Sully
Page 11
The No. 3 pilot was George Cella. At the time there was a popular TV commercial for Cella Lambrusco wine. The lovable character in the commercial, named Aldo Cella, was a short, pudgy Italian guy with a dark mustache. He wore a white suit and hat, and had women hanging all over him because of his brand of wine. So George’s tactical call sign was “Aldo.”
Aldo said, “Better do a controllability check.”
When I got to a higher altitude, about fifteen thousand feet, I slowed down the jet to make sure it would remain controllable at a slower speed when the time came for me to attempt a landing. Loren, my WSO, turned to the appropriate troubleshooting page, E-11, in our emergency checklist and we verified we could control the plane.
Aldo flew his jet very close to mine. He and his WSO inspected the exterior of my aircraft, looking for any obvious damage, fluid leaks, or other anomalies. “You look OK,” Aldo said as he chased me in his F-4.
I contacted Las Vegas Approach Control and advised the civilian controller of my emergency status and of my need to return for landing at Nellis. The controller put certain constraints on how I might return, and how long I could take to line up. He wanted a tighter turn to my final approach.
“Unable,” I told him. That’s the standard response when a pilot can’t do what a controller is asking him.
I told him I needed a five-mile final approach to make sure I could be stabilized for landing. I was glad I had insisted on that, because as I was descending, a gust of wind caused a wing to dip. Aldo and his backseater assumed I was losing control of the F-4. They expected to see Loren and me flying like cannonballs out of our plane in our ejection seats. But I moved the control stick full right, and was able to raise the left wing that had dipped. For the moment, we held on.
After that gust of wind, I was intensely focused on keeping the wings exactly level, and on carefully maintaining both our vertical and horizontal path to the runway. I tried to get exactly in line with the runway’s centerline.
Aldo followed me down, ready to let me know the instant I deviated from the proper path or entered an attitude from which I couldn’t recover. I felt like I was still in control, but I was wary, prepared for the possibility that my aircraft might betray me and I’d have to abandon it.
We made it over the safety area leading up to the runway threshold, and within a few seconds, we were on the runway itself, our drag chute deployed.
We had made it safely to the ground.
I braked to a stop, then slowly taxied back to where the other fighters were parked. Loren and I stepped off the ladder, and stood there for a moment. We were both holding our helmets and oxygen masks in our left hands, but our right hands were free. Loren reached out to shake my hand, and said, from his heart but with a big grin, “I thank you, my mother thanks you, my brother thanks you, my sister thanks you . . .”
Loren and I had worked together as a team, with help from Aldo and his WSO. We had maintained control of the aircraft and solved each problem so we could land safely.
Had I died that day, other pilots would have grieved for me. Fellow pilots would have been assigned the duty of investigating the accident. They would have learned the cause of my crash. I’m glad I saved them from having to look at a photograph of my scalp.
EACH MAN we lost had his own regrettable story, and so many of the particular details remain with me.
At Nellis, there was Brad Logan, my “wingman” (which meant he flew the aircraft beside me, following my lead). There would be four planes in formation, and Brad was in the number two plane. We flew together more than forty times. He was a very good pilot.
I was a captain, and he was a first lieutenant, a few years younger than I was. He was an unpretentious, unassuming, jovial guy who was always smiling. Big, solid, and friendly, he looked like Dan Blocker, the actor who played Hoss Cartwright on Bonanza. Naturally, Brad’s tactical call sign was “Hoss.”
After Nellis, he was flying out of an air base in Spain. One day, on a training mission, his plane was in formation descending through the clouds. I heard there was a miscalculation or miscommunication between air traffic control and the leader of his flight. Maintaining his assigned position in the formation, through no fault of his own, Brad’s plane crashed into the side of a mountain obscured by clouds. The other planes in the formation were high enough to fly over the mountain, but Brad and his backseater were killed.
He had a wife and a young child, and as I recall, they received just $10,000 or $20,000 from his government life insurance policy. That’s how it was for pilots’ families after their accidental deaths; the support they received was very modest. But we signed up knowing this. We were aware that some of us wouldn’t make it because not all training exercises could go flawlessly. There was always the chance that surprises such as low clouds and an unexpected mountain could be our undoing.
Those who survived accidents often found ways to acknowledge to the rest of us that they had cheated an unkind fate. They had a bit of an aura about them.
There was a terrific pilot named Mark Postai who was stationed with me in England in 1976. He was a very smart, skinny guy in his mid-twenties, with dark hair and an olive complexion. He had majored in aeronautical engineering at the University of Kansas.
On August 14, 1976, Mark took off from runway 6 at RAF Lakenheath, heading to the northeast, and there was a thick forest off the end of the runway. He had a flight control malfunction that made the airplane unflyable, but he and his backseater were able to eject successfully before the plane crashed into the forest and exploded in a fireball. They survived, uninjured.
When Mark made it back to the base, someone told him: “You know that forest belongs to the Queen of England.”
He replied, with a smile, “Please tell the Queen I’m sorry I burned down half of her forest.”
Mark lived in the officers’ quarters assigned to bachelors, and a week or so after the accident, he invited us into his room for a party. “I want you guys to see something,” he told us.
