brickhistory

I think the reader is equipped with a micro-ACES II system should that become necessary. A lot of the Brits are not fans of this and see it more as a pan-Euro building exercise than THE airlifter for their future. A chance to stick to the 'US man' as it were...............

Thanks, but not for me yet (next June). Mrs brick, also a USAF officer, let it go after 20 years. Having been a sq/cc, school grad, etc. she took a look at how O-6s lived and decided 'no thanks.' And while I envy you the 'natural look' in hirsute fashion, Mother Nature has taken care of most of my haircuts.........

I write magazine articles and books, but that's an easily transportable thing. Mrs. brick (just retired two weeks ago from USAF) had a guy in her office in the Pentagon who was a realtor and a blue suiter. It's possible. There is a reg that covers it if you choose to follow it. For an intellectual property kind of thing, it's lame and I blew it off. For a job where you have off-duty work hours to keep, etc., I'd definitely follow the rules. Also, income earned outside of the military is subject to the state taxes in which you earned it even if you are in a state that doesn't tax military income.

Somewhat dated (nearly 15 years ago now, Smurf jets gone, F-4s gone, and note the "F/A 22" mention as well as a little hyperbole for a non-aviation audience, but maybe it meets your request to get the 'ralph' flowing.... CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR Pinned by the crushing G-force, I could only move my eyeballs as the black crosses of the Luftwaffe fighter flicked by overhead. Helpless, I waited for the end. The preceding wasn’t an event that happened in the flak-filled skies of Europe 60 years ago, but over the stark, sun baked desert of New Mexico of ten years past. The end wasn’t the pounding of machine gun and cannon fire into my cockpit but the worst airplane ride my stomach ever flew. Glasses at an early age prevented me from becoming a fighter pilot but I had gotten close to the action as a ground control intercept (GCI) officer in the US Air Force. As a GCI controller, I used my mobile, tactical radar system to see a 360-degree or “God’s eye” view of a chunk of sky. I could then verbally “paint” a picture of that sky to a pilot entering combat. A fourth or fifth generation fighter like the F-15, F-16, or even the F/A-22 can see with its radar only about 60 degrees either side of its nose. Using a data link can expand that envelope, but going “heads down” during a dogfight is a good way to take a missile in the lips. Hence the advantage GCI and AWACS (an airborne GCI platform) brings. At Holloman Air Force Base in the early 1990s, I was the Chief of Training for my squadron. As an angle to work a backseat ride, I approached my bosses with the “if I can understand the pilot’s environment I can provide a better service” rationale. To my surprise, they agreed. I soon accomplished the requirements necessary to jump in a jet - altitude chamber, ejection seat training (“If you hear EJECT, EJECT, EJECT and your are still there by the final EJECT, you will be logging solo time!”), and getting kitted out with flight gear. I then got on the schedule for a 2v2 dissimilar air combat (DACT) mission. I would be the “Bravo” or backseater in one of two AT-38Bs going against two Luftwaffe F-4 Phantoms. We would be “red air” or the bad guys to the Germans as the “blue air” good guys. The AT-38B is an upgraded variant of the Air Force’s venerable supersonic trainer, the T-38. By adding a gunsight and a centerline hardpoint that could carry either a gun pod or a practice bomb rack, the B model made an effective fighter lead-in aircraft for young pilots just out of training headed to flying the afore-mentioned F-15 or F-16. Nicknamed the “Smurf jet” due to its rippled blue camouflage, the AT-38B was essentially a jet-powered P-51. With no radar or other advanced avionics, it just went fast and turned well enough to tangle with the F-4. The German Air Force had long conducted flight training in the American Southwest to take advantage of the excellent flying weather. At Holloman, a joint USAF-Luftwaffe squadron trained newly minted fighter pilots in the “Rhino’s” capabilities as well as highly experienced F-4 crews undergoing advanced Weapon School instruction. With all this flying, my GCI site stayed busy with our customers. The morning of the big day arrived. I briefed with the crews, but this time as one of them and not as the GCI “fifth” wingman. The flight lead covered all the administration (motherhood) stuff - start engines, taxi, take-off times, altitude blocks for each side and the other details required to ensure the safety of the flight. Next we discussed the tactics we’d perform as red air. We’d fly formations and maneuvers akin to