It Was a Dark and Stormy Night . . .
There we sat while “Mom’s” Mercer droned on about safety items on the stand down. He had just briefed an A-7 accident where someone with very low fuel hit the tanker in time, fueled up 2500 pounds, only to flame out a few minutes later. It seems there is a thermistor in the sump tank that senses when you get down to 400 pounds of fuel left, which is below the top of the sump. It assumes if you are that low you need all the fuel you can get, and it shuts off motive flow, which is the method by which fuel is transferred. No sense having fuel traveling around in the airplane to provide transfer when there is none. From an engineer’s perspective, I am sure it made sense. From the perspective of some poor buzzard swimming in the Gulf of Tonkin, not so much.
As we adjourned, having bravely kept our eyes open through an all day session renewing our aquaintenances with subtleties of our chosen craft, I did wonder how the poor bloke felt, having successfully hit the tanker only to drop out of the sky shortly thereafter. Dropping into the South China Sea was no one’s favorite. Once you stepped out of the airplane and off the boat, there was no guarantee you were still on the top of the food chain. We had nightmares about the sea snakes we could often see floating by in a bundle, looking more like some thirty or forty foot flotsam of sea weed until you noticed the little eyeballs in the pile. Enough to make you shiver just thinking about it.
The following day we were greeted with some fairly nasty weather. Typically, if the weather over the sea was good, then the weather over the land sucked, and vice versa. Today it was the sea’s turn. We were working noon to midnight carrier, trying to keep a 24 hour pressure on the North. No one liked the midnight to noon cycle, since one got a night cat shot, but credit for a day landing. I was on my second flight for the day and the sun had already dropped below the horizon. The rain was monsoon style, driving a gully washer that dropped the visibility to about 2 miles. The first aircraft in the flight would have to find a level in the clouds that would allow us to join up. For most of our interdiction flights, it was just a section, two aircraft, for mutual support. We joined up at ten thousand feet and proceeded inland looking for logistics movements on the major roads.
We found a trail of trucks on Highway 1A and dropped our 500 pound bombs along the trail. A few secondaries indicated we got something worth while. Our travels had taken us fairly far north, just below Haiphong harbor, so we had a bit of a trip to get back to the ship. As per normal, once on approach control, we were assigned an altitude and DME from the ship on a radial that would feed us to the projected heading for the ship when the recovery started. As we approached the center of the Gulf, it was obvious the ship was parked right under a pretty fierce thunderstorm. We often wondered if the captain had no clue how hard the weather made it on us. The black shoe navy (ship drivers) thought that parking under a thunderstorm was pretty smart, making them invisible to incoming radar. One hoped that the aviators that drove aircraft carriers did not think such stuff. Mattered not at this point. We would be fighting turbulence, but worse, the driving rain. Our A7E’s, coming aboard with not much gas left, meant a low power setting. Even with a good load aboard, the rain removal was marginal, but at carrier landing weight, it was nothing but a placebo.
I was in the middle of the pack at about 18,000 feet. Having made multiple runs in country, I had no surplus of fuel. But I figured I would get one pass in and be home. As I maneuvered to get my timing right, I could hear a plane or two that had boltered, missed the landing pendants, and gone around for another try. The tanker was on a different frequency so we could not hear if anyone had gone looking for more gas. It looked like I would get to the ball with about 1500 pounds of fuel. If I missed they would be pushing me off to the tanker for sure.
The clock came around to my number and I pushed out of altitude. I could see an occasional lightning strike about twenty miles in front of me. The ship was heading in that direction, not good, I thought. Hopefully I will get aboard before they get there. The rain now started in earnest. As I leveled off at 1200 feet, I could not see any lights in front me. At three miles I started my descent, the needles popping alive, and the controller announcing “you are approaching glideslope.”
