by Dale Brown
Four minutes later, Norton called in ready. Furness took the flight to ground control to copy their route clearance and get permission to taxi. Furness swept the wings of her RF-111C to 54 degrees, clicked on nose-wheel steering, and turned on the taxi light. “Ready to taxi?” she asked Fogelman.
“Ready. Clear right.” Fogelman had properly set the taxi lights and had the NAV mode primary pages up on the two Multi-Function Displays on the forward instrument panel—NAV DATA page on the left and NAV PRESENT POSITION page on the right. He was looking out the right cockpit canopy as if he were scanning for wingtip clearance, but he was pretty quiet and unanimated—he seemed a bit lethargic, as if he had got up too early. Hopefully he’d snap out of this soon.
“Here we go.” Furness released the brakes and pushed the throttles up, then pulled them back and tapped the brakes when they started moving. The ramp seemed slightly slippery, but not dangerous. Ken Brodie guided her out of the parking area and watched carefully as she made the right turn toward the parallel taxiway. In order, the rest of the flight followed along, keeping a 150-foot spacing and staggered slightly on the taxiway to keep away from the preceding jet’s exhaust. She noticed a blue station wagon following the aircraft, and tried to ignore it—undoubtedly the generals and the squadron commander were watching from there.
There was a short taxi checklist to run, which consisted mainly of checking switches and indicators while turning to make sure everything was tracking. When Rebecca checked the left MFD, however, she noticed that the TIME TO DEST, GND SPEED, GND TRK, and FIXMAG readouts were blank. She checked the right MFD, and the PRESENT POSITION readout was blank. “Something’s wrong with your INS,” she told Fogelman.
“No, it’s—” Fogelman stopped his protest, then issued an exasperated “Shit,” loud enough for Furness to hear without the interphone. He hit a switch on his right instrument panel. The readouts on both Multi-Function Displays came back, but they were reading gross values—the GND SPEED readout, the inertial navigation system’s computed speed over the ground, was reading 87, about seventy miles an hour faster than their actual speed. “Dammit,” Fogelman said, “I forgot to go to NAV.” Fogelman had neglected to command the Inertial Navigational System (INS) to stop ground alignment and begin navigating before moving the aircraft. The INS would factor in all aircraft movement less than twenty-five nautical miles per hour and net zero earth-rate movement, and all the velocities in the system would be in error. Fixes, even superaccurate satellite fixes, probably wouldn’t torque the errors out—he would have to start over.
Forgetting to go to NAV on the INS before taxiing was a common new-guy error, but Fogelman had nearly six months in the RF-111G—he should have known better. He was behind the aircraft already, and they hadn’t even left the ground yet. “Realign in the hammerhead,” Furness suggested. “You should have time for a partial alignment at least.” Fogelman swore again in reply. This flight, she thought wryly, is kicking off to a great start.
The quick-check area was three aircraft-parking areas surrounded by thick steel walls where aircraft were inspected, de-iced, and, if they were carrying weapons, the armorers pulled the safety wires—in case of an inadvertent bomb release or fire, the revetment walls would protect the other aircraft being armed up. Rebecca pulled into the first parking slot in the quick-check area, set the parking brake, checked that the attack radar and terrain-following radars were off, shut off the taxi light, then called on the radio, “Quick, Thunder Zero-One, radar’s down, brakes set, cleared in.”
Two maintenance technicians stepped out of a large blue truck. One plugged his interphone cord into the bomber’s ground-crew jack, while the other stood by and waited. “Good morning, Zero-One. Quick’s going in … when you’re ready.”
Furness placed her hands on the canopy bow. “Feet and hands clear,” Furness replied.
“When you’re ready, ma’am.”
Furness looked over at Fogelman, who was working on restarting the INS. “Fogman, let ’em see your hands.” The quick-check crews would not approach the aircraft unless they were sure that a crewmember in the cockpit wasn’t going to move a flight control.
“One second.”
“Don’t bother restarting your alignment, Mark,” Rebecca said. “They’re going to move us in thirty seconds.” But he did not acknowledge her, just continued working for a few seconds, then placed his hands on his side of the canopy bow. “Okay, feet and hands clear.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” the crew chief acknowledged. His assistant rushed in to check for loose access panels, leaks, Remove Before Flight streamers that might have been missed, and tire cuts. The assistant reappeared a minute later, and the crew chief began to motion for Furness to roll forward. She released brakes and applied power …
“Hey!” Fogelman shouted. Furness slammed on the brakes. “Dammit, you just spoiled the new alignment. I’ll have to restart it.”