what the former Soviet Union flew in order to provide a realistic “look” for the Luftwaffe students. The limitation for this flight, however, was only using visual weapons, guns and AIM-9 Sidewinders. The F-4 could carry a radar-guided missile, the AIM-7 Sparrow, but shooting us beyond visual range (BVR) wouldn’t be any fun and wouldn’t allow the two sides to mix it up close. Obviously, all shots would be simulated. Realistic training is good, but real explosions can get very expensive very quickly! We stepped, cranked engines, taxied, and launched as per the brief. I was in heaven as the flight took off and joined in close echelon right formation. Looking at our wingman, I could see his “Darth Vader-ish” helmet and oxygen mask and knew that I looked just the same. I felt invincible being in such company. Maybe this feeling is part of the appeal of flying fighters. After each flight went to their respective distant corners of the airspace, we went through our g-awareness turns, configured the switches for air-to-air and then it’s “FIGHT’S ON!” Sitting at my radarscope on the ground, the action of an engagement seems to take several minutes. The glowing symbols of the aircraft inch slowly down the scope as I follow the maneuvers and call them out to my aircraft. Actually riding in the jet and the forty-mile separation closed in seconds. Before I knew it, we heard the “merged” call from our controller. Merged meant that the disparate blips on his scope had merged into one blob. From experience, my pilot knew that the call often lagged by several seconds to the reality in the air. Sure enough, a quick look over his left shoulder and he glimpsed the gray F-4s slashing past overhead. A mighty tug and pull on the stick in pursuit and my world in the back seat contracted. Being tall and skinny as well as not being acclimated to pulling “g’s,” I grayed out. I could hear everything but until my pilot unloaded the jet, I wasn’t going to see anything. After some swirling around the sky, none of which I could reconstruct if I tried, we knocked it off and reset. Both flights turned for their points to set up for the next fight. Regaining my vision, my gastrointestinal tract let me know it was NOT happy at the treatment. I unclipped the side of my mask, loosened my shoulder straps and reached for my Mark I barf bag. As I heaved, I thought I had more time before the next engagement. I was therefore totally unprepared for the next “merged” call. With my mask loose and the preoccupation with examining my stomach’s contents, I must have missed the “fight’s on” broadcast. This call went the same as the last fight. The same pull and hard climbing turn produced the same “g’s” and loss of vision. Unfortunately, with my shoulder straps loose, I was pinned to my lap by the crushing force. My now-filled ex-lunch sack plummeted to the cockpit floor and sprayed everywhere. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t sit upright and I didn’t think it could get any worse. I was wrong. Since I was bent forward, my skull was actually in the way of the stick. My pilot, engrossed in the air combat, didn’t know of my predicament and I sure wasn’t going to mention it to him! Instead, realizing he wasn’t getting full aft movement from the stick, he kept trying to brute force it back. My face repeatedly kept that from happening. So here I am, sick, unable to sit up, stepping in goo, and getting beaten up by the jet. I finally admitted to God that I was ready to give up. I began praying for the gas gauge to sink to “bingo” level so we could go home. Finally, thankfully, enough go-juice converted from liquid into noise and thrust and we could go home. We rejoined, entered the pattern for the break to landing, touched down, and wound up back in the chocks. As the engines unspooled and we raised the canopy, the crew chief recoiled from my appearance and the aroma wafting from the cockpit floor. Ducking back down the ladder, he reappeared with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge. I, with as much dignity as I could muster, cleaned up his jet before climbing down. At the debrief, I didn’t contribute much. Following the discussion of what went right and what went wrong on our mission and how we could fix any weak areas on the next go, I still had one more task to perform. I stopped by the base Class Six (liquor) store and purchased a six-pack of malted beverage for the crew chief. I delivered it to him back at the jet where he was still hard at work getting it ready for its next go. He accepted my offering gracefully and I was finally done with my foray into “wanna be.” I did get my ride and go fast. I did get to experience a touch of the modern fighter pilot’s environment. I’m a much better controller than a stickboy. I have never flown in a fighter again.