In the dark I could not see the rain on the windscreen, but in the wing lights I could see that it was very heavy. Usually, by the time I started my rate of descent I could pick up the landing area lights and the drop lights for lineup. Nothing. Not even a glow. I was at a mile and still nothing. The needles were in the middle, looking good. The controller announced “three quarters of a mile, call the ball.”
“Clara.”
I had no ball, no deck, no lineup. All I had was the friendly voice of the landing signal officer responding, “Roger, clara, you are on glideslope, line up is good.”
“A little power. . . Bolter, Bolter, Bolter! That was a hook skip, 402.”
No consolation, I was at full power and struggling back into the blackness. All I had seen was a slight glow around the canopy. No ball, no landing area, just a big thump and the LSO calling bolter. The fact that I was in the wires but the hook skipped over them only meant I flew a decent pass and had responded appropriately to the LSO’s calls. But I was still going around.
“Chippy 402, switch channel 7 for the tanker. He is overhead at seven.”
Crap, now I have to tank in this mess. Climbing passed six thousand I was still in the clouds. “Tanker control, I am still IMC at seven, are you sure the tanker is at this altitude?”
“Tanker is having radio problems, climb to VMC on top.”
I finally broke out at 13,000 feet. At first I saw nothing, then about 4 miles away I saw the green anti-collision light that signified the tanker. I heard tanker control call the tanker again. The A-3 whale’s radio sounds broken.
“You have Chippy 402 at two miles at your ten o’clock.”
“We’ve got him.” I had set up a nice rendezvous heading, but now the A-3 turned directly into me. Good grief! We flashed by each other and I pulled the A-7 up into a yo-yo turn so as to preserve some energy. As I came back down I looked down at my fuel gauge. Below a thousand pounds. Okay, I have to be very careful. The tanker should be at 250 so instead of a full power rendezvous from behind, I will just hold 300 knots. Minutes seemed to roll by and I could not detect any closure rate. The whale called out “A-7, where are you?”
“I am at your six o’clock about a mile and a half.”
“Oh, okay. We will slow down to 250.” Great! The dingbat has been cruising along at 300 wasting what little fuel I had left. Now I could at least see some closure.
“Streaming.” The drogue started aft from the belly of the whale. I was at about a quarter mile now. Boy, if it wasn’t for bad luck I would have no luck at all. The Parker coupling on the drogue was cocked, making the shuttle cock-like basket swirl in about a fifteen foot arc. As if tanking at night was not difficult enough, I’d have to try to hit a wildly moving target. Seven hundred pounds of fuel left. Three hundred more and it won’t matter.
As I positioned myself behind the basket at about ten feet, I tried to think about the timing. It was moving much too wildly to try to chase it. But it was predictable, so I figured if I start in when it is at the top of the arc, twelve o’clock, we should meet at nine o’clock. As it came around I pushed the throttle forward an inch. Got there when it was at about 8 o’clock. Okay, readjust. Now it is at one o’clock, stab the throttle again. This time the timing was right and with a little wing waggle I caught the drogue on my refueling boom. I started pushing the drogue in to get fuel. As I started the whale finally caught up with the thunderstorm and we went into intensive rain and turbulence knocking both of us around. No choices now. I have to hang on or I am going to flame out and go swimming. I cannot imagine them finding me under a thunderstorm. Fly formation on this worthless tanker as if your life depends on it, Tom, cuz it might.
Finally the green light came on. I was up closer to the belly than I would want to be normally but it was easier to fly formation on it when we were in the same piece of bounding air. Finally, the tanker RO called “That’s it.” The green light went out and I started backing out. I glanced down and the fuel gauge read 4500 pounds. I could land with 3700 but would probably burn that extra off before I got back to the ball.
“Chippy 401, switch channel 11 for approach.”
