Posts by Berck

We convened in the parking lot at 0705 CDT for the drive over the Aerospace Medical for our physicals. We arrived at 0715, but they opened at 0730. Everyone decided to go get breakfast, I elected to stay and wait for the doors to open, hoping to get the process started. They let me in and seemed a little confused, just like everyone else at Sheppard, by the fact that I was wearing a blue flight suit, no rank, but wings. In fact, while walking around, I had several Airmen salute me–after all, if I’m in a flight suit with wings, I must be an officer, right? I nodded in response, but I’m not sure what the proper response is. When walking past someone, there’s not really time to say, “I’m not really an officer, I’m not even in the Air Force, so I can’t return your salute…”

After explaining to the people in the medical office what I needed, they handed me a bunch of papers with a clipboard, and I set about filling them out. After returning them, there seemed to be some frustration with their computers as my cohorts returned. After everyone filled out the papers, the airman (airwoman?) behind the desk informed me that I did not exist in their computer. Well, of course I didn’t, I explained. They explained they knew I shouldn’t exist, but the computer said that I did when they tried to create my record, but that I didn’t when they tried to retrieve it. They seemed to be stuck on some sort of error where they were unable to enter my rank. Of course, I don’t have a rank. An hour and a half later, everyone else managed to get their medicals completed, but I still didn’t exist.

Eventually, some time around 0900 we were all finished, and I had in my pocket the first of many papers that would be necessary for my flight. We progressed to life support where we were fitted for helmets and masks. This took a good long while for each person. First they gave us all green flight suits, since our blue ones weren’t made of Nomex. Helmets had to be fitted, the headphones positioned correctly inside the helmets. Then they had to measure our mouths and noses and test fit oxygen masks until they found one that seemed right.

I didn’t think I would be at all bothered by wearing an oxygen mask. The guy who put his on first said, “Man, this thing feels claustrophobic.” I didn’t understand what he meant until they strapped mine on. It makes a hard seal, so you can only breathe through a tube. About the time I finally got used to that, he dragged me over to a machine and plugged my hose into it without saying anything. It got harder to breathe. He didn’t say anything. I was struggling for each breath when he flipped some switches and next thing I knew, my lungs were forcefully pressurized. I suddenly felt like I couldn’t breathe at all, but then I realized my lungs were full, and I was just having trouble exhaling. I found that I could, in fact, exhale, it just took a lot of work. I didn’t have to take in my next breath though; the machine did it for me. I finally realized that the life support airman was talking to me. He was asking me where my mask was leaking. I realized that my mask was, in fact, leaking at the top of my nose. I tried to say something, but couldn’t talk. I pointed to the top of my nose, and he yanked on some straps. Some lights lit up on his contraption, and he turned it off and disconnected me, then marked all over my mask with a yellow grease pencil.

He put my helmet, mask and some Nomex gloves in a helmet bag, stuck my name on it with some tape, and hung it in his closet. He said we should step a few minutes early so he could fit us for a parachute. That done, we collected some more papers and headed out for ejection seat training.

First, we watched a video tape, obviously from the ’80s, that told us how to work our ejection seats and parachutes. I had a hard time following which handle did what as the picture was pretty crappy, and hoped that I’d simply pass out and wake up alive if I had to eject. In the video, the guy reaches over his head and pulls on something, and then magically has handles to steer his parachute with. After he lands, he reaches over his head and pulls something else and his parachute lets go. I had no idea if it was at all obvious what did what and thought that it would be bad to get those things confused–releasing your parachute when trying to steer it.

After the tape, we moved on to the trainer. The ejection seat trainer is a T-37 seat more or less like the one in the plane, but hooked to a loud contraption of some sort. I suspect it’s steam powered, but no one would say. You strap on a parachute, then strap into the seat and work to get the various connections of things between seat and parachute all worked out correctly. Then, you bring your feet all the way up to the seat, put your knees together, straighten your back and lean your head back in the seat. Then you pull the handles.

