All duty controllers report to your stations.
All duty controllers report to your stations." "SD, this is the W.a.o, we have positive contact on target ID seven-delta-four-zero-four, confirm ID." The W.a.o, or Weapons Assignment Officer, was the overall supervisor of the section of the command center that controlled the fighters from takeoff to landing and monitored the entire intercept.
"Target ID seven-delta-four-zero-four, confirmed, W.a.o, you have the intercept." "Roger, SD, W.a.o has the intercept," the senior Weapons Assignment Officer replied. He made an entry in his checklist log, then turned to the W.a.t, or weapons assignment technician, seated next to him.
"Active alert scramble, Fresno, hold for confirmation. Put WCT One on this one." "Copy, sir," the W.a.t replied. He checked the status readout of the four Weapons Control Teams (Wct) on his panel to be sure the team the Assignment Officer wanted was free and were ready to go to work.
The WCT, consisting of one Weapons Director and a Weapons Technician, would be the persons in contact with the interceptor throughout its mission.
WCT One was the most experienced of the young shift on that night.
The W.a.t clicked open his intercom after seeing that all four WCTS were ready to go: "WCT One, your target ID is seven-delta-four-zero-four, a Special-9 covert intercept, repeat, Special-9 covert intercept. Clear for active air scramble Fresno." "WCT One copies all," the Weapons Director of Control Team One responded.
"We have the intercept. All stations, this is WCT One, stand by for active alert scramble Fresno, target ID seven-deltafour-zero-four." The weapons technician opened his checklist to the proper page, cleared his throat, then ran his hand along a row of switches guarded by clear plastic covers, selected the one marked FRESNO, opened the cover, and stopped. "Sir, I have Fresno, active alert scramble. Ready." The Weapons Director checked to be sure that the technician had his finger on the right button, then tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the button, and the communications technician pressed the button.
Silently, he said, S077y to get you up like this, boys, apologizing to the crews up in Fresno for what he knew was going to be a rude awakening.
Interceptor Alert Facility, 94th Fighter Squadron (california Air National Guard) Fresno Air Terminal, California The Navy called it "channel fever," describing the excitement of the last full night at sea before pulling into port. Back in the days of the Strategic Air Command, when most alert units changed over on Thursdays, it was called "Woody Wednesday," describing the almost unbearable anticipation most crewmen felt about going home and greeting the wife or girlfriend after seven days on "round-the-clock alert. Whatever it was called, the feeling was the same--you were so excited about getting off alert and going home that you stayed up late, ate every piece of food in sight, watched every movie available, played poker all night, and generally burned yourself out.
Major Linda McKenzie, one of the two F-1ca A.d.f (air Defense Fighter) pilots on duty at Fresno Air Terminal in central California, pushed herself away from the all-night poker game table at ten-thirty P.m. Channel fever was not too bad here at Fresno--alert was only three days, and families spent a lot of time with the crews at the alert facility. The anticipation was still real, however, and it usually manifested itself as an all-night poker game, attended by every available crewman at the facility. McKenzie had been playing for the past five hours, and she had finally gotten to the point where the need for sleep was numbing the excitement of getting off alert. "I'm out," she said after the last hand had finished. She steeled herself for the simultaneous moans of disappointment from the crew chiefs and security guards around the table, gave everyone a tired and slightly irritated smile, then reached out to scoop up the small pile of coins and dollar bills on the table before her.
"C'mon, Linda, one more hand," her flight leader, Lieutenant Colonel Also "Rattler" Vincenti, pleaded. But even he could not stifle a yawn.
Vincenti was a longtime veteran of air defense, flying with the 194th Fighter Squadron "Black Griffins" since 1978. He was a veteran command pilot with over seven thousand hours" flying time, all in tactical fighters.
