My memory jogged by a recent post in another place, I offer this from the archives -
There are few words so immediately blood-chilling in their effect upon tactical aviators as these: “mid-air.” It is an abbreviation for “mid-air collision,” and conjures up images of once sleek, purposeful and lethal high performance aircraft reduced in a moment to odd pieces of flaming trash, fluttering to earth – instant chaos from order.
Mention news of a mid-air and prepare yourself for the customary, almost involuntary response: “Did anyone get out?”
There are many ways to die in fighters. The most common is controlled flight into terrain, or CFIT. It’s a long term that essentially boils down to “dummy flew too low.” While we can and do mourn people who die this way, we also have a tendency to shrug a bit, mentally. After all, you can only tie the low altitude record, you can’t beat it. Should have known better.
Mid-airs can occur between flight members, as someone’s attention drifts or gets over-channelized; the wingman has primary collision avoidance responsibility, but a poor flight lead can certainly contribute by behaving unpredictably in a moment when a flight is task-saturated.
They can occur in a slow-speed fight, when the aircraft are performing at their aerodynamic limits and nothing is left to draw upon when one or both combatants miscalculate the vector – these can have a slow motion, nightmarish character of inescapable and imminent doom that hasn’t quite happened yet. One pilot may survive such a collision, much more rarely both will. The aircraft themselves, of course, are almost always destroyed.
But the third and most lethal form of mid-air collision is the head-on. No one ever survives a head-on collision. Closure rates are so very high that the moment is over before conscious thought can form, and the forces are catastrophic. And I think that’s what so frightening about the head-on mid-air: pilots are essentially control freaks, accustomed to being in charge of their destinies. But in the moment you realize that you are approaching a head-on collision, a moment that transitions seamlessly between “in control, looking good” to a red wave of panic, there is often only one chance to escape, one last-ditch move and whether or not you live through the next instant will depend entirely upon what the other guy does: If his reaction mirrors yours, it will mean instant, unknowing death.
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One fine morning in Key West, Florida I briefed and led a large force adversary flight against a squadron of Marine F-4′s, the venerable Phantom II. The Phantom had been a workhorse fighter in Vietnam, but by the early 90′s, its prime was long past, and this particular squadron was composed of reservists – airline pilots mostly – on their last detachment from home base in a storied aircraft they had grown to love.
I was flying the F-16N, a true joy to fly, with thrust to spare and as much “g” available as a man could stand. The “Viper” was fast, beautiful and lethal, the Phantom fast, muscular and obsolete. In a close-in fight, there was no contest – it was like clubbing baby seals.
Everything had gone according to plan during our take-off, rendezvous and transit to the operating area. It was a perfect day in the Bay of Florida, the sky and sea a kaleidoscope of brilliant blues and azure greens. The horizon seemed etched with a diamond bit in the distance, almost impossibly fine and clear. It was a glorious morning for a fight.
Since it was a large force fight, with multiple fighters and multiple bandits, my bandits and the fighters were on separate frequencies – we’d need all of our radios to control our own flights, and a controller on the ground would pass any inter-flight communications to his counterpart the next chair over. Our procedural training rules would serve for flight path de-confliction – we would remain in separate altitude blocks until we had visual contact with our adversaries. A left-to-left pass at the merge was prescribed, unless setting that up required us to cross flight paths – in that case we would exaggerate our turn away to port to set up a right-to-right pass. We would preserve no less than a 500 foot “bubble” between aircraft. We would take shots pre-merge, but all kill removal was to occur after the merge.
We called “ready in the west,” to our controller, and he responded that the fighters were “ready in the east.”
“Fight’s on.”
I called my four-ship into a starboard turn to face the threat head on, some 40 miles away. Once on course, I shook them out of cruise formation, spreading them to tactical. At my signal, four General Electric F110 engines went to full afterburner, each generating nearly 24,000 pounds of static thrust. As we slipped through mach 1.0, I felt a tiny bump as the compressed air from the transonic shock wave detached from my wing.
Our radars swept the skies, and soon we had contact on the lead flight of Phantoms. The radar warning receiver on one of my wingman’s aircraft lit up, with it’s distinctive “cricket” sound – he was targeted. My RWR remained silent – I smiled inside my mask, grimly rejoicing.
In short order I had broken out my target from the rest of his flight and taken a final lock-on for a missile attack. The closure velocity was instantly displayed in my HUD: 1300 kts Vc. We were closing range at rate of more than a mile every three seconds. Tally-ho (target in sight) at 6 miles, 15 seconds to the merge. Switching to the heat-seeking Sidewinder missile, the rasp of the cooled seeker rising instantly to a beseeching growl as the missile locked on to the target. The dot on the horizon grew quickly into a wingform, then into a recognizable shape – a Phantom – I took a shot at three miles, eight seconds to the merge.
The Phantom pilot checked into me slightly at two miles – he had picked me up visually and was seeking to neutralize the merge. Four seconds. His jet grew larger in my field of view – I could distinguish his jet intakes on the wingline.