And nothing happens. Ahh, right, after you pull the handles, you have to find the triggers inside the handles and squeeze. There’s two. I would assume that if you squeeze one or the other it would work, but I’m not sure. After you squeeze the triggers, the chair launches you forward onto your feet. It’s supposed to release the seat belt as well, but doesn’t work quite correctly, so you have to release it yourself. Supposedly there’s a chance that the real ejection seat could fail in the same way, and you could still be strapped to your seat. If so, you want to release the seat belt to drop the seat.

That done, we collected some more papers and they pronounced us more or less ready to fly. They sent us off to get lunch, suggested we eat something “soft, but not greasy,” and said we should be ready to brief our flights at 1300.

We at lunch at a wonderful little deli. I had a “wicked chicken sandwich” which was, well, somewhat wicked. It was fried chicken doused in some kind of hot sauce. Probably not the best meal to eat before flying upside down, but it worked. They had some really good sweet tea, and that made me happy.

Back on base, we found Lt. Imlay who steered us into a flight room. He gave us a sheet with a selection of profiles to chose from so we could let our pilots know what we wanted to see.

I explained that I really wanted to see formation flight, but more importantly I wanted to go upside down. They said I could go upside down and then started talking about all kinds of formation stuff I didn’t understand. Just for good measure, I said, “So, you’re sure I’ll get to go upside down?” “Yes! You’ll go upside down!” They laughed a bit about my eagerness to do something they do every day. We worked out a profile where one of my cohorts and I would be sitting right seat for a formation takeoff out to an area. Once in the area they would demo some formation stuff including close trail, extended trail, pitch-outs and rejoins. This all sounded fine and good, and then after that we would split up and do aerobatics. My instructor said I could do whatever aerobatics I wanted. I said I’d want to do some rolls, loops, lazy eights and inverted flight. He said I could go inverted for 29 seconds before the engines conked out. Sounded good to me.

First our pilots briefed each other about the formation flight, and I didn’t understand a lot of what they said. That took about 5 minutes, then we split up and briefed with our pilots individually. I thought I had a pretty good idea of what was going to go on. He picked up two model T-37’s on sticks and flew them around the desk in formation to explain various maneuvers we’d be doing. I was absolutely giddy with excitement.

After that, we headed out to life support, picked up our helmet bags, and they fitted us with parachutes. Wearing the parachute isn’t exactly the most comfortable of all things. It’s insanely heavy for a sack of silk–but that’s probably all the straps and then the survival kit attached to it. We grabbed all our stuff, put in some ear plugs and walked outside to wait for the bus.

Not that the flight line was far, it was right there. But with 300 or so planes out on it, you could spend a long time walking to your plane without the little shuttle bus that takes you out to the correct row of planes.

Once we found our plane, my IP had me set my parachute on the wing. We had to wait a second for the crew to finish filling the oxygen tanks. That done, he helped me set my stuff in the plane, then did a quick walk around. I took a photo while he was doing his walk around. I was going to ask him to get a photo of me in my gear, but I didn’t really put it all on again until we got into the plane. I put on the parachute and climbed in. He helped me hook my oxygen mask to my parachute, then hook that to the plane. I put on my helmet and did all the connections between my parachute and the seat belt. I got one of the belts twisted and we had to redo it all again. I felt like an invalid, incapable of dressing himself.

Finally, all strapped in, my pilot walked over to the left side and swiftly strapped himself in. He turned on the intercom system, and had me put on my oxygen mask, and we fiddled with switched and knobs until we could hear each other. With the canopy still open, he flipped a zillion switches and fired up the number one, then the number two engine. The engines made this most beautiful screaming noise which is impossible to describe, but they don’t call the T-37 a Tweety Bird for no reason. I was amazed at the noise level, and this with the engines at idle.