"Hey, I'm on a three-hop to Seattle in thirteen hours. You get to sleep in. Don't give me this bull." Like many Air National Guard pilots, McKenzie was an airline pilot, a first officer with American Airlines based out of San Francisco. Because of monthly flight duty day restrictions, the airlines gave each Guardsman plenty of time to spend on UTA, unit training assembly.
"Is this the same person who threatened to emasculate us all if we got up and left the game last week?" one of the crew chiefs asked.
"Little bit different if you're winning, isn't it, Linda?" "Damn right it is," McKenzie said. "I'm outta here. See you clowns in the morning." She traded in coins for bills, stuffed her winning into her left breast pocket, and headed for her quarters.
Once there, Linda McKenzie got undressed, taking the unusual risk of piling her clothes and survival gear in a heap rather than laying it out so she could easily find it all and dress quickly.
The last scramble exercise was early that morning, which meant the odds of getting another one in the middle of the night on the night before changeover were slim, so she decided to risk a quick shower. No luxuriating in the shower while on alert--get in, get clean, and get out--but she was relaxed as she did so, confident that there would be no interruptions. Her shower took less than five minutes.
Perfect timing.
She heard voices in the hallway, then the door next to hers open.
Wrapping a towel around herself, she peeked out her door just as Also Vincenti was closing his. "Also?
Come here a second." He stepped over to her, and when he was in range she grasped the front of his flight suit and pulled him into her room.
"Linda, what in hell are you--" But he was interrupted as she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss. He resisted at first, then relented. That only spurred her on, and she held him in her grasp even longer. She finally released him, but began kissing his neck and unzipping his flight suit. "Linda, it's late." "Nobody will hear us, Also. The game will go on for another hour at least, and the crew chiefs all like to sleep in front of the TV." "Linda, I'm not going to do anything with you," he said. His flight suit zipper was down to the top of his G-suit waistband, and she was reaching for the zippers on the sides of the device. He was not helping her, but he was not stopping her either. "Linda..." "You don't have to do anything," McKenzie said in a whisper.
"I'm doing the driving on this trip." She stepped back from him, removed her towel, grasped his hands, and brought them to her breasts.
"Linda, this isn't a good idea." "I won't argue with that," McKenzie said with a teasing smile, "but I should tell you, Colonel, that you have more animal sex appeal in your little finger than most guys half your age have in their entire bodies." "That include your husband Carl?" "I'm referring to my husband Carl." McKenzie laughed, running her hands inside his flight suit against his chest.
"You think just because I made a stupid mistake by screwing you at SENTRY EAGLE in Klamath Falls last summer that I think this is right or justified? I'm not going to sleep with you, Linda." Suddenly, the PA system blared, "For the alert force, for the alert force, active air scramble, active air scramble! All crews report to your combat stations!" and an impossibly loud klaxon split the late-night quiet.
Vincenti was zipped and out the door in seconds, leaving McKenzie cursing as she hurried to get into her flight suit and G-suit.
Also Vincenti had a fleeting vision of McKenzie's flowing, wet red hair and big, round, firm breasts float in his mind's eye as he made the dash to his plane, but the thought quickly disappeared as he automatically ran down the alert scramble checklists and procedures in his head. She was nothing more than a wingman to him now, his backup, someone to watch his rear quadrant as they hunted down whatever was out there. Vincenti sprinted for the alert hangar. His crew chief, who had just come around a corner, had no chance to catch up. Vin
centi reached the hangar first.
On the wall to the right of the small entry door were two large handles. Vincenti yelled, "Hangar doors coming open!" and pulled both handles down. The handles unlocked two sets of huge counterweights, whose weight began swinging both the front and rear hangar doors open hangar door handles. Vincenti stepped into the parachute harness and fastened the crotch and chest clips, leaving the straps loose so he could run up the ladder and into his F-16 A.d.f Fighting Falcon fighter jet. Gloves went on, sleeves rolled down, zippers zipped, and collars turned up as Vincenti trotted toward his fighter.
