The Buffalo Pilot: A Ford Stevens Military-Aviation Thriller (Book 3)

by Lawrence Colby

  “You’re lucky, dad,” Charlie said.

  The aircrew walked out together, four men dressed in modern-day knight outfits, and strapped in their air-breathing machines. The engine start sequence for the jets went from stillness to a roar and got louder with time as the two F-15 Eagle crews worked their kneeboard checklists for taxi. The boys listened in on Frog’s hand-held aircraft radio so they could hear the calls to the Air Traffic Controllers. Ford knew enough from watching web videos how one aircraft was the lead, and the other was his wingman, and he listened intently.

  A short period of horse-play with a soccer ball in the hangar was in order until they heard the engine sound change. The air was filled with a mix of bitter, acrid jet exhaust and sweet aviation fuel, an unmistakable smell that he liked.

  “They’re moving!” yelled Charlie.

  A “vrrrr-whhhosshh” sound was heard off in the distance where the Eagles were parked. The pilots adjusted the two throttles, and the aircraft began their taxi for takeoff, tipping off the boys.

  Moments later, the jets took the runway, put the throttles forward into afterburner, and they were on their way. The boys barely knew anything about energy, thrust, ignited fuel or engine compressors, and didn’t care either, because the flames licking out the back sure looked impressive. Pipe length and nozzles? They didn’t know a thing about them, as all the two Stevens boys knew was that these two jets moved fast!

  Ford and Charlie held palm-sized, shiny, nickel military challenge coins from each of today’s pilots. The Stevens kids felt like they knew these captains well after spending the morning with them and were attracted to the way the pilots made them feel. Accepted and respected. A real sense of belonging, especially after receiving their colorful 3-D squadron coins. They both rubbed the coins with their dirty fingers like a genie was going to come out of a bottle.

  The F-15 Eagle was a 1970s era fighter pilot’s dream, flown by both the Air Force and Air National Guard and upgraded over the years to newer versions. The twin-engine, all-weather, tough-looking Eagle was a true air superiority jet. First entering the Air Force lineup in 1976 and distributed to other countries such as Japan and Saudi Arabia, the F-15 continued flying today.

  Both Eagle aircraft were airborne by the time they passed in front of the boys, still in full afterburner with flames shooting out the back, the jet’s bright glow reflecting off the hangar doors. The two fighters leapt off the runway near together, stayed low with their gear up, and accelerated fast. Ford could not believe they were going to get their own air show.

  Heading south until over the East China Sea with dirty exhaust in trail, they immediately pulled up and soared into the sky in formation. The smoky vapor trails coming from each wingtip was a memorable sight, as if a canister of white spray paint was installed and discharged into the air.

  Listening on the radio, the boys heard the tower passing them to the departure controller to switch radio frequencies.

  “Roger, VAMPIRE Flight switching to departure,” he said, talking through his oxygen mask, sounding like he had his hands covering his mouth.

  “Two,” the wingman responded.

  With that radio call, Ford told Charlie that their take-off was complete.

  Both boys then pointed at what they spotted at the end of the taxiways, the rarely seen, sleek-looking black SR-71 Blackbird. They eyed it like it was a spacecraft from another planet, smiled at each other, but did not say anything about it.

  “Let’s go, Charlie, they won’t be back for a few hours,” Ford announced, tilting his head and nodding toward the inside of the hangar to follow escort pilot Frog. The jet noise faded away as they went deeper into the vast hangar.

  Suddenly, the silence on the brick-sized hand-held radio broke into quick chatter.

  “Mayday, mayday, mayday! VAMPIRE 44 is on fire. I’m on fire! VAMPIRE 44!” The pilot spoke fast and at a rapid pace, and though he tried to remain calm, even Ford could feel the tension in his voice as he listened intently. He knew the radio call could not be good and heard the jet sounds getting louder once more as they were returning to the airfield. They departed fast and were returning just as rapidly. The jets were out of sight at the moment, but easily within hearing distance as the two Eagles zoomed over their hangar.