The T-37 has character. Air Force pilots have been training in it for nearly 50 years. In terms of jet technology, it was cutting edge back in 1954. The instruments are ancient and the cockpit is strangely cluttered. It’s now old, and Sheppard is the last base with T-37’s. They’re being replaced by the new T-6’s. A year from now, the T-37 will be completely retired, so I will have been one of the last few people to have gotten a ride in one.

As we sat there with the engines idling, I was mostly concentrating on the fact that I felt like I couldn’t breath. My major consolation was that each time I inhaled, a light labeled “FLOW” lit up on my oxygen panel, which someone managed to convince me I wouldn’t die. I flipped the oxygen mode from “NORMAL” to “EMERGENCY” and that pressurized my lungs and made it so I couldn’t exhale which didn’t seem like much of an improvement so I flipped it back. I had a hard time hearing the intercom and the radio calls–I’m not sure why, my volume was all the way up. But we taxied out to the runway behind the other guy we were going to be flying in formation with.

We held short of the runway breathing jet exhaust for awhile. I remembered that I was wearing a damn oxygen mask, and flipped it on 100% oxygen so I didn’t have to breathe the exhaust, and that helped for awhile. The winds were just out of our crosswind limits by the gust factor, so we had to sit and wait awhile until they could clear us for takeoff. This turned out to be a good thing, because it let me get somewhat familiar with the cockpit and the oxygen mask while we were at 0 knots and 1G.

We talked a bit about takeoff limits, and how silly the Air Force was. The winds were within limits for the center runway, but out of limits for the parallel runway 50 feet from it. Eventually the dropped into limits and we were cleared for takeoff.

We pulled onto the runway at the same time as the guy in front of us. He was lined up right of centerline, we were off to the left. He went full power and started his takeoff roll. 10 seconds later, we went. Before I knew it, we were airborne, and my instructor was complaining about how slow the Tweet was. I managed to decipher the airspeed indicator, and we were accelerating through 160 knots. The never-exceed speed for the DA20 is 164 knots. In a few short moments, we joined up in formation with the guy who took off in front of us. After some instruction, he turned the controls over to me, and I did my best to hold us in position. It required a constant amount of attention. After we leveled off in the area, my instructor took control and we switched sides, left to right and back, all while within about 5 feet of the other aircraft. We did some echelon turns, where we were tucked up tight behind the other aircraft in steep turns. After that, we pitched out, then set up to rejoin. He let me fly the rejoin, coaching me through it. After spending 1000 hours of flight time doing my best to avoid other aircraft, it was weird to try to turn inside of one and intercept them. We joined back up, then he took control and put us back in close fingertip formation, then gave me the controls again.

I was pretty worried about flying that close to another plane but was doing better than I thought I might. At one point, I started over controlling, and my IP intervened and got back on track, then gave it back to me. After awhile, he calmly said, “could you move a little lower so I can see the other plane?” I just about freaked out when I realized that he’d let me spend the last 15 seconds or so flying where he couldn’t see the other jet!

I gave him back the aircraft, and they did all kinds of crazy formation stuff. We followed close, doing loops and rolls and lazy eights all while in formation. At one point he warned me were were about to pull some G’s. They hit me like someone dropped a grand piano on my helmet. The first thing I noticed was my peripheral vision disappeared. Then I noticed that I wasn’t seeing colors anymore. Then my vision shrunk up and I was looking down a tunnel of light. About then, fortunately, he relaxed, which is good, because I don’t know how much I could have taken without passing out. I looked at the accelerometer–we pulled a mere 4.5 G’s. The plane is rated for 6. I don’t know how people pull 8–it’s gotta be miserable. I did notice that when I was flying later, I was able to pull 4 G’s without it bothering me so much–for whatever reason it’s easier to deal with when you’re flying.

