Horological Meandering

HOW SLOWLY CAN YOU FLY?

On two occasions we were involved in war games with the Navy’s Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean Sea. The Navy thought if they maintained radio silence, no one would know where they were. They didn’t know our GCI radar sites would occasionally get some kind of radar bounce off the ionosphere that could actually “paint” the fleet on their scopes. During one of the war games such a sighting did occur and it was relayed to our war games headquarters. We heard that the allied Spanish Air Force was given an assignment to “bomb the fleet.” To our amusement the Spanish guys fired up all three of their old and reliable German tri-motor Junkers 52 and flew out to attack the Navy. 

These Junkers were the transport of choice for the Germans before and during WWII. They were dependable but very, very slow; their cruising speed was only 100 nautical miles per hour. We were puzzled about the decision to send these antiquated machines to attack the fleet. At a top speed of 100 nm/h, these birds would be sitting ducks! 

We didn't realize that the Navy’s radar had a feature called “MTI,” or Moving Target Indicator. Because the shipboard radar operators did not want useless clutter on their screens, their radar computers automatically blocked out anything traveling less than about 200 knots. So here were three WWII-vintage transports, lumbering over the fleet late at night, undetected until they were overhead. One of the referees stationed on an aircraft carrier declared two of the fleet’s major ships as “sunk.” The Navy was furious, but the referee stuck by his guns.

RUNNING ON EMPTY

During this exercise I was on five-minute alert in our hanger — in the cockpit, strapped in and ready to go — when our base was “attacked” by two Navy Douglas A-4 Skyhawks. I went off solo, and by the time I had my wheels in the well and was climbing eastward in pursuit, the Skyhawks were cruising home at about Mach .82, a full 60 nautical miles in front of me. The only way I was going to catch them was to accelerate to Mach 1.2. Even at that closing speed, however, it took a while for me to get into missile range, and my fuel supply was dwindling rapidly. I was making mental calculations about when I would need to turn around and return home. Running out of fuel before you get to your destination is always frowned upon. I barely had enough fuel to get into missile range, and the Navy planes never detected my presence. Gun camera film in my aircraft confirmed that my Sidewinders had accounted for two simulated kills. 

On the return leg of a mission such as this, the tower would request current fuel state and what we expected to have upon arrival. I informed them that I would have 500 pounds remaining when I arrived. Landing with this little fuel was not something we did on a regular basis in the F-104, but as long as we were on the ground by then, we were OK. Personnel passed on this information around the field at Morón. When I was a few miles out from the end of the runway, I began to notice fire trucks lining the runway, red lights flashing. Wondering if someone I knew might be having problems, I asked the tower personnel who was experiencing an emergency. That “someone” turned out to be me! They were very concerned that I would be “pancaking” (landing) with a meager 500 pounds of fuel remaining.

What I didn't realize was the fact that the squadron we had recently replaced were flying F-105s. They went through fuel at a frightening rate and were plagued with undependable fuel gauges. As a consequence, it was customary for their pilots to land with at least 2000 pounds of fuel. What was no big deal to me would have been a genuine emergency to them. After I quickly relayed my status to my squadron commander, he contacted the base and suggested that the tower personnel “reset” their thinking. They should have asked me if I needed to declare an emergency, not started off on their own volition!

PULLING THE WOOL OVER THEIR EYES

While I was stationed in Alaska, the Air Force gave us a very interesting and somewhat risky mission. Someone high up wanted to know about the defensive radar capabilities of the Russians across the Bering Strait. Hoping to get their radars searching, the Air Force wanted to make the Russians think we had some very high-speed, long-range aircraft stationed in Alaska that had penetrated Soviet airspace, nosed around somewhere in the interior, and then an hour later returned home. In order to accomplish this ruse, they broke the squadron into two different groups of six aircraft. 

These six were further broken into three flights of two, “line-abreast” with about twenty miles of separation between elements. I was in the first group to go. I led my section. We flew northwest to Galena, Alaska, where two KC-135 tankers were waiting for us at twenty thousand feet. The Air Force wanted to make sure the Russian knew we were coming, so en route to the tankers we were told to communicate between aircraft a little bit more than we would normally do; fewer hand signals, more chatter. 

