Wild Blue
WILD BLUE
CONDITION RED WITH THE U.S. NAVY FLIGHT DEMONSTRATION TEAM
DAVID EDWARDS
President Bill Clinton The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. Washington, D.C.
Dear Mr. President:
Just a quick thank-you note, a short respite from the vollies being fired your way about Whitewater, health care and the First Partner’s amazing investment skills. I had a chance recently to spend time with some of your employees, and thought you’d like a report card.
It all started with a phone call from the public relations office for the Blue Angels, as you know, the U.S. Navy’s Flight Demonstration Squadron. They wanted to know if I’d like to take a VIP ride in the back seat of the unit’s twoplace F/A-18 Hornet. Well, Mr. President, there are just some requests you just can’t turn down. Besides, I considered it my patriotic duty to shed a little positive light on Naval aviation, still feeling the aftereffects of that nasty Tailhook incident back in Las Vegas. Sounded like a good Saturday night back in the old college dorm to me, but these are the ’90s, after all, the decade of political correctness...well, I guess I’m not telling you anything.
As Commander-in-Chief, you also know that some elements of the military have received some bad press recently for dragging their feet regarding your don’t-ask-don’t-tell homosexual policy and the women-in-combat thing. Personally, I’m with you on these points. I don’t care who I share a foxhole with as long as they can shoot straight and use a bayonet like a Ginsu salesman working a room full of Japanese sushi chefs.
Anyway, on the appointed day I arrived at Naval Air Facility El Centro,
the Blue Angels’ winter training site
near the Califomia-Mexico border, and
was shown into the pilots’ room,
where I changed into a spiffy blue flight suit. Next I met my pilot, Lt.
Rick Young, USN. This guy was straight out of central casting; look up
“fighter jock” in Webster’s and you’ll see his illustration. During his 10 years
in the Navy, the lieutenant has served
with Fighter Squadron VF-1, the famed “Wolfpack,” flying F-14 Tomcats off the USS Ranger, and has accumulated more than 2100 flight hours and 450 carrier landings-“traps” in the vernacular. Young’s radio call sign is “Timber.” I never did get a straight answer on its derivation; I could only hope it had nothing to do with inadvertently using an F/A-18 as a low-level chainsaw.
Quite a machine, the Hornet. Built by McDonnell Douglas, it was rolled-out in 1978, and went into front-line Naval service three years later. It has a multirole mission in that it can be used as a defensive fighter protecting the fleet or it can be armed for air-to-sea or air-to-ground attack roles. It’s powered by a pair of GE F404 turbofans, which push the plane to a max high-level speed of Mach 1.7, nearly 1200 mph. Dry weight is about 24,000 pounds; it’s 56 feet from nosecone to taileron tip; wing span is 37.5 feet; external weapons load, 17,000 pounds. Fly-away price per unit is a staggering $25 million, but as Check Writer-in-Chief, you already knew that.
Save for its lustrous coat of blue-and-yellow paint, the F/A18 I clambered up into was identical to the ones used in fleet service. Today, we’d be going up alone, but during an actual air show, the team flies through a series of maneuvers often no more than 36 inches from wingtip to canopy. I don’t know about you, Sir, but I’m happy if I can grease my Chevy into the garage without putting too big a dent in the washing machine.
After the crew chief strapped me in, he pointed to the yellow-striped ejection-seat lanyard between my legs and cautioned in suitably serious tones that it would only take a 15-pound pull to shoot me noggin-first through the canopy. Now, this has possibilities. Why not set up a VIP flight for that pesky Senator Bob Dole, arrange for a hair-rigger lanyard and punch this guy out somewhere over the Everglades? That ought to cool him down for a while. I know you’d rather reserve that kind of treatment for Rush Limbaugh, but I doubt if you could cram the big guy into the back seat on an F/A-18. Maybe just load up the external pylons with Paveway laserguided bombs and a few racks’ worth of Rockeye cluster bombs, then execute a fly-by of his EIB radio station. Just a gentle reminder of who’s really in charge.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget my Blue Angels take-off, Mr. President. Shortly after we start rolling, on comes the afterburner-think of it as God’s very own drop-kick-then just past the end of the runway, wheels up and at an altitude of perhaps 50 feet, Lt. Young calls out “Ready, ready, pull!” and stands the plane on its tail. Still in afterburner, we pull 5 g’s and rocket straight up before going inverted then rolling out to level flight. Calling upon all my years of literary training, I muttered something truly profound. I think it was “Wow!”