I was sufficiently impressed, and we split off to do the aerobatics. I thought he would demo the maneuvers first, but instead he just talked me through them. I started with an aileron roll to the left. I lowered the nose, got up to about 220 knots, picked the nose up to about 10 degrees over the horizon and tossed the stick full left. Just like in a flight simulator, the plane snapped around in a roll, and I rolled out perfectly wings level. I asked him how many I could do in a row. He said three or four, before the nose started to drop. I went in and this time held it for two before the nose started to drop. The rotation was fast–I don’t know how fast, but seemed roughly 360 degrees per second–though I suspect it was slower than that in actuality. I rolled us level after the two rolls, and the horizon started playing tricks on me–my body wasn’t used to rolling around that fast. After that, he had me try some loops. Pitch down, get about 250 knots, then pull 3G’s. I got sloppy sideways on the first one. The second one I spent too long looking at the ailerons and got too slow before I pulled us around. As a result of pulling a little hard while inverted, I managed to get the stall buffet, while upside down. That woke me up a bit, I relaxed and recovered then pulled through. I’m glad I did it though, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have gotten to feel the T-37 buffet. I did some lazy 8’s, but they were pretty ugly. Then I tried some inverted flight.

When you’re doing a roll, you’re holding positive G’s all the way around, so it doesn’t feel like you’re upside down. After rolling inverted and stopping us while upside down, I sort of went crashing into my harness. After about 10 seconds, I decided it was really cool being upside down, but I didn’t like the feeling, so rolled us back up right.

Aerobatics over, we rejoined in formation for the flight back. He did some crazy over banked maneuver to rejoin, and we started on the arrival. As we descended, I took a picture while in formation, though we weren’t as tight as we were later. I started to feel a little queasy on the arrival, so I was kind of glad that we would be doing a straight-in landing. We landed in formation–the other plane touched down just right of centerline, we were just left of centerline. That was *very* cool.

All in all, it was every bit as awesome as I thought it would be. I’m sure I’ll never get to do it again, but I would jump on it if I ever got the chance.

When I was in new hire training two years ago, the current chief of standards mentioned that he’d just returned from a visit Sheppard AFB where he’d gotten a ride in a Cessna T-37. He mentioned that if I stuck around long enough, I’d probably get to do the same. The months and years passed, the T-6’s came visited and several people got to visit both Sheppard AFB and Vance AFB, and I got passed up. I figured the recent trip to Vance AFB would have been the last of the program, but a month or so ago I was ecstatic to hear I would get to go on a trip to Sheppard.

The biggest excitement, of course, is the chance to ride in an Air Force jet. Most of the folks I was with were hoping for a ride in the T-38, which, with any luck, would result in the chance to go supersonic, something civilians don’t get many opportunities to do. As for me, I would have been equally thrilled with either aircraft. Both are twin-engine turbojet trainers, and both go upside down. The second factor in the excitement is that weather permitting, we would fly down to Wichita Falls in the planes we train in. Four Embry-Riddle folks were chosen, along with two of the Air Force Captains, who were new to the squadron, and we were assigned to fly down there in three DA20’s. I was assigned to do the flight planning, and decided we’d plan on Dalhart, TX as our fuel stop. It was the only real stop that made sense– amusing since it’s one of the few places I’ve flown.

Last Monday night, I rather glumly checked the weather before I went to bed, fairly certain that we would be forced to drive down there. Low ceilings were predicted for USAFA all morning, followed by afternoon thunderstorms. The morning greeted me with fog, drizzle, and low clouds. I packed my MP3 player and some book in anticipation of riding down there in a church-style-death-van.

