“Let’s go. We’re attending this little get-together,” Mark told Robert, thinking about the situation, and could not recall if a condition like this has ever happened before. He was no missile expert, so he wasn’t sure of the tracking specifics, but as a critical thinker, he sure had a lot of questions. Did they really lose it? Perhaps it reached its target on a local range without an explosive warhead? He would find out for sure after attending the meeting.
“C’mon. Meeting is 11 minutes out, and the Deputy is invited. Need to do a pit stop, too,” Mark invited Robert again.
“Are you kidding? Not sure what is more entertaining. You and your quirky personality in a large group of introverts, or, a Chinese missile that apparently disappeared in mid-flight.”
The navigators in the back of the B-1 jet rode as a crucial part of the crew. Smart and talented, Ford Stevens could not imagine flying without them, but also enjoyed busting their chops. Sometimes he and the other pilots would call them passengers since they had no flight controls in the rear. Other ribbing came from the fact that they wore eye glasses. Nearly all navigators wore them, though, and because of it, took a lot of heat from pilots. The usual ribbing surrounded the perception that navigators could not pass the vision test to be a pilot. Based upon part fact and part legend, navigators selected, or were thrown in, to their second choice aircrew position of navigator. Ford wasn’t shy about busting navigator chops, as all the pilots did in the in the squadron.
One of the snow plows was on their B-1 parking ramp now, and the scrapes of the blade were louder, pushing the snow off to the side and making room for the aircraft to maneuver around. The yellow strobe light continued to flash and beam through the windscreen and into the rear of the cockpit, only because the snow plows in South Dakota were gargantuan in size. These weren’t the small landscaping dump trucks with a plow bolted in the front, as these were of professional magnitude. Powerful, tall, and tough, these industrial plows meant business.
The B-1 crew, delayed because of the plows, were still asking Ford about his time on the Navy carriers. “Look, all of us can land… or fight in the aircraft. They just do it in and around the ship. Sure, it’s a challenge to land on the carrier, especially at night, but any trained aviator can do it,” Ford said humbly, but really knew that only a small percentage make the grade.
“Aim point, airspeed. Aim point, airspeed. Same cockpit scan. We flew an AOA, the angle of attack on the Heads-Up Display, and looked at a landing lens light to come down on the ship,” Ford said, moving his hands in a downward motion to the top of the co-pilot’s seat.
“The Hornet Heads-Up Display, the HUD, has all the instruments projected onto a glass screen that you can see through, and it aids in the landing. We had the same checklists, for the most part, as the B-1. Except we had a tailhook in the Hornet to catch a cable upon landing. Drop the hook and bring her in.”
“What happens if you missed the landing area, or… had to go around… when you’re out at sea?” Sgt McCoy asked. The rest of the crew laughed.
“Well, we had the opportunity to catch one of four wire cables across the flight deck, our moving runway. Ship moved along at 15 or 20 knots away from you… into the wind. The number three wire was the goal, ah, but you could catch any of them. If you missed it, called a ‘bolter’, you just went around in the pattern and did it over,” Ford said. “You also gave the Hornet full power upon wheels on the deck, which was different from Air Force flying. We are usually at idle on the runway in the Air Force, but in naval aviation, you have to be prepared to go around again and make another attempt.”
As Ford was telling flying stories, they all felt a hard jolt of the B-1 on the ground as if it was moving. Something hit and jarred the aircraft. Looks flew around the cockpit at each other, and it was evident they were all startled.
“What the hell was that? You guys feel that?” Sgt McCoy asked.
Everyone in the cockpit leaned over to the windows to see outside to the ground, and groaned. Sgt McCoy left the cockpit immediately without looking and slid down the ladder to the ground as fast as he could.
Pinky had the best viewpoint from the co-pilot seat on the right side of the jet, and was able to turn around pretty good to see the right side of the aircraft. “Aww, man! No, no… that snowplow… it just drove under our right wing and hit us! It’s stuck!” Pinky exclaimed.
Ford raised his eyebrows and had everyone evacuate the aircraft immediately. “Out. Out. Everyone outta here, right now!” Ford was last, and by the time he got outside, fuel was coming out of the right wing tanks and shooting on the plow like rain. There was a small fire brewing on the top of the plow, but one look at the close distance from the fire to the rest of the wing tanks and you knew the plow and aircraft would soon be engulfed in flames. The B-1, when fully fueled, could hold 10,000 gallons of jet fuel, so it was only matter of time before there would be an explosion.
“WHERE IS THE DRIVER OF THE PLOW?” Ford yelled over to Sgt McCoy, attempting to be heard over the blowing wind.
McCoy shook his head from side to side, telling Ford he had no idea. McCoy was on his two-way radio, telling the Operations Desk inside to notify the Crash, Fire and Rescue Unit and have them roll out immediately. Within moments, everyone on the flight line could see the red flashing lights at the far end of the tarmac, and it would still take at least two minutes or so to reach them.
Ford, not seeing the driver standing on the ramp with the rest of the aircrew members, ran around the large plow truck to have visibility on the cab. With each passing moment, the fire grew larger. The three things needed for a fire to start were fuel, air, and an ignition source, and this morning was the perfect trifecta. The heat was intense and worsening, and it could be felt around the right B-1 wing and plow truck. The heat started to melt the snow. Thick, black, petroleum-based smoke was pouring into the dark sky with a purpose, and started to become more visible as the sun was beginning to peek on the horizon.
Ford was able to see in the snowplow cab pretty clearly now, and saw that the driver was still inside. He hopped up on the driver’s running board step with his foot and grabbed the door handle, and yanked it. It didn’t open. He tugged on it again, and it still didn’t budge. Unlocked, and even with more effort, the door was jammed due to the impact of cab on the B-1 wing. Ford ran around to the passenger door to check, and that, too, was jammed in the same manner. It was impossible to open the doors without tools from the fire department, and from the rapid build-up of heat and flames still expanding, there wasn’t time to wait.
“HEY, HEY, we have to get you out of there!” Ford yelled at the driver. “YOU ARE ON FIRE BACK THERE!” pointing with his hand.
The driver’s window was the only available option, but it was up and closed. Ford pounded on it with the side of his fist, but it wouldn’t shatter. The driver turned sideways in his seat and attempted to kick it out, but nothing happened on his try either.