Chapter Five
“I Fall to Pieces”
Six months later
March, 1961
Williams Air Force Base, AZ
We triumph without glory when we conquer without danger.
Pierre Corneille, Le Cid, II:2
Rod woke early the day before he soloed. He was eager to complete his last check-ride with an instructor so he could fly the T-33 alone, and finally “kick the tires and light the fires” to blast off into the wide, open sky without anyone else in the aircraft. He’d transitioned from the T-37 primary phase to the advanced phase, flying the single-engine T-33—a two-seat version of the USAF’s first fighter, the F-80—and was anxious to fulfill his life-long dream.
He knew the F-80 wasn’t one of the Air Force’s first line fighters, and the T-33 was seeing it’s final days as a training aircraft—at least in the U.S. But he also knew that this was the first step to him moving up to the F-100, or someday even to the new F-105 supersonic fighter that was just entering the inventory. More importantly, the solo would be the first time he’d really be able to push the T-33 without an instructor pilot looking over his shoulder.
He pulled the station wagon into the deserted squadron parking lot long before the sun had risen. He was the first one there and he savored the privacy. The mountains were tinged with a pink outline and there were no clouds in the morning sky. Venus and Mars were all right tonight, hanging over the horizon, gleaming steadily and revealing no sign of atmospheric turbulence.
It looked like ideal flying conditions. With any luck, within a few hours he’d be back on the ground to wrap up his paperwork and would start prepping for his next major milestone since mastering the T-37: soloing in the T-33.
All he had to do was to complete his final check-ride; a piece of cake.
He grabbed his green flight bag from the front seat, slammed the car door, and headed into the white-painted, single-story building. He was the first one in squadron operations.
The flight scheduler’s desk was elevated on a dark-paneled platform, guarding the entrance to the building. An arch over the desk was inscribed with the words “Hat in the Ring” and overlaid a mural of two T-33s jetting into a deep, blue sky. To the left, the glass door leading to the squadron snack bar was locked; to the right, a bulletin board was hung on the dark-paneled hallway that led to the Operations Center and Ready Room. Black and white photos of previous squadron training classes adorned the wall. On the opposite wall, facing the photos, were paintings of old trainer planes, going back to the bi-planes flown in World War I. A lot of history in here.
He padded for the back and sat at a table in the center of the Ready Room. He stifled a yawn, then spread out the Dash One, stiff yellow paper checklists, equipment logs, maintenance logs, and a host of other papers, manuals, texts, and documents as he prepared one final time, and focused, pushing everything else out of his mind and studied for the flight, changing his mindset from thinking to reacting.
For his Master’s degree he’d pondered innumerable possibilities. The creativity he’d fostered at Stanford was in stark contrast to the rigid checklists he had to memorize for flying a high-performance jet. For if his plane tumbled out of control, he would only have a fraction of a second to respond, to perfectly follow a set of procedures—without making a mistake … or he would die.
There was no time for him to intellectually dissect the awesome aerodynamic aberrations that might occur in a stall or in an out-of-control spin. He had to learn an entirely different mindset—one of instantly reacting and not thinking.
For all he’d been through, the intellectual, ever-questioning atmosphere at Stanford didn’t prepare him for the by-the-book, no-deviation-checklist mentality demanded in pilot training.
So he was forced not to ponder, and instead to immediately respond by using the control stick and foot pedals; it was as though his muscles had to recognize the threat and function by themselves.
The mantra was “disengage brain, eyeball-to-stick.”
It was an unsettling difference, but it was a metamorphosis he had to embrace.
He’d memorized the Dash One, the T-33’s operating manual, to learn how to counter an uncontrolled spin, turbulent buffeting, or a loss of altitude. They all required specific actions performed in a precise sequence, and they all had to be practiced until he memorized them perfectly.
And today’s check ride would be the final test before he soloed.
With the absolute adherence to rules, he’d come to learn why his adoptive father had always been such a black and white guy, no room for mistakes, with an unwavering view of the difference between right and wrong … and he wished he’d realized that before Hank had passed away.…
*
“Simone … Frenchy!”
Rod’s head jerked up. “Yeah.”
His vision was blurred as a green flight suit swam into focus. The Ready Room was no longer vacant and was packed with fellow students.
The squadron scheduler stood in front of him, hands on his hips. “What the hell are you doing? You’re first in line and you’re late for your check-ride briefing. Get your butt to the briefing room!”
