March 1992
First Lieutenant Casey Tompkins smiled looking out at the perfect day. The air was cool, the sun shining, the sky a blazing blue, and she was starting the new life she’d always dreamed of. Today was the first day of Air Force pilot training. Driving due east on the long, straight road through the Arizona desert, she recalled everything she had done to get here.
She’d already beaten the odds just to get accepted. Thousands applied every year, and only a few hundred were chosen. Most didn’t make it past the grueling flight physical. She had to prove she was almost physically perfect with twenty-twenty vision, perfect hearing, no color blindness, and on and on. She’d scored very well on the battery of written tests after studying every night for months. It was two full days of examinations covering math, physics, electronics, mechanical engineering, aerial photo recognition, and flight instrument interpretation. She’d put in extra work to get outstanding personal recommendations from her commanders, and earned an exemplary service record in her first three years in the Air Force. Every spare dollar went to flying lessons to get her private pilot’s license just to make her application more competitive.
She also remembered the women she left behind. One in particular came into her mind—Lynn. She was sweet, kind, loving, and ready to quit her job and sell her home to move to Arizona to be with her. Casey had broken her heart when she told Lynn not to come with her. It had to be done. She had to focus all her time, energy, and attention to make it through pilot training. Now she was on her way. The struggle and sacrifice evaporated into the clear desert sky as anticipation buzzed through her veins.
There was nothing but cotton and alfalfa fields as far as she could see with the rugged Superstition Mountains on the far horizon. Something in the distance caught her eye. It looked like a swarm of gnats or maybe a beehive. Driving closer, she could tell they weren’t bees but were, in fact, airplanes. She pulled over for a better look and saw dozens of planes banking, descending, and climbing in a crazy, coordinated dance. She had never seen so many planes so close together in her life.
She recognized the T-37, the primary jet trainer, and the sleek T-38, the supersonic advanced trainer. The T-37 would soon be her jet, and this would be her new world. A T-37 flew right over her head making a hard banked turn with the high-pitched whine of jet noise. The pungent smell of jet exhaust was intoxicating. The ground rumbled and she looked up as a four-ship formation of white T-38 jets roared overhead in a tight line approaching the airport. Transfixed, she watched the lead aircraft snap into a ninety-degree bank turn followed immediately by the second, third, and fourth jets as they executed identical maneuvers. The landing gear came down on the lead jet, then two, three, and four as they flew a graceful descending turn to the runway with perfect symmetry. She was so filled with exhilaration she thought she might spontaneously combust. This was her life’s dream coming true before her eyes. In her soul, she knew someday that would be her leading a four-ship formation of supersonic T-38s to a perfect landing. Only one thought came to her mind: Please, God, don’t let me fuck this up.
She drove to the main gate, got out her green military ID card, and watched the cute security police airman wave the cars through. The young woman snapped to attention and saluted Casey when she recognized the officer decal on the car.
Casey returned the salute. “Could you please tell me where the 82nd Student Squadron is? I’m new here and starting pilot training today.”
The airman gave her a big smile as she pointed down the road. “Yes, ma’am, the student squadron is the third big building on the right. You can park in the rear.”
“Thank you, Airman.”
“Any time, ma’am. Congratulations and welcome to Willie, ma’am.” She gave Casey another smart salute and waved her in.
Casey read the big sign just inside the main gate. “Welcome to Willie. Home of the Best Trained Pilots in the World.”
She walked up to the student squadron building fifteen minutes early and headed toward the group of men in blue uniforms with fresh, very short haircuts. They were in excellent physical shape and were gesturing and talking like they were already the hotshot pilots they thought they were. Casey sized them up. They were her classmates but also her competition. She could easily match any man here in physical conditioning, intelligence, ambition, and hard work. They were chatting with each other and glanced at her but didn’t speak to her. She approached the nearest one and asked him, “Is this UPT class 93-02?”
“That’s us. I’m Mike Harris,” he said as he extended his hand to her.
“Nice to meet you, Mike. I’m Casey Tompkins.” She returned his handshake with a firm grip.
A loud voice boomed, “All right, everyone, fall in and take a seat.”
They filed into a large, austere-looking classroom with chalkboards at the front, large airplane models around the room, posters of electrical diagrams, and a giant-sized “whiz wheel,” the portable mechanical flight computer, off to the side. In front of each seat was a big stack of books, a regular-sized whiz wheel, a green flashlight, and a large briefcase. Casey scanned the titles of her books—Weather for Aircrews, T-37 Flight Manual, Aerodynamics, Instrument Flying, Aircraft Weight and Balance, Aerospace Physiology, Instrument Flight Rules, USAF Air Navigation.
She saw only one other woman in the group. The woman had a big smile on her face as she talked to the guy in the seat next to her. She was pleasant looking but not remarkable. She definitely looked straight, but Casey was glad she wasn’t the only woman in the class.
“Room, ten-hut!”
