One of My First Scary Flights
by
Jay Kelley

© 2003   Jay Kelley
All rights reserved

I was only 20 in the summer of 1959 when I was transferred from Buckley Field Naval Air Station in Denver, to the Oakland Naval Air Station in Oakland, California. There I became a Link Trainer and Operational Flight Simulator Operator. My status as an enlisted man required standing watches on a regular basis. “Standing a watch” occurred on “duty days,” and we were not allowed to leave the base on those days. Only the people who weren’t on duty could leave the base to go on “liberty.”

It was many months later, December 13, 1960 and I had the duty. I walked into the flight operations area and overheard a flight-suited Navy pilot filing a flight plan for Seattle. I mentioned to him that I was from Seattle. His immediate and friendly reply was “Would you like to go with me?” With a somewhat resigned response, I told him I couldn’t go because I had the duty that day. He said, “I can get you off,” And he did. Wow, I was excited. This would be my first flight in a two-seater single engine jet. The airplane was a TV-2 Navy jet trainer (Air Force designation, T-33).

Fortunately, I had gone through the training required to ride in Navy jets. The first part of the training had involved sitting in a low pressure chamber with a medically qualified instructor and a few other trainees. This cylindrical steel chamber, rounded at both ends, was massively ribbed and had a heavy air-tight door near one end. Air was evacuated from the chamber to a pressure altitude of 37,000 feet. Some of us, myself included, volunteered to remove our oxygen masks at that altitude to demonstrate the effects of hypoxia. It took less than a minute for me to begin to lose consciousness. They took us on up to 42,000 to check us out on pressure breathing. Pressure breathing is similar to exhaling into an already air filled balloon. Having to forcibly exhale against the pressure from within the mask pushes enough oxygen into the lungs and blood stream to keep a person alive and alert. We also learned how to clear our ears in an emergency descent by forcing air into our inner ears with nostrils pinched shut and mouth tightly closed.

The second part of the training was to sit in an ejection seat training device, assume the correct posture, fire the thing off by pulling up on the ejection seat handles and be instantly and explosively accelerated up a vertical track. Included in this training phase was also the use of the bailout bottle. Attached to the ejection seat, it provided enough oxygen for a free fall through the higher altitudes to breathable lower altitudes where a pressure sensor would deploy the parachute.

The pilot, Lieutenant Commander Keck, was helpful and friendly as we checked out a way-too-big flight suit for me, an oxygen mask and a helmet. We walked out to the airplane, he performed an extensive pre-flight check, then we climbed a ladder into the cockpit of this really cool looking plane. Mr. Keck got into the front seat and I climbed into the back seat. I was familiar with all of the instruments from my experience as a flight simulator operator, but this was real, and it was exciting. The bubble canopy above me extended down to about my shoulder level and provided excellent visibility. I could tell that this was going to be a blast. From my vantage point behind the pilot, only the top of his helmeted head showed, but by leaning to one side I could see forward for a partial view of the small triangular section of plexiglass at the very front of the canopy. He spent several minutes going through the pre-start checklist of 50 some items and then initiated the engine start procedure.

There is something sweet about the sound of certain airplane's engines starting up. The TV-2 was one of them. The slowly rising whine of the ground power unit (GPU) precedes the whump of the main turbine lighting off and then the pitch increases as the Allison turbine spools up to its normal 35% idle power setting. As we readied for takeoff, Mr. Keck went through the pre-takeoff check list and with the canopy still open for cooling, we rolled briskly and smoothly along the taxi way.

We were given our IFR (instrument flight rules) clearance to Sand Point Naval Air Station in Seattle, and cleared for takeoff. He said, “Are you clear of the canopy?” I responded with a “Yes sir” and as the canopy closed and locked, we taxied into position on the runway. He asked me if I was ready to go. I was. The flaps were set at 30 degrees. He advanced the throttle to full power and we accelerated quickly and smoothly down runway 9 right. We rotated, leaving the ground at 110 knots, and were soon climbing at almost 6000 feet per minute with the gear and flaps retracted, into the clear, but smoggy, late afternoon, Bay Area sky. Our initial assigned cruising altitude was 42,000 feet.