Sure, in a gay Viking helmet kinda way.......................... (* credit to Dom somebody at a Drew Carey roast)

I was in the Pentagon that day, about 180 out from the impact point. Barely registered. Felt/sounded like a movie theater-type rumble in the soles of my feet and/or an air conditioning compressor kicking in. Very minor. No tally, no clue as to what happened. After some ten minutes we were told to evacuate. I went out to North Parking along with 10-15K of my closest friends. We could see the smoke plume, but had no idea of what caused it. Although, my paranoia was such that seeing that Hwy 110 then ran directly beside the parking lot and all the sheep milling around would be inviting for a drive-by AK'ing, I stood bravely between two large vans. Later, after E & E'ing my way back home (mass hysteria on the metro/roads for a while), I drove out to where I now work - FAA's ATC Command Center. It was here that the National Ops Manager made the national ground stop decision earlier that morning. Like the empty O'Hare story above, the road from DC towards Dulles was completely empty. I was the only car on the highway. Normally, it is always humming, even during non-rush hours. Eerie. After getting into the Command Center, the "Big Board," which normally displays the 5,000- 6,000 IFR tracks that are over the US on any given weekday, showed 35 - all fighters/tankers. That is when the significance hit me. The computer replay of the clearing of US airspace is amazing. And that nobody crashed while doing it. to those aviators that day in every cockpit and, yes, the controllers too. We hand approved everything that flew for the next four days from here while they figured out how to crank up the airspace system again.

Yep. Kind of like 'home' and 'away' jerseys....................

2 He scored higher in: - originality -sheer overwhelming firepower in response, - and the fact that most of the 'Falcons,'....er, Vipers looked like everyone could walk away like a cartoon. Some of the C-130 ones looked really ugly.

A P-61 flying? I am 99.69% sure not. There's only a few left in the world, none flyable. Mid Atlantic Air Museum in PA salvaged one from New Guinea and is restoring one, possibly to flight condition. The others are 1) at Smithsonian, in not the greatest shape, 2) at the USAF Museum in superb condition, 3) the MAAM one, and one displayed outside at the Chinese Aviation Museum in Beijing ( we just left 'em at the end of WWII.....) and in pretty poor condition. A P-61? I would love to proven wrong, however........................ Borman had a P-63, I believe.

No, I'm Spartacus....err, whiterock..........!!!

For the record, Moonbeam, Cricket, Alleycat and Hillsboro were callsigns for ABCCC - an EC-130 with a radio-stuffed capsule in the back used to control and allocate ground attack sorties. I will give him credit for finding that on google and/or asking his Dad.

Well, I'll give you the credit for finally answering and, except for the F-4 preflight which I'm not qualified to judge its validity, did pretty well for either google or a 35 year old memory. Notice I had to put the caveat in there. I don't think you are genuine or if you are, are anyone that I'd wanna drink with, or go to war with. Ta...................

Sir or ma'am, I hope you'll understand a little bit of skepticism from some, ok, me. This is the fourth-ish version of your persona - Blackstar, Dimestore, pilot Whiterock, now this one. There may be other versions floating around on other sites as well. Personally, I'd like you to be a Vietnam vet, the view from the 'other side' of combat - having served, been shot at, then coming home to see it end - is something worthwhile to hear. However, with so many versions of the story, a few quick questions: Why was the photo of you taken in the front seat of the F-4? What was your nav class #? Where did you attend UNT? In what training aircraft did you fly and for what phases of UNT? What were the nav's pre-flight duties on the F-4? Who were any of these: Moonbeam, Cricket, Hillsboro, or Alleycat? Do you still hold that Blackstar is/was somebody else in your office area using a common computer and 'stealing' your experiences?

Sometimes the good guys don't always win. This B-17G was cut in half by flak on 14 July 44 while bombing railroad yards at Budapest, Hungary. Only five chutes were observed.