Doomsday Dave was working the weather shop Tuesday morning and essentially told us there was no way we would get to Sheppard AFB that day. Captain Smith appeared to be more or less in charge and said he planned to wait and see if the weather cleared up by 10am, and if not that we would pile into the van. I stated that it seemed very unlikely the weather would improve by then and perhaps we should just get started on the 10-12 hour drive early. There was some agreement, and I asked if there was any way we could just leave Wednesday morning. We would get there late Wednesday morning, and the weather was sure to be good. This was vetoed since it seemed there were plans for briefings early on Wednesday morning. I then half-heartedly suggested that we take off and plan to spend the night in Dalhart– since if we left in the afternoon before the thunderstorms, we could probably make Dalhart then get to Wichita Falls early in the morning. The storms were predicted to move into Wichita Falls in the afternoon and then move out in the evening. Amazingly, Captain Smith said he’d ask if we could.

Even more amazingly, the superiors seemed to agree to this plan. We altered the flight plans a little, deciding instead to stop in Amarillo because there would be more options for spending the night, and it would put us closer to Sheppard. Amazingly, the clouds lifted to exactly 1,500ft at the Academy–just enough to let us takeoff. The forecast for our time of arrival in Amarillo was clouds at about 3,000ft, but Dalhart would be clear. With a fair amount of apprehension about whether or not the weather would hold, we departed around noon. The weather was murky… flight visibility no better than 10 miles, and we were hugging the clouds on the way out.

About 10 minutes into the flight, I scanned the engine gauges and calmly muttered a few obscenities. I was pilot in command. In the right seat was Aric, a KC-135 pilot who’d never been in a DA20 before. I pointed to the oil pressure gauge, which was pegged over 100 PSI, right as we were approaching Meadowlake Airport. The obvious decision was that I would not complete the flight. The question on my mind first was whether or not to declare an emergency and where to land. The obvious choice was Meadowlake–I was right over it. I pulled the power back a little, and the oil pressure settled back into the normal range, albeit still a bit high. I added power again, and the needle pegged on the high side again, so I kept the power at a setting where the oil pressure was below the upper red line.

I contemplated the likelihood of engine failure and decided it very low. High oil pressure, while bad, does not generally make engines explode or quit. The oil temperature read on the low side which was to be expected on a cold overcast day and the rest of the engine gauges were normal. I elected to return to the Air Force Academy for a couple of reasons–both of which were pretty poor decisions when it came to safety. The first was that there was no maintenance at Meadowlake, so if I landed there they’d have to drive someone out to look at the plane, or take the plane apart and trailer it back. But the big reason was that there was a spare plane sitting in a hangar back at the Academy for just such an occurrence. With the power pulled back, all gauges read normally, and I declined to declare an emergency. I told Springs Approach that I would be returning back to the Academy, and they helped me avoid the guy behind me. I relayed the situation to the folks back at home, and without even asking, they said they’d pull the other plane out of the hangar and get it ready to go for me. I briefly discussed the situation with Aric, who reasonably asked if the high oil pressure checklist said to land immediately or not. I chuckled and handed him my checklist. He quickly ascertained that there was, in fact, no checklist for high oil pressure.

After an uneventful landing back at KAFF, we quickly tossed our gear into the waiting plane, filled out a maintenance discrepancy sheet for the old plane, and took off. We’d hoped that base ops would be able to simply alter our flight plan with a new ETD and callsign. They said they’d already closed our flight plan, and no such thing could be done. We spent the next 15 minutes of flight trying Denver Flight Service on various frequencies with no response. Strike one against Lockheed who won the contract for the privatization of Flight Service Stations. I know we were within radio range because we flew OVER the VOR that one of the frequencies was based on.

We decided to forgo the VFR flight plan–its only purpose was to ensure that a search and rescue operation be initiated if we didn’t report landing safely at our destination. This is just extra insurance since we were talking to air traffic control the whole way–so they’d notice if we disappeared. Furthermore, the other two planes going the same place would definitely notice.

