BRAD ELWARD

The Author Flies in a Super Hornet
   When I began working on this book in late 2009, my primary goal was to try to tell the story of the Super Hornet and Growler and to provide an opportunity for people to look behind the scenes at what went into the development of these two great aircraft, what systems are in the aircrafts, their missions, and to offer a glimpse at what its like to fly in each. I had hoped to tell the latter through pilot interviews and if I were lucky, through my own experiences in the Super Hornet simulator. When I made my initial request to the Chief of Naval Operations (CHINFO), I had asked for permission to interview pilots and aircrews and to visit various naval air stations – Lemoore, Whidbey Island, Fallon, and Oceana – where I could not only conduct these interviews but also see the aircraft in action. Frankly, there are few things more exhilarating than standing on the tarmac and watching a high-performance jet fly by. 

   As a part of my CHINFO request, I also asked permission to fly in a two-seat Super Hornet. When I began my aviation writing career back in the mid-1990s, familiarization rides were much more common; yet even then, they were limited to the well-known aviation writers of the day or celebrities. But the world has changed and is a much different place since the late nineties – defense budgets are tight; aircrew training time has been cut; there are fewer aircraft, which makes fatigue an issue. And most importantly, we are at war. Against this background, I suspected that my request would be denied. 
   Needless to say, I was excited when I received word from CHINFO that my request for a ride had been approved. According to the Navy’s letter of support: 
Please keep in mind that although the Navy's Chief of Information has endorsed your project, it is up to each operational commander as to how much support they can offer, if any. In particular, Familiarization Flights represent a significant investment of resources and are only offered under extraordinary circumstances.

Regardless, it was a first step. 
   With letter in hand, I made contact with several people, unfortunately with very little success. That is, until I spoke with VFA-122, the F/A-18E/F Fleet Replacement Squadron located at NAS Lemoore in California. With the guidance and direction of a friend who had served with VFA-122, I explained to the squadron that I was planning to visit the base to meet with various squadrons and that I was very interested in obtaining a FAM flight, if that could be arranged. Within a few days of my contact, I had crossed another hurdle in my quest – I now had squadron support. At that point, my flight was placed in the hands of LT Joshua “Corky” Rehfeld, a VFA-122 Instructor Pilot and the squadron’s Public Affairs Officer, who spent the next two months working my paperwork through the system and finally obtaining the all-necessary support and approval from Commander, Naval Air Forces, Pacific. With that approval, my flight was now going to be a reality, provided that I could pass the flight physical, receive my “Up Chit”, and complete the required physiology and flight indoctrination course. 
   At this point, it was not fully clear whether I would have to go through water survival training, which meant spending time in the dreaded Dunker. From reading the accounts of other author’s flights as well as books on pilot training, time in the Dunker sounded entirely dreadful. Especially for a middle-aged civilian who had not underwent any serious swimming training since, well, grade school. I remember asking Corky in one of our conversations, “Maybe we can just fly overland and stay away from the coasts?” Apparently my pleas were heard and I received a water survival waiver on the condition that our flight did not come anywhere near water.      My flight physical took place in mid-August at the Great Lakes Naval Facility near Evanston, Illinois. Being from that state, it meant three-hour drives each way and an overnight stay – not a very big inconvenience in light of the opportunity for a flight. After making arrangements with one of the physicians assistants, I arrived at the facility at 0730 on 23 August ready for what I thought would be a few hours of exams, basically an assurance that I was arguably fit to fly. Of course, the day turned into a much longer event – vital signs; blood work; a very thorough vision test; hearing testing; an EKG; and an overall systems check. After working with the officers and enlisted men and women at Great Lakes, all of whom were professional and courteous (albeit rather surprised at seeing a civilian undergoing flight physical), I received my “Up Chit” (Clearance for Non-Military/Non-Aircrew personnel to Fly in USN/USMC Aircraft), from the flight surgeon, Captain J.K. Burns, along with a chorus of “good luck” and “enjoy your flight, sir”, from the medical staff. As I made my way back home, I thought, “another step complete; another step closer to my flight.”
