Reposted from:
South America is well and truly behind us, and we have entered the Tomcat’s natural habitat: open ocean.
We radioed a (mostly) correct report back to the Peruvians with regards to their mystery jet, and are now on a more or less direct course for Easter Island which is some 1,800 nautical miles distant. As is now the the routine, the tanker is some miles ahead of us, on the same track.
Gibbo and I make small talk to pass the time. We’re both in agreement the F-4 is a studly aircraft, though we both think Klar should have grabbed an F-4J or S, then he could have tagged along with us. I ask Gibbs what the situation between he and tanker co-pilot is, and I swear I can feel the blush radiating off of him through three feet of avionics, an ejection seat, and my survival suit. He’s got it bad.
Eventually our mighty AWG finds the tanker, on course and sixty or so miles ahead of us. I climb to allow us a faster speed for less fuel spent so we can catch up, and we’re both eager to catch up for a few reasons.
Most glaringly is that without gas, we’ll obviously be in for an extended cruise of the South Pacific Ocean, I didn’t sign up for that. Gibbo wants to make flirty eyes with the tanker co-pilot, which I respect as annoying, but essentially valid. I however, through meticulous intelligence gathering techniques and the sneakiest of recon (i.e. overhearing tanker co-pilot tell Gibbs about it), have discovered that the tanker crew has amassed a collection of Milton Bradley’s finest board games.
I’m going to dominate these suckers at Trivial Pursuit.
Rejoin and tanking proceed as you’ve seen every time before. Compared to the nightmare murder house that was the Andes, refueling over the relatively peaceful Pacific (tautology!) Ocean is a sedate affair. The deed done, I set the plane in a loose formation off their right size and engage the autopilot. We’ve got 1400 miles to go, and I’ve got four ANG sucka’s to school board games.
#1200 Miles
Boom Operator: What is the name of the clock tower london
Me: Elizabeth Tower
Tanker Jock: It’s Big Ben, mook.
Boom Operator: It’s Elizabeth Tower, Pie Slice for you
Me: Big Ben is the clock, and who says mook anymore?
#1000 Miles
Tanker Jock: I’m telling you Batman would win!
Me: Are you insane? Superman can fly super sonic, has the ability to manipulate time, could destroy everything on the planet in like an hour and shoots freaking laser beams from his freaking eyes!
Tanker Jock: But he’s, at best, like moderately intelligent. Batman’s a genius! He’d be able to out plan Superman, lure him into a trap, and kill him with, like, a Kryptonite Batterang
Me: Which he has to throw at a man sized target moving fast enough to manipulate space time!
Tanker Jock: Can’t move that fast if you’re trapped in Kryptonite!
Me: And you couldn’t make a trap if your brain just got scrambled from space with a laser
Boom Operator: It’s moot! Both would never fight because they represent two sides of the same fascistic ideology of circumventing established rule of law, and creating a society ruled by marshal force and extra judiciary executions and punishment. Also the answer is clearly Iron Man
Tanker Jock, Me: Shut up!
#800 Miles
All: “You’re my Laaaaaaaday! pause Lady of the mooooo ooooooo rning!”
#600 Miles
Tanker Jock: How the hell am I supposed to know that?
Boom Operator: I didn’t write the card, sir.
Tanker Jock: I dunno, 1983
Boom Operator: Incorrect
Me: You think we invented the internet in 1983?
Tanker Jock: Damnit Sarah, why did you tell them we had this!
Tanker Co-Pilot: Because this is hilarious
#500 Miles
Me: So was that good for you?
Tanker Co-Pilot: Giggles
Tanker Jock: That joke’s older than my parents, and it was unfunny then too.
Me: But still effective
Gibbs: So immature
#300 Miles
Tanker Co-Pilot: So then we had to dodge out the back of this bar, and the owner was so mad!
Gibbs: Oh really? that’s so interesting!
Me: That’s it, hey Sarah, want to see Gibbs puke?
Gibbs, Tanker Co-Pilot: What?
Me: Hold my beer!
Me: [Maniacal Laughter]
Gibbs: You suck!
At 120 Miles, it’s time to say good by once more. I give the tanker driver a one fingered salute, then push the throttles all the way forward, rocketing away.
I weave my way through the clouds as I bust through the Mach. The feeling is immense.
Easter Island apparatus out of the haze, and I’m intent on giving the islanders a show they won’t soon forget. Then disaster strikes
Remember when I promised danger? Here is danger.
I’ve either exhausted the feed tanks with excessive use of afterburner at low level, or a ramp scheduling bug has given me a fan stall. The result is the same: simultaneous double engine failure. Fuuuuuuuuuudge
I’ve flown the A Model tomcat, so while this is excessively rare for the B, I’m well rehearsed with the engine restart procedure. However I can’t engage it until I drop below the mach. For now I’m flying the worlds heaviest supersonic glider as I pass over the southern point of Easter Island.
We decelerate sufficiently that I can unstow the engine ramp without fearing that aerodynamic forces will shred my engines. I Immediately start cranking the left engine. Time is a factor here, right now the jet is being powered by the windmilling fan blades, if they drop too low I’m going to be dead sticking a Tomcat, which isn’t a survivable prospect.
Engine one comes back to life, but engine two’s EGT rises into the red zone. I can’t restart it without risking an engine fire. I’m down to one engine for this landing. I roll right for an expedited landing at Isla de Pascua.
As I line up with the runway, I’m forced to throttle up the engine. The wide spacing between the engines on the F-14 causes huge yaw forces that I have to correct with full left rudder. I’m lucky the jet is light, otherwise this has a habit in ending in an aggravated flat spin.
Besides being a bit off laterally and very crab-y, the landing goes surprisingly well.
What are the odds there’s a General Electric sales man on this island? We might be stuck here for a bit pending inspection of my starboard engine. I expect the island’s bars to profit greatly, and it’s liqueur supply to suffer horrendously in the mean time.