Navigation is insanely simple with the GPS installation in our aircraft. I simply pushed the “Direct To” button, put in “KAMA” (the code for Amarillo) and hit ENTER. A purple line with our course appeared on screen, and I simply turned the plane down the line. Wind correction and everything is taken care of automatically–and there’s a little airplane on a screen to tell me where I am always. Definitely cheating. Initially, Aric and I amused ourselves by trying to keep visual references from a sectional in sight on the ground. After 100 miles or so, there was a big enough hole in the clouds we were able to climb on top of them. This can be risky if you get to your destination and there’s no way to get below them–but the weather in Dalhart was being reported clear. While on top of the clouds, we were navigating solely by the GPS. In the old days you would have had to fly from VOR to VOR to figure out where you were on top of the clouds. GPS is grand.

Somewhere in the Texas Panhandle, Albuquerque Center asked us if we knew anything about Talon 22. That was the plane with the high oil pressure we’d returned in–and it seems Base Ops had failed to close the flight plan like they said they had. They were preparing to initiate search and rescue for us, but fortunately Center had sense enough to realize there were 3 planes with similar call signs along the same route of flight. We explained that we were the crew from Talon 22, and that Talon 22 was safe in a maintenance hangar.

Eventually the clouds scattered out, and sure enough, Dalhart was clear. We flew on by and headed for Amarillo. By now, Amarillo was reporting clear, and the guys ahead landed without incident. There was a KC-135 doing touch and goes in the pattern at Amarillo–it’s crazy to see a plane that big doing touch and goes. We landed on the impossibly huge runway in our impossibly small plane, and taxied to the FBO where our cohorts were waiting for us. While our plane was being fueled, we checked the weather. It seemed that the worst of the thunderstorms had passed on by Shepbard AFB, and they were now reporting ceilings at about 2,500ft and clearing. Plenty good enough for us. We went ahead and left as soon as we could file new flight plans–strike two against Lockheed. 15 minutes on hold before a briefer was able to take my call. Furthermore, the guy on the other end seemed absolutely clueless. But, I eventually got the flight plans filed and headed on out. We left just in time to be able to land at Sheppard AFB before our 12 hour duty day ran out.

I told everyone we should go ahead and plan 5,500ft on the way to Sheppard, since we expected low clouds en route and didn’t know if we’d even be able to go that high. After takeoff, I worked hard to try to get Fort Worth radio to activate the flight plan, and eventually managed. In the process, I noticed that I was blowing right through about 6,300. I figured what the hell, it looked clear, and just kept on climbing to 7,500. I told the guy behind me that I was going up to 7,500, but he’d already leveled out at 5,500. I had him in sight almost right below us–since he was able to accelerate without climbing as high. We flew most of the way to Sheppard with him 2,000ft below, and just off to me left. The rest of the flight to Sheppard was fairly uneventful. We talked to Altus approach on the way out, and Aric was happy to see familiar territory. It seems that all KC-135 pilots do time at Altus sooner or later. He pointed it out miles and miles away–we weren’t able to see the runways, but we could make out the hangars.

Before switching to Sheppard approach, we got the Sheppard ATIS. It was in the standard Air Force format just like ours, and it was nice to hear “T-37’s and T-38’s are unrestricted” so close yet so far away from the familiar “T-41’s and DA20’s are unrestricted”. After the handoff to Sheppard approach I was inundated with a totally unfamiliar and rapid set of instructions. “Talon 25, expect runway 35. Cross the Sheppard VORTAC at or below 2,400 and depart on heading 115 for a left base.” I said the pilot equivalent of “huh, uhh, wha?” while Aric and I both frantically looked for something to scribble on. He repeated the instructions, and I finally decided I understood them, although they were awfully strange. Thank God for the GPS–I programmed in the VORTAC, it automatically tuned it up, and we headed right for it, while using the vertical navigation aide on the GPS to tell me how fast to descend to cross at the correct altitude. That under control, we eventually spotted the VOR on the ground, and reported the runway in sight. There were what seemed like a zillion T-38’s zooming all around us, just barely above us. Little angular dots going what must have been at least Warp 6.