   When I arrived at NAS Lemoore a week later, my first order of business was to complete a day of flight physiology. Here, aircrews are instructed on a variety of issues relating to how flight affects the human body. There were three of us in the class; the other two men were enlisted personnel who had been bestowed the honor of “sailor of the year” and were being rewarded with a flight in an F/A-18D. The instructors, who were all excellent at explaining their subject matter areas, spent much of the morning going over how high G forces can affect the human body, the indications of oxygen deprivation, the dangers of flight, how altitude changes affect your hearing. The G-forces sounded the most intimidating to me. 
   Our afternoon training focused on the equipment. We were introduced to flight suits and flight gear, given detailed instructions on how to operate the parachute in the unlikely event that we would have to eject, and instructed on how to remedy the five most common parachute failure scenarios. I have to admit, on the third chute “malfunction”, somewhere along correction step seven, I said to the enlisted man next to me, “You do realize that if any of these malfunctions occur, we are dead.” He laughed, but appreciated what I was saying.
   After a lecture on ejection seat operations, the instructors brought in an ejection seat for us to practice on. “Sit back,” we were told, “place your head back in the headrest, grab your dominant wrist with your opposite hand, grab the ejection loop with your dominant hand, and tug the ring towards you.” That sounded simple enough. “And be sure to keep your elbows in close to your body so you don’t break your arms during the ejection.” There was always some caveat that brought with it a painful or fatal consequence. They told us that it takes between 40-60 pounds to activate the ejection handle. In truth, it seems like it took much less force. We each took turns practicing on the ejection seat, and then headed across the hall for work in the altitude chamber.    
   After spending about 20 minutes in the chamber, each of us under individual supervision by a trained specialist already equipped with an oxygen mask and ready to rescue us should we fail, we completed the tests and moved into the next room to test our ejection seat procedures on a working model of the seat. Of course, the working model used only a fraction of the force of a real ejection – which is near 20 Gs. Each of us took a turn. We were assisted into the seat by two officers, strapped in, and given a quick refresher of the procedures. I was surprised at just how securely one is tightened into the seat. Admittedly I felt a small wave of butterflies run through my stomach as the pilot doubled checked my straps and stood back, giving the operator a “thumbs up.” “He’s ready,” she said. I laughed. “Ready.”  
   A few seconds later, I heard the command, “eject … eject … eject”, reached down, and tugged up on the braided handle. Zap. In a matter of seconds I was at the top of the ejection rail, sitting some twenty feet in the air and looking down at what had been my cockpit. 
   With physiology completed, I had finished the last step in my training and had received all of the required paperwork. I was ready, at least according to the Navy, to fly in the Super Hornet. I met Corky at VFA-122’s ready room and after a few introductions to other members of the squadron we headed over to the PR Shop, short for Parachute Rigger, where I was fitted with my flight gear for tomorrow’s flight – large helmet; medium torso with chest extender; medium G-suit; extra-large mask. A rather interesting sizing given that I am 5’-8”, 170 lbs. After the fitting, Corky headed home for the evening, reassuring me that tomorrow’s flight would be seamless and not to worry.
   Even though we had talked on the phone and e-mailed many times over the past few months, I had only met Corky a few hours before. A senior Lieutenant with two combat cruises and over 1,200 flight hours, he had a very calming personality and immediately made me feel at ease. He took nothing for granted during our talks and explained each aspect of what we were going to do, eliminating as much potential for surprise as possible. He was especially reassuring on the day of the flight. I must have had an “oh shit” sign on my forehead.       
   The night before the flight was an interesting one. The day’s events at physiology had seriously spooked me and, as a personal injury defense attorney conditioned to see potential danger lurking in even the most innocent of activities, I was convinced that I was going to be that “one in a million” accident statistic that would provide the topic of discussion for the next physiology class. I can remember my recurring dream that night – I passed out from the Gs, awoke, panicked, and as I tried to regain my situational awareness I accidentally grabbed the ejection handle, ejecting myself into the wild blue while Corky was left to fly back to Lemoore, wondering how he would explain this one to his CO. I remember wondering what to eat for breakfast and the reassuring stories of my fellow aviation writers – “Yeah, you’ll get sick.” Thanks Jose, Rick, Ted, Erik!     
