Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

I knew nine other sets of eyes were squinting at their displays, gauging positions
and timing. The tower replied, “Copy ROMAN, continue. Winds are two-eightzero
at thirty knots.” He didn’t say the visibility and I didn’t ask. What was the
point
I concentrated on holding the approach course dead-center at 180 knots. If I
jackassed it, then the accordion effect would ripple down the line and screw
everyone over. At about eight miles, the little horizontal bar on my ILS symbology
fluttered and began its slow drop. This was the glide slope, the controlled descent,
that I had to maintain to the runway. The other bar, a vertical one, would keep me
lined up on the runway. I checked the HUD against the larger, old-fashioned rounddial
instrument on the console, and they showed the same indications. Wriggling
my fingers to work out the stiffness, I shifted around in the seat a bit.
At three miles, I could see nothing but swirling dust. Easing the power back, I
slowed to 160 knots and let my eyes flicker between the ILS steering and the radar
altimeter.
“Ali, ROMAN One is three miles, gear down, low approach. All other
ROMANS will full-stop.”
“Tower copies . . . confirm you’ll be coming back” Was there anywhere else to
go
“Affirmative . . . ROMAN One will land last.”
This way, if a wingman missed approach or had instrument trouble, I’d still be
airborne to bring him back down through the weather in fingertip formation.
Passing two miles and 700 feet, there was still nothing in the HUD. Less than
twenty minutes ago, I’d been able to pick up the base from here, but not now.
Despite my confidence, my mouth got a little dry. It wasn’t like we had a lot of
other choices here.
There! I thought I saw a faint flash off the nose and strained forward against the
straps. Again! And again. I glanced at the ILS steering and saw it had drifted
slightly left, but it was close enough. Fighting the urge to nose over toward the
runway, I continued flying the approach until the lights disappeared beneath me,
and I could see the runway threshold.
Shoving the throttle forward, I pulled the nose up and closed the speed brakes.
Leveling off a hundred feet above the concrete, I left the gear down and keyed the
mike.
“ROMAN One had the runway at one mile and 300 feet. One is missed
approach. All ROMANS wait in EOR.”
“Three copies.”