He seemed a bit higher than me, but displaced neither right nor left. In my mind’s eye a game plan formed: I’d take my 500 feet of separation below him – as I passed under his nose he’d lose sight briefly – once clear of his tail, a nine “g” turn from under his belly, he wouldn’t see me again until well after I cleared his tail in the vertical, with advantages of nearly 90 degrees in angle, and 1500 feet in altitude – and all that gameplan formulation – a flashing series of precognate images, no textual thought. Three seconds.
Realizing that my vertical separation was not quite 500 feet, I bunted the sidestick controller forward, seeking to build the required separation. As the jet unloaded, I floated gently off my seat, retained by the harness straps. Two seconds. Still not enough separation, I increased forward stick pressure, hard – under the negative g, my head hit the top of the canopy.
His jet grew still larger in my windscreen – there is no relative motion – CBDR flashed in red lights in my brain – Constant Bearing, Decreasing Range. We’re going to hit! Full aft stick, full left stick, turn belly up, blind – a supersonic missile defense at 1/4 mile, one half second to impact – I shut my eyes tightly, not wanting to see. Trying to shrink in the cockpit. Trying to hide.
I came out of the displacement roll with the Phantom’s belly just above my head, a shadowy, roaring blur of engines and wings and fuselage missile stations that blots out the world in a flash and is then gone, leaving only the sound of his engines echoing in my ears and the thump of his supersonic shock wave across my wings.
And so I learned the distinction between panic and fear – fear is rational, panic is instinctive. I cleared the fight, told my wingmen that I was done, going home, hoped that the shaking stopped before I had to land. It would have been a distraction. It did. It’s not that I couldn’t have stayed for the next fight, it was that I’d have been a liability.
Later in the debrief, I froze the tape at our merge – it’s recorded on the air combat training system. Two pods, one on each of our aircraft, continuously report back to ground stations on position, velocity, angle of attack. At the moment of our merge, the two pods showed 15 feet of separation from each other. His pod is on his left wing, mine is on my left wing tip. They would have been at least 15 feet apart if we had in fact hit each other. I look at him, he looks back at me. Compressed lips, the slightest of shrugs, a gentle shaking head. There’s really nothing to say. Hit “play,” move on.
If we had obeyed the training rules: “Clear to the right for a left-to-left pass,” it never would have happened. The training rules are in fact written in blood, but sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes it is better to be lucky than good, but I’d rather be both.
And yeah, I learned about flying from that.
Damn… That’s it. Damn.
Closest I’ve come to something like that – that I know of – was when my father-in-law and I were doing a “photo recon” of local railroad related sites (we’re both model railroaders) in his Cessna 172. Between Mt. Angel and Silverton, OR, not under Seattle Center control we suddenly spotted a very dark green blob coming head on to us – apparently he spotted us simultaneously since he was clearing to his right as we did the same to ours. Separation was probably less than 1000 feet since I could pretty clearly see the guys in the cockpit – it was a National Guard OH-58 Kiowa.
Not an experience I’m anxious to repeat.
VMFA-312′s C.O. had a mid-air with a F-15 over the Sea of Japan, in 1982?-83?
The Air Force F-15 pilot was forced to eject. The Phantom lost the starboard wing about 3 inches outside the wing fold locks. He flew it back to Iwakuni with no hydraulics and only the inner wing and successfully landed.
I personally saw this airplane, it was a hanger queen when VMFA-451 transitioned airplanes with VMFA-312. It was eventually repaired and returned to flight status, with a small F-15 painted on the port intake.
Semper Fidelis,
ASM826
Damn glad you’re still around to so eloquently write about it, Lex;) Try to make the rest of your head ons with you grandchildren:0
2 years ago on a photo recon sortie. Very hazy day. Working northbound in a restricted area with prior clearance, where we should have been the only aircraft operating. Heard a joyriding pilot of a Beech twin [who was clearly lost] calling on the frequency to any traffic, saying his position was to the west of us. Pilot and I both looking out his side of the cockpit to spot the twin, when I see a “bug” on my co-pilot’s side of the canopy getting rapidly bigger and turning towards us. Just as we recognize the twin is east-not west– of us, and turning into our course, a Cessna 172 appears out of the haze dead ahead, 100 feet above us. 172 is frantically calling us, doesn’t see the converging twin at all.
My pilot elects to hold course and altitude.
C172 passes 50 feet overhead. We can see the groves in the tires. Later when he’s clear of us, we give him a vector out of the restricted area.
Seconds later, the bozo in the Beech passes in front of our nose clearing by about 100 feet. Still jabbering on the radio [stuck mike]. Still oblivious to being lost in the wrong place. Still clueless that he nearly killed a half a dozen people people in a three-way mid air.
It was just as Lex says:
“…these can have a slow motion, nightmarish character of inescapable and imminent doom that hasn?
