadron in the Far East.
Two red-headed Navy lieutenants had everyone doing a double take. They looked nearly identical. In fact, when you studied them up close, they were identical: the McCormack twins, Russ and Rick, who had won their wings at the same time and received orders to the same class here at strike fighter training.
Of the three Marines, Ilya “Road” Ammons and David “Burner” Bunsen were both nuggets and Marine first lieutenants. The most untypical of the class was Marine captain J. J. Quinn, ex-helicopter pilot and the graybeard of the bunch. At age thirty-five, Quinn had nearly a decade on his classmates.
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They kidded each other about being Navy squids or Marine jarheads. Someone joked about bristle-headed Marine haircuts, and the Marines retorted about long-haired Navy sloppiness.
But mostly the talk was about Hornets:
“The next two carriers will be deploying to the Adriatic, to overfly Bosnia. . .”
“. . .new F/A-18 squadrons will replace the A-6s. . .”
“The Hornet will outturn a Tomcat at any speed above. . .”
“The A-4 has a better roll rate than an F/A-18--“
Someone called out, “Attention on deck!”
The chatter ended abruptly. All in one motion, the class snapped to attention. Into the room strode a youthful looking, trimly built officer in khakis with eagles on his collar.
“Take your seats, please,” said Captain Mat
t Moffit, the commanding officer of the RAG. The captain was a pleasant man who smiled a lot. He told them they would enjoy their training here. He wanted them to know that they were the chosen, the pick of the Navy’s litter, so to speak, which was why they were here in this room. “You are the best of the best,” Moffit assured them.
Then he reminded them that the nation’s taxpayers had invested a great deal of faith in them, not to mention money. The fleet needed them. He was counting on them to perform at their very best.
And so on.
That was it. Captain Moffit wished them luck, and left the room. Again the class rose as one to its feet. The formalities were finished. It was time to go to work.
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The flight suits and short hair cuts worn by both men and women aviators had a democratizing effect in the ready room. The same flying attire was worn by junior and senior, male and female, from the commanding officer to the newest nugget, producing a oneness of appearance that transcended rank and gender. The only observable distinctions were the tiny emblems of rank sewn on the shoulders of the flight suits.
Another democratizing tradition was the use of call signs—the fraternal nicknames assigned to all fighter and attack pilots. They were used in the air as radio identification. On the ground, they were used in lieu of name and rank. When addressing a senior officer by his proper name, particularly a lieutenant commander or above, you were expected to say ‘sir,’ or ‘mister,’ or prefix his name with his rank. Or you could simply address him by his call sign. No other niceties were required.
Call signs were acquired early in an aviator’s career, usually when he or she did something noteworthy. Or noteworthily stupid. If a pilot had an aerial incident, say a landing gear problem, he might thereafter be called “Wheels.” If he tried to strafe the wrong target, he might be called “Sniper.” Or if he, like one junior grade lieutenant, disgraced himself by becoming falling down drunk at a party, his call sign would forever be “Flounder.”
Sometimes a pilot’s call sign was simply a play on his real name. “Roller” Rink. “Slab” Bacon. “Pearly” Gates. “Comet” Haley. Certain raunchy name combinations were often irresistible: “Squirt” Seaman; “Buster” Cherry; “Lingus” Cuny; “Butt” Hoale.
But in PTH (Post Tailhook) times, even the matter of call signs had come under review. After all, ladies were present now, and a certain level of decorum had to be maintained. Squadrons had been directed to clean up their pilots’ monikers. The “Linguses,” “Busters,” “Squirts” and other tainted appellations were vanishing from the rosters.
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Ilya “Road” Ammons was one of the few nuggets who arrived at the RAG with a call sign already attached to his name. “I got it out in Kingsville,” he explained. “They hung it on me after my first solo in the T-2 Buckeye.”
It was one of those standard west Texas summer afternoons: distant cumulus towering like nuclear eruptions, heat waves shimmering from the brown-baked landscape, dust devils swirling prairie dirt into the hazy atmosphere. Ammons strapped into the front seat of the Buckeye. He took a moment to twist himself around and look back at the empty rear seat where the instructor usually sat. He grinned. Look at you, man! You’re a jet pilot now. . .
The T-2 Buckeye was a basic trainer, the first jet a student naval aviator gets to fly after he completes primary training in the propeller-driven T-34C Mentor. I’m a jet pilot now—that was a big deal in the career of a young naval aviator like Ilya Ammons. And his first solo in a jet—that was a very big deal.
He blasted off into the haze and headed west, toward the practice area. He went through the maneuvers on the syllabus sheet: steep turns, slow flight, then the basic aerobatics—barrel rolls, loops, Immelmanns.
And that’s when it happened. Ammons was just pulling up into the Immelmann—the first half of a loop with a half roll on top, returning to level flight going the opposite direction— when everything went to hell. He heard a Zzzzztttt in his earphones, then silence.
The radio was dead. So was the Tacan, his navigation radio. The instruments on his panel all showed red flags, indicating they too were dead as dirt.