   On the day of the flight, I arrived at NAS Lemoore and prepared to meet up with Corky at the VFA-122 Ready Room, who had already flown a training mission that morning and was working through debrief with students. I spent my time talking with one of the senior officers, who must have sensed my uneasiness and did a fantastic job of distracting me. He even convinced me to eat half of a greasy hamburger for lunch, which I was told was “the best lunch before flying.” Despite my doubts, I followed his advice. Soon the noon hour arrived, and it was time to get ready.
   We sat down in one of the briefing rooms and meticulously walked through the flight – we discussed communications procedures and frequencies, emergency procedures, what to expect at each step of our flight. We even walked through a demonstration of each aerobatic maneuver we were going to fly, complete with a Super Hornet-on-a-stick example. The Preflight Brief was a condensed version of what real Super Hornet crews experience. First, the mission commander, the senior person in the flight or the lead pilot, gathers all information required to get the flight done safely. For a flight like ours, this included weather information for the home field, any diverts for both the takeoff times and forecasts for the recovery times. Basic flight data is computed such as nosewheel liftoff and takeoff speeds, abort speeds, minimum go speeds, and so forth.  For the purposes of my flight, we had standard numbers that the squadron uses day-to-day, so no unique “calculations” were done. Corky had prepared the kneeboard card, which is typically one piece of paper that has all the information that might be needed during the flight – communication (Comm) frequencies, the numbers we calculated for takeoff, divert info, waypoint info. The card is basically the aircrew’s “gouge sheet” that they can take a quick glance at and get any info they need quickly. 
   The brief itself is separated into “Admin”, “Tac (tactical) Admin”, and “Mission” portions and serves as the “what are we going to do” part of the flight. Admin is the basic information; for example, how were going to walk to the jet, strap in, taxi around, take off runways, transit to the working area, and all that in reverse order for the way back. Also, any training rules that may apply are covered here as well as contingencies – safety procedures, jet fallouts, etc. Tac Admin includes everything needed to get ready for the mission part of the flight. This includes weapons checks, g-warm, area check in. For our flight, it was a basic g-warm, area check in (which is more or less admin anyway). The final part of our brief was specific to “non-aircrew” riders like myself and covered things like ejection seat handles, comm. switches, the location of the oxygen controls.
   We were flying what the squadron refers to as FFAM-101, the first flight a newly winged pilot or NFO gets in the Super Hornet. According to Corky, “This is the first flight students in the RAG get in the Super Hornet and really their first time flying in a “fleet” Navy aircraft.” He said, “The students practice the administrative portions of the flight – strapping in, startup checklists – taxiing, takeoff and transit to and from the area as well as a ‘touch and go’ to teach them some of the differences of landing this aircraft versus their last one. In the working area, usually 2508, they are given a set of maneuvers to do, basic aerobatics like loops and rolls, and practice slow flight and transitioning to gear down to simulate how the aircraft flies in that configuration. Again it is really intended to be a chance for the students to get in the jet, rip it around a little bit, and then get some practice with admin stuff. After that they move on to instrument work and basic air navigation to start learning the F/A-18’s avionics suite.”
   Our flight was in Modex 153 (BuNo. 166924), the newest Super Hornet at VFA-122. It was a Lot 33 F/A-18F equipped with the latest Block II features, including the APG-79 AESA radar. We had hoped to take up a two-stick aircraft, called a T-Bird, which has full flight controls in the aft cockpit. But luck would not hold and there was a maintenance issue with the aircraft and there was not enough time to reconfigure the second aircraft, so 153 was the choice. Our tactical call sign for the flight was “Xpert- 55”; Xpert was the Flying Eagles’ radio call sign. 
   We suited up in the locker room and began our walk to the flight line. I was now decked out in a squadron flight suit, anti-G suit, parachute harness, flight boots, and Nomex flight gloves; some 40 lbs of gear in all. I confess it was one of the most exhilarating, yet nervous moments of my life. For an instant, I had this grand vision of myself confidently walking out to the aircraft, helmet on, visor down, oxygen mask dangling off my flight suit, much like Iceman in the vaunted TOP GUN movie. But that euphoria last only a few seconds; once I saw the Super Hornet sitting on the tarmac, the risk adverse part of my brain said, “um, … you are actually going up in that thing.” The nerves returned.
