How close is too close?

Approach, Sept, 2002 by David Bowen

It was the perfect hop. Red air lead, KC-10 fuel opportunity, and about 10 minutes to get in a good fight before returning to the boat. My wingman, a nugget pilot who had been in the squadron over a year, would join me for the hop. This good deal was the kind that puts a sinister grin on your face when you get up in the morning and read the flight schedule. We briefed the game plan and contingencies, grabbed some chow, and walked to the flight deck to a pair of FA-18s.

After a few uneventful air-to-air engagements, my wingman and I got in a quick 1 v 1, to burn down the robust fuel load we still had and to have a little fun doing it. We fought a good fight down to the hard deck, knocked off, and headed home. My tanks indicated about 6,500 pounds, more than enough gas to get us home and make maximum-ramp weight. We couldn't have another engagement because recovery time fast approached. I scoffed at the thought of dumping extra gas, rather than using it for something worthwhile. Fuel would become an issue in a matter of minutes.

We headed for the marshal stack. I initiated a running rendezvous and checked us in with strike. Everything seemed normal. My wingman joined on bearing line from a mile away. The descent checks were completed, and I began to savor the thought of finishing this hop with a pair of OK 3-wires. Once I was convinced we were headed to the right piece of sky, I started down to the low-holding stack. I steadied the aircraft, checked the numbers in the heads-up display, and took one more look at my port wingman--nothing unusual. He was closing and was inside a half mile. I could not have predicted what would happen in the next few seconds, or the emergency I would have to face.

After checking our progress and location, something caught my peripheral vision to port. When I turned my head to look, I felt an amazing surge of adrenaline, as my brain registered the sight before me. My wingman was extremely close; I could hear the engines of his aircraft, right wing down and almost on top of me. I yanked back on the stick, trying to pull the nose of my aircraft away, as he tried to under-run. I thought, "Jesus, we're going to hit!" The impact was incredible. I was thrown violently against the port canopy sill, as his tail ripped through the nose of my aircraft, forward of the canopy. My hands squeezed the stick and throttles as my Hornet gyrated and then steadied. My wingman came out on my starboard side, and I immediately noticed his starboard-vertical stab was damaged severely.

After some brief and excited queries over our tactical frequency to make sure we were OK and still flying, I began to assess the damage. I knew we were done with formation flying, but I opted to stay together, getting no closer than a few thousand feet, so we could work through the problem together. I cautiously flew behind and then to the other side of my wingman to get a better look and relay what I could see of his damaged vertical stabilizer. I asked him to check my a aircraft for damage. He saw a hole or gash in the nose, near the pitot tubes and AOA probes. I noticed my AOA indications had disappeared. The ADC and radar also failed. Unsure whom to tell what just had occurred, I radioed strike we had had a midair, and both pilots and aircraft still were flying. I didn't realize at the time this was a good call and probably saved precious minutes.

I decided we should climb and prepare for slow flight-controllability checks. After talking to the tower rep and deciding the aircraft was controllable in the landing configuration with half flaps, I decided to try landing aboard the carrier. My wingman was not so lucky. The damage to his vertical stabs gave him controllability issues, and his lowering of the flaps may have aggravated the situation. I hesitated to send him to Al Jaber, Kuwait, thinking that a carrier landing still might be possible. His approach speed would have been too great for an arrested landing and forced the ship's personnel to divert him. By this time, we both had been circling cautiously outside the Case I pattern, burning gas for what seemed like an eternity.

As I dumped extra gas and set up for my straight-in, I nervously listened to strike vector my wingman. He finally was on his way. My approach and landing was uneventful, with the exception of some trim problems and no AOA indications. The LSO helped me maintain glide slope as I touched down and came to a stop. I taxied clear, shut down, and gathered my senses. My hands stopped shaking two hours later.

Meanwhile, my wingman fought his own battle. Another Hornet had joined and helped guide him to the divert field 100 miles away. I lost track of his situation when I shut down on deck. I heard my wingman had landed safely in Kuwait.

After discussions back at the boat, I realized my wingman simply had lost sight of me for an instant when he looked inside at his instruments. When he again looked outside during the descent, I had disappeared under his leading-edge extension. When he dipped his right wing to see where I was, it looked to me like a collision was imminent.