From day one, the Air Force drilled student pilots on the Four Steps for any emergency:
1. Maintain Aircraft Control
2. Analyze the Situation
3. Take the Appropriate Action
4. Land as Soon as Conditions Permit
In pilot training, we recited them like scripture during brutal emergency evaluations called "Stand Ups."
An instructor would throw out a scenario: “You’re pulling closed and feel a loss of thrust.”
Then he’d scan the room like a hungry lion eyeing the slowest zebra.
If called, you stood, recited the Four Steps verbatim, then walked through the emergency in front of everyone.
Screw it up, and you sat down in shame while the next victim took a shot.
It was brutal — but it taught us to think when the jet was trying to kill us.
Years later, those lessons stopped being academic.
Red Flag — fighter pilot heaven. I was number eight in a formation of F-15s just east of Student Gap.
Suddenly my jet pitched hard left and Bitchin’ Betty calmly announced: “Engine Fire right. Engine Fire right.”
I scanned the cockpit.
Master Caution light.
Engine Fire light.
EGT pegged.
Warning panel lit up like the Vegas Strip.
I stopped the roll, yanked the throttle to idle, and started dumping fuel.
Even from two-mile tactical formation, lead could see the chaos erupting.“Toast 8, you’re trailing smoke and venting gas.”
“Worse,” I answered. “I’m on fire and I’m dumping gas.”
When I let go of the stick, the jet immediately rolled left again, so I flew with my left knee to keep my hands free for checklists and switches.
Not exactly textbook.
Sometimes you improvise… sometimes you die.
I shut down the engine and discharged the fire bottle — but the fire light stayed on.
About this time, my flight lead — now my chase ship — slid into formation. “You’ve got a hole in your burner can — and a small fire inside.”
As I was pondering this, my fuel gauge died. Wing tanks wouldn’t jettison. All airspeed indications failed.
Then things got really exciting.
A second fire light.
Bitchin’ Betty again: “AMAD Fire. AMAD Fire.”
My chase airplane banked sharply away and uttered a phrase every pilot hopes never to hear:
“Deacon… now you’re REALLY on fire.”
I looked back. A fire engulfed my jet up to the speed brake.
“You’re trailing flames fifteen feet behind your jet,” chase said.
“I’m gonna punch,” I said as I secured classified material in my G-suit pockets. “Tell the SOF to launch the rescue helicopter.”
I was fifteen seconds from ejecting when chase piped up again. “It’s back to a small fire.”
At this point, a small fire was a good thing — which brought me to the last step of the checklist: If Fire Persists — Eject.
That left me with a decision: eject into the mountains below or land the crippled fighter.
I chose the latter — for now.
I performed a controllability check with chase calling out airspeeds. I’d have to land at 190 knots.
Too heavy. Too fast. Never a good mix, but the manuals said I could stop using the hook on the departure end cable.
I planted the jet on brick one, lowered the nose, hit the hook switch, and thought maybe the airplane was finally done trying to kill me—until chase ruined my day again.
"Your hook’s not down.”
I hit the brakes — Fred Flintstone style.
“And now your tires are on fire.”
At that point, nothing could have surprised me. For the third time that sortie, I prepared to eject.
The jet — still on fire — stopped about three hundred feet from the end of the runway.
The ARFF trucks doused the fire(s) as I egressed via the internal boarding ladder.
Every emergency fills the clue bag.
This one filled it to overflowing.
ALT Combat Edge -- October 2023 issue