Since I actually got queasy on the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower (a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier), I’ll never avail myself of an invitation to go up with one of those jet-jockeys.
Especially since Reilly describes a process I recognize all too well.
But let me tell you about my pal Jay, God rest him.
Jay was the supply officer of VF-143, the Pukin’ Dogs, a squadron of F-14 Tomcats on the Ike and also based at Oceana.
For those of you who haven’t known F-14 flyers, to say they’re a different breed is like saying Michelangelo dabbled in paints. To tell the truth, on land they’re arrogant, self-absorbed jerks, pretty much. Although in their element—taking off and landing on postage-stamp-sized nuclear carrier decks on roiling seas—ya gotta admit that they’ve got a place in God’s (or the Navy’s) weltanschauung.
For Tomcat jocks, everyone else (including other Navy aviators) is strictly JV. That includes the ground-pounders of the squadron. And just to prove that, they generally offer earthers a ride in the back seat, where the RIO (Radio Intercept Officer) operates. The object of these flights is exactly as described by Reilly: go up/down/twisty/rolly/flippy/floppy until your passenger loses his lunch.
So when one of the flyboys offered to take Jay on such a joyride, Our Man made sure he was prepared. He had lunch at some faux Mex place and got an order or two of nice, chunky guacamole to take out. He hid the condiment in a sick bag exactly like the one he was issued “officially”, suffered through the condescending pre-flight “explanations” delivered by the jock, and got into the back seat.
The pilot went through all the gyrations required of those of his breed, expecting to hear Jay beg for mercy. This went on for some time and finally Jay made the expected non-verbal sounds.
When they landed, the ground crew helped him out and everyone gathered round him expectantly. Jay clutched his barf bag in his hand and moaned about how sick he’d been.
Then he opened the bag, scooped out a fingerful of nice, chunky guacamole, stuck it in his mouth and chirped, “Hey—it’s still WARM!” Turns out that Tomcat pilots are pretty easily grossed out.
That man was the very definition of grace under fire.
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