Well it’s been like three weeks. I should finally post my final leg.
Myself and Gibbs sit attached to the catapult on the Nimitz, waiting for the signal to take off. The weather has not improved in this part of the world, and we’re soaked after clambering up the tall side of our mighty cat. I’m moderately concerned, considering our destination, that it won’t dry before we get there. Hypothermia is a stupid way for a pilot to die. Making things worse are the poopy suits we’re now wearing, heavy great survival gear that will allow us to survive 30 minutes instead of 10 in the freezing Antarctic ocean.
I’m somewhat eager to get away from the boat. Last night, in a subtle form of revenge, myself and the Junior Officers of VFA-154 hosted the first, and only South Seas Tomcat Ball. A brilliantly executed plan saw us break into the booze Gibbs and myself had been carrying for McMurdo (sorry scientists), and share it with our fellow naval aviators in the dirt shirt mess. Nothing got too rowdy, there isn’t room enough in an F-14 without travel pods to carry enough booze to seriously effect a fighter squadron, much less a Navy one, but still I directly flaunted a (stupid) established naval law, and word gets around on ships fast. I don’t regret it, I’m childishly gleeful I got back in my own way at the ship’s captain for his terrible seamanship, and Gibbs and I made a number of professional contacts.
But still, It’s harder to properly punish me if I’m not on the boat.
The shooter gives us the go sign, and I tense in anticipation of what comes next. Gibbs and I are shoved back into our seats as the steam catapult on the Nimitz flings us off the waist off the ship. Helped by our twin GE’s, the plane decides that it accepts this new state of being, and we promptly climb away.
I pull the throttle out of burner, and begin a spiraling climb to meet the tanker orbiting over the carrier. We’ll fill our tanks up here, and then begin our long trip down to McMurdo.
The rejoin goes without drama, and we strike out on our own.
The eagle eyed amongst you might have noticed that the “tunnel”, the four (technically eight) pylons located between the engines are not empty as they’ve been for our previous hops. Today we’re carrying a DTARPS pod, or Digital Tactical Airborne Reconnaissance Pod System. It’s the ultimate form of a system originally created in the 80s when the Navy needed a replacement for the venerable RF-8 Photo-Crusaders that were then retiring. The DTARPS has a number of high definition black and white as well as thermal imaging equipment that can even be linked back to a ground system in real time. The system was cherished more than gold during Desert Storm, Yugoslavia and Kosovo where it proved more capable and flexible than the aging RF-4s.
You might also notice the Mk-82 on the forward pylon. I’m assured it’s not live (I asked, repeatedly), but this is done for balance. Heavy loads aft of the CG on the Tomcat are a no-no for a number of reasons. Traditionally balancing this out would have been done by either a dummy AIM-7 Sparrow, or later using two Pheonix pallets, one loaded down with a jammer, the other with a metric crap ton of flares and chaff.
We’re carrying this down so that we can do a number of runs to measure the ice, and other such sciency things.
After a few hundred miles, Gibbs excitedly points out he can see ice burgs through breaks in the weather.
We see more the further south we go.
We’re a couple hundred miles out. We’re not fuel critical yet, but it’s something to keep an eye on. I ease the throttles back a hair just to be sure.
Land Ho!
We’re still 147 miles out, but I can see Ross Island in the distance.
Feet Dry… Ish? This is all ice-shelf, I’m not technically sure what the nomenclature here is. Feet Cold?
Compression ridges off the north side of Ross Island.
Fuel has become an issue. We’ll make it, but I’m not comfortable dallying.
Descending over the south end of Ross
Antarctica proper in the distance.
Buzzing the nerds at McMurdo. Sorry about your Booze guys.
McMurdo Field
Our turn through the pattern is hasty, but otherwise uneventful. I land a little long, but I want to be absolutely sure I don’t do something stupid, and I’m extremely reticent about this ice runway. I do two things I’ve never done in a Navy Jet before. First. I flare, and feel strange for it.
Second, I keep replaying the tragic fate of Commander Hank Kleeman in my mind. He was one of the Tomcat drivers in the 1981 Gulf of Sydra Incident. He unfortunately passed a few years later after his Hornet rolled after hydroplaning on the runway at NAS Miramar. I’d rather not do something similar. So I aerobrake, attempting to re frame from using my actual brakes until the last possible moment.
The Tomcat stops in it’s time, and we back taxi to the improvised “tarmac” (a large square cleared area). We pass a snow blower keeping the area clear.
We park as directed, and begin shutting down the aircraft.
I’m quite frankly disappointed. It’s cold, yes, but at a relatively balmy 32 degrees Fahrenheit, it’s not the balls-shlurping-inside-you cold I had been steeling myself for the whole trip. We disembark, and somewhat uneasily make our way towards the welcoming committee. We’ve made it to Antarctica.