After topping off our tanks we headed west toward Nome. Ten miles west when we were sure the Soviet radar picked us up, we initiated a steep dive from our cruising altitude of 25,000 feet. We aimed for the “water,” meaning half water and half big chunks of ice. We didn’t even bother putting our survival suits on; the water was so frigid we would have perished long before any rescue could arrive. Once we started our descent, we were instructed to go “radio silent” for the remainder of the flight, including a mid-air refueling stop on the way home and the landing back at Elmendorf. I don't remember how we managed to land at a combined military/civilian air base without radio contact. We may have simply changed call signs. 

The most challenging part for the first wave of flyers was a cloud layer over the Bering Straits with the base at about 2,000 feet. We were instructed to make a very rapid, high-speed dive towards the water with a 15,000 ft-min rate of descent, only leveling off near the surface of that frigid water. The problem with such a rapid descent is that the altimeter cannot keep up with the airplane. The altimeter may indicate you are descending through 15,000 feet, but in actuality you may be 3,000 feet lower than that. There was a chart in the appendix of the Manual that dealt with this situation but we had never had any reason to use it before. We could only hope and pray it was correct. 

I was a bit nervous as we dove toward that frigid water, but the base of the clouds proved to higher than forecast. Once we leveled off below Soviet radar coverage, we reversed course and flew at wave-top height back past Nome. When we were well into the interior, we climbed to 25,000 feet, headed back to Galena, made a rendezvous with the tankers, refueled, and returned to base; all of this without radio transmission. Fortunately, the tankers were right where they said they would be because we were mostly empty by the time we got there. Without that fuel we would not have made it back to base. 

An hour after we took off, three more sections of two aircraft flew a mirror-image profile of this same route. Remaining radio silent for the first part of their flight, they refueled over Galena, then immediately dove to the deck, heading west well out of Russian radar coverage. Once they went feet wet, they turned around and climbed back up for a refueling before heading home. After reversing course, they started talking so that the Russians could hear them. They used the same call signs we had used, and the hope was that the Soviets would think it was the original flight now headed home. 

We were never informed whether our little ploy worked or not.

BOCA CHICA and CASTRO'S CUBA

Since the end of World War Two we had been dealing with the Communists across two, wide oceans. We didn't suspect that trouble start in our own back yard. In the fall of 1962 the United States was confronted with a threat from Cuba, just 90 miles south of Key West, Florida. The closest American base to Cuba is the Naval Air Station on the Boca Chica Key adjacent to Key West. Our wing, and probably every other Tactical Air Command wing in the United States, was sent to Boca Chica. I distinctly remember that we flew down there without tanker support, having to stop twice at Air Force bases in Texas and Florida for fuel. I suspect all the air refueling tankers were busy elsewhere. We made the transit with only wingtip tanks installed, and as soon as we landed, they were removed and replaced with Sidewinder rails.

The Navy base there is not all that big, and the sight that greeted us when we arrived overhead for landing was amazing! Boca Chica was chock-a-block with aircraft, mostly single and twin-engine tactical fighters plus two or three photo reconnaissance squadrons. Four out of the five military services—Navy, Air Force, Marine, and Coast Guard—shared the privilege of being in the thick of things. 

How the base commander managed to cram that many airplanes into such a pint-sized island still astounds me. If the Russians could have nuked that field, they would have taken out a very large segment of the tactical aircraft possessed by our combined military. None of us had the “big picture” as to what was going on in Washington. All we knew was that our job was to make sure the United States had absolute air superiority in case of an armed conflict. I’m sure the Russian satellites saw the potent air armada in close proximity to Cuba. This may have been one reason why we were there in such large numbers.

Our squadron stayed at a Holiday Inn in Key West, a short bus ride away. I remember feeling really sorry for the Marine pilots. While three of us bunked together in a small motel room, they were sleeping under the wings of their airplanes. To add our insult to their injury, we were getting the normal Temporary Duty stipend to pay for our expenses. Since Holiday Inn was not gouging us, we were socking away at least half of our TDY money. 

