High School hippies Kevin Dingman and Kevin Davis.
Walking with a Wyatt Earp saunter, one hand hovering over his holstered pistol, the police officer would soon be within voice (and pistol) range. No challenge had been issued earlier that evening, so our nonchalant bravery toward the gunslinger seemed appropriate. But our emotions would soon change from arrogance to anxiousness as the confrontation unfolded.
The encounter happened shortly after a high school friend and I pushed open an unlocked gate and walked across the terminal apron towards the airplane. Our bell-bottom pants, shoulder-length hair, platform shoes and 17-year-old demeanor had likely convinced him that we were trouble-causing hippies. We did provoke him a bit I suppose, witnessed by the hurried walk that we had agreed to present, just to see what would happen. One hand hovering over his pistol, that’s what would happen. It’s after dark; why are they hurrying like that? They probably have a load of pot and are headed to a stoner party; with girls the same age as my daughter – damn hippies. I’m going to shoot one of them right here.
Doobie Brothers
It was the early 70s, and I didn’t fully appreciate the dynamics or tension between hippies and The Man. If I had, better judgment might have prevailed that night. The airplane to which we were walking toward briskly was a 90 hp Mooney Cadet. With the two of us on board, we may have been able to carry a load of pot if we lightened the 24-gallon fuel load and left behind our love beads and 10-pound platform shoes. But we were geeks – well, geeks hadn’t been invented yet. We were nerds, maybe not even nerds. Chronologically speaking, we were somewhere between dorks and nerds. And we wouldn’t have recognized a “doobie” if Cheech and Chong had stuck it in our eye. I was a brand-new private pilot, and it was the first and the last time my friend ever flew with me. Perhaps the evening’s invigorating reenactment of the O.K. Corral was an influence.
Hippie Bloodstains
We had flown from Kalamazoo to Grand Rapids for dinner in the terminal – the airline terminal. We enjoyed a celebratory $50 hamburger (inflation now makes it $100 to $1,000) for my new license, and it was a different time back then. We walked to and from our airplane not far from a North Central Convair 580, unhindered and unchallenged. Until now. “What are you two doing out here?” belched the cop. I arrogantly raised my peach-fuzz speckled chin ever so slightly. “I’m a pilot, and we’re going out to that airplane.” I pointed to the Mooney Cadet.
“Have some ID and a pilot’s license.” His words were not spoken with the inflection of a question; they were a statement. Used in place of: “Show me some ID you hippie before I shoot some of that hair right off your head.” I guess the brisk walk and raised chin had worked, and now we knew what would happen: the G-Man would shoot us. However, following the example of Ike Clanton and Billy Claiborne(survivors of the O.K. Corral), my courageous friend and I acquiesced and became meek little kids. I think the lawman was disappointed that we left the ramp free of shot-off hair and hippie bloodstains.
Back To The Future
Fifteen years later, déjà vu was inevitable as three uniformed Air Force enlisted men approached me head-on. One was an MP (military police) and carried a fully automatic M-16 rifle. Once again, I had stepped onto a patrolled ramp just yards away from an airplane. But this time, the G-Man saw no hurried pace, no Woodstock attire and no hippie-length hair. Instead, an Air Force officer in a flight suit with an armful of flight gear. “Good afternoon, sir,” one of the men affirmed, rendering a salute. “How was the van ride?” The Friday afternoon trip from Luke Air Force Base, Arizona, to the Gila Bend Air Force Auxiliary Field (pronounced He-La-Bend) was a tedious, two-hour, 105-degree, non-air-conditioned pain in the butt. The airman’s rhetorically sarcastic question about the van ride drew shaking heads and chuckles from all of us as I returned the salute.
Even though they poked fun about the drive, we all knew that my ride back to Luke would be a different story. “Sir, how long will it take you to fly back?” “I’m shooting for a point-three, Chief.” They looked at each other with huge grins. “Will you be doing an afterburner takeoff?” I gave them the grin right back with a yep. I hung my g-suit and parachute harness on the launcher rail at station nine (right wing tip) and set my helmet bag on the ramp. One of the men handed me the maintenance log. My Friday afternoon sortie was to retrieve a repaired F-16 from Gila Bend and fly it back to Luke.
Make This One Quick
Air Force squadrons are budgeted flying time for all non-combat missions. The time is divided into monthly allotments, and once the allotment is used up, flying stops whether the calendar time is finished or not. A flight like today’s is a cost-of-doing-business thing; it gets us nowhere in the training cycle but still uses up the allotment. The squadron commander, LTC “Rhino” Gross, a friend from my days at Nellis AFB, Nevada, had asked me to go get the jet. “Dinger, make this one quick.” “Yes, sir. See you at the O’Club.”
