The Road to Wings Page 2

  “I worked at a research lab in Ohio. It took me three years of applying to pilot training before I got accepted.” She avoided telling him anything more about herself. If her classmates knew she had designed prototype flight simulators, they might think she had an edge over them and see her as a potential threat. She just wanted to fit in, be accepted, and get through this training course.

  She hurried back over to the student squadron and flipped open her T-37 flight manual. She scanned the chapter titles: Engines, Electrical System, Landing Gear, Flight Controls, Hydraulics, Fire Protection, Flight Instruments, Weight and Balance, Emergency Procedures. It seemed overwhelming, but she couldn’t wait to dive in. She had a hunger to learn everything she could about this airplane.

  Captain Morgan came back into the classroom and announced that the class was going on a walking tour—first stop, the flight simulator building. This was the newest and most modern building on the base. As they walked in, Casey saw the cavernous interior and the dim lighting and felt the frigid air conditioning. Captain Morgan showed them the sim sign-in area, the eight simulator bays with full T-37 cockpits on large platforms, and six giant hydraulic actuators underneath each one. It was eerily quiet in the big building except for the squeaks and groans from the moving sims. The simulator platforms moved like big insects as the giant pistons pushed and pulled them from underneath.

  “You will do all your emergency procedures training in the sim and you will learn ninety percent of your instrument flying here. You will NEVER intentionally crash the sim. You will treat the sim as if it is the real aircraft at all times. Is that understood?”

  The entire class answered, “Yes, sir.” Casey was comfortable with flight simulators and hoped she would do well with this part of the training.

  “All right, everyone, next stop, the flight line.”

  As they walked into the big, windowless, gray building, Casey looked out onto the huge concrete ramp at row after row of white T-37 jets. The noise from the engines was almost painful, a high-pitched whine as the jets taxied in and out like an organized ant colony. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on one of those jets.

  The squadron building was rather dim inside with a wide hallway down the center filled with students and instructors rushing to and from the flight rooms on either side. Captain Morgan took them to their flight rooms. The class would be divided with half the students going into Warlock flight and the other half into Good Grief flight. The logo for Warlock was an eagle descending with a big spear in its talons. Good Grief’s logo was Snoopy flying a T-37 instead of his doghouse Sopwith Camel. Casey decided she liked Snoopy better and hoped she was assigned to Good Grief.

  The flight room was the heart of pilot training. It was a noisy, busy open room with a dozen conversations going on simultaneously. Casey saw the instructor pilots teaching their students using model airplanes, drawing diagrams, and flying with their hands. The IPs sat across from their students at tables around the perimeter. There was a podium in the corner, airplane murals on the walls, and a giant sheet of Plexiglas on the front wall with the names of the students on the left and rows and columns of numbers across the rest. This was the master schedule board with most of the entries written in black or blue grease pencil. There were a few entries circled in red. Casey didn’t know what this meant, but she sensed it was somehow bad.

  Captain Morgan led them to the front of the building to the supervisor of flying desk. “This is the SOF desk, where you will sign out your jet and sign in at the end of the mission with your flying time.” Casey saw a male student pilot and a woman instructor pilot approach the desk. They both had deep red lines across their cheeks and nose from the oxygen masks, hair wet with sweat, and the student had sweat stains all over his flight suit. Casey couldn’t help but stare at the woman instructor. She wasn’t tall, maybe five feet four inches with a trim, slight build. Even though her hair was wet, Casey could tell it was sandy brown, straight, collar length, and parted on the right. She had a determined look on her face with high cheekbones, full lips, dark arched brows, and hazel green eyes. She wasn’t pretty in the usual sense but had classic features that gave her a striking kind of beauty. Casey couldn’t take her eyes off her. The male student was at least a foot taller than the IP and was the size of a football linebacker with a grim, dazed look on his face. He went over to the sign-in log to fill in the flight time. The woman IP pointed to the sheet and said, “No, the flight time was 1.4, not 1.3 hours.”