  Appearing as if he was trying to play it calm, Ford heard the tone difference in the next radio transmission. “Tower, VAMPIRE 44, flight of two, emergency. My lead’s on fire. Don’t know if we can make it back.”

  “He sounds cool as a cucumber,” Ford whispered to Charlie, hoping not to let on how serious this was.

  Faced with death at any moment, riding a tube full of extremely flammable fuel, Ford felt more stress upon hearing the pilot’s next radio call.

  “Flames in the cockpit! Flames in the cockpit! We’re burning up!”

  Though neither Charlie nor Ford could see it, a mile away the tower controller fumbled nervously with his push-to-talk button, forgetting its location. Much like the eager boys watching in anticipation, the tower controller had something in common with the two brothers on the ground – it was the first time any of them had heard a mayday call come over the radio.

  “Yeah, hey, copy your emergency,” said the tower controller once he found the button to trigger the frequency. “Any runway you need is available, sir. Winds are two-two-zero at twelve.”

  An eerie silence filled the airwaves, then came the dreaded announcement: “We’re calling Fire Department for you now, sir.”

  Charlie and Ford looked at each other, stunned, as they heard the fire station send out their engine and truck, and watched them roll out of the building with lights and sirens going. The boys saw the two F-15s speed toward the far end of the airfield, just over the fence line and golf course, with one of them trailing thick, shadowy smoke from behind.

  Anytime petroleum burned, the smoke was dark black, as opposed to wood-burning products that produced smoke in the color grey. The smoke dissipated the further away it got from the jet. At such a young age, the boys had trouble following the details of what was going on, but Ford scanned around him and had a sixth sense about it. He knew the word ‘mayday’ from his web videos.

  “That’s strange, boys. They are returning,” Frog said. He was hoping they wouldn’t notice the smoke trail.

  Charlie was jumping up and down in excitement now, but Ford shot him a glance, telling him to be still. Charlie’s loose helmet covered his eyes again, needing both hands now to stop the flopping up and down over his face.

  Both aircraft were approaching the overhead break, directly over the runway at one thousand feet of altitude. As a precaution, Ford turned down the radio a bit so only he could hear. Charlie continued to be enthusiastic watching the aircraft go by, but Ford continued to assume that there was a real dangerous problem and kept his feelings private. He could hear the sirens of the Fire Department grow louder as they made their way to the runway.

  “Eject! Eject!” was being screamed in agony over the radio. “Eject!”

  “Hol-lee crap,” Ford said under his breath. That means they leave the aircraft in a parachute.

  Barely a second passed by after hearing the tormented radio call before the boys witnessed a beautiful technological marvel while simultaneously watching a developing tragedy. It was the moment that all high-performance military pilots dreaded, but were grateful the technology was invented. With extended orange flames lurking out the back of the fuselage in a long elliptical trail, both aircrew in the lead F-15 Eagle ejected. Ford figured it was the loss of their second engine as the sound lowered, and he saw the sudden reduction in airspeed of the jet. Just as fast, he watched the abrupt change of their nose down attitude and descending altitude. Ford watched the canopy separation with small fiery explosions, then the seats and aircrew come out afterward. The wingman zipped right past the slow, struggling aircraft. The special polycarbonate glass canopy seemed to h
ang in the air, suspended for a moment in the immense sky by an invisible string.

  “Mr. Frog, are things okay? Why is that jet flying down toward the ground?” Charlie asked.

  Ford couldn’t see the canopy or seats any longer, but saw Charlie moving his hand fast, simulating an aircraft going down.

  Chad had previously told Ford of his time in Gulf War I in Kuwait working with pilots, and those stories were coming to fruition. Serving his country in a different capacity, Chad spent plenty of time in the deserts of Saudi Arabia and Iraq with an organization looking for downed aircrew. Chad shared stories of aircrew ejections, telling Ford they had great potential to be violent, many times ripping off a pilot’s helmet, breaking blood vessels in a pilot’s face, or swelling a human head to the size of a basketball. Even flattening eyeballs and making aircrew temporarily blind was common. And that was just from the high-speed blast of air. The descent to earth could include maneuvering a parachute with severe injuries, like a dislocated arm, broken leg, or severe facial lacerations.