I made a decent landing on the civilian runway, and got taxi instructions and taxied to the FBO. It’s all the same airport, much like Peterson AFB and Colorado Springs but–unlike Colorado Springs where most of the traffic is civilian–almost no civilians fly into Sheppard. We parked on the civilian side because the Air Force has no gasoline–only jet fuel.

After getting the planes fueled and put into a hangar, Captain Smith phoned a base taxi, who would pick us up and take us to some place where we could pick up a “You Drive”. The Air Force has amusing names for everything–and a “You Drive” is just that–a vehicle that you drive. Sort of like a rental, but I don’t know if money changes hands or not. The base taxi yelled at us all to put on our seatbelts– we were trying, honestly, but he wasn’t very patient. On the way to billeting, Aric pointed out the Class Six–and I thought “package store” was a bad enough euphemism for “liquor store”. We were deposited at “billeting”, which as far as I could tell, was a cheap hotel lobby with plasma screens showing Sheppard AFB TV and a plethora of American flags. Almost no one was in uniform save us in our flight suits. It was staffed by civilians who seemed slightly less competent than your average hotel desk clerks.

Much waiting and frustration was involved as our reservations were lost. The whole process took so long, that Aric was able to procure our you drive and return before we even really got started. Eventually Captain Smith was able to convince them to give us rooms anyway, but then they wanted our ID’s. Our military ID’s. Which, of course, we don’t have. We tried to pass off our contractor badges, but that only seemed to confuse the already befuddled clerks. Eventually Captain Smith convinced them to give him 5 rooms in his name. After getting my key I started looking around for elevators or stairways. The only information I had was “Room 4110, which is on the second floor”. Really. So much for numbering conventions. Little did I realize that we all had to climb into the you drive and meander about in order to locate our rooms. When she said she gave us rooms “next to each other” what she meant was “within walking distance of each other.” It turns out that room 4110 was indeed on the second floor… of building 370.

We agreed to quickly change clothes and reconvene at the You Drive ASAP for dinner. We spent awhile wandering about looking for our rooms–by some strange stroke of luck, I was able to find mine quickly. I’ve spent a large portion of my life in hotel rooms, and that part of my brain seemed to take over. I flipped on three of the four light switches by the the door. The fourth was covered in red duct tape. Only one of the switches seemed to do anything. The room miraculously appeared empty (it’s always exciting when it’s not), so I let the door close, set down my bag, and set about setting the A/C to make things as cold as possible.

And this is where the rules of hotel rooms no longer apply. This is, after all, not a hotel room. I found the thermostat all right. Mounted on the wall, right where you’d think it would be. Only, instead of a selection of temperatures, there was a box with a cover, and a large throw switch. The switch was marked “ON/OFF”. Nothing else. It was in the “ON” position, and air seemed to be flowing from a duct. The air seemed vaguely cool, but the room was hot and muggy. I pulled off the cover of the thermostat to see what was underneath. Ah-hah! Sort of. Underneath were two dials with numbers on them. Both of the dials were on the bottom of their range and said “55”. The whole device was making an amusing hissing noise. I put the cover back on and continued my investigation. On the other side of the room I thought I found an air conditioner on the floor, but quickly realized it was a dehumidifier. Odd, but I cranked it up to “MAX” and decided that hot and dry was definitely better than hot and wet.

I discovered a kitchen. No stove, no oven, but a large refrigerator. And a microwave. This makes sense so far. Then I noticed an appliance that was tied up in a clear plastic bag. I’m not kidding. Sitting on the counter, tied up in a plastic bag, was a toaster. And then the most confounding item of all: AN ELECTRIC CAN OPENER. No stove. No oven. But a bloody electric can opener.

Quick inventory done, I stuck my head in the bathroom. Ugly and falling apart, but serviceable. I quickly changed clothes, transfered some items from my flight suit pockets into my pants, started to leave when I remembered my room key. Grabbed it from the counter, and headed out to the parking lot. I was the first one there. This didn’t surprise me much, because although I’d been very slow about it, this was a task I’d performed zillions of times. Enter hotel room, change clothes, return to lobby to meet flight crew for food. But I’m sure I’m the only one who spent over a year doing this sort of thing 4 times a week.