Air Force personnel had searched the woods and found the ejection seat that had saved his life. In appreciation, Mark had put it on display in the corner of the room. “Go ahead, sit in it,” he said. We all had drinks in our hands—there was a nurse from the base in the room with us also, I recall—and it just seemed like a very appropriate thing to do, to plant ourselves in that seat and feel the magic. Maybe it offered us reassurance that an ejection seat might save our lives someday also.
Mark told us how it felt to eject, how his heart was pounding. We all knew the science behind ejection seats, of course. A sequence of events must happen to get you out of the jet. Once you pull the ejection handle, the canopy flies off. Then there’s a ballistic charge, which is similar to a cannon shell that catapults you out of the airplane. And once you get a certain distance from the aircraft, a rocket motor sustains you and keeps you moving with a slightly more gentle acceleration. After the rocket finishes firing, the parachute deploys itself. The seat falls away, and you parachute down to the ground.
That’s if all goes well, as it did for Mark.
The night of his party, he proudly showed us the letter he had received from Martin-Baker Aircraft Company Ltd., which billed itself as “a producer of ejection and crashworthy seats.” Evidently, they sent one of these letters to every pilot who had used one of their seats and lived. In the letter, they told Mark: “You were the 4,132nd person to be saved by a Martin-Baker ejector seat.” (The British say “ejector” instead of “ejection.”)
Like me, Mark’s next assignment back in the States was at Nellis, flying the F-4. Because of his skill as a pilot, and his engineering training, he was asked to be in a special “test and evaluation” squadron. The group operated in great secrecy. I figured he was flying stealth fighters.
Mark ended up marrying a young and very attractive woman named Linda. His life was coming together. And then one day, we got word that he had died in an accident. None of us knew what kind of plane he had
been flying, but we were told that his death resulted from, of all things, an attempted ejection that had failed.
Only recently, more than two decades later, did I learn through the aviation magazine Air & Space what had happened to Mark. The article offered a look at how the United States worked to get inside knowledge about enemy planes during the cold war, especially Soviet MiGs. The story briefly touched on an American pilot who died ejecting from a MiG-23 in 1982. It was Mark. Turned out, the plane had come into American hands somehow. Mark’s job was to train U.S. fighter pilots to be able to fight effectively against Soviet aircraft.
The article mentioned a book, Red Eagles: America’s Secret MiGs, which I tracked down. The book explained that the single engine in the MiG that Mark was flying caught on fire. He began an attempt at an engine-out landing at his desert base but had to eject. The Soviet fighters had ejection seats with notoriously bad reputations. I assume Mark knew this when he pulled the ejection handle and hoped for the best.
Very few pilots ever have to eject once in their lives. My long-ago friend Mark ejected twice. The second time, of course, there was no congratulatory letter waiting for him from the company that made the ejection seat.
A couple of years after Mark died, I found myself at a social event where Linda, his young widow, happened to be. I told her that I thought her husband was a terrific guy and a gifted pilot, and that I had always enjoyed his company. I told her how sorry I was. And then I was quiet. There wasn’t much more I could say.
I guess I felt like something of a survivor by 1980, as my Air Force career was ending. No, I had never been in combat. But unsettling things happened just often enough to get my attention. I knew what was at stake.
There were a dozen different ways on a dozen different days that I could have died during my military years. I survived in part because I was a diligent pilot with good judgment, but also because circumstances were with me. I made it to the other side with a great respect for the sacrifices of those who didn’t. In my mind, I can see them—young, eager faces that are with me still.
PHOTO SECTION
I was lucky to find my life’s passion at a very young age. I have a clear recollection that at age five I already knew I was going to spend my life flying airplanes. Here I’m about eight years old and thrilled to have received a model airplane from my parents on Christmas morning. (Author’s Collection)
My mother, sister, and me in our Sunday best, Easter 1955. (Author’s Collection)
My parents on their wedding day, April 1948. (Author’s Collection)
Growing up in Denison, Texas, was a wonderful experience. My family lived far enough outside of town that there was a multitude of opportunities for a young boy to find adventure, explore the world, and develop some independence. I have fond memories of taking the boat out on Lake Texoma. Here I am with my father and sister in the summer of 1960. (Author’s Collection)
This photograph was taken in late 1968, shortly after I received my private pilot certificate under Mr. Cook’s careful tutelage. Here we are commemorating my mother and sister’s first flight with me as their pilot. (Author’s Collection)
I graduated from Denison High School in May 1969. Following the ceremony, I took my grandparents for their very first flight on an airplane. They were leaving the following day for a trip to Rome and wanted to make sure they were prepared for their TWA flight. (Author’s Collection)
My father in his naval officer’s uniform, 1942. He grew up during the Great Depression of the 1930s and served his country in World War II. He was a member of the Greatest Generation, and his values still inspire me: a sense of civic duty, service before self, and a willingness to share sacrifices. (Author’s Collection)