Rod struggled to his feet. “Yes, sir!” He grabbed his flight bag, scattering his papers in his wake; he shoved his material into his bag. Students flattened across the table to prevent their own papers from flying off the table as he stumbled to the door.
The scheduler called after him, “Room 101, Simone. You’re tail number Zero Two. And don’t forget to sign out the bird!”
Rod rushed into the hallway. He turned right and spotted 101 painted above an awning down the hall. The door was open. He sprinted into the briefing room … and pulled up as he saw a portly man in a flight suit sitting behind a grey metal desk.
Rod frowned. It wasn’t his flight instructor, First Lieutenant Oliver; this officer didn’t look familiar. He wore two silver bars of a captain and was so large he could have used his stomach as a desk. He hadn’t seen the captain around the building, so he was probably from another squadron. This must be the check pilot.
The officer didn’t look up as he tapped a pencil on a green and white topographical map of the Chandler area.
Rod stopped a respectful distance from the captain, put down his flight bag, and saluted. “Good morning, sir. Lieutenant Simone reporting for check-ride.”
The officer didn’t look up and kept studying the map. “You’re late, Lieutenant. Not a good first impression for the last check before you solo.”
Rod couldn’t read the officer’s expression. Rod felt his face grow warm. For some reason, the ten-by-fifteen foot, wood-paneled briefing room felt stifling even with the air-conditioning on full blast. “Sorry, sir. I … couldn’t sleep last night and came in early. I guess my lack of sleep caught up with me.” That sounded lame—but it was the truth.
“Settle down, Lieutenant. If you’re this worked up over your last check, you’ll be a mess when you solo.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I should know.” The captain looked up. “I did the same thing myself.” He stuck out a thick hand and grinned. “Don’t think we’ve met. Charlie Banner. I go by Rhino—but don’t tell the Ops Officer. You’re Devil 8 for the check ride.”
“Lightning, sir,” Rod said, shaking his hand. “Sorry.”
“Forget it,” Rhino waved him off. “I was here early myself. Olive Oil called in sick this morning and I told him I’d handle everything,” he said, using Lieutenant Oliver’s call sign; the senior officers frowned on the use of call signs, but Rod had learned the younger pilots were quietly embracing practice. “Gives me a chance to head out early. Taking the Boy Scouts backpacking up at Lost Dutchman this afternoon, so every minute counts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now pull up a chair and let’s go over Motherhood.”
Rod grabbed one of the grey metal chairs and for the next 45 minutes they reviewed weather, winds, active runways, frequency assignments, and procedures for mitigation of incapacitation, ejection commands, loss of communication with each other or the ground controllers, and other emergency measures. They then covered the flight profile in detail and laid out the mission maneuvers Rod was expected to execute.
Once Captain Banner was satisfied they took a short bathroom break then met at the ops desk where Rod signed out the trainer. They stepped through life support to suit up for the flight, grabbed their parachute and helmet, and left the training squadron at the back of the building.
The rear exit led directly to the flight line. When Rod opened the door the hot desert air almost slammed him senseless.
Heat rose off the tarmac. The horizon wavered as thermals rose into the air, making the cloudless, blue sky appear as though it were a giant heat sink. To the left, a line of T-33s shimmered in and out of view, a mirage in the dry, overbearing furnace. Rod spotted the number “02” painted prominently on the tail of the jet trainer closest to the building.
Rhino motioned with his helmet. “Lead on, Lightning.”
“Roger that.” They made a beeline across the hot concrete.
As they approached the T-33 Rod saw thick electrical cords that ran from an Auxiliary Power Unit to the jet. The yellow APU looked like a squat, triangular desk three feet high with the top lopped off. A blue pickup truck was parked next to the APU and an aluminum set of stairs was pushed up to the cockpit.
Two airmen dressed in drab green khakis worked on either side of the trainer. One connected a grounding wire to the jet and another inspected the concrete pad for any loose material that might cause foreign object damage, or FOD.
Captain Banner motioned for Rod to take the lead in inspecting the aircraft. “Never hurts to put a second pair of eyeballs on these birds. I’ll follow you around the pre-flight.”
“Right.”
For the next five minutes the two officers walked around the silver trainer, looking for fluid leaks, ensuring all gaskets were tightened, and making sure that the aircraft was airworthy. At the front of the jet underneath the nose, Rod spotted a black, greasy substance on the pitot tube. He called the crew chief over and had him remove the gunk that had accumulated near the opening; the sergeant wiped it off with his handkerchief.
“Good catch,” Rhino said. “About ready?”