My back hurt a bit from the flight, so I collapsed on the pavement and picked out what meager constellations I could over the bright parking lot lights. I made a rough guess on the order of appearance of my cohorts, and was more or less correct. Aric showed up right after me, and Andy, who is always the slowest, showed up last. We had a quick meal at Subway. For some reason Aric drove, despite the fact that Captain Smith went to Sheppard AFB for pilot training and knew the area. Captain Smith explained that, at least for B-52 crews, the pilots never drive and the navigators never navigate on the ground, and that for the most part, it works out.

The next morning we met our escort, one Lieutenant Imlay, an ENJJPT FAIP, outside “billeting”. He escorted us to a giant auditorium where we received a welcome briefing on ENJJPT. ENJJPT, pronounced “en-jept”, stands for “Euro-NATO Joint Jet Pilot Training.” Of all the pilot training bases, Sheppard is the most coveted of Air Force pilot hopefuls because the graduates stand the best chance of getting fighters. Almost all the students will get fighters, and those who don’t will get bombers. There’s no chance of EENJPT graduates flying tankers, cargo or helicopters–and most of the Air Force wants fighters. Sure, there are some guys and girls who want to spend most of their time never exceeding 30 degrees of bank, but they’re the minority of the Air Force. More often than not, folks who join the Air Force want to fly fighters.

Pilot training at Sheppard AFB involves over 13 countries with students and instructors from all over. Every country wears identical flight suits, but they wear rank emblems of their own air force. The foreign country’s ranks are, to me, totally indecipherable. The guy who briefed us was from the Nederlands and informed us that he was chosen not for his briefing skills, but his piloting abilities. I felt somehow at home with all the European accents and folks obviously a long way from home. The atmosphere seemed somehow more relaxed and more cooperative than I’ve felt from the Air Force in general, but it’s not like I have much experience at Air Force bases.

After that, we attended a morning stand up briefing for a group of students in the formation phase of training in T-37’s. The EP involved two students on a formation sortie who went “blind” (that is, lost sight of each other) while simultaneously one of them experienced radio failure. I assumed the students’ performance in the situation would be abysmal. While it wasn’t great, it was certainly better than I expected. In their defense, their SELO spoke with a pretty thick Turkish accent, and I had a hard time following. Considering one of the students spoke with a thick Dutch accent, I suppose it all works out. The IP’s desk I was sitting at had a white board at which some student had written, “No Touch and Go’s with a 20 knot tailwind,” 100 times.

After that, we spent the day in various briefings and playing around with the T-37 and T-38 simulators. The T-37 instruments were awful. I tried to shoot an ILS approach, but died a miserable death despite my coworkers cheerfully helping out with comments like, “Dude, you’re so far below glideslope, why don’t you just give up and start crying now?” The T-38 sim was more modern and even included 180 degree visuals. I was able to fly some aerobatics, land it, etc. The crusty old guys running the T-38 sims taught us a lot, and it was nifty to see what the students do. Mostly, I’m going to forever remember the moniker the flight director in the T-38 has–it’s just a circle with a vector line coming off it, but is affectionately referred to as “Herm the Sperm”.

We got lunch at the Branding Iron, a local favorite barbecue place which seemed to have very rather southern-style despite being in Texas. Toward the end of the day, it became apparent that we wouldn’t get rides in jets that day, and they suggested that if possible we hang around all day on Thursday and plan on flying back Friday so we could get the promised flights. We were prepared for the possibility and we were told to show up at the Flight Doc at 0730 for our flight physicals. They were unable to get us appointments, but they seemed sure we could get seen in between patients in a relatively timely manner.

After dinner at On The Border, we retired after a long day.