  “Yeah, Frog, what’s going on?” Ford asked, tracking the empty jet across the sky downward, impacting the far end of the airfield. It exploded into an immense fireball of vaporized jet fuel and burning gases, rising high, fast, and wide into the Okinawan sky.

  “Damn. Boys, let’s go. We gotta go. It looks like an emergency developed with the lead aircraft,” Frog announced, pushing both boys past the small crowd of squadron mates running at full speed from the inside maintenance offices.

  “Looked like?” Ford mumbled.

  Frog kept turning around while showing the boys the way ahead. Shoving, pushing, steering.

  “Ring – ring- ring – ring- ring,” echoed inside the hangar, reminding Ford of the old World War II cave exploring they did on the island. The ringing contributed to the noise and confusion.

  At that precise moment, an epic impression was seared into their vulnerable brains that would last a lifetime. The second aircraft maneuvered around for an emergency landing on a different runway out of sight, and their eyes were as wide as saucers. They couldn’t comprehend what they were seeing.

  “Is that my Dad in that parachute, Frog?”

  Frog had missed the chutes in all the commotion but stopped to stare now, seeing the aircrew dropping toward the earth.

  They stood, stoic-looking, as a partially collapsed parachute with an aircrew member dangling at the end fell out of the sky at a swift rate of speed. The member impacted the grassy part of the airport near the runway, and Ford immediately noticed the change in Frog’s face.

  Air Force training tells pilots to expect disorientation and deafening noise upon ejection, but from this distance, it was impossible to tell the aircrew member’s condition. Even at Ford’s young age, he could tell from Frog’s body language that something was wrong.

  “Is my Dad okay? Is he? Is that my father?” Charlie asked, gulping.

  Now both Ford and Charlie looked at Frog, then at the burning wreckage of the F-15. The fireball was gone now, but thick, billowing black smoke rose into the air like a coal-fired power plant. The normally calm and efficient airfield was in complete disorder.

  Frog was pulling the kids along, aiming for a rear portion of the hangar near the soda machine. He yanked each of them so they didn’t have to see the continued chaos of what just took place. Frog stopped walking and knelt to their level.

  “Boys, I don’t know what to say. Unsure what happened, but I’m sure your father is fine. I’m sorry that you had to see this.”

  It was difficult for Ford to understand the events and stared at the towering soda machine for a moment. Distraught and worried with the momentous event that just occurred, his mind raced wildly and he started to cry. Trembling with fear as his clammy hands shook, he did his best to hide it. It was no use. I want to go home… I need my mom. He peeked over at Charlie and saw his tears streaming down both cheeks.

  Though normally apprehensive when it came to showing his true emotions in public, Ford gave into the overwhelming emotion. He closed his eyes, wishing over and over it would stop. He was uncertain what to make of the events but could see he was just as upset as Charlie. His baby face was smooth and wet from the tears, and he felt a tight knot in his stomach. Holding onto the soda machine and bent over dry-heaving, all he could do was stare at the ginger ale logo.

  Ford pretended to be a tough kid on the outside, especially in front of his younger brother, but on the inside, he could not control his thoughts and emotions. Ford’s heart was melting as he gasped for air and struggled with what to do and how to feel. He could barely swallow, imagining a gigantic boa constrictor wrapping its long body around his neck.

  For what seemed like forever, the Stevens boys had no idea if their father was dead or alive.

  Chapter 2

  Current Day

  Western New York

  “About fifty feet,” boom operator Senior Master Sergeant Angelo Bucca told his crew over the intercom, seeing one of the F-22s approaching the back of the jet from the rear window. The sun’s angle was not an issue this afternoon as they prepared to conduct a formally sequenced sky ballet between airborne aircraft.