“One more thing,” Rod said. He squinted down the fuselage, and then reached up and pounded on the access panels to ensure they were all closed. He moved from panel to panel, thumping on metal but jumped back as the last one popped open. “What in the world!” He reached up and pushed the panel shut until the closing mechanism clicked. He turned to see Captain Banner grinning at him.
“Just as I said—good catch, Lightning. I was out here earlier while you were napping and set that up. The last two students didn’t discover what I’d done and didn’t get off on the right foot.”
Rod nodded. “Thanks.”
Once complete, they dug their helmets and oxygen masks out of their flight bags and climbed the portable aluminum stairs. Rod waited for Rhino to squeeze into the back cockpit position where the captain would oversee Rod’s flying. A few minutes passed until two enlisted men had to help shove the overweight officer into the narrow seat; Rhino told them to use a crowbar if necessary and took the whole event in stride.
Rod eased down into in his seat, strapped in, and started tapping on the cockpit dials. One by one he watched the needles flicker, and once had to tap on the same dial twice. After he’d received the initial report about his father’s crash from the Accident Investigation Board, he made it a habit to ensure his dials would never stick.
The control stick jutted up in between his legs. He waggled it back and forth. He worked the ailerons and ran a hand on either side of the cockpit, feeling for any loose cables. Finally satisfied that the jet was airworthy, he set the radio frequency and plugged in his headset. A hiss came over his headphones.
Rod adjusted his mike. “Captain Banner? Lightning.”
“Lightning, Rhino. It’s your aircraft.”
“Roger that.” Now that he’d been officially given command, he started running through checklist, calling out switch settings, fluid pressures, and electrical voltages. Rhino responded when called, but otherwise remained quiet and allowed Rod to complete the checklist unimpeded.
Rod raised a finger and rotated it around his head, then pointed at the airman standing at parade rest outside of the jet. The airman snapped to. A low sound came from outside the aircraft and dopplered up in volume. Soon, a high-pitched whine shrieked through the air as the engine caught. Black smoke boiled up around them.
Rod switched frequencies and checked in with ground control, using the squadron’s sign. “Williams ground. Devil 8 request taxi with information Alpha.”
“Devil Eight, taxi runway twelve.”
Rod indicated that he understood. “Devil Eight.” He switched to their dedicated internal channel. “Ready, sir?”
“You’ve got the stick.”
“Copy.”
Rod motioned outside the cockpit and threw several switches. The two airmen servicing the trainer drew to attention and saluted.
He returned the salute and eased forward on the throttle. The engine increased in frequency and the T-33 edged forward, away from the line of jets and the squadron training building.
The sun beat down, causing glint to reflect off distant cars and a row of metal, corrugated Quonset huts next to the flight line. Wind swirled into the cockpit as they rolled forward.
As they approached the end of the runway, Rod clicked his microphone. “Watch your hands, sir.”
“Clear.”
Rod flipped a switch and the cockpit canopy rotated down. As the canopy clamped shut the sound of the engine subsided. Rod could hear the blood pound in his ears. His hands felt sweaty, but it wasn’t just from the heat; he felt the excitement lurking deep inside him, as though it wanted to burst out and reverberate throughout his entire body.
He steadied his breathing as they approached the end of the runway. So far so good for his last check-ride … for after this was the culmination of everything he’d been studying for since he arrived, to solo.
He received final clearance from the tower, and within moments they were racing down the long, asphalt airstrip. Brown desert whizzed past, and he saw buildings sweep by, then the line of T-33s on the tarmac.
The jet bounced as it sped down the runway, and he felt himself being pushed back in the seat as they accelerated. Their velocity crept up and he started to feel the nose rise. He waited until they achieved rotation speed and he pulled back on the stick. They were airborne and started their smooth glide up.
When they were clear of Williams and reached altitude, Rhino ran Rod through a series of dual-only maneuvers of nose-high and nose-low recoveries, spins, power-on and nose-high stalls, and traffic pattern stalls. Rhino threw situations at him that demanded rote attention to detail and insisted Rod repeat back the checklist verbatim.
One by one Rod ran through the routines. He performed like an automaton, precisely moving through the motions. He lost track of time as he reacted … and in less than an hour his headphones clicked.
Rhino’s voice came over the internal comm.
“That’s it, Lightning. Return to base. Approach final at five thousand AGL and execute a loop. Congratulations. You’re cleared for solo.”
“Rog, sir. Ah, I thought aerobatics that close to the airfield were forbidden.…”
“It is. But it’s a Willie tradition that will probably go away when we get a new Wing commander. So until then let’s take advantage of it.”