“I tried to tell you that, Fogman,” Furness snapped. “Let’s finish the quick check, then start the alignment at the hammerhead.” She taxied forward and reset the brakes.
The crew chiefs finished their tire inspection, then had Rebecca run the right engine up to 85-percent power and got into the main gear wheel well area to check for bleed air leaks. When that was done, the crew chiefs unchocked the plane, moved away from the bomber, and waved at the cockpit. “Have a nice flight, Zero-One.”
“Thanks, Quick.” The crew chiefs unplugged and trotted over to the next bomber waiting in the adjacent revetment. Rebecca taxied forward out of the quick-check area and over to the aircraft hammerhead, the parking area at the very end of the runway. Again, she set the brakes, then called for the Before Takeoff checklist. The wings were swept forward to takeoff position, the flaps and slats were set, and Rebecca checked the flight controls for full and complete movement. “Now you can start your alignment,” she told Fogelman. He said nothing.
Another blue sedan, this one bristling with radio antennas on its roof, approached the parked bomber. “Foxtrot moving in,” they heard on the radio.
“Foxtrot’s cleared in to Zero-One, radar down, brakes set,” Furness replied. As the bombers lined up in the hammerhead waiting for takeoff, the blue sedan carrying the Supervisor of Flying, an experienced flyer trained to be the commander’s eyes and ears on the flight line during flight operations, began circling them, conducting one last visual inspection.
“No leaks, no streamers, and you appear to be in takeoff configuration,” the SOF reported. “Have a good flight, Zero-One.”
“Zero-One, thanks.”
It was obvious Fogelman was still having problems—the PRI ATT and PRI HDG caution lights were still lighted on Furness’ caution panel, indicating that the inertial navigation system was still not ready to go, and it was only a few more minutes to takeoff time. Fogelman was frantically searching through one of the supplemental squadron booklets for something. “How’s it going, Mark?” she asked.
“The GPS didn’t feed present position for coarse alignment,” he replied. “I gotta set in the parking spot coordinates by hand.” The INS needed an accurate latitude, longitude, and elevation to start an alignment. The squadron booklet, or “plastic brains,” had coordinates for almost every possible parking spot on base, so getting the INS running without GPS shouldn’t be a problem, but if you weren’t expecting trouble, you usually weren’t prepared for it—and that described Fogelman pretty well.
Meanwhile, the last bomber was coming out of the quick-check area.
“Thunder Zero-Six, no pins, no leaks, and you appear to be in takeoff configuration,” the Supervisor of Flying radioed. “Have a good flight.”
“Zero-Six, thanks,” Paula Norton replied. “Lead, six is ready.”
“Zero-One copies. Thunder Flight, push button four.” The other five bombers acknowledged. Furness was going to tell Fogelman to change frequencies for her. Normally, the weapon systems officer changed radio frequencies via the Computer Display Unit on the right-side instrument panel
, but he looked pretty busy, so she decided to do it herself. On the left Multi-Function Display, Rebecca punched the NAV option-select switch in the upper-left corner, which switched the MFD to the master menu page, then pushed the switch marked IFF/COMM, punched the switch marked CHAN, entered 04, then ENT, then RTN to get back to the radio page.
“Thunder Flight, check in button four.” All five other planes acknowledged with short “Two … Three … Four … Five … Six.”
Rebecca noticed that the PRI ATT and PRI HDG caution lights were out on her instrument panel, meaning that the inertial navigation system had finished coarse alignment and was somewhere in fine alignment. That was good enough for now—they had only two minutes to get the flight off the ground. “Plattsburgh Tower, Thunder Zero-One flight of six, ready for takeoff.”
“Thunder Zero-One flight, winds two-eight-zero at eight gusting to fifteen, RCR 12, patchy ice, braking action fair, runway three-zero, switch to departure control, cleared for takeoff.” The RCR, or Runway Condition Reading, was a measure of the slipperiness of the runway—a low number was good, a high number was bad. Twelve was borderline. The sweepers, with their big revolving bristle drums, had been out here a few minutes earlier, but sometimes the brushes merely polished the stubborn ice, making it even slicker. But Rebecca could see a lot of clear patches in the grooved runway, and the hammerhead and runup areas were clear.
