Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

There! White painted runway markings and an enormous 30L. I’d been blown
slightly right by the wind, but there it was. Cobbing the power back, I opened the
speed brakes and dumped the nose. Dropping through the dust, I kept my eyes
glued to the pale ribbon of concrete. As it rose up, I pulled the stick back and
angled left as much as I could to favor the unsafe left gear. With about ten feet to
go, the runway seemed to just reach up and grab me, as if to say, “Enough . . . just
fucking land.”
The fighter slammed down and I winced.
But nothing collapsed, and I didn’t flip off the runway in a cloud of sparks and
flame. With the throttle in IDLE, I lowered the nose immediately, thumbed the speed
brakes to full open, and concentrated on staying in the middle of the concrete.
Fortunately, this runway was 9,000 feet long. As I slowed to taxi speed, I realized
I’d made it.
“ROMAN One . . . taxi to the end. Turn right to join your flight. The FOLLOW ME
will take you to parking.”
I swallowed and took a deep breath. Then I saw them. A row of flashing strobe
lights and the red-and-green wingtip lights of the other F-16s. They were beautiful.
“ROMAN One copies. Thanks for the help.”
“Ali Tower . . . no problem. And welcome down.”
Relief washed through me. Slowly approaching the turnoff, I closed the speed
brakes, checked my lights on, and lifted the ejection seat lever to SAFE. Turning off
carefully, I flashed my landing light at the follow-me truck, and he pulled away.
The visibility was horrible now, and we literally crawled along the taxiway amid the
blowing tumbleweeds and trash. Imagine driving through a dark car-wash and being
sprayed with sticky brown foam while garbage hits your windshield, and you might
get the picture.
We taxied around a maze of ruined aircraft shelters and several other twists and
turns before eventually arriving at a narrow strip of concrete just east of the other
runway. Easing through the dust, I saw half a dozen little glowing wands and
managed a smile. These were crew chiefs waiting to “catch” the jets and get us all
shut down. Someone was on the ball out there. Following the first set of wands, I
stopped at the crew chief’s signal, set the parking brake, and looked back at the
rest of my strays. As the last one rolled to a stop, I keyed the mike.
“All ROMANs . . . check switches safe, tapes off, and secure all your
classified.” Squinting down the row of dirty-gray fighters, I added, “We’re all tired
so let’s not goon up anything simple.”
Our tapes and mission-planning materials were all classified, so we all checked