Rod clicked his mike and grinned. So that was it. In retrospect, the check-ride didn’t seem that intimidating, and the loop was Captain Banner’s way of announcing to the rest of the base that Rod had passed. Since Rhino didn’t have any additional maneuvers for him to perform, Rod would be able to get him back on the ground in plenty of time to make his Boy Scout outing.
Rod obtained clearance from tower and pulled into a gentle bank heading toward Williams. He saw the rise of San Tan Mountain, with the Sonoran desert sprawling in the distance. The sky was unmarred by clouds and looked as though an immense, dark blue hemisphere stretching horizon-to-horizon had been placed over the parched desert ground.
For once he could enjoy the flight, in some ways act like a tourist, and not worry about having to perform. The upcoming solo didn’t bother him; he knew his skills and wasn’t worried about flying alone. In fact, he’d prefer being the only one in the cockpit, because he could push the jet to the limits of its endurance.
He approached the base and checked with tower one last time for permission to execute the inside loop. He was given clearance and came in just over 5,000 feet above ground level. The runway and training buildings spread out below him. He saw the housing area on the left, and knew that Julie and Nanette were probably out by the dusty old playground.
When he passed over the flight line he clicked his mike. “Here goes.” He jammed the stick back and pushed forward on the throttles. The T-33 surged and pulled up into a tight, inside loop. The T-33 strained as he held the stick as far back as he could.
As they went over the top he saw brown desert below. It spread out in all directions through the top of his canopy. Above him the sky was a deep, dark blue, almost black.
The altimeter started to drop as he was pushed back in his seat. The pressure grew and soon the T-33 started to shake from the g’s. He grunted from the g-forces; his vision narrowed, and all he could see out of the top of his canopy was brown desert, below. Rod eased up on the stick as the jet struggled to pull out of the loop.
At the top of the canopy he saw blue sky appear, indicating that they were bottoming out. The altimeter slowed its movement and when it started to creep back up he released the stick; the g-forces subsided. The runway was perfectly lined up a mile below him.
Rod started to click the mike when the control stick was ripped out of his hand. It slammed up against the front panel.
The T-33 dove to the ground.
Airspeed increased. The sound of wind outside the cockpit rose to a wail.
The control stick vibrated. The jet started to shake as it accelerated straight down.
Rod was pushed out of his seat, up toward the canopy by the sudden negative g’s. He grabbed for the stick. He tried to pull back but the stick was stuck, as if Rhino was pushing it forward.
“Captain Banner!” Rod said. “Release stick!”
The jet screamed toward the earth. A brown and tan patchwork of fields and asphalt runway grew larger in the canopy; the ground rushed up to meet them. It sounded as if a train was roaring by.
The T-33 vibrated, shaking Rod, throwing him back and forth. The jolting slammed his teeth against his tongue, and he tasted the warm, salty sensation of blood.
“Release, Captain! Release stick!” Rod pulled as hard as he could but couldn’t move the control stick back. Rod grunted as he strained. The trainer shook in an ever-sickening scream, and he thought he might break the yoke if he pulled any harder.
The altitude dial spun down in elevation as they raced through 2,000 feet. Rod clicked his mike as he was thrown violently from side to side. “Mayday, mayday, mayday!”
He raced through the emergency checklist as the ground rushed up. Nothing seemed to work. The stick wouldn’t budge. It was as if Rhino was pushing his entire body against the stick even with the negative g’s—
His entire body against the stick.
If Rhino’s body was somehow jammed against the stick, there was no way Rod could pull back. Unless he forced Rhino to move out of the way—
He stomped down on the right pedal as hard as he could, almost standing in the cramped cockpit, and simultaneously pushed the stick forward and right. The jet started to rotate in the dive and rolled upside down.
As the T-33 turned, the negative g’s shoved against him up against the canopy. The craft hurtled toward the ground as he alternated the pedals, rocking the jet.
Rod pulled back on the stick—it was free.
He jammed the stick back to the right and the trainer spun over.
He jerked back on the stick as hard as he could. The g’s increased as he pulled out of the loop … but this time less than a hundred feet above the ground.
He grunted, trying to stay focused as the periphery of his vision narrowed.
The T-33 shook as it strained to pull up, and Rod thought the aircraft might disintegrate. He tightened his grip and within seconds he was flying level, right-side up but only scant tens of feet above the bare, desert ground.