   Modex 153 was parked on the tarmac neatly situated between several of the squadron’s aircraft. The Super Hornet was configured with a centerline tank, an ATFLIR on station five, and pylons affixed to stations three and nine. We had over 16,000 lbs of fuel, plenty for our planned 1.2 hour flight. The plane captain helped me into the cockpit and secured my leg and chest fasteners. Corky double checked everything, probably out of his sense that this was something very different for me and he knew I would appreciate the added security. He was right. Looking down at the gear, I was amazed at the number of fasteners – calf fasteners, thigh fasteners, a chest and shoulder harness. He pointed out the key releases in the event I needed to make a quick escape. Luckily there were only six; but the two on my vest seemed lost in the myriad of fasteners of the g-suit and harness.   
   We did our basic flight checks. I was immediately grateful that Corky had coached me through every step of the process, especially when the aircraft computer shouted out, “right engine fire.” I think that might have otherwise provoked panic. Corky finished and within a few minutes we were cleared for our flight. The Super Hornet rocked forwarded and then began a smooth transition across the tarmac and along a route parallel with the hangars. We crossed the small bridge that connects the VFA-122 side of the Lemoore hangars to the main runway, Runway 32.
   When we arrived adjacent to the runway, there were two jets in front of us, both from VFA-125, the Legacy Hornet FRS. I was amazed at how quiet it was sitting there, yet just a few dozen feet from the two jets, both with engines running. Within a moment, the two Rough Raiders lurked forward, rolled onto the main runway, and blasted off. This was it; we were next.
   As we taxied, Corky noticed a caution light. I had forgotten to arm my ejection seat. “Was this an omen,” I thought? I quickly fixed it and took a deep breath upon realizing that this rocket I was sitting on was now armed and ready. We paused for a moment at the hold line. 
“Lemoore Tower, Xpert Five-five, Request takeoff, three-two right at Bravo,” Corky requested permission for take-off. Bravo is the intersection of runway 32R and taxiway Bravo.
   The tower responded, “Winds are three-two-zero at five. Xpert Five-five cleared for takeoff runway 32R, switch departure.”    
“Xpert Five-five, cleared for take-off, switching.” 
   At that point, we taxied into position on the runway, ran up the engines, and were off.
   We headed down the runway, speed building. At 160 knots, the Super Hornet lifted off and we were airborne. He pulled back on the stick, went wheels-up, pushed the throttle forward, and the aircraft soared into the sky. I could feel the thrust of the big F414s pull me back into my seat. For a moment, it seemed like the aircraft lurched out ahead of me, then I caught up. In what seemed like a matter of just a few minutes, we reached our target altitude – 21,000 feet – and were cruising along at 400 knots heading for R-2508 in the Sierra Nevada Range. Luckily for me, the day was gorgeous; clear skies in all directions. I was struck at how quiet and peaceful it was, and how clear everything appeared through the tinted visor. Colors seemed to spring to life and the detail of the terrain below was crisp.
   As we made our way to the area, Corky had set up a radar display on my right multi-functional display. He set the APG-79 radar on a search mode and immediately several “targets” appeared. These were other Hornets and Super Hornets from Lemoore making their way to and from the restricted area. We cycled through several aircraft, stopping on two VFA-125 Hornets that were returning to Lemoore. We tracked them as they approached, until the two Hornets passed and disappeared behind us. 
   Ten minutes later, we arrived at R-2508 high above Death Valley.
   “We’re here. All set?” Corky called out from the front seat. I took a few seconds to glance out of the cockpit, taking in the incredible sights of the valley below us and the mountain ranges in the Sierras. “Let’s do it,” I said. To begin our aerobatics, we went through what is called a “G-warm”, which is a series of two 90 degree heading change turns meant to prepare your body for maneuvering flight. We flew straight for a moment and then slammed into a 4-G hard left break. I counted the seconds as we pulled through the turn, feeling the G-forces rise immediately. It really did feel like I was a tube of toothpaste being squeezed from the bottom up. I fumbled through the breathing exercise they taught us at physiology. “Hic-k”, breath. “Hic-k”, breath. 
