"Instructor Rafael and trainee pilot Brian, it is time to begin your taxi onto the runway. Please begin departure."
The chocks were lifted. I took a deep breath, flipped all the adequate switches, and engaged the throttle slightly to get the plane moving. Adjusting the nose wheel tilt lever ever so slightly, I positioned the fighter jet in the right direction, towards the direction all the other fighter jets had gone.
"Just remember what you practiced last year," Rafael reiterated. "It's all in your head. You keep your head balanced, everything else will fall, lock, and click into place."
I sighed again and scanned the control panel another time, before stopping at the end of the taxi runway. Leaving the engine to idle at a low consumption rate, I watched one fighter jet fire up its engines and speed down the main runway before taking off. Then it happened.
"Pilot No. 6246, you are clear for takeoff, please proceed."
Hearing the command loud and clear in my head, I took hold of the tiller once again, turning the aircraft into position by the start of the takeoff airstrip.
"Smoothly engage the throttle, and push it to around eighty percent, enough for takeoff," Rafael instructed me. "Then gently pull back that stick with the right buttons selected to raise the nose and climb high. And above all, keep your cool."
"Promise," I responded, though my voice was still a bit shaky. I hadn't flown in over four months. Could I still do this in a different aircraft?
Stiffening my nerves and taking a few breaths to ready my body for the gravitational forces, I opened up the engine valves, readied the afterburners, brought up the engine fan revs, and smoothly pushed the throttle.
The jet began to move forward rather smoothly, like a cruising car, before suddenly rocketing forward at blinding speed. I gripped the stick and kept pushing the throttle, forcing more air and fuel into the engine to force it to go faster. Finally, I opened the afterburners and gently pulled the stick as the end of the runway loomed into view. The jet tilted upward, and I kept the throttle wide open and the flaps out to keep it climbing. We began a pretty steep 75-degree ascent into the sky, my gut wrenching at the unbelievable power of the G-forces.
"You did it!!" Rafael cheered. "You actually did it!!"
All I could do was smile as we continued our climb towards the clouds.
Once we reached a height of around 25,000 feet, I slowed the engine thrust so that we began to glide, though still travelling over six hundred kilometers an hour.
"You're good now," Rafael called from the back, and I heard his voice clearly through the radio intercom.
"Now pay close attention to those displays and what they tell you," he said, guiding me through the basics of the Eurofighter's control system and armament layout, which was more command-controlled than those on the F-16. As we cruised, I learnt of each missile's possible placement and which control buttons were used to launch them.
Having covered the weapons, Rafael returned the flight's focus back to the controls, wasting zero time and effort in teaching me the ins and outs of the FCS (that's Flight Control System, peeps.)
"Just a bit more forward..."
"To the left..."
"Now extend the canards for better maneuvering..."
"Brilliant!"
In a span of a mere hour, we'd covered basic maneuverability of the aircraft. With an extra leg of practice, I could climb, dive, and bank fairly well. Then came in a call from Shane at the base. Shockingly, his voice was focused yet informal.
"How's it hanging, Mr. Spilner?"
"Going well, sir," I replied. "Banking smoothly over the northern area of the state as we speak."
"Spun yet?"
"Spun?" I was bewildered. "As in a—"
"—Barrel roll," Rafael finished, cutting into the call. I shut him out and continued listening to Shane, keeping a sharp eye on the horizon and the ground below all the while.
"Not yet, sir," I replied, shaking my head slightly. Then I gave a slight vocal sneer. "But...I can try..."
"Do as ordered, Mr. Spilner!" Shane's harshness returned instantly, and I bit back a giggle.
"Will do, sir," I said. After giving me a few more bits of information on the flight's priorities, he ended the call. Having finished that, I flipped my intercom back to Rafael.
"So...wanna give it a shot?"
I groaned. Now Rafael was in on Shane's inquiry, and had pulled part of the joke from me!
"Yeah," I blurted. What else was there to do?
So Rafael guided me on the basics of a roll and how to control the elevators, rudder, and ailerons to tweak my flight level accordingly.
"Go time, go time..." Rafael whispered, albeit teasingly, as I climbed slightly.
"Let's take this nice and slow first," I spoke over the intercom. I gripped the stick, readied the other controls, and visually grabbed a point in the sky. Then, without thinking too deeply, I applied a tad bit more throttle, slid the stick to the right, and adjusted the elevators with my feet. The nose dropped through the horizon and the jet started to rotate. As we began to turn right side up, I smoothly "slid" the elevators back into position for level flight. We continued on for a while until the time came to return to base. But Rafael had one thing left in store for me.
"Demonstrate your skills, Mr. Spilner," he told me in a serious voice.
I gave a slow sigh and nodded. "Yes sir."
Remembering the FCS, I pulled the control stick gently, and climbed really high, watching the altimeter closely and maintaining a constant, but relatively low speed. Once we were at around 35,000 feet, I then pulled very hard, causing the jet to tip backward on itself. For a moment, it felt like we'd just end up dropping straight down on our undersides. Quickly I pushed the elevators up to counteract this adequately, and soon we began to dive down... upside down.