“Zero-One, cleared for takeoff. Thunder Flight, push button five.” All five planes acknowledged. On interphone, Furness said, “Stick it in nav and let’s go, Mark.”
“It’s not done yet,” he protested, but he punched the NAV line select key next to the steady NAV READY indication on his control and display unit—the INS was now navigating on its own, although with only a partial fine alignment its accuracy was in doubt. He then switched to the UHF RADIO page, tuned the primary radio to Burlington Departure air traffic control, set the backup radio to Plattsburgh Tower, then switched the identification beacon transmitters to ON. “Radios are set.”
Furness released brakes and taxied out of the hammerhead. She made one last cockpit check, then “stirred the pot”—moved the control stick in all directions to check for free movement—then, as she turned and lined up with the runway centerline, began pushing in the power. Both throttles went to the first detent, and she scanned the RPM, turbine inlet temperature, exhaust pressure ratio, and nozzle position gauges. When the needles were stable, she started a stopwatch, then moved the throttles one at a time into afterburner zone one and watched the RPMs peg at 110 percent and the nozzle gauge read full open. She then quickly clicked the throttles all the way to afterburner zone five, letting the gradual but powerful kick of the engines shove her back into her seat.
The Vampire bomber sped through sixty nautical miles per hour in a few seconds. No call from Fogelman—the sixty-knot call was mandatory. “Sixty knots, nose wheel steering off.”
“Hundred-knot check, instruments good,” Fogelman said a few seconds later. At least he made the call, Furness thought, although she doubted he really checked the gauges or even really knew what to check for. Her engine instruments were good, the afterburners were still lit, and no warning lights on. He missed the fifteen-second acceleration call as well, but by that time they were almost at rotate speed. Furness applied back pressure, drawing the control stick to her belly, then waited a few more seconds. At the takeoff speed, the Vampire’s nose wheel lifted off, followed by the main gear. Because the wheels were so big and the suspension system so rugged, takeoffs in the RF-111G were very smooth and it was hard to tell exactly when they lifted off. She simply waited until the vertical-speed indicator and altimeter were both moving upward a substantial amount, then raised the gear handle and retracted the flaps.
Ten seconds later, Johnson’s Vampire crossed the runway hold line and leaped into the sky, Norton followed ten seconds later, and Kelly, leading the second three-ship cell, followed. But Clark Vest in the number-five bomber was a few seconds late getting his plane across the hold line, and tried to compensate by shoving the throttles too quickly into afterburner. The left-engine afterburners lit, but it blew out seconds after the right afterburner was cut in. Vest cycled both throttles into military power, let them stabilize, then tried to relight the ‘burners, but the left afterburner blew out again.
“Thunder Five, fifty knots abort, fifty knots abort, fifty knots abort,” he called on the Departure Control radio frequency. “Switching to tower.” He turned his radio wafer switch to the backup radio. Meanwhile, Bruce Fay in Thunder Zero-Six had started his takeoff roll, but had aborted as soon as they saw Vest’s left afterburner wink out. “Plattsburgh Tower, Thunder Zero-Five, aborting takeoff at fifty knots, turning off at midfield. No relight on number one. TITs are steady.” Abnormally high TIT, or Turbine Inlet Temperature, would mean that a fire was building within an engine, which was common during afterburner blowouts or power drops. Fay switched to the Tower frequency as well—he wasn’t going anywhere now.
“Thunder Flight, Plattsburgh Tower on GUARD, cancel takeoff clearance,” the tower controller said. Zero-Five and Zero-Six held their position and acknowledged the order.
Furness and her wingmen heard the abort call on the departure control frequency as they continued their takeoff climbout. “Dammit, what a way to start the week,” she muttered. “Now we’ll have a royal clusterfuck to get this flight back together.”
The big bomber climbed rapidly in the cold, dense air. A few seconds after takeoff, Furness had the gear, flaps, and slats fully retracted and the wings swept back to 26 degrees. At 350 knots indicated she pulled the engines out of afterburner and continued her climb to cruise altitude. “Mark, get on button one and find out about the other three planes.”