   Corky leveled the wings. I immediately felt a sigh of relief and slummed forward some in my seat. “Are you still with me?” he asked. My “roger that” acknowledgement was immediately met with, “This is 6-Gs.” He snapped the aircraft onto its right side and pulled back hard on the stick, talking me through the Gs. “Oh boy,” I thought. This is a bit harder. I fought through the G-s, wondering if I was going to black out on this one. It took only five to ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Corky snapped the aircraft upright and again asked if I was still with him. To my surprise, I was doing fine. A little fatigued, but things were holding together. And I hadn’t blacked out.
   We then moved through a series of aerobatics, some of which I had requested. We started with a few low-speed high angle-of-attack maneuvers. I wanted to get a sense of how the Super Hornet performed at low speeds, especially given all that I had read about how well it handled. For the first, he put the aircraft in a 35-degree angle and put the throttles into full burners. We were at about 20,000-feet, in essence floating as we moved forward. If I recall, our airspeed got down to around 90 knots. Corky demonstrated how controllable the aircraft was at slow speeds and then pointed how it felt from a controllability standpoint at various speeds. At lower angles of attack, we experienced a little tremble as the air flow started to get turbulent around the wings; at higher angles of attack, we experienced a higher wind noise and a more “mushy” feeling to the aircraft. Corky said these were some of the “seat of the pants” indicators that crews used along with their instruments to assess their flight situation.
   And then came the surprise. Corky quickly pushed the stick forward and nosed the plane over, starting a dive straight towards the bottom of the canyon. “We’ll pull up at 5,000 feet,” he said calmly. As we started to level off the aircraft seemed to flatten out, similar to what the demonstration team would call “squaring-the-corner.” Because of the tremendous lift of the horizontal stabilator, the flight path more closely resembles a box corner than a rounded corner.  
   Then we performed a pirouette maneuver, which is similar to a rudder turn in older aircraft such as the F-4. The pirouette highlights the Super Hornet’s ability to go from a very nose-high position to a very nose-low attitude in a very short amount of time and is mostly used in dog-fighting to achieve a firing solution. Because it starts from a nose high attitude in a climb, Corky pulled our nose up and quickly achieved a high angle of attack. As we approached 150 knots, he applied aft stick and placed both stick and rudder in the direction we wanted to go and “snap”, we were pointing in the other direction, heading back towards the floor of Death Valley. Corky explained that the stick and rudder movement invokes the pirouette logic in the aircraft’s flight system that allows it to exceed its normal yaw and roll rate limits in order to quickly put the aircraft’s nose in the desired direction. In a real engagement, the maneuver would have pointed us at an adversary aircraft. I admit, watching the maneuver on film made me wonder if it would be abrupt and disorienting from the cockpit. But to my surprise, the aircraft seemed to float. 
   The next aerobatic was a slow loop, which further demonstrated the Super Hornet’s slow speed handling. Corky brought our air speed up to about 250 knots, dipped the nose slightly, and then pulled back on the stick, making a 2.5 G pull towards the vertical. The airspeed bled off as we started climbing and we were well below 100 knots at the top of the loop. Corky pointed out that we were still tracking the nose where we were pointing the aircraft. What an experience. I had both hands on the instrument panel handles, put my head back in the head rest, and looked up. Corky called off our position as we pulled through. “On top,” he called. I starred up at the canyon below. It was an amazing sight, not to mention the feeling of simply hanging suspended in my seat. Once we reached the top, gravity started pulling us back down and pulled the nose through the horizon and we leveled off. In all, we went through roughly 10,000 feet altitude change during the maneuver.
   “We have time for one more maneuver,” Corky called over the intercom. “What do you want to see?” We decided to do a series of barrel rolls. Corky set us up for the maneuver, situating the aircraft at 400 knots, then we began a 4G pull into the vertical. As we stated the pull, he added a roll, placing us on a 90-degree heading change, where we were now inverted. He continued the roll and pulled the nose back through the horizon towards the ground. The roll and pull continued until we were on the same heading and latitude that we were when we started the maneuver. 
