…can lead to a lot of terror.
I came to naval aviation as a flight surgeon, but I held two civilian pilot certificates in my wallet: Commercial Pilot and Certified Flight Instructor. I was (somewhat) aeronautically adapted before I first donned a Navy flight suit. Because I had a fair knowledge of aerodynamics, navigation, and pilot radio jargon, F-14 Tomcat frontseaters liked to fly with me. Often I had more total flight hours than the “nugget” RIOs fresh from Naval Flight Officer training, and I seemed more casual in the flight environment — not such an advantage, as we shall describe. I had also earned a NATOPS (i.e., official) qualification as a backseater in the Tomcat. As I earned my pilots’ trust, some would turn control of the ejection system over to me — not their usual practice with a doc as their backup.
During my first deployment as an air wing flight surgeon, I bagged flight hours whenever I could get them. I often got low stress routine night flights that the pilots needed for currency but were not all that challenging for the RIO. One such flight occurred on a dark and stormy night over the Adriatic Sea. As I manned up the jet on the flight deck, I had no inkling that it would be my last night flight — in a jet — of that deployment.
We launched at dusk, but after a few minutes we flew in darkness. In theory, an actual potential enemy was out there, albeit an 84 pound weakling. Closer to the coastline, we flew in and out of clouds as the weather turned worse than forecast. I divided my time between looking out of the canopy to double check my pilot’s separation in the flight of four jets, and monitoring my radar screen looking for bogeys. To my disappointment, after an hour no bogey appeared. The bad guys must have known that I was up there in charge of the weapons system, and they dared not test my mettle. Yeah right, Doc.
The weather continued to go down as we returned to “Mother.” We were now fully enveloped in darkness, with no outside visual references. I backed up the pilot on the dials as he flew the instrument approach to the carrier. It appeared normal and routine.
Looking forward from the back seat of an F-14, all you see is the back of the pilot’s helmet. On a night approach, I often didn’t pick up the ship’s lights until we crossed the ramp. Kind of scary the first time, but by now I had gotten used to it. On landing, I looked out at the deck as the jet hit it and the pilot advanced the throttle to full power, and — instead of the familiar pull of the arresting wire we accelerated off the deck.
“Bolter, bolter.” The tailhook had missed the wire. First time I had ever seen the carrier’s lights disappear behind me after a landing approach.
I won’t get overly technical about the reason for the bolter because a) I don’t remember it all, and b) I never understood it in the first place. (That Little Knowledge dude creeps into play.) The problem involved the system that gives the pilot finer motor control over the stick in the landing sequence. If the system malfunctions, as this one had, the jet behaves like an SUV without power steering. That makes it difficult to nimbly drop the tailhook onto one of the arresting cables stretched across the flight deck.
We went around for another pass. My pilot flew a near-perfect approach to the ramp, and then —
“Bolter, bolter.” Off into the darkness again.
The F-14 squadron rep in the carrier’s tower got on the radio and recommended pulling four circuit breakers before the next pass.
“Yipes. That would be my job.”
 |
| Just a few of those circuit breakers |
As the jet went around the pattern, I held a penlight in my mouth and opened up my F-14 pocket checklist to validate the location of each breaker — without enough time to complete my research before —
“Bolter, bolter.”
The pilot's usually calm, experienced voice became tense and edgy. “Doc, I really need you to pull those breakers on the next pass. We’re close to bingo.” Meaning we were getting low on fuel.
By the time we came around for the next pass, I had a veritable cheering section in the tower urging me to complete this simple (to them) task. I fumbled a bit, dropped the flashlight, retrieved it, contorted my body around to make eye contact with each circuit breaker, and somehow got 'er done by the time we rolled into final approach. With help from the LSO, we made it down and trapped an “OK Three” wire. Yay!
As we taxied out of the landing zone, I pushed my heart from my mouth back into my chest. But my night’s ordeal had not concluded. As we walked off the flight deck into the carrier superstructure, the squadron duty officer came up to me. “Doc, CAG wants to see you in his office right away.”
Did I mention that was my last night Tomcat flight off this carrier?
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These videos demonstrate the challenge (and sometimes terror) of landing aboard an aircraft carrier. The second shows night operations:
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