Rafael didn't responded verbally over the intercom but I could hear the fear in his breath. I dove down, heading straight for the ground at nearly four hundred kilometers an hour, before rolling the jet the right way around, adjusting the throttle lever, and gently pulling back on the stick, taking full advantage of the Eurofighter's amazingly precise FCS. It was like slamming the Brembo brakes on Whiz – the jet just seemed to slow down as the ground got ever nearer.
Having positioned the aircraft parallel to the ground, I decided to just fly with all the nerve and knowledge known, without pause for intensive mental recall or revision. Building a bit of speed I flew a bit low, then decreased my speed slightly as I gained a bit more height, banking a bit right and left, though not constantly or repetitively.
"Now you're flying like a pilot!" Rafael commented as we approached the base, my throttle adjustments all the more accurate. I gently lifted the tail up, cut the engine power, and we gently touched down on the runway.
Guiding the fighter jet back down the return runway towards the "parking spot" where I had departed from a few hours earlier, I noticed that I was the third one to return. I cut the engine completely, equalized the pressure properly, pulled a small lever, and raised the canopy. Feeling a flood of relief wash over me, I shut off the oxygen valve, and undid the clasps on my helmet, before taking it off and disconnecting the oxygen line.
We reconnected with Shane, and climbed down the boarding ladder. My legs almost collapsed with relief as my feet touched the hard tarmac.
"Not so bad after all, was it?" Rafael teased.
I gave a shaky laugh, breathing in and out repeatedly to ease the pressure my lungs had been put through. We entered his office and sat down for a quick coffee break while we waited for all the pilots to reconvene and meet up with Shane in the main hall, from where we'd walked down the yellow path to the planes earlier.
"You seem a bit slow, to be honest," Rafael noted to me, looking over a portion of the data gathered from the flight session.
I took a big swig of my latte. "Yeah, I'm not as good as the others. But I feel I'm improving."
"I can see that, compared to last year," he replied, giving a half eyebrow cock.
I almost rolled my eyes, recalling my eccentric, almost childish levels of enthusiasm upon entering the cockpit last April. We shared a quick joke, right before the unmistakable clip-clop of the other pilots' boots broke the silence outside.
Rafael gestured to the door with his head. I slurped down the last of the latte and strode up to join the lineup.
"Well done, pilots," Shane said with a warm smile, congratulating us on our successful flights. "I hope you all learned some new aspects of high-speed aviation and had a well-oiled session with each of your instructors. Currently your flight data is being processed, and each one of you will receive a printed copy of a concise summary for future references on how to fly better in future sessions."
We all thanked him and headed back to the locker room – well, the other three pilots did. Instead of returning directly, I wanted to explore the other areas of the base. After quickly checking to see where Shane was headed to, I headed down a side hall and exited the building through a side door, and made my way over to one of the hangars where most of the fighter jets were being loaded into to be "retired" for the day's session.
My intention was simply to see what was happening and observe how the process was actually carried out. As I rounded the corner, I gave a friendly greeting to the staff. Being in my flight uniform they respected me for my position, even though this wasn't the place for a pilot to be boarding aircraft – this was for maintenance staff. Pilots only entered this area if any inquiries needed to be made about the aircraft they flew. Still, I wasn't shunned or anything.
While standing by one hangar, I gave a cautious eye to the way one Eurofighter Typhoon was being carefully loaded inside. The process was rather slow yet intriguing.
Having observed the process, I stood by the entrance, gazing up at the jet in all its magnificence. I wasn't sure if it was the exact same one I'd flown earlier, but it was a sight to behold nonetheless. No one else was in the hangar – just two maintenance staff on the far end. As I turned to leave my ears picked up the faint sound of a yawn, followed by a sudden metallic crash and a few clop-like sounds, like someone in heavy boots walking on tiling.
A tool chest – most likely belonging to the servicemen – had jolted out of line. Two wrenches and a service manual lying on top of it had been knocked off and fallen to the floor. Both men instantly walked over, having heard the sound. I quickly backed up and hid behind a tall shelving unit and listened.
Oddly enough, the men simply chatted together briefly as to the cause of the sound, yet simply just set the manual back on top of the chest, placed the wrenches inside, locked it up, and left.
Once they were out of sight, I tiptoed out of my hiding place and casually walked over. There had to be a sound reason for the chest's sudden jolt. It couldn't have been the men who yawned, or I would've heard it a lot louder; leading me to conclude that it must've come from a smaller individual who was out of sight. Somewhere...
I peered behind the tool chest and behind the shelving unit that I'd just hidden beside. Nothing. Then I heard another sound – a slight shake, like someone shivering in fright. I turned to the right and traced the sound deeper into the hangar, then focused my attention on a specific spot where another faint sound came out again, before falling silent for a couple seconds. What my eyes saw took my breath away.
Tucked in a barely visible spot between another shelving unit and one of the hangar's large main support beams, lay a helpless little creature.