   That did it. Off went the stomach queasiness and alarms. “That didn’t feel so good,” I remember saying. I’m sure that brought a little laughter from the front cockpit, but in true professional manner, Corky said “well, we’re heading back now, so just take it easy”, and he eased the aircraft into a slight turn towards Lemoore. At his suggestion, I popped off the mask and took a few gulps of cockpit air, which actually felt good. Oh, and I remembered to turn off my oxygen flow with the switch just behind my left elbow. Physio had said something about overloading the system, if we left it on without it being affixed to our helmet. Corky flipped on the ATFLIR, and started using it to locate objects. We found a car heading along one of the highways and he locked the hash marks onto it. We switched between the three modes – black hot; white hot; and TV – and I watched the car go on its way completely oblivious of our presence. We were some ten miles from the car and cruising at 21,000 feet. The driver had no idea that we were there; and had we been in Afghanistan and had the car been hostile, we could have easily taken him out. After a few more demonstrations, Corky explained that the ATFLIR can also be used to search for air-to-air objects. Working with the radar, he slaved the ATFLIR to a nearby commercial airliner and we zoomed in for a closer look. Had I known my commercial aircraft better, we could have certainly identified it by type. 
   Corky’s diversion had helped. My stomach was feeling better and we were almost home. Although we had only been in the air about an hour, I was already feeling the ache from the seat. I wondered how the crews managed the six and seven hour missions over Afghanistan. Corky said it was a matter of training. As we approached Lemoore, we lined up for a few FCLPs. I had asked to experience a carrier landing, so we got positioned and began a standard Case I recovery – a Case I designation refers to meteorological conditions existing at the time of the recovery; for example, a daytime recovery where it is not anticipated that flights will encounter instrument conditions. Also, ceiling and visibility around the carrier are no lower than 3,000 feet and 5 nm respectively. 
   Corky set his flaps and lowered his hook, dropped to 800 feet and hit his mark of 400 knots, all the while explaining to me the details of his actions. We were zooming along the runway just as we would have if we were passing off the carrier’s starboard side. At a spot just past of the runway (or the carrier, if we were at sea), Corky put the plane into a hard 5-G left decelerating turn meant to bring the aircraft’s speed down to around 250 knots. My stomach didn’t like that. 
   He rolled wings level, lowered his landing gear, completed landing checks, and readied for the final turn into the break – what pilots refer to as the final position behind the carrier. We were heading 180 degrees of the simulated carrier heading in what pilots refer to as the downwind leg. We were now at about 600 feet, somewhere between 1.0 and 1.3 miles abeam. At the designated point, Corky began a 30 degree angle of bank, bringing the aircraft to a point where it would intercept the glide slope. At 90 degrees into the turn, we had dropped to 450 feet of altitude, and were a little over a mile from the “carrier”. 
   We finished our turn, rolled wings level, and Corky acquired the Fresnel lens. Simulating an actual carrier landing, he called, “Xpert Five-five, Rhino, Ball,” emulating the LSO’s request for him to acknowledge a visual on the lens. “Xpert Five-five, Roger Ball”, acknowledged that he saw the lens. The runway ahead, marked with the outline of an aircraft carrier deck, was only 120 feet from side-to-side and was clearly marked with a centerline. We covered the final three-quarters of a mile in a fraction of a second, touched down briefly, and then bounced back up, successfully completing a “touch and go.” 
   It wasn’t long after we bounced that my stomach queasiness finally caught up with me. In the midst of my struggles with the barf bag, I still recall Corky’s calm words over the open mic, “Tower, we have a change in plans. We’re going to fly straight and level for a while.” That was a nice way of putting it.
   It wasn’t long before we were on the ground and taxiing back to the hangar. It was a fantastic flight, but in an odd way, it was a relief to be back on the ground. Flying in the Super Hornet was certainly an experience that I will never forget and one for which I will forever be grateful to the Navy, VFA-122, and LT Rehfeld. Not only did the flight offer me a glimpse at the greatest strike fighter of our time, but it instilled in me an even deeper respect for the men and women who fly these planes into harms’ way. Their level of professionalism, the physical and mental challenges of flight, the level of skill required to fly these complex aircraft, execute the mission, and return to their carriers, all while someone either on the ground or in the air is trying to shoot them down, is tremendous. They should be commended and thanked.