Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

the flight controls working. Everything else looked bad.
At 4,900 feet above the runway, at 0602:30, I keyed the mike.
“Beni Suef Tower . . . Beni Tower . . . MAKO Four One . . .”
I was now about a mile southwest of the field in a wide, shallow descending
turn. Flying was all by the seat of my pants at this point. Distance and altitude . . .
distance and altitude. I could see where I needed to be, and my hands worked to
make it happen. Flameout landings were a huge part of F-16 non-tactical training.
We practiced this technique repeatedly, day or night, in all weather and from
random positions. But in the back of your head, in training, you know that if you
completely ass it up, your engine still works and you won’t crash or eject.
Not this time. Although the engine was still running, the smell was worse, and I
knew I’d never be able to go around and attempt it again. I was trying not to think
about the Egyptian Air Force’s incompetent maintenance. There were thousands of
spinning turbine blades, millions of micro-combustions, and miles of tubing,
conduit, and wiring running beneath my feet. All repaired by Arabs, who generally
didn’t read their own language, much less six-inch-thick manuals written in
technical English. This was another reason I didn’t want to try the ejection seat.
“What the fuck am I doing here . . .” I muttered as I rolled and adjusted my
flight path. I was holding about 250 knots and steadily dropping. Jets don’t glide
well. The oil gauge now read zero pressure and the cockpit smelled like the inside
of an oil can. But no smoke yet.
At 0602:34, I put the gear handle down and felt two belated “thumps.”
Eyeballing the landing-gear lights, I saw only two lights. No nose gear. Perfect.
Then the tower decided to wake up.
“Mahhko . . . Mahhko . . . theese Bani Toweler . . . you call” The Egyptian
sounded sleepy.
I swallowed and took a deep breath.
“MAKO Four One . . . Base Key . . . Emergency,” I answered calmly. I mean,
you have to sound good, even in Egypt.
I was now about two miles southwest of the runway, passing 3,000 feet, and still
no nose gear. I pumped the stick a few times to help it down but still had no light. It
didn’t matter. Dumping the nose to keep my speed up, I steepened the turn and
came around to point at the runway, just as the tower controller went bat-shit.
“Mahhko . . . WHAT” he screamed. Arabs generally aren’t known for their
ability to stay calm, cool, and collected.
“Say ageeen . . . you have . . . mish’killah” He reverted to Arabic in his panic,
although what he had to be excited about was beyond me. I was the one riding the