I swapped over to the approach channel and they gave me vectors for a downwind. It was obvious at this point that the rest of the recovery was complete and they were just waiting for me. I dropped through the nastiness with about a four thousand foot per minute rate of descent so I would not be extending too far downwind. I dropped down to 1200 feet and hit it just as I was passing the ship, according to my TACAN. I figured they would turn me in at four miles to be level to intercept the glideslope. Since I taught this stuff and hung out in CCA a lot to listen to them controlling, I figure I had a pretty good idea about how they do things.
“Chippy 402, come left to final bearing 340.”
Okay, the clowns were turning me early. Now I am going to intercept glide slope from above. Thanks for the help, jackass! Sure enough, the needles clicked in and glide slope was two dots below me. I cut the power and began a descent. I could not think of enough bad words to call these guys. Focus, Tom.
The needle started coming up, and the other needles started to swing to center. My nose was pointed precarious into the ocean at 800 feet. The controller started his diatribe.
“You are at two miles, slightly above glideslope, slightly left of course.” Yeah, I know, what do you expect with a ridiculous turn in like that?
“Coming down and on glideslope, on course. A mile and a half.” Okay, lucky for you guys it’s me. I can handle this.
“Three quarter mile, call the ball.”
Well, that has not changed. Driving rain, I assume.
“Clara.”
“Work it down, the deck is pitching a little, so don’t chase it.” Doesn’t the LSO know I don’t have anything to chase? I am straining to see something, but it is just a big blurry mess. Got to be smooth and listen to Paddles.
“A little power . . .”
“Right for lineup . . . “
“Fly the ball.” That means I am flattening out, but I don’t have a ball to gauge the amount of nose drop I need. I will have to guess.
“Bolter, bolter, bolter.” Crap!! Touched down, did not hear a hook skip. Not enough nose down, I guess, but I have plenty of gas. Off into the inky blackness again. I can feel my heart pounding through my flight suit.
“Chippy 402, your signal Bingo Danang, 190 for 135 miles.”
Aw double Crap! Guess they didn’t want to wait for me to come around one more time. Start climbing for flight level 350. This is going to be a long night.
As I climbed out I looked at my Bingo sheet. We were a long way from a bingo field, Danang being 135 miles away. It looks like I will arrive with 1200 pounds. At least I won’t have to fight another carrier landing and they won’t close the runway on me. As the aircraft climbed toward 35,000 feet I started to chill a bit and relax. By the time I get there the carrier deck will be closed for the night, and I will have to stay in Danang until the deck opens again at around 1345 tomorrow. Wonder if they have any beer at the BOQ? Setting 0.72 mach for spec cruise. Geez, this sure feels slow. 240 knots. We usually spend the day in injun country hauling ass at 350 plus.
As I closed on Danang at about 50 miles I started my descent. The bingo fuel required is 2000 pounds, and I left with 3500. Should be good. Bingo fuel says I should land with 800 reserve but I am a couple hundred fat. Thank goodness. Pulling out the approach plate I call Danang approach control.
“Danang Approach, Chippy 402 is with you, descending through 14 thousand.”
“Roger, Chippy 402. Pick up a heading of 170. Expect a 35 mile downwind for runway 35.”
Are they kidding? 35 miles!? No way! Will this night never end? Come on. Can’t do this.
“Danang approach, Chippy 402. We are declaring an emergency at this time, low fuel.”
“Roger, 402. Your vector is 170. Expect a thirty five mile downwind. You are number thirteen in the emergency fuel pattern.”
(At this point, I pause, sip my beer and stare at my grandkids. They are wild!)
“What happened then, Grandpa!!??”
“Well, I crashed, burned and died, of course!”
“NO, YOU DIDN”T! What happened!?”
Well, I didn’t have many choices but to fly the pattern and hope I would make it. I had hoped to land with 1200 pounds left. Bingo fuel assumes an immediate priority landing with 800 pounds. I landed with 350 pounds. To put that in perspective, flying clean, straight and level at sea level, the A7E burned about 3500 pounds per hour. So I had about six minutes left before flameout. Where else but Naval Aviation can you have this much fun in one night?
.