  The pilots up front were blind to approaching aircraft from behind, relying on the boom operator to keep them informed over headsets.

  “Approaching ten feet… now about five feet. Up and down,” he said, as the F-22 pilot steadied the jet to jockey into position. “Stabilized. About three feet,” Angelo announced, then paused. Come on, easy. Bring it in.

  He lowered the boom with his joystick controls. Quick gauge check… azimuth, telescoping, and elevation all in the green. The rear of the KC-135 sounded like a car’s electric window motor as the boom extended outwards. “Wheeeezzzz-pop” was heard as he flew the boom’s fuel nozzle right into the fighter’s port. Experts say that amateurs in political military circles talk strategy while professionals talk logistics. The important, timely delivery of vital supplies like food, medical products, water, and ammunition surpassed strategy and enabled the military to get crucial missions accomplished across long distances. Decisions were only made for the tactical jet and bomber community after considering the location of one important material: jet fuel.

  The Air Force Reserve’s Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker, the backbone of providing nourishment for the world’s fleet of allied military aircraft, was the nation’s aviation workhorse. No president or general or admiral or secretary made a decision on troops unless they asked two fundamental military questions: “Where are the carriers?” and “Where are the tankers?”

  The KC-135 Stratotanker’s refueling boom that allowed the United States to pass fuel to other aircraft while airborne was what empowered the military to travel such long distances in record time. The jet’s boom, resembling a long, thick, hollow pipe, extended out from the rear of the $53 million aircraft. With a maximum speed of 530 miles per hour at 30 thousand feet, it was designed with one purpose in mind: give fuel to thirsty long-range bombers and fighters.

  The boom was adjustable while airborne, ranging between 28 and 48 feet, and provided refueling support to Air Force, Marine Corps, Navy, and allied military aircraft. The four General Electric CFM56 turbojet engines rode under two wings and provided the over 21 thousand pounds of thrust necessary to pump all the internal fuel off to pilot customers. At the end of the boom was a unique combination of a flying boomerang with wings and a shuttlecock-shaped device, both designed to help guide it to approaching military aircraft. The boom operator in the rear of the jet, acting as the quarterback of the refueling team, controlled the boom each time one more aircraft arrived from below and behind.

  The Air Force Reserve aircrew out of the 914th Air Refueling Wing at Niagara Falls had their jet steady in a counterclockwise racetrack pattern over the state of Maine today. Their customers inbound from the North Atlantic were F-22s. Along with other Reserve and Air National Guar
d KC-135 tanker teammates, they were placed along an entire global flight path and bore a functional resemblance to gas stations on any interstate highway.

  The airborne gas stations were located across the world and waited to offload their lifeblood to other hungry machines. It saved time to just pass the fuel while airborne and continue to a destination. This one invention of air-to-air refueling permitted pilots to fly across wide-ranging continents and vast oceans in order to accomplish dangerous missions.

  The F-22 pilot kept the control inputs tiny, flying along in tandem with the large jet.

  “Contact, interphone. How copy, sir?” Angelo asked the F-22 pilot since both aircraft were physically connected.

  Wearing her flight helmet, mirrored visor, and talking through her oxygen mask, the pilot was able to nod through the clear canopy and talk. “Loud and clear. How me?”

  “Oops. Sorry, ma’am, couldn’t tell it was you with the visor and mask. Good to go. How much you need today? Top ’er off?” Angelo asked. They sounded as casual as going to a gas pump off the New Jersey Turnpike.

  “It’s ok, I get that a lot tanking. Women fly, too. You bet. Fill ’er up. Say four thousand, if you got it?” she replied.

  “We got plenty today. Coming at ya, ma’am,” Angelo said.

  A few short minutes went by as Angelo monitored the passage of fuel on his gauges, and the F-22 pilot flew her jet behind the KC-135 with skill and precision. Her small corrections on the stick made it look easy. Fuel flow, pressure, offload.