Unwilling to risk losing control once again, Rod pulled back on the throttles, lowered the landing gear, hit the speed brakes, and forced the aircraft down. The runway quickly drew up, and at the last instant, Rod pulled the nose up and flared. He slammed onto the runway just over the dirt end at 300 knots—he’d have less than 10 seconds to bring the jet to a stop.
Fire trucks raced down the end of the runway, falling behind him as Rod stood on the brakes to slow the jet trainer. He’d landed at almost cruising velocity and wasn’t slowing fast enough.
He popped the canopy to give him more air resistance. Air screamed into the cockpit as it vibrated in the slipstream.
Smoke rolled up from the tires. The canopy cracked and flew backward, high into the air and tumbled over the back of the jet. A shrill shriek came from the brakes as the speed decreased.
The T-33 rolled past the end marker, and slowed to a stop just as the front tire left the asphalt and bumped onto the dirt.
The burning smell of rubber and metal-on-metal rolled into the cockpit. He disarmed the eject seats and quickly unbuckled. “Captain Banner! Rhino!”
The sound of sirens wailing grew louder as fire trucks approached the jet.
Rod turned and climbed to stand on his seat to see behind him.
Rhino’s helmet leaned against the side of the cockpit. His body was twisted in the seat and blood dribbled from his oxygen mask.
Rod ripped off his mask. He threw his helmet to the side and scrambled over the top of his seat. He leaned into Rhino’s cockpit and reached for the instructor’s helmet, fumbling as he tried to unbuckle Rhino’s strap.
An aluminum ladder was thrown against the T-33 with a loud clang. Simultaneously two additional ladders were flung against the opposite side of the jet.
A fireman in a silver fireproof suit stomped up the ladder. He put his arms around Rod and pulled him back. “We’ve got him, sir.”
“He’s hurt!” Rod struggled but the fireman tightened his grip.
Two other firemen climbed up, reached in, and removed Rhino’s helmet.
His head rolled to the side, lifeless. The firemen checked his breathing and pulse before unbuckling the harness.
Rod felt his heart race; it seemed hard to catch his breath. He lurched forward to help but he was pulled back and admonished to clear the aircraft.
The fireman helped Rod down the ladder where a medic met him at the bottom and moved him away from the trainer. Two fire trucks and an ambulance were parked in the dirt around the jet, emergency lights rotating. Crackling sounds from radio static came from all three vehicles. A stretcher was brought up to the jet as a crew of firemen pulled out two hoses to cool down the brakes and tires.
Rod sat in the dirt with his head between his legs, next to the waiting ambulance. His ears were stopped up and he had trouble hearing.
Time seemed to pass in a haze for Rod as Captain Banner was removed from the aircraft and placed into the ambulance.
He couldn’t think straight. He kept questioning what else could he have done, how else could he have helped Rhino. Could he have pulled out of the loop any sooner? Did he pull too many g’s? Did he overlook anything?
He hadn’t felt so distraught since he was told his father had died in a small aircraft accident, learning of the crash just days before he graduated from the Academy. At least with General Beaumont heading up the crash accident board, they’d get to the bottom of dad’s crash … unless that path pointed to some external cause, such as George Delante.…
An officer in a flight suit squatted in the dirt beside Rod. He put a hand on Rod’s shoulder and asked him questions in a low tone, having Rod recall the sequence of events from the time they’d approached Williams to when Rod lost control of the stick. As Rod related the incident, the grim-faced medic who had first attended Rod interrupted the officer.
The officer listened intently, stopping the medic to ask for clarification. Rod tried to listen, but their voices were too low for him to hear. As events came into focus, it dawned on Rod that the officer was their squadron commander, a young Lieutenant Colonel known by his call sign Beast; his wife, LizAnn, had taken Julie under her wing.
When the medic left, Beast said in a quiet voice, “You’re lucky to be alive, son.”
Rod looked up. The roar in his ears started to subside. “Captain Banner? How’s he doing, sir?”
“Heart attack. The medic said he died quickly.”
Rod closed his eyes.
Beast put a hand on Rod’s shoulder. “I can’t say for certain what happened until after the Accident Investigation Board, but it appears he slumped over when his heart failed. His helmet jammed the stick against the panel … and if you hadn’t rolled upside down to release him, you would have pranged into the runway.” Beast paused. “You were less than thirty feet above the deck when you pulled out of that loop.”
Rod opened his eyes as he heard the ambulance drive away with Captain Banner’s body.
Beast straightened. “Good recovery, Lightning; that was one hell of a flight. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He hesitated. “The big guy upstairs must have something huge planned for you—so whatever it is, don’t screw it up.”