The entire group jumped up and snapped to attention as a middle-aged man in a green flight suit walked to the front of the room. He surveyed the group, let everyone stand ramrod straight for a few minutes, then said, “At ease.
“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Gary Oscar, commander of the 82nd Student Squadron, and I want to welcome you to your first day of pilot training. You’ve accomplished a lot just to get here, but now the real work begins. You’re going to have a very busy day today, and every day, for the next year. Your only job right now is to complete this training program and learn to fly as an Air Force pilot. Here are a few points I want to touch on. Be on time. Lateness will not be tolerated whether it’s showing up for class or dropping a bomb on a target; you will be on time for everything. Don’t get in trouble with the locals. If any of you gets a DUI or gets arrested, even off base, you will be out of this program immediately and probably out of the Air Force as well. And finally, we are here to help you. If you have any problems, of any kind, my door is always open. Come and talk to me and I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Once again, welcome to Willie, and now I’d like to introduce your class commander, Captain Steve Morgan.”
Another voice shouted out, “Room, ten-hut,” as the squadron commander left the room. Casey watched the commander walk past her out of her peripheral vision and knew the last thing he’d said was a complete lie. In her three years in the Air Force, and the four years of ROTC in college before that, she’d learned that you never go to the commander with any problems, certainly not any personal problems. That was the quickest way to end your career. The statement “We’re here to help you” was a required platitude in every commander’s speech. No, Casey would never talk to this man about any problem, would prefer he not even know who she was, and would maintain a very low profile while in pilot training.
“I’m Captain Morgan, your class commander, and we have a jam-packed day today, so you need to pay attention because I won’t be repeating myself. On top of your manuals is your schedule for the next month. You’ll be doing ground training, academics, and physiological training for the first four weeks before you go to the flight line. You’ll be taking three to five written tests every week, and you’ll be evaluated on everything you do at every stage of training. Unlike the way some of you got through college, we do not use the ‘Pump and Dump’ system here. You cannot cram the night before the test, regurgitate the material, and then forget everything you just learned. Everything here is based on the building block approach. You need to thoroughly understand the material, memorize it, retain it, and correctly apply it in the air. You need to hit the ground running if you are going to make it through this program. Put your books in your briefcase and follow me to equipment issue.”
Casey was a little nervous as she packed up her books, but her nerves were overcome by the excitement of being here. How am I ever going to learn all this? She vowed to never let any of her classmates ever see any of her nervousness.
The group filed out and went down the hall to a big room with a sign reading “Individual Equipment Issue.” Arrows on the concrete floor showed the direction of movement through the giant room with piles of gear stacked on long tables. There were three small fitting rooms to try on flight suits. When Casey got her turn in the fitting room and tried on her flight suit for the first time, she almost whooped out loud as she stepped into the green coveralls. There were a dozen zippers on it, and the synthetic fire-retardant Nomex material was stiff and scratchy at first. She pulled up the long zipper from her crotch to her throat and stared at herself in the mirror in amazement. She pulled in the Velcro tabs at the waist so it wasn’t quite so baggy and admired herself in the mirror. The flight suit made her shoulders look broad, her waist tapered, her legs long, and nicely showed off her firm butt. She couldn’t wipe the huge grin off her face. This flight suit made her look and feel butch, powerful, and hot. This would definitely be her favorite Air Force uniform ever.
They each received a green padded helmet bag, four olive drab flight suits, a Nomex flight jacket, a pair of black leather flight boots, leather flying gloves, and a duffel bag. They were herded into another room labeled “Helmet Fittings,” where Casey watched with fascination as each of her classmates had a large metal contraption put on their heads followed by an enlisted technician pouring a liquid resembling pancake batter into the top of the device. The first man cried out like a little kid, “Ow, that’s hot!” as the liquid turned into foam and oozed out from the holes all over his head. It solidified instantly and the technician scraped off the excess with a knife, then released the man from the head mold. Another technician removed the rigid foam skull from the mold, labeled each one with the student’s name, and stacked them like a skull collection in boxes on the wall. When it was Casey’s turn, the liquid felt like a warm hug on her head. This is for my very own helmet, custom made for my head.
The class commander shouted, “Drop your gear off in the classroom and you have thirty minutes for lunch. The dining hall is across the street. Be back here at 1300 hours. Do not be late!” As they hurried across the street to the dining hall, her classmates were talking and joking with each other. None of them spoke to her with the exception of Mike, the guy she met when she first got here.
“That’s quite a pile of books they gave us, huh?”
“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll be up late reading every night.”
“I noticed you’re a first lieutenant, not a second lieutenant ‘butter bar’ like the rest of us. What did you do before pilot training?” Mike asked.
“I worked at a research lab in Ohio. It took me three years of applying to pilot training before I got accepted.” She avoided telling him anything more about herself. If her classmates knew she had designed prototype flight simulators, they might think she had an edge over them and see her as a potential threat. She just wanted to fit in, be accepted, and get through this training course.
