Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

“Five copies.”
“Seven copies.”
“Nine copies.”
As I darted past the end of the runway (EOR), I saw a small white truck with
flashing yellow lights, waiting. Flipping the gear handle up, I added more power and
began to climb. As the ground disappeared beneath me, I turned northwest into a
thick black wall of sand. The turbulence had increased to the point where it could
buffet my jet, and I glanced at my fuel. Forty-five hundred pounds. Still plenty.
Number Three had just called his gear down so Number Four was behind him on
final. I’d just heard Number Seven call “pushing,” so that put Number Five and Six
somewhere in between. Turning left, I was now paralleling the runway and heading
southeast. At 5,000 feet, I cracked the throttle back to hold 250 knots and stared at
the air-to-air radar. Two aircraft were off my left side, heading northwest—that
would be Number Five and Six on final. So the flight that was perpendicular to me
and ten miles off my nose had to be Seven and Eight on their way to final.
“ROMAN Nine . . . pushing.”
Cranking back right about thirty degrees, I ran the radar out to pick up the last
two fighters but I couldn’t find them. Too much altitude difference, or a bad angle,
or gremlins. It didn’t matter. I simply pulled away, stayed at 5,000 feet, and
continued toward Customs House for another minute. This would build in enough
spacing between me and Number Ten and, sure enough, it did. He was sixteen
miles in front of me when I turned back to the east.
One by one, I heard the tower clear the others to land and no one called missed
approach. This’ll work, I thought as I lowered the nose and descended back to
3,000 feet. Dropping the oxygen mask, I rubbed the stubble on my cheeks and the
aching bridge of my nose. The cockpit was toasty, and I’d finally quit shivering, so
the heat came down a notch. Shaking my head back and forth, I fought back
another yawn. God, I was tired. Every time I blinked, it felt like two pieces of
sandpaper rubbing together.
At eleven miles, I began the easy turn to final, and Number Ten was cleared to
land. The gear handle came down as I called up the ILS steering one more time.
But as I stared at two green landing gear lights instead of three, the tower controller
said, “ROMAN One . . . current visibility is now a quarter-mile. Say intentions.”
I blinked, still staring at the unsafe gear indication. Intentions Let’s see, how
about ejecting over Bahrain, checking into a five-star hotel, and drinking all night in
a casino
“You’ve gotta be shitting me . . .” I muttered again. This was like an emergency