As we climbed, I smiled continuously. This was so cool. We had turned after takeoff to head north to Seattle. I began monitoring my instrument panel which included everything that the pilot had on his. The airplane was fully equipped with dual controls including throttle, so I was able to observe all readings and settings from my vantage point in the rear seat. My training as a flight simulator operator gave me the knowledge to understand all of the engine, navigational and flight instrument readings, emergency warning light systems and oxygen remaining. Wow what fun.

The navigation instruments included an ADF (Automatic Direction Finder) indicator, a needle that gave us a relative bearing to whatever NDB (Non-Directional Radio Beacon) or AM broadcast station it was tuned into. There was also a Visual Omni Range/Tactical Air Navigation indicator (VORTAC) which also provided directional, slant distance, and to/from information when tuned to any VORTAC station. An RMI (Radio Magnetic Indicator) provided additional ADF, VOR information and magnetic heading. In addition to all of this was a gyroscopic compass and an ordinary magnetic compass. And top of all that, we had a transponder which transmitted an assigned code to radar stations on the ground, identifying our aircraft from all others and providing us with the option to receive navigational radar vectors from ground controllers. It was a nicely redundant system for that day and age and pretty much precluded any possibility of getting lost.

As we continued our climb over Northern California, I noticed the ADF needle occasionally fluctuating in an erratic sort of way. As we continued on, this fluctuation became increasingly frequent and longer lasting. Mr. Keck’s voice suddenly came into my headset, “ Jay, it looks like the ADF is going out on us, but no problem. We still have the VORTAC and the RMI, and even in the unlikely event that they both failed, we can still get radar vectors to guide us all the way to Sand Point.” That seemed reasonable to me, and I trusted his judgment. We finally reached our cruising altitude at 42,000 feet. The sky above was darker than it would have been on the ground, and it looked almost as if we were unmoving, suspended in a vaporous bowl. I could see the shadow of our contrail on the thin layer below us. The sun was low on the horizon. We would be arriving at Sand Point after dark.

The plane, with tip tanks filled, held 813 gallons of jet fuel. Cruising at 400 kts (460 mph) at our altitude consumed between 3 and 4 gallons per minute depending on the power setting. We had roughly a four hour range. Our route from Oakland to Seattle along prescribed airways covered about 700 miles. We had ample fuel for the trip with well over an hour reserve for any delay we might face.

As we crossed over into Southern Oregon, the VOR instrument began showing erratic indications on the course deviation needle and the to/from indicator. Clearly this instrument was also failing. Mr. Keck piped up again in my headset to say, “Well Jay, it looks like we’re losing our VOR, but, no problem...the RMI is giving good readings and we still have radar vectors available if we need them.” I wasn’t worried, although considered it odd that two radio navigation instruments should fail one after the other. A few minutes later, over central Oregon, the RMI failed. Mr. Keck came on and said, “Jay we’ll get radar vectors from the ground control radar sites along the way. And we’re changing our flight plan to land at McChord Air Force Base which is closer.”

The sun was just disappearing over the edge of the horizon, it looked really cold outside, but it was beautiful and serene in this quiet Navy jet. Mr. Keck radioed a radar site called Character Control. The controller, with a thick southern accent, instructed him to set his transponder to a certain code and to turn right to a heading of 355 degrees for radar vectors to McChord Air Force Base. Base. We made the slight heading change. The controller confirmed that we were identified and in radar contact. As we flew further north, several layers of clouds visually separated us from the ground. McChord was reporting, "ceiling indefinite, 900 feet, visibility one mile in light rain and fog."

The tops of the clouds beneath us appeared to be quite high, maybe as high as 30,000 feet. We flew northward for many minutes without receiving any further radio communications. Character Control suddenly came up with instructions to contact McChord Radar Approach Control. Mr. Keck acknowledged and repeated the instructions then switched to the McChord RAPCON radio frequency. “McChord approach control, this is Navy Jet 007 with you at four two thousand feet, heading 355, requesting a GCA approach to McChord, over.” (A GCA approach is a ground controlled approach) The McChord controller came back loud and clear, “Navy Jet 007, turn left to 270 degrees and descend to one two thousand feet. Mr. Keck acknowledged and repeated the controllers instructions, turned to the required heading, throttled back and began our descent to 12,000 feet by doing a really nice crisp 8 point aileron roll. “Cool” I thought to myself."

