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Look dude, it's pretty clear you're way out of your lane. Hows about you just STFU and move on, mmmkay? We all bust each other's chops when shit goes sideways, but the fact is we aren't flying 180 pax +bags from MSP to DFW. No matter what we do or how much we prepare, sometimes our shit does, in fact, stink. It may surprise you to learn that there are a few platforms out there that are responsible for more than just an ILS 16 full stop when we zip up our pajamas. Maybe not. What I do know, is that this job isn't easy, and sometimes people fuck up. Sometimes with fatal consequences. There are far better pilots than I will ever be who now have an address in Arlington, VA. I've made my share of mistakes in this business and have come out clean, but I don't confuse my good luck with invincibility. I don't know what you do, FlyBoy, but it's pretty clear your experience in a tactical environment is limited to avoiding tipping the baggers at the commissary on a Tuesday afternoon. I am fucking tired of reading posts from whiny bitches passing judgement on their brothers without so much as a tenth of an hour in their shoes. Every single community has its challenges, and until you've been there, you just don't know what they are. Those B-1 guys didn't wake up thinking they were going to put their airplane on its belly in Diego Garcia. The guy flying the C-5 at Dover didn't didn't say, "Fuck it, I only need 2 motors for this landing." How many F-16 pilots do you think decided to roll & pull into terrain? As long as there are humans defying gravity with extreme prejudice, the lucky ones will ride out their golden years knowing they got away with one at some point in their careers. Some are not so fortunate. There is one thing that I can say with confidence: flying a tactical airplane in Afghanistan is not easy. Should these guys have been able to grease that airplane on with no problem? Sure, but I can think of dozens of times that I've landed on that very runway near the end of a max duty day on the backside of a trip turn out of OAIX. I dont care how many eyes you watered on your midphase check in UPT, that shit ain't easy. It's late, and God damn this Tullamore Dew is delicious, but how about a little perspective around here, eh? Fucking hell.

For the rest of my Herk brothers, I can hold speculation until the report comes out. I will read and learn from it just like I learned from the Al Jabber (sp?) the crash after takeoff from Baghdad, the class A that happened last year in AFG in a similar situation (porpoised assault landing), and even the recent 747 crash. What I will offer is that calling the go around is easier said than done for some reasons. If its looking ugly, I think (and hope) all of us will call the go. But sometimes the bad approach is overlooked, its called late and no one reacts (Jabber). Sometimes, it looks OK until the flare, they bounce and the pilot stops flying and rides it in. The DO, CC, Stan/eval, etc are not sitting on the bunk for every flight to keep an eye out on the newer and inexperienced. They see the dangers and talk about them all the time. I think they are so fucking relieved when they finally rotate home with everyone thay brought out thinking that they cheated the reaper. And its because the experience is so much lower that it used to be and gets lower every year. "You go to war with what you have" was a true statement, especially when it comes to people. DOs will do their best with what they have, talk to guys every mission, then pray that the kids show good judgement and enough skill to bring everyone back each day. It's a very tough fight to get/keep the people you need--AFPC/career progression get in the way. Out

I trusted a fart once, and it made the nav shut up. I guess this one is situationally dependent...

Trust me, I've been there. I get it. I'm not shitting on the crew at all. I understand... "shit happens". My point is that the conditions in Afghanistan are not so unique that it is impossible for us to establish good habit patterns at home so that we are ready to do the Lord's work when we arrive in theater. Whenever our next adventure kicks off, we are not going to have the luxury of "over the shoulder" educational rides in a mature, uncontested theater like we enjoy right now.

Due to inflation, that stipper won't be worth the same in 10 years.

I just want the stripper.

Have you given any thought to the possibility that there is no 10 year bonus? I believe the quote from jstarsshag was "I have no clue if this is complete B.S." A guy in my office said his sister heard the bonus was going up to 120,569 per year for 6.9 years and you get you very own personal stripper.

I don't get the math.... 5 yr - 125K 10 yr - 250K ...it's still the same $ per year? $250K is enticing, but why a 10 yr? You'd be doing much better at offering a 7 yr bonus, knowing that folks would easily stay the extra 2.5 yrs or so. Take the normal progressed officer. 6-9 months on casual, 1 yr of UPT, then that's when your clock starts. 10 yrs places him/her just outside the 20 yr retirement window. I think this is bogus, but - being one in the initial eligibility window, hope the $250K is a viable option.

"Caddo 75 you're cleared contact." "Caddo 75 cleared contact." 10-minutes later "Caddo 75 stable ready." "Caddo 75 you're still cleared contact." "Caddo 75 still cleared contact."

