THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, October 4, 1995 TAG: 9510040579
SECTION: MILITARY NEWS PAGE: A14 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: JACK DORSEY
LENGTH: Medium: 72 lines
When the Air Force invited me to apply to its elite flight demonstration team, the Thunderbirds, for a ride out of Langley Air Force Base, I was on cloud nine.
The Thunderbirds will be at the Hampton base for a show Saturday as part of the base's Community Appreciation Day program.
Flying in an F-16 Fighting Falcon out over Hampton Roads, soaring through the clouds, pulling ``G's'' and simply having a ball with the Thunderbirds has always been on my list of neat things to do.
So last week, on the very day my boss, Ed Power, was flying with the Navy's Blue Angels and their F/A-18 Hornets over Oceana, the folks at Langley called with the bad news.
``You weren't accepted,'' said Staff Sgt. Gary Padrta.
I was now at the bottom of the pit.
Padrta explained that so many people had applied there simply wasn't room, or time to get us all a flight. (A couple of Richmond-based news folks got to go).
Fortunately, Langley offered me a consolation prize: a ride with the 27th Fighter Squadron in one of their F-15 Eagles.
Now, I don't know why I initially felt disappointed. I mean, that's neat too. Right?
Darn right. I'll take this consolation prize any day and every day.
Lt. Col. Ken Terry, commander of the 1st Operations and Support Squadron, was my pilot. We left with another F-15, piloted by Capt. Mark Hayes, flight leader with the 27th, who had as his passenger (and potential adversary target) Kim Lenz, a staff writer with the Daily Press.
A morning of medical checks, safety instructions, flight suit and oxygen mask fittings and tales of how quickly one can die if he doesn't pay attention to detail, was behind us now.
We're taxiing west together down Langley's runway as Hayes' twin-engine jet accelerates with afterburners glowing, pulling quickly ahead. Then Terry hits the burners as well and we're suddenly 4,000 feet above Newport News, screaming south toward a training area near Cape Hatteras.
Worried that we'd become sick, or black out from the gravitational forces exerted on us, the ground crew earlier stuffed our pockets with plastic vomit bags, tissues and a water bottle.
Terry decides it's time to put a few G's on us to see how we feel. Three G's, no problem. Instead of 200 pounds, I now weigh 600. Accelerating to 500 mph at 15,000 feet, we head nearly straight down, bottom out and head straight up: 4 1/2 to 5 G's. It's a weighty problem. My body is a 1,000-pounder. But the gravitation suits, expanding balloons pushing against my thighs, stomach and legs, along with the muscle exercise they taught us (Kim said it reminded her of Lamaze exercises) keep me from blacking out.
``Go for it, Colonel,'' I tell him.
He does.
``You're part of the 8-G Club now,'' he says, as we pull back up.
Now it's time to go hunting.
Hayes's aircraft had been 30 miles away when Terry picks him up on radar, then ``paints'' him with his (simulated) HARM missile. We maneuver right, left, up, down, upside-down, nearly inside out. The sharp, piercing sound of the radar lets us know we've locked on our target: scrap one adversary. (Sorry Kim. But you never saw us coming).
Turning over control of the stick to me, letting me roll this $26 million, 1,875 mph jet by myself took nerve. Not mine, the owners'.
But flying with these pilots, to see their view and watch their skills, is breathtaking.
For those poor Richmond news hounds who have to fly with the Thunderbirds on Thursday, in the single-engine, slower, lower, prettier F-16 jets, you'll probably have a good time too.
Thanks. I'll take the consolation prize any day. by CNB