Six steps up the ladder and a quick leap into the cockpit, and Lieutenant Colonel Also Vincenti was in his office and ready for work.
As soon as his helmet was on and fastened, he flipped the MAIN PWR switch to BATT, the JFS (jet Fuel Starter) switch to START 1, cracked the throttle on the left side of the cockpit from its cutoff detent forward a bit to give the engine a good shot of gas, then moved it back into idle when the rpms reached 15 percent.
Sixty seconds later, the engine was at idle power and his crew chief had his seat belt, parachute, and G-suit hoses connected and tightened.
The GPS system was feeding navigation information to the inertial navigation set, and he performed a flight control system and emergency power system check.
He made a quick flight control check by moving the control stick in a circle, or "stirring the pot," and his crew chief was standing in front of the hangar, ready to marshal him forward. He saw Major Linda McKenzie running past his open hangar door, carrying her boots and wearing nothing on her feet but white athletic socks, still zipping her G-suit zippers.
She flashed her middle finger at him as she sprinted by.
"Should've showed me your tits after you put your gear on, Linda," Vincenti said, chuckling. He completed his checklists, flipping through the radios as he waited for McKenzie to start engines and check in. His VHF radio, secondary U.h.f radio, and HF radios were set to the GUARD emergency frequencies, but there was dead silence. The silence meant that this was going to be a covert intercept --they were going to try to approach the unidentified aircraft without being detected.
Vincenti unstowed a canvas box from behind his ejection seat, opened it, and checked the contents.
It was a set of AN/ATIONVG-11 night-vision goggles which clipped onto his flight helmet and would provide near daytime-like vision with just a few ground lights, moonlight, or even starlight.
Vincenti saw McKenzie's crew chief trot out to his marshaling position outside the hangar, and a second later he saw her fighter's taxi light flash on and off, so he clicked on the microphone of his primary radio: "Foxtrot Romeo flight, check." "Two," McKenzie replied breathlessly from exertion and excitement.
"Foxtrot Romeo" was their unit call sign for their three day tour; inter letters and a two-digit number, changed regularly by North American Air Defense Command.
"Fresno ground, Foxtrot Romeo flight ready to taxi, active air scramble." "Foxtrot Romeo flight, Fresno ground, taxi runway three-two, wind calm, altimeter three-zero-zero-six." The traffic signal on the fence changed from a flashing red to green, Vincenti flipped the flight controlstnay function knob to NAV, armed his ejection seat, turned on the taxi light and released brakes, received final clearance from his crew chief, and shot out of the alert hangar, snapping a return salute and a thumbs-up to his crew chief. As soon as he was on the throat leading to the end of the runway, he radioed, "Foxtrot Romeo flight, button two, go." "Two." He switched to the tower frequency: "Foxtrot Romeo flight, "Two.
his "Fresno tower, Foxtrot Romeo flight, active alert scramble." "Foxtrot Romeo flight, Fresno tower, wind calm, runway three-two, cleared for takeoff, contact Fresno Approach." "Foxtrot Romeo flight cleared for takeoff, Foxtrot Romeo flight, button three, go." "Two." Vincenti switched to the next preset channel, checked in McKenzie; then: "Fresno Approach, Foxtrot Romeo flight of two, takeoff roll Fresno, active air scramble." "Foxtrot Romeo flight, Fresno Approach, air scramble departure, climb unrestricted, contact Oakland Center passing ten thousand." "Foxtrot Romeo flight, wilco." Without stopping or looking for McKenzie, he taxied quickly to the runway, lined up, gave his control stick one more experimental "stir," moved the throttle to military power, twisted the throttle grip, and shoved it forward to full afterburner. At seventy knots he clicked off nose-wheel steering, at ninety knots he rotated the nose to liftoff attitude, and at one hundred and twenty knots the F-16 Fighting Falcon lifted into the sky.