My first flight in a military jet was during my freshman year at the United States Air Force Academy. It was an orientation aboard a Lockheed T-33, a flight designed to remind us of the light at the end of the tunnel, and the first moment when I knew that I was well on my way to realizing my dream. (Author’s Collection)
During the summer of 1971, I was assigned to Bergstrom Air Force Base in Texas. This was a routine training flight in the back seat of an RF-4C. (Author’s Collection)
One of my first assignments in the United States Air Force was flying fighters at Luke Air Force Base near Glendale, Arizona. Here I’m about to take a training flight in 1975 with Dave, my Weapons Systems Officer, in the F-4 Phantom II. (Author’s Collection)
On June 6, 1973, I graduated from the United States Air Force Academy, receiving my diploma from Superintendent Lt. Gen. Albert P. Clark. Upon graduation, I was named “Outstanding Cadet in Airmanship” in recognition of all I’d learned flying airplanes and gliders and parachuting. (Author’s Collection)
Lorrie and me on our wedding day, June 17, 1989. (Author’s Collection)
We took this photograph on the eve of our hike up Mt. Whitney. Despite the enormity of what we were about to do, we knew that we were prepared and ready for the challenge. (Author’s Collection)
To train for the Mt. Whitney hike, Lorrie and I took the girls on a scouting trip in August 1999. We flew up from Livermore to Bishop in a Cessna T182RG. This is Kelly in the back seat, ready for takeoff. (Author’s Collection)
Lorrie and I took the girls to Washington, D.C., for their spring break in 2002, and they humored me with a trip to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. (Author’s Collection)
Lorrie’s love of the outdoors is infectious, and we’ve shared many adventures, including a snowshoeing expedition in Yosemite in early 2000. (Author’s Collection)
My mother taught first grade in Denison for more than twenty-five years. When I returned recently for my fortieth high school reunion, I was struck by how many people had been in one of her classes and wanted to share their fond memories of her. She touched so many young lives throughout her career. (Author’s Collection)
My mother was an excellent musician and had a deep appreciation for the classics. Here we are in Denison, shortly after my father’s death, sitting at the piano as she’s passing the joy of music on to my daughter Kate. (Author’s Collection)
In July 2001, Kate and Kelly first rode on a commercial flight that I piloted. While I’m sure the prospect of Disney World was the most compelling part of the trip for them, it was a thrill for me to be able to show them what I do for a living and expose them to my love of flying. (Author’s Collection)
Before airport security got to be what it is today, Lorrie sometimes brought the girls to the airport to say good-bye before I departed. This was taken in the summer of 1994 when I was flying the Boeing 737, and Kate came to see me off to work. (Author’s Collection)
My first flight on the Airbus, August 2002. (Author’s Collection)
On Memorial Day in 2001, we talked about the importance of the holiday with the girls, and Lorrie wondered if my Air Force uniform would still fit. Remarkably it did, though it was a little tighter in a few places. It was a wonderful opportunity to teach Kate and Kelly about the men and women who have made tremendous sacrifices in serving our country. (Author’s Collection)
Lorrie and I have volunteered with Guide Dogs for the Blind for seventeen years, and our breeding dog, Twinkle, has given birth to four litters over that time. My daughter Kate has trained two puppies, and I am so proud to watch both her and Kelly work with the dogs to make sure they are ready for their future owners. (Author’s Collection)
Lorrie and I have been through a lot together. She’s an exceptional woman, and I am grateful for all of the support and joy she brings to our family. (Nigel Parry/CPi Syndication)
8
THIS IS THE CAPTAIN SPEAKING
MILITARY UNITS FROM all over the world came to Nellis to use the endless miles of open Nevada desert to practice maneuvers. I flew against not just the Marines and the Navy but also the Royal Air Force from Great Britain, and units from as close as Canada and as far away as Singapore.
Nellis is famous as the home of “Red Flag,” which meant that three
or four times a year, we’d engage in weeks-long war games and exercises. We’d be split up into “good guys” and “bad guys” and then we’d take to the skies, devising tactics to fool our adversaries and avoid getting shot down.
Red Flag began in 1975 as a response to deficiencies in the performance of pilots new to combat during the Vietnam War. An analysis by the Air Force, dubbed “Project Red Baron II,” found that pilots who had completed at least ten combat missions were far more likely to survive future missions. By the time they had ten missions under their belts, they had gotten over the initial shock and awe of battle. They had enough experience to process what was going on around them without being too fearful. They had enough skill and confidence to survive.
Red Flag gave each of us “realistically simulated” air-to-air combat missions, while allowing us to analyze the results. The idea was this: Give a pilot his ten missions, and all the accompanying challenges, without killing him.
We were able to have dogfights over thousands of square miles of empty desert. We could drop bombs and go supersonic without bothering anyone. We had mock targets—old, abandoned tanks and trucks—out there. Sometimes we’d drop dummy bombs and sometimes we’d use live ordnance, and we’d have to make sure everyone in formation was far enough away so shrapnel from the bomb explosion wouldn’t hit anyone’s plane.
Each jet had a special instrument pod that electronically recorded what was going on. There was radar coverage in the desert to monitor attacks, and whether the shots taken were valid. We’d have mass briefings before the exercises and mass debriefings afterward.