I got to spend several weeks aboard the USS Kitty Hawk in the mid-90s. Thought it was thoroughly cool, but also saw how it would get old. IS THAT SUPPOSED TO DO THAT? “How cool is this?!” I kept asking myself. I had always wanted to accomplish certain things in my life, kind of a “macho” checklist to perform before I died. One of those checklist items was to do an aircraft carrier take-off and landing. As an Air Force flyer, this particular item would be difficult to mark off. Now here I was, cruising at 21,000 feet, at night, in the US Navy’s E-2C “Hawkeye” airborne command and control aircraft. A short time ago, I had tugged my harness as snug as I could and felt the power and unbelievable acceleration of the cat shot throwing the Hawkeye from a dead stop to 140 kts in just 1.2 seconds. The roar of the two Allison T-56 turboprops rushed through the open overhead hatch. Open so that in the event of a “cold” cat shot where the Hawkeye wasn’t thrown off the deck fast enough but rather just dribbled off the bow and into the water, then we in the mission crew compartment had a chance to get out before a) the oncoming 98,000 tons of carrier ran over us or b) the E-2C sank like a rock. The USS Kitty Hawk (CV-63) was the forward Pacific-based carrier due to the USS Independence’s need for maintenance back in the states. Almost ten years ago, I was based on the Japanese island of Okinawa with my AWACS squadron. In the time-honored tradition of drinks at the O’Club, the Navy and Air Force fliers hatched a plan to have some fun. For the Air Force, we got to experience life aboard ship and the fascinating world of Naval aviation. For the Navy guys, a chance to get off the “boat” for a few weeks was a welcome relief. Thus my being in the seat of the Hawkeye. Once everything worked as advertised, we put the hatch back in, rotated our seats from the fore-and-aft take-off and landing position to the side-saddle working position. The cramped interior of the small Navy bird was very different than the 707-based E-3 AWACS that I normally crewed. I faced my scope and tried to remember the instructions I’d had prior to my flight. Since this whole adventure was in the nature of a “boondoggle,” I wasn’t expected to be a fully trained Hawkeye crewmember, but it would still be a point of pride to pull my weight during the mission. Luckily for me, my tasks during the mission involved mainly working the radios to check-in and out the practice strike mission the Kitty Hawk had launched behind us. Following the next 45 extremely busy minutes, we had a break between “pushes” of aircraft. The flights we had just directed needed time to recover aboard the carrier and the next set of attack aircraft would need time to launch. Such a launch and recovery sequence is called a “cycle.” Typically, a Hawkeye could cover two or more cycles during its mission. Rotating my seat again so I could look out the porthole to my right, I noticed the full moon shining like a huge pearl over the South China Sea. The silvery light illuminated the water far below and made it look like a soft carpet. It took a few minutes before I noticed the first few sparks from the exhaust of the starboard engine. Since I had the only window in the back and it was in line with the gaping hole of the exhaust, I was the only one that could have noticed anything and then only if I was looking in the right spot. Now on the pre-flight walk-around, the jet exhibited all the griminess one would expect. The exhaust ports were no exception. A thick layer of carbon coated the both ports and when I noticed the first sparks, I thought that it simply might be a few flecks of the carbon flaking off. Also, as the Air Force guy, I didn’t want the Navy crew to think I was too nervous. Watching the exhaust for what seemed like hours, but was only a few more minutes, I had just about convinced myself that I imagined the sparks since no more appeared. My sigh of relief caught in my throat however, because a veritable shower of sparkling bits started pouring from the exhaust. “Is that supposed to do that?” I asked Bill, the CICO (combat information control officer) and my unofficial handler for the flight. Bill’s eyes widened appreciably when he saw what I was pointing to. A quick call to the flight deck informed them of the sparks. The two pilots scanned the engine instruments but nothing showed amiss but they turned toward the boat just in case. Unfortunately, we were a good 100 miles away so it was still going to be a little while until we got home. Bill and I kept monitoring the shower of tiny sparks trying to determine what they might be. While still in the turn towards home, a big bang and almost solid wall of the sparks departed the right engine and the flight deck relayed that the number two (right) engine was overheating and they were shutting it down. Implicit in that call was a “put your chutes on” command. Now I’d already checked off the parachute jump on my “to do” list. This was a bit more than I had bargained for. The E-2 didn’t have a particularly good record for crew surviving bailouts in the five or six times it had been done. Jumping at night over water in unfamiliar survival equipment was not something I wanted to add to my life’s experiences. We finally got back to the boat and since the one remaining engine was still humming along, every other aircraft from the recently launched cycle was brought back aboard first. This way, if we had a fender bender getting aboard and fouled the flight deck, then we would be the only one inconvenienced. Hey, the military’s creed is “service before self.” Now I had already been in the jet for an arrested wire landing or “trap.” Just as catapulting off was an overload of all your senses, so too was landing aboard a carrier. The adrenaline rush from concentrating on landing a big airplane on such a small space that was running away from you at 25-30 mph, the seat harness digging into your shoulder and crotch because they have been snugged down so hard to keep you from pitching through the windshield after the stop all sent inputs into your racing brain. Add in the knowledge that in the E-2 (and closely related C-2 cargo hauler) had very precise parameters that had to be met to get aboard and the pucker factor was high. Because the E-2’s long, straight wings were so wide, nearly spanning the entire landing area of the deck, the “box” that the wings had to fit in was only four feet square. In other words, the pilot had to have the wings within four feet of centerline and no more than four feet above the touchdown zone for a successful trap. Outside that box, and the E-2 would have to go-around or bolter in Navy parlance. With only one engine turning, the odds of a successful bolter were slim so all of us in the hurting Hawkeye willed the pilot to be the best he’d ever been. He was and the abrupt stop was the most welcome sensation I’d had in a long time. It turned out that the turbine tips within the engine had been gouged by something and were starting to strike the linings of the casing. My lucky spying of the sparks and the crews’ focusing on the imminent failure saved a few seconds when the engine finally did unglue. Those seconds saved by not having to react, then diagnose, and then respond probably kept the engine from a catastrophic failure and really ruining our night. So in the end I’m glad I got my carrier experience, but I still think that I picked the right military service for me. I am thankful that the Navy does what they do and they do it so well. I have checked off a few more from my list and am working on the rest. Anyone have a spare $20 million so I can go into space?