It wasn’t favoritism. There were simply no other F-16 instructors besides me willing to suffer through two or three hours of crap on a Friday afternoon just to fly a hopefully repaired jet for less than 15 minutes. Who would? No air-to-air, no dropping bombs and no shooting the gun. Rhino knew someone who would fly. The same guy that, when the squadron had excess flying time to use up before the end of the month (use it or lose it), volunteered to fly lead in a two-ship of F-16s from Phoenix to Battle Creek, Michigan for a weekend of bowhunting. And a few months later, on another weekend to meet up with high school buds to drink beer and play ping-pong – anything for the USAF, don’t you know. And the same guy that would hop into the pit (the backseat of a two-seat F-16) just to get into the air and out of the office. All that guy needs is the okay and some gas.
Today, the jet has a full load of gas – enough to run the engine in afterburner (AB) all the way home if I want, and boy did I want. I have the okay of the squadron commander, maintenance and ATC to fly just below Mach until I enter the pattern at Luke. This would be my reward for enduring that crappy van ride. And the deafening AB takeoff a reward for the ground crew. Plus, it would help get me away from the ground quickly if the jet wasn’t totally fixed after all. And equally as important, my buds will already be at the Luke O’Club and a cold beer waits for no man.
Hair on Fire
You don’t get to light your hair on fire without planning and permission. Terms like maintenance test flight and tactical arrival are used in filing and on the radio. This lets ATC know that you intend to go like hell, you may blow up, and it’s Friday night at the O’Club. Not necessarily in that order. The jet is pointed down the runway with the brakes held as I slide the throttle all the way forward to military power, brakes released, then throttle around the horn and into full AB. A few seconds later, the gear is up and the jet is passing through 300 kts in a window shaking, 45-degree climb over the heads of my ground team. “Luke Approach, Sonic One is off Gila Bend, tactical to Luke.” “Roger Sonic One, Luke Approach, radar contact, no traffic observed. You’re cleared direct Luke, speed and altitude your discretion.” Damn right it is. I purposely take my hand off the throttle and watch as the groundspeed passes through 400, 500 and 600 kts. My air-to-air radar sweeps for targets and at .96 Mach I pull it out of burner. It may have been .99 Mach, but I’m not admitting to any broken windows. If there was a sonic boom, it must have been from some other hippie.
Yo, Dinger!
Nine minutes after brake release, I enter the empty Luke pattern at 480 kts and at mid-field, I’m into the break. It’s a 7G left turn to downwind where I go to idle, put out the boards with my left thumb, slow to 400, 300 then 200 gear-down, and come off the perch into one continuous turn, base to final. The F-16 is pretty easy to land. Flaps and slats are automatic, and I’ve taught 14-year-old Civil Air Patrol Cadets how to land after just one try in the sim. My crew chief marshals me to a parking spot in a row of six other F-16s and I shut down the motor. I can’t help but give my F-16 a little anthropomorphic stroke on the nose as I pass by.
After dropping off my equipment, I’m on my way to the O’Club. Half the squadron is over in one corner and they know I volunteered for the Gila Bend sortie. A shout comes from across the crowded bar: “Yo, Dinger. How was that VAN RIDE?!” You’ve never been ribbed properly until you’ve been ribbed by a bar full of fighter pilots. Little did they know, for this hippie turned fighter pilot, it was so worth it.
Ugly Duckling
A professional flying career often follows a circuitous and uncertain path. But there are those who have fallen in love with airplanes and will not be intimidated or dissuaded by a winding path, career uncertainties or by ribbing.
Over lunch, a friend from another magazine described his desire to become a full-time pilot once he retired as a Cheyenne-flying Chairman of Surgery at the University of South Florida. But we all have our van rides to endure and flight departments weren’t taking him seriously. It took determination before one of them recognized the pilot beneath the scrubs. Like finding a fighter pilot beneath long hair and bell-bottoms, Dr. Karl persevered and was hired by JetSuite as a First Officer and later became a PIC. He went on to own a Beech Premier 1 that was totaled by a large bird strike and then a Citation CJ1. Sometimes Hans Christian Andersen’s ugly duckling in bell-bottoms or scrubs doesn’t stop when they see a white swan; they persevere to become an eagle.