The Buckeye was without electrical power.
Ammons looked around. Shit. This ain’t good. You’d better get your butt back home.
That was a good idea. But which way was home? Without the Tacan, he had no idea where Kingsville Naval Air Station might be. Looking around at the scorched brown landscape, he had no idea where anything might be. He didn’t even know how much fuel he had left. The fuel gauges were dead too. What to do?
What he did was revert to basic instincts—and to lessons learned back when he was flying Cessnas in college. Down there was a highway—one hell of a big, four-laned artery—which he knew had to be Route 77, the major thoroughfare that meandered through south Texas—and right past Kingsville.
Down he went. Ammons locked onto the winding concrete strip of Route 77 and flew eastward, right on the deck, following every curve and bend. And sure enough—Voila!—there it was, dead ahead, looming out of the haze like an oasis in the desert—the spectacularly gorgeous sight of Kingsville Naval Air Station.
Back in the ready room, Ammons told the duty officer what had happened. The duty officer, who was an instructor in the training squadron, thought it was a great story. “No shit, you followed a road? Your first solo, and you found your way home following a frigging road?”
“Yes, sir. A big road. Route 77.”
The instructor couldn’t wait to blab the story around the squadron. From that day forward Ilya Ammons would be known as “Road.”
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These kids are different.
That’s what you heard from all the senior officers, especially those over forty, like Captain Moffit. What they meant was, the current crop of students were products of a much finer screening process than they themselves had undergone.
Back in the sixties and seventies, when Vietnam was swallowing aviators like a voracious beast, and while the Cold War still demanded a constant supply of trained warriors to deal with the Red Menace, it hadn’t been so difficult to get into Navy flight training. You had to be healthy, of course, with 20/20 vision and no obvious physical deformities. You were supposed to have a couple years of college to get into the Naval Aviation Cadet program, but even that could be circumvented if you came from the enlisted ranks and could pass all the Navy’s aptitude tests for flight training.
The idea in those days seemed to be that Navy pilots ought to be smart, but not to the point of geekiness. Advanced education was nice, but it was something that could be acquired later, after you’d learned to fly and proven to the Navy that you were worth keeping. After all, flying a Navy fighter wasn’t something that required a degree. It was more important that pilot candidates have good hand-eye skills and understand a little about machinery. If you were a bright kid with good eyes and a fondness for motorcycles, you were a naval aviation recruiter’s dream.
Even flawed social backgrounds didn’t eliminate cockpit candidates. There was once a time when a local judge would glower down from his bench at a teenage lawbreaker, then give him two options: jail or the military. Pick a service, kid, it doesn’t matter. Sign up and get the hell out of my town.
So off the miscreant kid would go to boot camp, where he would have to take the battery of basic tests given to every recruit and—Eureka!—he might be found qualified for officer training. Maybe even flight school. To the astonishment of parents, teachers, and the judge, the adolescent terror would by some incredible process metamorphose into a naval aviator as well as—could it be?—an officer and a gentleman.
But that was in another time. Along the way the world changed. Down came the Berlin Wall, and with it the Red Menace, and the military became a shrinking community. The flow of candidates to Navy and Air Force flight training slowed to a trickle. And the competition for the few flight training slots intensified to the extent that only college graduates would be considered. Even
tually only college graduates would be considered who were already in a military program, meaning either ROTC or one of the service academies.
The Fine Mesh got even finer. The screening process tightened so much that only the top ranking students of any college graduating year were even considered for flight training. By definition, these were the super stars. While still in high school each had competed with the entire nation’s crop of college-bound students for the coveted ROTC scholarships or for appointments to Annapolis.
None of these kids had been teenage delinquents. None had ever stood before a glowering judge. None had ever been arrested, flunked a course, done drugs, wrecked a car, failed a test.
What did it mean? In the “new” Navy, it meant no more walk-ins to flight training. No more deliverees from benevolent magistrates. A coal miner’s son like Chuck Yeager could never become a fighter pilot and a national hero. Gone was the old Naval Aviation Cadet program that had produced more than half the Navy’s wartime aviators, including an eighteen-year-old named George Bush. Gone forever was the chance for a bright kid with good hands to escape the mean streets and fly a Navy jet.
These new kids, the Fine Meshers, were undeniably smart. And educated. They graduated from prestigious universities, most majoring in the sciences. Many already held graduate degrees. They were super achievers, at least to the extent that they had excelled throughout their academic careers. When each won his wings, he had graduated in the top ten percent of the class, which was what earned them the assignment to strike fighter training—the apex of naval aviation.
But how did all that connect to being a fighter pilot? How did a degree in, say, astronautical engineering, relate to staying cool during a night catapult launch? Or diving your jet through a wall of flak to bomb an enemy?
These were unexplored questions. No one had yet proven that it was to a fighter pilot’s advantage, when he went one-on-one with a MiG at thirty thousand feet, that he happened to be a rocket scientist.