Fogelman was looking at something in the radar—not a good idea when they were less than ten thousand feet altitude, in scattered clouds, with two wingmen trying to rejoin. With an exasperated shake of his head, he clicked his microphone. “Thunder Flight, go to button one on backup, now.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Mark, what do you have in the system?” Furness asked on interphone. She was following the standard instrument departure from Plattsburgh and was ready to transition to the mission flight plan, but the autopilot steering bug, or “captain’s bars,” were pointing behind the plane.
“I’m busy, pilot,” Fogelman said. “I don’t know where they’re at. Switch it yourself.” He then checked in the other two planes on the backup radio. Again, Furness couldn’t argue, so she swapped nav pages with the right Multi-Function Display, checked her flight plan copy on her kneeboard for the correct computer sequence number, and entered it in the MFD. The captain’s bars swung around to the proper heading, and she engaged the autopilot and turned to the first waypoint. Again, Fogelman was either being a jerk or was already too task-saturated to do more than one thing at a time—like set up the mission computers properly.
“Vest aborted because of an AB blowout,” Fogelman told Furness. “Fay is going to hold with him.”
“Terrific,” Furness said. Their morning spectacular was busted almost before it began. Frank Kelly and Larry Tobias in Thunder Zero-Four were dropping “beer cans” and buddy-lasing for Bruce Fay in Zero-Six—he should launch single-ship and let Vest in Zero-Five, who was dropping a TV-guided bomb solo, go when he was ready. “Tell Command Post that Zero-Six needs to launch ASAP. Zero-Five can delay, but we need Zero-Six up here.”
“I’m trying to recover my system and get an eyeball on our wingmen,” Fogelman snapped. “How about calling them yourself?”
“Fine. Sing out when you see Johnson.” Furness switched over to the backup radio: “Control, Zero-One, can you get Zero-Six airborne? We’ve got their bombing buddy airborne with us. Over.”
In the background, Furness could hear Burlington Departure Control calling her. Fogelman was checking something in his radar and alternatively searching out the cockpit for the
other three planes. Johnson was about two miles behind them, while Norton and Kelly were completely out of sight. Furness wafered over to Burlington Departure. “Departure, Thunder Zero-One, did you call?”
“Affirmative, Zero-One. Have your wingmen squawk standby when they approach within two miles. Say intentions of Thunder Zero-Four.”
“Departure, Zero-Four will be joining on Zero-One to make a flight of four,” Furness replied. “We’re trying to get the status of the other two planes now.”
“Roger, copy, Thunder Zero-One. Have them squawk standby when they are joined up with you.”
“Zero-One, roger. Thunder Flight, you copy?”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
Furness switched over to the backup radio again. The channel was silent—they had been talking, but she couldn’t pay attention. “Control, Zero-One, you were cut out, say again.”
“I said, Zero-One,” the command post controller said irritably, “that Alpha has directed Zero-Five and Zero-Six go as a flight of two. We’re trying to get new target times on the range for Zero-Four, Zero-Five, Zero-Six, and you.”
“Control, just launch Zero-Six—he and Zero-Four can still meet their time over target,” Furness radioed back. Each bomber entered the route exactly four minutes apart, and while they were in the low-level route the airspace and the range had to be reserved for them—that meant coordinating new target times through Boston Air Route Traffic Control Center, the Air Force, and the Army. If a plane was going to be late, even by just a few seconds, new reservation times had to be obtained or the flight couldn’t go. “You just need a new time for Zero-Five and a new time for me if you want me to go in after Zero-Five. Over.”
“Zero-One, Alpha wants a two-ship launch,” the command post controller replied. Obviously he was in no mood to argue—undoubtedly the command post folks were feeling a little heat from the brass, too. It was not a regulation, but aircraft with weapons aboard rarely were allowed to fly by themselves unless the weather was crystal clear—if there was an emergency, it was important to have a wingman to help lead the emergency aircraft back to base safely. The fact that they were Reservists and not full-time crews obviously had a lot to do with that unwritten rule—the thought of weekend warriors flying around by themselves with bombs on board unsettled a lot of people. “Request you contact us after your refueling so we can pass new times to you.”