In the Air Defense Command, each Fighter Interceptor Squadron (FIS) had a designated alert detachment. For my squadron, the 5th FIS, at Minot AFB, ND, the alert detachment was at Davis Monthan AFB, AZ. When deployed to DM, we were there for a week and sat alert for 24 hours on, 24 hours off. On Friday mornings at 0900 our command and control air division would initiate a practice air defense scramble. This would coincide with two of our squadron jets from Minot rotating down to replace the alert pilots and jets. With everything working as advertised, the two scrambled F-106 Delta Darts would intercept the jets inbound from Minot for practice intercepts in Military Operations Airspace (MOA) east of Tucson. When the area work was complete, all of the jets would return to DM, refuel, and reset with two new pilots and jets on 5 minute alert status. On average, our squadron pilots would go to DM every 4 to 6 weeks. Sitting alert was pretty boring for the most part. We ate three meals a day and watched a lot of movies, all in our alert facility. Our tasking requirement, if scrambled on an active defense alert, required us to be airborne within five minutes of the alert klaxon sounding. Quite the adrenaline rush when it happened.
So, it’s Friday morning. I’ve just finished a nice meat omelet with, potatoes, and salsa. It’s nearly 0900 and there’s the first hint of a morning download. Not wanting to get scrambled from the upstairs restroom in the pilot quarters, I convince myself that I can take care of this after we fly. When the klaxon sounds, the cardinal rule in the facility is that ONLY the 2 pilots and 2 crew chiefs move. Everyone else is to stay out of the way, stay out of door ways, stay off the stairway, and generally be invisible, allowing the four primary players unrestricted access to the two alert jets.
It’s nine o’clock straight up. No klaxon. It’s normally like clockwork. Not today. Five minutes after, still nothing. A few minutes later, the “urge” is becoming more of a presence. At 0930, still with no klaxon and an impending uncontrollable physiologic event is getting ready to happen, I quickly hump it upstairs to the restroom. I assume the position in a stall and control the nearly uncontrollable. Yep! You guessed it. The klaxon sounds as I’m sitting there, flight suit unzipped, on the floor around my ankles. There’s the sound of a stampede upstairs and down as the crew chiefs and my alert partner bolt for the doors and everyone else is clearing out of the way. I quickly stand up, zip up, slam the stall door open, and run for the stair well. Turning the corner to the stair well, I start down, taking them two steps at a time, building momentum as a I go, only to encounter two of the support troops going down the stairs. Blowing through would have injured them both. So, I put the brakes on, twisting my right ankle nearly 90 degrees. The resulting hot pinch is short lived because the adrenaline rush is beyond maxed out. Getting past them, I push it up, and hustle to my jet. My partner’s jet engine is starting to spin up. I turn the corner around my jet’s long pitot boom, scramble up the boarding ladder, hop onto the seat, buckle up my seatbelt and shoulder harness, and don my helmet and gloves as the crew chief pulls the boarding ladder clear and responds to my start signal by introducing high pressure air to the J75 engine. As the engine RPM rapidly spins up, I complete checklist items in preparation of the impending scramble. Ready to give him the “pull chocks” signal, I press forward on the top of the rudder pedals to hold the brakes. It happens! My right ankle revolts and my foot starts to spasm back and forth. It’s impossible to hold any pressure on the right brake. I’m not going anywhere. Keying the mic, I explain to the detachment controller and the other pilot what’s going on. The controller says to keep the jet running. The detachment commander is coming down to fly it. I unbuckle and standup. My ankle is now in full blown revolt and hurting something fierce. The boss is standing at the bottom of the boarding ladder as I gimp my way to the ground. We do the handoff and I hobble clear of the hangar pod as he taxies out, following my alert partner who is already half way down the alert chute to the runway.
My next alert tour event is straight to the base hospital emergency room. An X-ray reveals a severely twisted ankle. The Doc said my ankle couldn’t have twisted any farther without breaking. He hands me a pair of crutches and says to use them for the next six weeks. The ankle healed up and it was back to flying. But, in the years to follow, it frequently rolls under me when inadvertently stepping on an irregular surface.
An adrenaline rush like no other.