We did not have many sorties while we were at Boca Chica, because there were so many other aircraft on the base and they had to spread the flying time around. When we did fly, I suspect our forays were meant to probe the Russian radar defense systems, or keep them on edge. Once airborne, we would head straight for Cuba going as fast as we could, just below Mach one. Whoever was controlling us would tell us when we got within ten miles of Cuba’s airspace and then we would do a quick U-turn.

Brooks was our flight commander. What made him so much fun was that you never quite knew what would happen when you flew with him. I remember well our first sortie out of Boca Chica. I was flying in the number-four slot in a four-ship formation…tail-end Charlie on the right side of Brooks’ element leader. Immediately after we joined up in formation after takeoff, Brooks keyed his radio mic and transmitted, 

“Boxer Flight, Heat ’em up!” 

I had no clue what he was thinking! I did not remember his briefing about such a command, but I knew I had to do something…fast! The only thing that came to my mind was that he wanted us to go into afterburner. My immediate thought: “What else on the aircraft could possibly get any hotter?!” Well, when you are the only one who plugs in the afterburner, suddenly you find yourself way out in front of the parade! In full sight of everyone. Most embarrassing. 

(Brook’s wingman and the other pilots seemed to know exactly what he was calling for - since we were entering hostile territory, he wanted us to flip the Master Arm Switch for the guns and missiles, something we never did while in training.)

The next transmission was a classic: “Uhh, Mr. Parker…would you like to assume the lead?” All I could do was sheepishly reply, “Negative,” pop my speed brakes, and as quickly as possible get back into my proper place. 

CUBA AND CAMERAS

Reporters from all the news media were there in droves, some of them sharing the hotel with us. Back then they used actual film. I remember being impressed with the fact that photographers had motor-driven film devices on the bottom of their single-lens reflex cameras, with 100-count film rolls. If they came across something newsworthy, they could take pictures as fast as the motors could advance the film—click click click click click. When they got to the end of the roll, they could get the exposed film out of the camera and a new roll installed in less than 15 seconds. I bet some of them could do this with their eyes closed!  I said that using that much film seemed very extravagant. Their response was that you never knew when you might get the perfect photo. A good picture was worth its weight in gold, so the cost of film was never a consideration.

COLD WAR HEATS UP

As a first course of action, President Kennedy ordered Gen. Thomas Power, commander of the Strategic Air Command, to raise the readiness level to DEFCON 2 (DEFense CONdition), the highest alert SAC had ever been on. One-eighth of the 1,436 B-47 and B-52 SAC bombers were always in the sky; the remaining combat-ready planes across the US and the world were ready to launch on 15 minute’s notice. 

To understand how frightening this was to the American citizens, you have to remember that this was the era when we were encouraged to build bomb shelters in our back yards. “Duck and cover” drills were practiced at least once a week in our schools.

John F. Kennedy was living under a nuclear Sword of Damocles for a two weeks, and he deserves a great deal of credit for the masterful way he handled this crisis. With a very potent air armada at his disposal and a powerful American fleet blockading the Cuban waters, he had a better hand to play right from the outset. The President informed Khrushchev the Soviets were not going to have their way in the Western Hemisphere. This would later be defined as the “Kennedy Doctrine.” 

Actually, there was no “red telephone” as depicted in the movie Dr. Strangelove. The President contacted Khrushchev by way of a wire telegraph and said something like, “Niki, we need to talk.” Holding the home court advantage, Kennedy did most of the talking, I’m sure. There was a tsunami of support for our President during this crisis, and he is held in great esteem even to this day, despite his many dalliances while he was in office. 

Until the whole thing was over, the rest of the world would not realize that we had been on the cusp of a major conflagration, most likely involving an exchange of atomic bomb strikes with the Soviet Union. It would have most certainly gone down in the history books as World War Three had there been any survivors to report it. As it was, it proved to be transitory. Our squadron was just settling in to our new digs at the Holiday Inn when... suddenly, it was over. The Soviet leader blinked first and withdrew from Cuba, missiles in tow.

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Thanks for reading more of Capt Parker's memoirs

Cazalea

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