Fast jet experience of a lifetime
 

Surely this cant have happened. No pilot I ever knew would have ruined - what should have been - the most Fantastic experience of a lifetime in this manner.?? (Kick him off the squadron !!).


Below is an article written by Rick Reilly of Sports Illustrated. He details his experiences when given the opportunity to fly in a F-14 Tomcat. If you aren't laughing out loud by the time you get to "Milk Duds," your sense of humor is seriously broken.

Someday you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have . John Elway, John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity...
Move to Guam.
Change your name.
Fake your own death!Whatever you do .Do Not Go!!!I know. The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I was toast! I should've known when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach.

Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way. Fast.

Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions. ("T-minus 15 seconds and counting ..." Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, "We have a liftoff"

Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight. Not unlike Colin Montgomerie, I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning.

"Bananas," he said.

"For the potassium?" I asked.
"No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down."

The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky or Leadfoot . But, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance with Nicole Kidman, this was it.

A fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would "egress" me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious

Just as I was thinking a bout aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-rolled over another F-14.


Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life. Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80. It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, snap rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute. We chased another F-14, and it chased us.

We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Colin Montgomerie.

And I egressed the bananas.

And I egressed the pizza from the night before.

And the lunch before that.

I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade.

I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the G's, I was egres sing stuff that never thought would be egressed.

I went through not one airsick bag, but two.

Biff said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a tortilla and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to throw down.

I used to know 'cool'. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know 'cool'. Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and freon nerves. I wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie reliever makes in a home stand.

A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said he'd send it on a patch for my flight suit.

What is it? I asked.

"Two Bags."

Or maybe that was just the right medicine for an irritating sports journo'? Nobody "forced" him into that backseat.
But he wrote a funny story, I admit ;)

Never flown with a frontline RAF unit so I don't know how they work media flights, but have flown quite a lot with the US and, with only one exception, every fast jet sortie I have been on has taken on an operational flavour (sometimes with a short break to get photos).

Why? Because they still have to get some training value out of the sortie, even if there is a journo in the back. With cutbacks in annual flying hours, this is now ever more important.

As for this journo, it was his choice to go and I am glad he did: I loved the story.

Fire the pilot? You have to be kidding!

luffers
anything less would NOT have been the flight of a lifetime! Do you want to ride in an F14 or a 747? The choice is yours, but for an hour one will cost you $1000 the other would cost $45 000, i think the journo got value for money:ok: Good job he didn't get the cowboy of the squadron!!

If this is authentic let it be a lesson to all who have the opportunity to impress an ab initio as a passenger in a high performance aircraft. The sortie is theirs - for their benefit, not an opportunity to show off or to look big. I have met many people who received less than they deserved in their trip of a lifetime and each time I concluded what a selfish pilot they must have flown with.

Soddim
It sounds like a normal Combat training sortie to me, bit of fighting , bit of low level, bit of range work. What exactly are you objecting to?? The sortie sounds straightforward, are you getting caught up by the journos prose?? Can you really rely on the Journos expertise?? Not a move in the description of the flight I wouldn't expect in a normal sortie of this type. Bye the way the sortie is not for THEIR benifit. They (the lucky ones) are permitted to ride in the back of a training sortie, which is solely for the training benifit of the pilot. It will come out of his training hours at the end of the month, simple.

The sortie is never theirs! Maybe, just maybe it was a normal sortie in a Tomcat - I've had a few (hundred) and even the most mundane are sphincter-clinching for the un-initiated. Maybe a little respect is due to FJ guys for working under such conditions.
Don't change your name...choose life!

Tigs

I have flown plenty of passengers and not on a airliner before you ask and non have puked. I am proud of that and it gives the RAF great PR. The majority of those sorties were flown for the benefit of the passengers, civilian or military and they were left feeling elated by a few benign moves like loops and aileron rolls. I assume that the USN don't have the pax flying limits that the RAF impose ie, 4.5g and 6000ft/min ROD if they do then BIFF is playing a seriously dicey game. Biff seems to be a very apt callsign.

That was as funny as a funny thing.............however, and it comes as no big surprise it was somewhat spoiled by the pomposity of the subsequent posts, lighten up chaps :rolleyes:

You were right, by the time i got to milk dudds i was crippled. It seems to me from reading it that the pilot just performed what i would class as routine manouvers ( my opinion not meant to offend or irritate anyone ), and the journo just put his spin on it like evry other journo does.

Soddim

The US has two different types of fast jet pax flights: fam and incentive.

Fam rides are always of an operational nature and the pax are given to understand this prior to the sortie - these are the usual type of ride for journos.

Incentive rides are those earned by crew chiefs, cadets and other worthy individuals, and these are the ones where the pax gets to fly the jet and choose where to draw the line on manouvers and g loading.

Given the distinction between the two, and based on the fact that this guy was almost certainly being given a fam ride, I think that your comments are overly harsh.

In addition, I have heard of pax who have not even made it out of the circuit before they were sick, but you can hardly blame the pilot for being 'selfish' for that!

A Pax in an RAF FJ aircraft should not be placed under a "G" loading of 6.5 and the rules are explict on this. The limit is 2/3rds of the last value. Not many of the last Jag passengers managed to keep the contents of their stomach down, such being the nature of the forces and motions involved in flying a FJ to the inexperinced

However, it sounds like the yank Jock was purely out to break this bloke...:ok:

Ewan Whosearmy:
What kind of "waiver" would you sign before a trip in a U.S. fast jet?
Another thing (fact): A very large proportion of "unaccustomed" FJ passengers will get sick after 30 - 40 min.s of jet flight. (Can't remember the actual number of minutes).
I've met quite a number of fast jet pilots/aircrew that had to overcome airsickness - (from the bad smell of the rubber oxygen mask,... whatever.)
RAF Institute of Aviation Medicine? - don't they "work" such cases?

Tigs 2
I object to pilots who do nothing to ensure that their passenger enjoys the experience of their flight.

'Normal training sortie' in a two seat fighter aircraft is simply not possible without the back seater so why not use the trip for the benefit of the pax?

blah blah blah!

As Seldom says Lighten up everyone:ugh:

Lighten up folks! Do a google for a Dave Barry story that was very similiar. Or comedian Bill Engval's great 8 minute bit on his Thunderbird ride. The writer is making his point for effect, not to be taken literally.

or this of mine from some years back (ewan, pardon the re-run here):

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 third or fourth 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.

Pah! Twenty minutes? I can make my pax spew during taxi :=

Getting out of the Sim while it is still 'inflight' will throw anyone.


.

Health Warning - Ensure Sim is Parked, but leave video motion going.

To be fair this is not the first time I have heard tell of a fast jet pilot taking malevolent glee in making his passenger grey out, pass out, throw up, and generally have a **** time... Being 6'4 and skinny with congenitally low blood pressure I'm sure I'd probably sleep through most of it and these factors combine to make the prospect unattractive in the extreme.

Phil

''Biff Types''
 

A few years ago in Australia, made a visit to a local well known aero club, whilst doing some heli work. Having a bit of a yarn with some fellow aviators ''Biff'' comes up to the group, gets told that the ''Pom'' is thinking about getting a ppl . He immediately as expected offers to give me a fam flight as he was just heading out.
Well he put it thru everything he could think of, the more I said this was really interesting the harder he tried . It was a pretty warm day as usual in OZ by the time we landed he was wringing wet.
We all thought couldnt happen to a nicer chap.