He immediately lowered the nose to build up airspeed, retracted landing gear, made sure the trailing-edge flaps were up, accelerated to two hundred and fifty knots, then pulled the nose skyward. By the time he was over the end of the runway, he was two thousand feet above the ground. At four hundred and fifty knots he pulled the throttle out of afterburner and into military power, then clicked on his radio: "Foxtrot Romeo flight, button four, go." "Two." He switched radio frequencies. By that time he was passing ten thousand feet. "Foxtrot Romeo flight, check." "Two." "Oakland Center, Foxtrot Romeo flight of two with you out of ten thousand, active alert scramble." "Foxtrot Romeo flight, radar contact seven miles northwest of Fresno Air Terminal passing ten thousand feet, have your wingman squawk standby, cleared to tactical control frequency." "Foxtrot Romeo flight, squawk standby, button five, go." "Two." On March Air Force Base's SIERRA PETE'S frequency now, Vincenti checked in McKenzie, then: "SIERRA PETE, Foxtrot Romeo flight is with you, passing sixteen thousand." "Foxtrot Romeo flight, radar contact, check noses cold, turn left heading three-zero-zero, climb and maintain angels two-four block two-five." "Copy, heading three-zero-zero, climbing to two-four block two-five, Foxtrot Romeo flight, check." Vincenti had to push the nose down to level off at twenty-four thousand feet--usually he was sent to thirty thousand feet or higher. He quickly accomplished his "After Takeoff' and "Level-Off' checklists, checking his oxygen, cabin pressurization, fuel feed, and all gauges and switches, especially checking that the arming switches for the 20-millimeter cannon were off--that was the "noses cold" check. The external tanks were empty, and he was already feeding from his wing tanks-- about two hours of fuel remaining.
"Two's in the green, twenty point nine, nose is cold," McKenzie reported after her cockpit checks were completed, including her fuel and weapons status with her report.
"Copy. Lead's in the green with nineteen, nose is cold." "Roger, Foxtrot Romeo flight, copy you are in the green and noses cold," the Weapons Control Technician at March Air Force Base, call sign SIERRA PETE, replied.
"Your bogey is now at your eleven o'clock, one hundred and fifty miles, a Czechoslovakian I600 cargo plane at six thousand feet and climbing. These are vectors for a Special-9 intercept." "Foxtrot Romeo copies," Vincenti replied. pretty good guess, he thought, congratulating himself--a Special-9 intercept was a covert shadow, where the SOCC controller would put him on a one-mile rear-quartering vector on the bogey. From there, he would use his night-vision goggles to close in on the bogey. If they needed a tail number or other such positive identification, they could close in more--Vincenti had flown as close as ten meters to another plane, in total darkness, without the other plane ever knowing he was there-but normally they would stay within fifty to one hundred meters of the target and shadow him while the brass on the ground figured out what to do.
"Foxtrot Romeo flight, take spacing and configure for Special-9." "Two." McKenzie would now move out to about five miles in trail, keeping her flight leader locked on radar, and put on and test her night-vision goggles. Vincenti turned off all the cockpit and external lights, reached into the canvas case for the AN/ATIONV11 goggles, slid them into place entirely by feel, and snapped them into the slot on his helmet.
But when Vincenti lowered the goggles into place, all he got was black.
He flipped the on-off switch, made sure they were turned on, and looked for the telltale green spot of light behind the lenses.
Nothing. The battery was in place, and they were tested and replace
d after every use and at the beginning of every three-day shift.
These were dead. He clicked open his mike button in frustration: "Hey, Two," Vincenti radioed to McKenzie, "did you check your NVGS yet?" "Affirmative," McKenzie replied.
"They're in the green." "My NVGS are bent. You got the lead and the intercept." "Roger that, Rattler." The excitement in McKenzie's voice was obvious.
Except during exercises or when McKenzie was paired with a less experienced wingman, Vincenti was always the flight lead and always did the intercepts.
Dale Brown - Storming Heaven Page 6