Interesting. I actually *did* take a survey about 6-9 months ago that directly asked if I would take the bonus based on different dollar amounts and lengths. There were other retention questions mixed in. I'm pretty sure I remember that the survey was *very* specific in its target audience. The funny thing is, I did what every respectable rated officer would do - I realized this was probably a survey to determine future bonus payments, and so I answered every question with answers that would lead to a better bonus. While I doubt the bonus changes at all, I thought I'd verify the true portion of jstarsshag's rumor.

Flyboy, we're sorry you're stuck in the back of a crappy life/airframe. You add nothing to the conversation. Troll elsewhere.

Details are vague on purpose. A faint scratch of static and then all hell breaks loose. EEEGEEEEGEEGEEGEGEEEEEEEEEGGEEEEEEGEGGGEEEE! A wailing alarm pierces the middle of the night. A blood-curdling, ear drum bleeding screech, resonates like amplified fingernails across an olive drab blackboard rendering my body fully awake while my mind was still dreaming. I rapidly reach across the bed in my pitch black room to smash the alarm clock off my night stand and snooze a little longer. Certainly it is not time to wake up yet. My hand, moving at a lightening fast pace to squelch the shrieking wail of the alarm, is met with a cold cinderblock wall, instantly jamming my two middle fingers on my left hand. One may be broken. My alarm clock is not there, instead a wall. Where am I? I fumble to the other side of the single size bed and knock a lamp onto the floor with a crash. My mind is still in a far off place, on vacation in that small void between sleep and useful consciousness. The light switch. Two fluorescent lights flicker to life above the dull gray commercial carpet, dimly illuminating my cold 8x10 cinderblock room while they warm up. Most prison cells are larger. This is not my home. A cheap Chinese laminated desk lies in the corner with a wobbly black office chair turned backwards to the table and my gear laid neatly over top, everything in place, the same way I have laid it out for years. My flight suit is open, draped gently over the back of the chair. My boots sit on the floor, as if someone in the chair would be wearing them. The laces are loose, the tongues folded down so they can be put on quickly. My watch sits on its side in the center of the desk. I have no idea what time it is, but I know it is time to go. Now. Less than 30 seconds from the time the alarm went off and I am wearing my bag, boots on, and running out the door, the laces untied and tucked into the side. I’ll tie them later when I have time. My mind is still catching up but my body does the motions rote. The exterior doors of the building swing open automatically and I catch the comm on the loudspeaker above. A familiar voice. “This is the command post. Scramble scramble scramble.” It is a full on sprint to the hanger, a football field away. A hundred yard dash where every second counts. It is pitch black outside and a dozen lights are starting to illuminate the jet inside. The hanger doors are rolling up as I run towards them, unveiling a combat loaded F-16 parked neatly in the middle. One of my crew chiefs is next to the ladder, the other is pulling pins from the jet. Good on them for beating me out here. I check my watch and it is not on my wrist. It is still on the table in my room. I glance at my chief’s wrist and he doesn’t have a watch either. It feels late. Or really, really early. I certainly didn’t get enough sleep. My G-suit is laid neatly across the port side drop tank and I pause to don and zip it up. My chief hands me my harness that I buckle around my legs and chest. I am breathing hard, struggling to catch my breath after the sprint. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins as I quickly move up the ladder to the cockpit. Right foot over the seat, left foot off the ladder and the ladder disappears below me with the crew chief rushing to stow it out of the way. I built my nest in the Viper the day before. My helmet is plugged in to the O2 and comm cord, and is draped over the right side canopy rail. The belts are laid neatly off to the side. My kneeboard is on the left panel and my gloves are tucked into the HUD. Master switch on. Helmet on. The radio crackles. “Chief, clear for start?” “Clear to start Sir.” As the General Electric spins over, the canopy starts to come down. I fasten my belts and unpin the ejection seat as the Viper roars to life. Over the years, in their rush, pilots have forgotten to strap in and found themselves pinned against the canopy during a bunt. It would be an awful way to go, ejecting, and watching your seat under the drogue parachute as you fell to earth, realizing you skipped strapping it on. STS. Time is paramount but you absolutely cannot skip any steps. Slow down to go fast. EGI, the embedded GPS/INS was hot cocked the day before during my meticulous preflight and takes very little time to come to life. “Hands clear, clear to arm.” Pins are pulled and my missiles are live. This is real. The epitome of the Fog of War and I am launching directly into the heart of it. The Air Force lately, with live full motion video and developed intel of the entire battlespace, is paralyzed when making a decision without all the facts. Launching off alert is exactly the opposite. Launch first, figure it out on the way and as a last resort, figure it out when you get there. Alert fighters met Payne Stewart’s jet when it failed to check in and found the windows fogged over and the passengers passed out due to an oxygen malfunction. 