2 years ago on a photo recon sortie. Very hazy day. Working northbound in a restricted area with prior clearance, where we should have been the only aircraft operating. Heard a joyriding pilot of a Beech twin [who was clearly lost] calling on the frequency to any traffic, saying his position was to the west of us. Pilot and I both looking out his side of the cockpit to spot the twin, when I see a “bug” on my co-pilot’s side of the canopy getting rapidly bigger and turning towards us. Just as we recognize the twin is east-not west– of us, and turning into our course, a Cessna 172 appears out of the haze dead ahead, 100 feet above us. 172 is frantically calling us, doesn’t see the converging twin at all.
My pilot elects to hold course and altitude.
C172 passes 50 feet overhead. We can see the groves in the tires. Later when he’s clear of us, we give him a vector out of the restricted area.
Seconds later, the bozo in the Beech passes in front of our nose clearing by about 100 feet. Still jabbering on the radio [stuck mike]. Still oblivious to being lost in the wrong place. Still clueless that he nearly killed a half a dozen people people in a three-way mid air.
It was just as Lex says:
“…these can have a slow motion, nightmarish character of inescapable and imminent doom that hasn’t quite happened yet.”
Lesson was to never stop scanning the whole sky for traffic because somebody isn’t where he thinks/says he is.
I still shake thinking about it.
I read this earlier today (just after lunch), but didn’t know what I could possibly say.
I don’t think anything you’ve written has scared me as bad as that did, despite the obvious knowledge that you survived.
Shipmates,
My most vivid camse in 1979. And like Capt J said, Lex is correct. I can see every single detail as clear as if ir just happened, and like it was in slow motion.
I was tasked that day as the observer on a Pilot Trainer with VP-10 out of Rota. We had been out over the pond practicing various engine-out approaches and other emergencise, and were now in the pattern doing some crash-and dash’s to keep quals up to date.
After several of these, i sauntered forward to the flight station and was seated on the forward radar cabinet, directly behinf the Pilot. I had my camera and was taking some shots of the various crew positions, and some overhead shots of Rota and the area.
I was also plugged into the ICS and listening in as we turned base, hearing that another P-3 from a sister squadron was entering the pattern after a transit from NASB, Maine.
Something didn’t sound quite right, and I was looking over the pilot’s shoulder for the other aircraft. I shot a glance at the Flight Engineer, and he gave me that look back that said he heard something not kosher also.
We turned final and were just coming over the numbers when I looked up at the same time as the copilot and we both saw landing lights approaching from the other end of the runway. I said an expletive and he hollered ABORT!
The next few seconds happened faster than I can type it but seemed to take forever…. the FE was slamming the power levers forward, while the CP was busy retracting flaps and wheels and the PC pulling up…
Seeing we didn’t have time for vertical seperation, my peeps did the only thing left. He punched the mike and hollered “Other Aircraft, break Left!… ” and so we did.
That P-3 and ours banked 90 degress and we crossed belly to belly like the Blue Angels at an airshow, maybe 500 feet off the ground. I remeber looking out the small round observation window behind the pilot, and staring at both the Maintenace Chief and the CMC with their eyes as big as all get out and folks everywhere frozen at the horror about to happen just above them.
Where we passed was also the ramp for both Patron Rota and the VQ birds, and there were several P-3′s, a couple whales, and various other aircraft all parked nicely. Had we gone in, it would have been a very bad day for Maintenance Control…
Anyway, after we passed, the PPC rolled wings level and we climbed out and headed out to sea to calm down. A few minutes later we reentered the pattern and made a full-stop and taxied to the tower and shut down there. The Peeps and a couple others went topside to “chat” with the ATC fellows while we put the plane to bed, and called for a buddha to come tow us back to the line.
I thank God for the sheer power and nimblemess of that Orion. Had we been a transport, with normal jets instead of a turboprop with variable pitch props, we might not have been so lucky.
Interesting to remember, and like you said, skipper, it’s still as fresh in my mind as that day some 27 years ago.
Respects,
AW1 Tim
Threes…
I was tagged by BillT. How nice of him to think of me on my Birthday!
Here are Three–…
“Sheer power and nimbleness,” I like that AW1 Tim. Not my first choice of descriptions for the Orion, but then again, any aircraft that purposely shuts down perfectly good engines to fly around longer is unique, from a single engine guy’s perspective.
Jonboy,
The Jet Set can talk all it wants to about NOE flying and CAS, but it’s rather exhilarating to have some group-4, first-name-obscured-by-rust Maru out in the North Atlantic, taking black water over her bows, and come flying by her at 300′ off the deck snapping pix from the handhelds and flir pod. We kept about 1000 foot seperation horizontally, and would rig her with three passes, port, starboard, and stern.
Always fun to watch the reactions of folks who were along for the ride when flight would shut down and feather #4. The crew would sort of cock an ear for a second to see if there was any commotion from the flight station, and then return to whatever it was we were doing… listening for whale farts, cavitating screws, etc…. The riders were always aghast, asking what just happened, and was it suppoesed to do that….
I always loved the Orions. Didn’t always like the 10-12+ hour missions that went with them, plus the 2 hour preflights and three hour debriefs, but the perks were pretty good.
Respects,
AW1 Tim
group 4?