We descended into the tops of the clouds at 32,000 feet. The sun was long gone, but there was still a trace of color. Down, down, down we went, occasionally breaking through the bottom of a cloud layer only to be immediately enveloped by a lower one. As we approached 12,000 feet, Mr. Keck began leveling off. Just as we reached 12,000 feet, the McChord controller came up on the radio, “Navy jet 007 turn right to 315 and descend at pilot's discreti...He was cut off...no further radio transmissions.

Just as I was thinking, ‘This might be getting serious.’ Mr. Keck pulled up, throttled up, and began climbing. We climbed back through all the cloud layers to 38,000 feet. He began flying a left-hand triangular pattern with 2 minute legs. I knew that this indicated to radar observers on the ground that we were totally without radio communications and could neither send nor receive.

We flew this triangular pattern for about 40 minutes. (During that time, I found out later, McChord had scrambled two F-104s to intercept us and guide us down using visual hand signals.) The intercom had quit working, so we couldn’t talk to each other either. I tightened my seat belt, shoulder harness and parachute straps, and re-familiarized myself with the ejection seat handles and bailout bottle. I knew from training that if you have to eject from a TV-2, the back seat guy has to go first. If the front seat guy ejects first, the backseat rider gets a 20 millimeter cannon shell blast in his face.

An icy calm came over me. The low-fuel-pressure warning light came on and I watched the fuel quantity gauge inexorably subtracting gallons, one at a time. Soon thereafter the low oxygen indicator started flicking in and out. About then Mr. Keck passed a note back to me in his gloved hand from over his right shoulder. I grabbed it. It was folded at least four times. As I unfolded it I knew it was going to say, “When the canopy blows, eject.” But it didn’t say that. Here's the note:


Try your mike
button & see if
you can contact
any station
can you receive
at all?

The mike button was on the throttle. I keyed the mike and said, “Any station any station, this is Navy Jet 007, do you read? over.” McChord radar approach came back loud and clear and in a very urgent tone of voice said, “Navy Jet 007, turn left to 270 and descend immediately to one zero thousand feet. I didn’t know if Mr. Keck could hear them or not so I throttled back and began the left turn to 270. He patted the top of his helmet and waggled the stick from side to side, indicating that he had heard and was in control of the airplane. He throttled all the way back to flight idle, threw on the speed brakes (big slats that protrude into the air from the belly and allow the plane to descend almost vertically without exceeding redline airspeed). Wow! We were descending at more than 12,000 feet per minute. The airplane was shuddering in a fore and aft jerky motion. I had to employ the nostril-pinch-mouth-shut ear clearing maneuver. The ventilating/aircon system was producing corn snow inside the cockpit and the inside of the canopy was frosting over as we made this emergency descent.

By some electrical quirk of fate, the radio communications held and we were vectored onto final for a GCA approach to McChord. The GCA controller gave us continuous directions and corrections which sounded something like this: “Navy Jet 007, you’re six miles from touchdown, no further acknowledgements are necessary….you’re slightly to the right of center line turn left 2 degrees…..you’re 20 feet above glide path adjust your rate of descent...on glide path...on centerline…...on glide path...on centerline. You’re 4 miles from touchdown, check landing gear down and locked...you’re slightly below glide path at 1200 feet adjust rate of descent.” These kinds of instructions continue until the pilot sees the runway and can visually complete the approach and landing.

It was totally dark outside. We were down to 1200 feet and still no sign of the ground or any lights. The fuel quantity gauge was still ticking off the gallons and only 27 gallons of fuel remained, not enough for a missed approach and barely enough to make the field. The inside of the canopy was still completely frosted over and I could see Mr. Keck doing something to the front of the canopy with his right hand. I craned to the side and saw him with a credit card, scraping the frost off of the little triangular section of plexiglass at the front of the canopy. At 900 feet a few fuzzy lights started to show up beneath us as we emerged from the clouds. At 800 feet we were clear of the clouds but the one mile of visibility required continued instructions from the GCA controller. Mr. Keck had made an outstanding precision approach. He radioed the controller that he had the runway in sight and shortly after that we touched down on the runway with fire engines racing along beside us. Wow! What a rush and a relief. As we pulled into the parking place, I glanced at the fuel quantity indicator gauge. We had 15 gallons of fuel left, enough for about two and a half more minutes of flight at low-altitude, approach power settings. Whew! It was nice to be on the ground.