  “But, ma’am, I wrote down the takeoff and landing times, and I came up with 1.3 hours.”

  “Do NOT argue with me, Lieutenant!”

  “I’m not, ma’am, I just—”

  The IP slammed her checklist on the counter, stepped into his personal space, and poked her finger into his massive chest. Her eyes blazed with fire as she tilted her head up to look him in the face. Her voice was low and threatening, “I am sick and tired of all your excuses, Johnson. You have fucked up every single thing on this ride today, including the sign-in.”

  “But, ma’am—”

  “Forget it, Johnson. You just busted this ride, I’m done with you, and you’re out of this program. Wait for me in the flight commander’s office.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He walked off, his head slumped down like a beaten dog.

  “Goddamn it,” the IP muttered under her breath as she corrected the sign-in log. She glanced up at the crowd of new students staring at her, made eye contact with Casey for a moment, then stormed off down the hall.

  “Captain Morgan, who was that?” one of her classmates asked after they were out of earshot.

  “That, Lieutenant, was Captain Hard-Ass, uh, I mean Hardesty. She’s the chief of flight safety.”

  Casey was horrified at the tragic scene she’d just witnessed. She couldn’t take her eyes off this powerful, compact woman. She was intrigued by her but also felt fear in the pit of her stomach. She heard her classmates mutter, “What a bitch,” and, “Hard-Ass is right.” I hope I never have to fly with her.

  Chapter Two

  Casey had stayed up until midnight studying her flight manual, got five hours of sleep, but was still exhilarated and alert. Academics today consisted of aircraft systems, jet engines, the AC and DC electrical systems, then fundamental laws of aerodynamics. The instructor went through everything at a breakneck pace, and Casey was glad she’d read all the material and done the review questions the night before. This type of class was completely different from any college course she’d ever taken. This wasn’t just learning theory for the sake of learning it; it was all focused on applying the information to flying an airplane. They were scheduled for ejection seat training in the afternoon, but before they broke for lunch, the instructor announced a guest speaker, the chief of flight safety, Captain Kathryn Hardesty.

  Captain Hardesty strode to the front of the classroom. She looked completely different from the way she’d looked yesterday when she was destroying that student pilot’s dream. Her sandy brown hair looked much neater than it did the day before. Her trim build showed some nice curves visible even under the baggy flight suit. She wore the sleeves of her flight suit pushed up to mid forearm and stood in front of the class with her hands on her hips surveying the whole group. She calmly waited for everyone’s undivided attention.

  Kathryn surveyed the new group of student pilots. Great, this is the group of students who saw me rip into Johnson yesterday when I had to bust him on his final check ride. After four years as an instructor pilot, all the new students looked the same to her—eager and cocky. They swaggered like they were fighter pilots already and thought they were invincible. They wrote the same things on their application letters: “I plan to graduate at the top of my class, fly the F-16 fighter, become a test pilot, then fly the space shuttle.” Despite the fact that they were arrogant, brash, and way too full of themselves, Kathryn felt protective toward them. She saw them all as her students, and she would do everything in her ability to try to keep them from killing
themselves.

  She was tough on them because she had to be. She didn’t care if they called her “Hard-Ass” or said she was intimidating. She’d seen too many students killed because they didn’t have what it took to be a pilot. It didn’t matter how hard they worked, how much they studied, or how bad they wanted it, some people were just not meant to fly. If they couldn’t cut it, it was her job to get rid of them before they killed themselves or someone else. She had no problem washing out the weak ones, like Johnson. It had to be done and she had no guilt about it.

  She saw the two women students. One was average looking, the other one was very striking with short, dark, wavy hair, intense blue eyes, and a look of fierce determination on her face. She had handsome features with a strong jawline and a long, elegant neck. I hope they both make it.