She hurried back over to the student squadron and flipped open her T-37 flight manual. She scanned the chapter titles: Engines, Electrical System, Landing Gear, Flight Controls, Hydraulics, Fire Protection, Flight Instruments, Weight and Balance, Emergency Procedures. It seemed overwhelming, but she couldn’t wait to dive in. She had a hunger to learn everything she could about this airplane.
Captain Morgan came back into the classroom and announced that the class was going on a walking tour—first stop, the flight simulator building. This was the newest and most modern building on the base. As they walked in, Casey saw the cavernous interior and the dim lighting and felt the frigid air conditioning. Captain Morgan showed them the sim sign-in area, the eight simulator bays with full T-37 cockpits on large platforms, and six giant hydraulic actuators underneath each one. It was eerily quiet in the big building except for the squeaks and groans from the moving sims. The simulator platforms moved like big insects as the giant pistons pushed and pulled them from underneath.
“You will do all your emergency procedures training in the sim and you will learn ninety percent of your instrument flying here. You will NEVER intentionally crash the sim. You will treat the sim as if it is the real aircraft at all times. Is that understood?”
The entire class answered, “Yes, sir.” Casey was comfortable with flight simulators and hoped she would do well with this part of the training.
“All right, everyone, next stop, the flight line.”
As they walked into the big, windowless, gray building, Casey looked out onto the huge concrete ramp at row after row of white T-37 jets. The noise from the engines was almost painful, a high-pitched whine as the jets taxied in and out like an organized ant colony. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on one of those jets.
The squadron building was rather dim inside with a wide hallway down the center filled with students and instructors rushing to and from the flight rooms on either side. Captain Morgan took them to their flight rooms. The class would be divided with half the students going into Warlock flight and the other half into Good Grief flight. The logo for Warlock was an eagle descending with a big spear in its talons. Good Grief’s logo was Snoopy flying a T-37 instead of his doghouse Sopwith Camel. Casey decided she liked Snoopy better and hoped she was assigned to Good Grief.
The flight room was the heart of pilot training. It was a noisy, busy open room with a dozen conversations going on simultaneously. Casey saw the instructor pilots teaching their students using model airplanes, drawing diagrams, and flying with their hands. The IPs sat across from their students at tables around the perimeter. There was a podium in the corner, airplane murals on the walls, and a giant sheet of Plexiglas on the front wall with the names of the students on the left and rows and columns of numbers across the rest. This was the master schedule board with most of the entries written in black or blue grease pencil. There were a few entries circled in red. Casey didn’t know what this meant, but she sensed it was somehow bad.
Captain Morgan led them to the front of the building to the supervisor of flying desk. “This is the SOF desk, where you will sign out your jet and sign in at the end of the mission with your flying time.” Casey saw a male student pilot and a woman instructor pilot approach the desk. They both had deep red lines across their cheeks and nose from the oxygen masks, hair wet with sweat, and the student had sweat stains all over his flight suit. Casey couldn’t help but stare at the woman instructor. She wasn’t tall, maybe five feet four inches with a trim, slight build. Even though her hair was wet, Casey could tell it was sandy brown, straight, collar length, and parted on the right. She had a determined look on her face with high cheekbones, full lips, dark arched brows, and hazel green eyes. She wasn’t pretty in the usual sense but had classic features that gave her a striking kind of beauty. Casey couldn’t take her eyes off her. The male student was at least a foot taller than the IP and was the size of a football linebacker with a grim, dazed look on his face. He went over to the sign-in log to fill in the flight time. The woman IP pointed to the sheet and said, “No, the flight time was 1.4, not 1.3 hours.”
“But, ma’am, I wrote down the takeoff and landing times, and I came up with 1.3 hours.”
“Do NOT argue with me, Lieutenant!”
“I’m not, ma’am, I just—”
The IP slammed her checklist on the counter, stepped into his personal space, and poked her finger into his massive chest. Her eyes blazed with fire as she tilted her head up to look him in the face. Her voice was low and threatening, “I am sick and tired of all your excuses, Johnson. You have fucked up every single thing on this ride today, including the sign-in.”
“But, ma’am—”
“Forget it, Johnson. You just busted this ride, I’m done with you, and you’re out of this program. Wait for me in the flight commander’s office.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He walked off, his head slumped down like a beaten dog.
“Goddamn it,” the IP muttered under her breath as she corrected the sign-in log. She glanced up at the crowd of new students staring at her, made eye contact with Casey for a moment, then stormed off down the hall.
“Captain Morgan, who was that?” one of her classmates asked after they were out of earshot.
“That, Lieutenant, was Captain Hard-Ass, uh, I mean Hardesty. She’s the chief of flight safety.”
Casey was horrified at the tragic scene she’d just witnessed. She couldn’t take her eyes off this powerful, compact woman. She was intrigued by her but also felt fear in the pit of her stomach. She heard her classmates mutter, “What a bitch,” and, “Hard-Ass is right.” I hope I never have to fly with her.