Two outta three?

Can't they buy/get some sort of hybrid?

I'm thinking if one were particularly swarthy and looking up, one might not appreciate the majesty................

I will admit to being confused: 1. Blackstar said he was a JAG - called NORAD/JAG, no flyers, captains, or recently pinned majors. Called Peterson JAG and a "Mike" answered the phone. Asked if he had a black Corvette, he asked "Why do you want to know?" and hung up. 2. Checked global against the name on Whiterock's plaque; name matches to one in global at Peterson. Called the orderly room of the unit listed, there is a guy by that name working there, he is in his late 50s, so the Vietnam-era age checks. 3. This guy's details are either too readily googled and the little things that are just a tad off put loads of doubt on his veracity. 4. He won't/can't answer simple questions that anyone should be able to answer. So, for me, there is enough quacking for me to conclude to my satisfaction that 1+2+3+4 = duck BTW, is there any other USAF officer who doesn't call it the "JAG office?" I've been calling it that for 20+ years.......

Surely you can understand the skepticism. You can quote easily googled facts and can name names from what many to believe the authentic pilot's career, but you won't answer easily answerable but not easily googled questions about anything else related to his service? Perhaps you understand the skepticism. I do not think anyone on this forum would mind if a combat vet from a previous war joined in the discussions, but a poser is insulting. Why is that hard for you to understand? If you don't care what folks here think, why do you keep responding? So if you work in the same office as the poor, troubled blackstar, are you also in the JAG office? One can read the name on the certificate, by the way.

whiterock, you seem to lack credibilty as well as grammar skills (yourselfs?), but for me, you can clear it up with a relatively quick reply to: What was your pilot class # and patch? Even a description in lieu of a photo will suffice. What other squadrons did you fly with? What was squadron standard for dumping the drag chute? Actually, since it would have been 30 + years ago, that's not fair. Just a realistic recount of how to dump the chute will suffice, please. Who were Moonbeam and Cricket? If you flew, you knew....... edited to account for memory and 30 years - possibly.

Just finished it. Agree on the "Apocalypse Now" feel. And I didn't like that movie either - some great lines in it, "Charlie don't surf!" "Napalm in the morning smells like.......victory" et al, but while I enjoyed "Flying Through Midnight's" authenticity, I just had trouble with the stream of consciouness (sp?) style of writing. Simple mind, I guess..............

bunk, Being nosy here, but what did 'Dimestore's' PM say? Quoting the other great line from Dirty Harry that seldom gets its due, "I gots to know................"

Ok, I'm great, too. I'll just fire up my mighty E-3 with the turbo boosts and the control stick at my console, then I'm off for my general officer (BTZ) pin on...............

bunk22 gets the credit for recognizing and then calling out this loser with an assist from matmacwc