  “I’d like to add my welcome as you start your flight training to become Air Force pilots. Everyone on this base is here for one reason only—to help you learn to fly and graduate from this program. This is the most demanding thing you will ever do in your life. Flying Air Force jets is an amazing thing we do for a living, but it is also a deadly serious business. Thirty percent of you will be washed out of pilot training, and we average five to six aircraft crashes a year in Air Training Command. You will be required to learn to fly at a very accelerated rate. You have to learn how to solo a jet in just twelve rides. If you can’t do that, you’re out.” The gravity of her words hung in the air.

  “You’ll be going to ejection seat training this afternoon, then physiological training tomorrow to learn the anti-G straining maneuver. Pay attention. Properly learning how to do this is a matter of life and death. The number one cause of student pilot fatalities is G-induced loss of consciousness, also known as GLOC. You will be pulling three to four Gs every time you fly, and frequently, we pull five to six Gs doing aerobatics and formation flying. Pulling Gs in a jet is not like riding a roller coaster at an amusement park. You have to be able to withstand sustained G-forces, breathe while you pull Gs, look for other aircraft, and fly the jet all at the same time. Don’t let anything distract you from the mission of earning your wings. Once again, welcome to Willie. We’re glad you’re here, and I look forward to flying with you.”

  As she ended her remarks and left the classroom, Casey heard her classmates quietly whispering to each other. She was surprised that such a petite woman could be so intimidating to a room full of cocky men.

  Casey reported to physiological training and learned about the cockpit ejection seat they would be flying in, including the explosive charges inside the seat. She had to reach down, find the hand grips, brace her body into the proper position, and squeeze the triggers as the ejection seat shot her up a metal rail. The instructor yelled critiques at each student. “You’re burning up! Find the hand grips!” “Get your head braced or you’ll break your neck!”

  When it was Casey’s turn, she found the ejection hand grips behind her calf muscles at the lower sides of the seat. When the instructor yelled, “Bail out! Bail out! Bail out!” she pulled the grips up, braced her back against the seat, and pulled the triggers as the seat bottom slammed her up the rail. She felt like she’d been shot out of a circus cannon.

  “Not bad, Tompkins. Remember to keep your head and spine in alignment so you don’t get a broken back. Try it again, this time with your eyes closed like the cockpit is filled with smoke.”

  Casey did it again with no critique this time. Remember this, remember this.

  The next day, Casey listened to lectures on the hydraulic system, landing gear, and flight controls. Her first written test was tomorrow on aircraft systems and she would be up late again studying. She wanted to ace the first test so badly she could taste it.

  Casey paid rapt attention as the physiological training officer briefed them on the anti-G straining maneuver.

  “This is your primary defense against GLOC. When you pull positive G-forces, blood is pulled from your brain into the lower parts of the body. When your brain is deprived of oxygen, you will black out. Sometimes a pilot grays out first, meaning they lose sight in their eyes, but are still conscious, before they black out completely. The only way to prevent this is to raise the blood pressure by tightening the muscles of the stomach, butt, and legs.”

  Casey watched frightening films of pilots slumping over from GLOC in the training centrifuge and gun camera film of actual crashes due to GLOC. She was stunned how fast it could happen to a pilot. One minute, they were flying and pulling Gs, the next, they blacked out. If this happened in the air, the plane just flew itself into the ground with an unconscious pilot in the seat.

  Casey tried not to laugh at her classmates struggling with the anti-G straining maneuver. They made themselves red in the face and looked like they were having difficult bowel movements as they grunted and strained. She had to take short, forceful breaths as she contracted her lower body muscles. Casey was getting the hang of it. She couldn’t wait to fly upside down and pull Gs.

  The next day was the first time they got to wear their new flight suits. Casey loved the feel of the heavy black leather boots and the long-sleeved green flight suit. She carefully thought about what she would put in all her zippered pockets and wore her blue flight cap low on her forehead. When she reported to the altitude chamber, she was issued her new white helmet. It was very snug on her head and was fitted with a tight oxygen mask on her face. The mask snapped into the helmet, smelled of rubber, and it was claustrophobic as she tried to relax her breathing.