In the mean time, my poor dad, who knew I was coming, had been sitting in the flight operations room at Sand Point Naval Air Station trying to overhear the covert whisperings being exchanged between the staff members there regarding the fate of Navy Jet 007. He had heard them saying that Navy Jet 007 was squawking emergency and that they had lost communications with the plane...F104’s scrambled... Of course he was worried and they weren’t telling him anything. However, after we landed at McChord he was informed by someone that the pilot and I would be heading to the Top of the Town, a bar at the top of the Sorrento Hotel in downtown Seattle. Mr. Keck had commandeered an air force car for our personal use. We left the airplane in the capable hands of the Air Force maintenance personnel to trouble shoot and fix so that we could return to Oakland the next day.

All I had to wear was the over-sized baggy looking khaki flight suit that was issued to me before we left Oakland, but I didn’t much care. Mr. Keck and I drove straight to the Sorrento Hotel, got on the elevator to the Top of the Town, sat down at a table and ordered a double shot of whiskey each. My dad joined us a few minutes later and the three of us had a few more drinks together before my dad and I left for home.

I slept well in my own bed that night. My mother wasn’t told of this adventure until months later. She was a real worrier, even worse than my dad. The next afternoon my parents drove me out to McChord to meet up with Mr. Keck for the flight back to Oakland. The airplane had been fixed and was ready to go. Apparently a mechanic at the Oakland Naval Air Station had set the voltage regulator too low and as the battery had gradually drained during the flight, various navigational components had failed, one by one. There had also been a loose connection with the pilot’s front seat intercom and radio jack, but, my keying the mike in the back seat had somehow restored the pilot’s connection and transmitting capability.

The flight back was really fun. Shortly after takeoff, Mr. Keck announced to me over the intercom, “ Jay it’s your airplane. Wake me up when we get there.” The climb was easy to 43,000 feet, but, in trying to maintain level flight at 400 kts, I at first found myself going through altitude changes of as much as 5000 feet up or down. I also had a heck of a time trying to keep the airplane from constantly rolling a few degrees from side to side. Needless to say, Mr. Keck didn’t go to sleep, but offered to turn off the hydraulic boost which he said would make it far less sensitive to tiny control inputs from me. We gave that a try and the controls became rock hard, and far less responsive, enabling me to maintain the correct altitude more easily and to stop the gentle rolling. After a while we tried it again with the boost on and I was able to finesse my technique and fly straight and level without all of the previous gyrations. When we neared Oakland Mr. Keck took over to make the approach and landing. We maintained altitude to the initial approach fix, the Fremont NDB about 18 miles east of Oakland.

Once again he executed a snappy 8 point roll as we began our descent in a racetrack holding pattern over the NDB. There were towering cumulus clouds and stratus layers to 30,000 feet. There was no one else in the holding pattern. The sunset was gorgeous. We plummeted into the top of a cumulus buildup and emerged moments later, inside of an immense, completely enclosed cavity of fantastically illuminated clouds. The colors ranged from deep shadowy blues and purples to brilliant pinks and peach colored shades with a full range of colors in between. Instead of descending in the prescribed racetrack pattern, Mr. Keck elected to slowly roll inverted and dive upside-down into an ominous looking dark blue hole at the lowest far corner of this huge cloud cavern. We descended, emerging again and again through misty ceilings into other caverns, cloud corridors and vaporous twisting caves. We swooped, rolled and cavorted, through layer after layer, down, down, down we went. It got darker and darker. If only I could have had a video of that descent. I was transfixed. We resumed the racetrack pattern at around 3000 feet and made an instrument approach to the Oakland airport for a feather-soft landing.

I flew with Mr. Keck several more times after that flight and he always gave me the controls for a generous portion of the flight. That whole adventure cemented my desire to fly for a living and the images from that flight still fire my enthusiasm to this day.

© 2003  Jay Kelley
All rights reserved