9/11 is the other extreme and that is usually on the mind during a scramble. I have the jet running and out of the chocks as fast as a NASCAR pit stop. A well oiled machine, I am off to the races. I do my takeoff checks while on the taxi, roll onto the runway and jam the throttle past the stop and into full afterburner. The tower would normally hold all traffic for us but no sane people fly at this time of night and the field is ours. The silent moonlit sky is shattered by the thunder of my burner and all those who live close by are shaken awake by the violence of swift action. The sound of freedom. “Vipers, cleared supersonic.” Eff me. They want us there in a hurry. Not good. I start setting my radar up for the intercept using the HOTAS on the throttle and realize that two of my fingers are in immense pain from smashing into the wall earlier. Suck it up and catch up. My nugget is finally starting to catch up to the actions of my body and play an active role in the flight. I now know where I am but still have no idea where I am going. I am operating on several frequencies, coordinating with local air traffic control, the command post and other agencies to maneuver my jet without conflicting with other aircraft and find out what is going on. Intel starts to come into play and they start to fill us in on the situation. An overseas airliner has missed several check in points on their way to the states and is not answering the calls of ATC. Best case, they are asleep at the wheel. The worst case is what we train for. George W Bush talked about the fighter aircraft role in his book Decision Points. A fighter pilot himself in the F-102, he trained to intercept the Russians and many a Polaroid picture is around the squadron of Vipers flying in close formation with Russian Bears during the cold war. Not today, that would be too easy and a dream come true to protect the mainland from a hoard of enemy fighters set on attacking the Base Exchange. Protect us from an airliner….. a different story. From his book Decision Points on 9/11/2001. President Bush - “We needed to clarify the rules of engagement. I told Dick Chaney that our pilots should contact suspicious planes and try to get them to land peacefully. If that failed, they had my authority to shoot them down. Hijacked planes were weapons of war. Despite the agonizing costs, taking one out could save countless lives on the ground. I had just made my first decision as a wartime commander in chief.” He later goes on to say – “I cannot imagine what it would be like to receive this order.” I can. Fighter pilots that were flying during the chaos of 9/11 have interesting recounts of that day documented in several books. Since then, we have honed our alert facilities, our tactics and procedures and I have thought exactly what it would be like to receive this order. I’ll say this. In my time in the military, I have seen a lot of enemy KIA and I never delayed a second with hesitation. When faced with shooting down an airliner, I would hesitate for exactly one second. To say a prayer for those that may still be alive and unable to fight. And then I would shoot it down. Conscientious objection is not in the alert pilots vocabulary. The fact is this. If a plane is hijacked in the USA, people like Todd Beamer on United Flight 93 will sacrifice their lives to prevent another attack on US soil. If they regain control, at least they would have a chance with me on their wing to talk them down. If they can’t gain control, they know their fate. With that said, while I think of the enemy lain down at my hand only sporadically, I’m positive that downing an airliner would weigh heavily in hindsight. However, the thought of the afterthoughts over a beer with the bros does little to influence the current action as my Viper punches through the sound barrier. Rolling on an intercept, in full afterburner screaming above the mach towards a hijacked passenger airliner with live missiles on board, one can only hope that it is full of Todd Beamer’s yelling “Lets Roll!” and taking back the plane. Any other scenario is gut wrenching. In the string of airliners crossing the ocean, our target is now just minutes away and we still don’t fully know the situation. A few minutes later and a hundred miles out we are called off. The aircraft is back in communication with Air Traffic Control due to an improper frequency given earlier. They were out of range of the previous tower and likely had to fumble through charts buried in their flight cases to find someone to talk to. A false alarm, and we are sent back to home plate. Better to launch and not be needed than to be needed and not launched, but I am extremely happy with the result. Like wearing a parachute or having a shotgun for home defense, I never want to have to use one but will do so if called upon. We touch down just as the sun is rising. I finally know what time it is. 5AM and I’ve been up for hours. There is no chance of going back to sleep and there is work to be done to ready the jets for the next unplanned scramble. I know the crew chiefs breathe a sigh of relief seeing that all the missiles are still on our jets. America is safe for another day. I fold my gloves and put them back on the HUD. My helmet is placed on the right canopy rail, still plugged in. My kneeboard goes back on the left console. I climb out of the jet and lay the seatbelts neatly to the sides then rest my G-suit and harness on the left drop tank. I tie my boots, in case we get called again and take a deep breath to come off the adrenaline rush I have been running on all night. Calm. Sleep safe knowing that we are there. Always on the watch. Always ready. Hopefully never needed, but willing and able if need be. God help us and those who wish to do us harm.

Ummm....what? Something about a PAR and a F-14 driver getting mad props.

Man, you guys are a bunch of ate up mother fuckers! T-6 assignments for all of you! About the only time I get pissed at comm, is if we're in a stack, about to employ, and extraneous comm is hindering our ability to drop. Other than that, you can say whatever the fuck you want.

Autopilot off. Awesome pilot on.

That's where Rainman's been the last few months...