  They filed into what looked like a giant steel box with thick windows. They sat in numbered seats and checked their masks and microphones, and counted off their seat numbers. The airman inside the altitude chamber reviewed what they had learned in class the previous day about the symptoms of hypoxia, or oxygen starvation, the difference between hypoxia and GLOC, the effects of unpressurized flight, and what to expect during an explosive decompression. Casey saw looks of stern concentration, and maybe a little fear, on the faces of her classmates. Her buddy Mike sat across from her and gave her a thumbs-up. Casey mentally reviewed the emergency procedure for hypoxia and tried to control her nerves by focusing on deep breaths.

  She watched the large altimeter dial inside the chamber go up as they climbed in altitude. A rubber surgical glove dangling from the ceiling by a string slowly inflated like a balloon as they climbed. The instructor’s voice in her headset explained the principle of expanding gasses. “That rubber glove is like your stomach. As we climb in altitude, the gas inside your intestines expands as the outside air pressure decreases. There is only one thing you can do to equalize the pressure in your body and avoid injury. Just let ’em rip.” Casey felt uncomfortable pressure in her bowels as they climbed. She was grateful she was breathing one hundred percent oxygen through a hose and mask as she let loose with some major flatulence. She saw her classmates shift from side to side and knew they were doing the same thing.

  When they reached thirty-five thousand feet, the instructor had them unsnap the mask from one side of the helmet and told them to prepare for the explosive decompression. She heard a loud boom, felt her ears pop, and the chamber immediately filled with a cold, thick fog. Casey reconnected her mask, went to one hundred percent oxygen on the regulator, and tried not to hyperventilate. Shit, that was scary.

  “Your time of useful consciousness at thirty-five thousand feet is thirty seconds. If you don’t get your mask on and go to one hundred percent oxygen within that time, you will pass out. Next, we’ll climb back up to twenty-five thousand feet, you will remove your masks, and we will go through the hypoxia demonstration. You will learn to recognize your own personal hypoxia symptoms, which are different for each person, and you will see the insidious nature of hypoxia from an undetected oxygen leak. You will write down your symptoms as you feel them and complete some simple tasks so you can see how hypoxia affects your mental capabilities. Once you recognize your symptoms, put your masks back on and go to one hundred percent oxygen. Acknowled
ge with your seat numbers.”

  Casey called out her seat number and tried to control her apprehension as the chamber climbed again. She mentally reviewed the list of possible hypoxia symptoms from class: light-headedness, confusion, tingling, anxiety, euphoria, numbness, cyanosis / blue fingernails, belligerence. When the altimeter read twenty-five thousand feet, the chamber chief directed them to remove their masks. When Casey took her oxygen mask off, she thought it would be like suffocating, but she was surprised to find she could breathe normally. The technician inside with them handed out clipboards with childish-looking quizzes on them.

  “Complete as many tasks on the clipboards as you can. Remember to write down your hypoxia symptoms as you feel them.”

  Casey whipped through the first line of the quiz, 2 + 2 = 4, 3 x 3 = 9, A B C D . She knew another letter followed D, but she couldn’t remember which letter it was. This struck her as very funny. She looked around at the other students in the chamber. Some were hard at work on their quizzes and some were just staring blankly ahead. The whole scene struck her as hilarious, and she tried not to burst out laughing at them. I think this is euphoria. I should write this down. She tried to write the word but couldn’t remember how to spell it. Then she started to feel tingly. She definitely felt tingly and hot all over. Oh, I think I like this. I feel VERY aroused right now—this is great. I’m really, really liking this.

  She became aware of an annoying sound. “Number six, put your mask on. Six, put your mask on now.” Wait, I’m number six. He’s talking to me. “Number six, mask on now!” Why is he shouting? I’m having such a good time right now. Oh, I think I need to put my mask back on. She put her mask over her face, took a deep breath, and the fuzziness in her brain went away immediately. She looked at her quiz on the clipboard. She’d only filled in the first line. Under symptoms, she had written “uforia.” She quickly filled in the rest of her symptoms before she forgot them—euphoria, tingling, very warm, aroused.