Next came a loop, a barrel roll, some high-speed turns, then a little, er, problem. When Johnny Carson took a VIP ride a few years back, he came back saying, “I would’ve thrown-up, except I didn’t know which way was up.” Well, my sense of direction must be more acute than Mr. Carson’s, because just as we leveled out from a shallow, afterburnerassisted dive about 100 feet off the desert floor, going Mach .95, I had to make use of my official government-issue airsick bag. I felt terrible, but then, not too many people I know can boast of blowing chunks at 632 mph.
“Don’t feel bad,” Young said. “My first time up in the back seat, I did the same thing.”
Motion sickness is a terrible thing, Mr. President. Even with the Hornet’s a/c blowing cold air on my face, I was sweating profusely and having a hard time holding back the nausea-kind of like your predecessor at a Japanese state dinner. To settle my stomach, Young suggested that I take the stick for a while. Coool! You can’t believe what a light touch it takes to maneuver the Hornet’s 12 tons of weight. I’m told this is due to its fly-by-wire control system-for those of us not well-versed in military lingo, that means the controls are activated electronically though a computer, not by conventional hydraulics. Soon, I was guiding the jet through sustained 2-g, 3-g then 4-g turns, which did nothing for my queasiness, but wonders for my ego. Thurber’s Walter Mitty may have fantasized about being a dauntless WWI British aviator, but he never got to fly an F/A-18.
I drew the line, though, at piloting the plane through a loop, as Young suggested. The thought of going upsidedown again didn’t thrill me. Instead, the good lieutenant took back the controls and we flew more (non-inverted) Blue Angels show maneuvers, my absolute favorite being the High Alpha. This is where the flaps and landing gear are lowered, the nose is pointed up and the Hornet slows down to the point that it’s virtually riding on its own jet thrust. Young then yanks the gear up, goes to full afterburner and heads for the stratosphere. In the old days, Disneyland used to sell E tickets for its most exciting rides. Believe me, this is Z-ticket stuff.
We completed the rest of the routine, about 45 minutes in all, sans inverted passes and snap rolls, lest I decorate the inside of the canopy.
A suggestion if I may, Mr. President. Why not use an F/A18 as your personal jet? Air Force One is nice, but 747s are a dime a dozen; heck, most Arab sheiks have two or three of ’em. Get yourself a helmet with the presidential seal and your call sign-“Bubba?”-painted on the back. Imagine the entrance you’d make at international summits screaming by at the speed of sound. North Korea’s got the bomb? So what? Bubba just took off and he’s got an itchy trigger finger!
Keep Air Force One for the Washington press corps. Rename it Nattering Nay-Bob One, if you don’t mind borrowing some phraseology from ol’ Spiro T. In any case, if I were you I’d order up a ride with the Blue Angels ASAP. Get Lt. Young to do the chauffeuring; tell him I sent you. Bring Dramamine. Oh, and the way things have been going lately, I wouldn’t wait for your second term. (Sorry, couldn’t resist a little lame-duck humor-just kiddin’.)
In all seriousness, I’d like to thank the Navy for letting a frustrated-fighter-pilot-magazine-editor take a dream ride. Next to the thrill of the flight, what struck me is the professionalism and the dedication these guys have. If you’re a Naval aviator, an average day isn’t good enough; in fact, it can kill you. And wouldn’t the country be a better place if everyone, politician to plumber, took that same pursuit of precision to our own jobs.
You’ve got some good people working for you, Mr. President. I’m sure you already knew that, and as one of the tax-payers footing the bill for those 25-million-dollar jets, I’m glad these guys are on our side. Keep ’em flying.
