Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

There. I’d just created an instrument approach. Several key points had to be
spelled out so everyone would do it the same way and not overrun the jet in front
of him. Air-to-air radars made it nice, but I’d still seen it chowdered up in the past.
This way, everyone would leave Customs House at identical airspeed and head to
the same location. At the next point, called the final-approach fix, everyone would
slow to another set airspeed, and put the gear down. Then they’d fly the approach
course to the left runway until the vertical steering, called a glide slope, indicated a
descent.
“Slow to final approach speed at three miles and call full stop with Ali Tower.
All ROMANS acknowledge.”
And they did. All nine of them, with no questions. It was good to fly with fighter
pilots.
“Ali Tower copies all.” Ah. A sharp controller.
I glanced at my HUD and it showed eleven miles to Customs House. “Ali Tower
ROMAN 75, flight of ten, will commence the approach in three minutes. We’ll
need a follow-me truck in EOR and confirm transient alert has been notified.”
“ROMAN . . . affirmative on all.”
I crossed Customs House heading east at 250 knots. Fanning the boards, I
dropped the nose ten degrees and said, “ROMAN One flight, pushing. 5.1.”
“Pushing” meant I was outbound from the briefed point, and the low man on
fuel in my flight had 5,100 pounds of gas. Somewhere behind and above me, the
next flight of two should be lining up to “push” in two minutes. “ROMANS . . .
check course three-zero-zero set . . . altimeter two-nine-nine-one.”
Three hundred degrees was the final approach course to the runway and 2991
was the latest altimeter setting. Everything was done, except for the flying, so I
shut up and flew. Sliding back down in the thick dust, I shook my head and stifled a
yawn. Despite the heat blowing in my face, I was still cold and I had a headache.
Later, I told myself. I could yawn after landing.
“ROMAN Three flight—pushing.”
I looked at the time, and it was exactly two minutes after I’d called. I didn’t
know any of these pilots but we all spoke the same language and had the same
basic skills. Otherwise, this wouldn’t have been possible.
By the time the next two-ship called, I was about twelve miles from Ali and
beginning the turn to final. At ten miles, I abruptly pulled the power, fanned open
the speed brakes, and lowered the gear. The fighter slowed in a hurry, so I retracted
the boards and added power to hold 180 knots.
“ROMAN One, ten miles, gear down for two.”