Paul Gillebaard - USSR Hoax

Tom had sat idle long enough while the rudder pedals moved underneath his feet, and the control stick rotated around between his legs. It was time for him to take control. “I’ve got the stick.”

Chris retorted in a surprised tone, “Roger that.”

Tom jiggled the control slightly, and, as expected, there was no movement of the plane. Then he jammed the stick far right and the supersonic trainer shot into a fast roll. Keeping his eyes on the false horizon he did two full rotations before stopping the spin perfectly back at level flight. He then jammed the stick left, doing a single snap roll. “She seems fine to me. You’ve got the stick.”

“Roger.”

Tom felt the stick moving, indicating that Chris had the plane. “You’ll find all of our jets have their own personality. I’m sure it was the same when you flew in the Navy. We’ve even nicknamed some of them. My favorite is Ms. Monroe because she keeps me on my toes. After awhile, you’ll learn each one and know how to get the most out of her.”

Chris eventually moved on to the subject of Tom’s flight in space, quizzing him on all the particulars. Fortunately, the flight to New Orleans was short and they were soon entering the dirty clouds for their landing, quieting Chris as he focused on his instruments.

It wasn’t long before the slim T-38 jet was being bounced around in the nasty weather.

Chris checked in with the tower to inform them of their position. “Centennial Tower, NASA nine one four, ten miles northwest at 4,200, request clearance.”

“Roger, nine one four, proceed IFR to runway two five left.”

“Roger, Centennial, runway two five left.”

Riddick put the plane into a careful turn, bleeding off their air speed as he set up for their approach. With zero visibility outside their canopy, Tom’s eyes were glued to the instruments. He had only stalled a T-38 once and fortunately he was high enough to apply power and regain speed. That incident taught him that the plane experienced a slight flutter just before it was about to stall. In the bad weather, he doubted he would feel that burble. He just had to stay ahead of the plane and be prepared for the unexpected.

They were set to break through the clouds around 250 feet. Tom was convinced they were out of position for a safe landing. Confident they were still in a manageable situation, he kept this to himself. He wanted to see how the rookie would handle their predicament when they emerged from the soup. If Chris was as good a pilot as he claimed, he would realize his mistake and inform the tower of a missed approach, pulling up on the stick to try the maneuver again.

At 200 feet they finally punched out of the clouds into the hard driving rain. As Tom suspected, they were way past the outer beacon. It was obvious they were going to overshoot the runway. Tom was waiting for Chris to give up the attempt and radio the tower of a missed approach. The pelting rain made it tough for Tom to see the runway in front of them. Feeling the rookie was taking too long to make up his mind, Tom decided to suggest a fly-by over the radio so Chris could fly around the airport and retry the landing. As he prepared to talk, he was thrown hard against his belt straps as the plane darted into a sudden strong left bank turn.

What the hell? Tom’s heart skipped a beat knowing Chris had just turned the plane right toward a seventy-foot water tower.

He grabbed the stick, breaking protocol. “I have the stick!”

Tom felt resistance at first, indicating Riddick wasn’t giving up control. Tom manhandled both the stick and pedals, overpowering the younger pilot. The weather was preventing him from seeing the water tower, but he knew it was coming. Their air speed of 230 miles per hour was dangerously low, causing their plane to lose altitude. Because of those tiny wings, he couldn’t yet pull up on the stick and light the afterburner. The high-performance jet needed to be flying at least 270 miles per hour to get lift. He had to make a snap decision-fly over or around the dangerous obstacle. His best chance was to go over. He retracted the landing gear before pointing the nose slightly down to gain the required speed, putting them in even more danger. He took his eye off the air speed indicator for a quick peek out the canopy in front of him. A large, ghostly gray figure appeared, fast approaching through the muck. He did a swift glance down at his altimeter and saw they had dropped to 40 feet. Their air speed had increased to 265 miles per hour. Close enough. He pulled back on the stick as hard as he could before kicking in the afterburner, hoping for the best.

After a few tense moments with those powerful engines howling, it became obvious they had cleared the massive structure. Tom quickly unhooked his oxygen mask as he continued to gasp for air. After a few more calming puffs, he radioed in. “Centennial, nine one four missed approach.”

“Roger, nine one four. Proceed to 1,000.”

Looking out the side of the canopy, Tom peered back in the direction of the water tower. He could only make out the flashing beacon on top of the giant. He exhaled a mouthful of air, thanking God as he turned back toward the control panel.

Chris broke the tension with anger in his voice. “Why did you take the stick? I had everything under control. I was going to do a visual circling approach.”

Tom was shocked the rookie had no idea what had just happened. “And you would have gotten us killed. Did you know you were flying right toward a seventy-foot water tower?”

Silence reigned as the helmet in front of Tom turned. Chris was looking out the window down toward the tower. A tentative voice answered, “Oh. No.”

Tom did his best to keep his cool. “You need to do your homework and know the airfield before you try pulling some crazy stunt like that.”

“Sorry, my mistake.”

“Yeah, almost a deadly one.”

A long pause stretched. In a concerned voice, Chris asked, “Tom, you’re not going to report this, are you?”

Tom knew he should, but it would affect the young astronaut’s career. He decided to keep the incident to himself, but he would inform Dick the rookie needed work. “No, this will stay between us.”

WITH HIS HANDS deep in the pockets of the NASA-issued lab coat, Tom casually strolled across the meticulously clean shop floor of the Michoud Assembly Facility. The massive manufacturing area was eerily quiet, practically empty of workers. It was 8:30 p.m., and most of the Marshall Space Flight Center employees stationed from Huntsville, Alabama, had clocked out for the day. He was happy to finally be able to stretch out his legs after being trapped in a six-hour meeting. He had time to kill while waiting for his ride to the local hotel. The Marshall manager, stuck with the chore of driving him, needed to wrap up some pressing work at his desk first.

Tom had been chosen to be the lone NASA representative to attend an early Friday morning meeting the next day. As much as he tried to get out of it and get home, the NASA engineers rallied together and elected him. Tom suspected it was because he had a T-38 at his disposal, while the engineers had to fly commercial. Of course after the long week, the engineers were ready to get back to Houston and their families.

As usual, Tom had packed a day’s worth of clothing just in case such a situation arose. Anne was aware there was always a possibility he might have to stay the night when away on business, and she would have to handle his one nightly chore, walking their one-year-old beagle, Dino.

Tom figured he would take advantage of the waiting time and inspect a piping issue vigorously discussed in one of the day’s meetings. The NASA engineers questioned whether the propellant lines that ran down from the first stage tanks into the F-1 engines were to spec. Since NASA was footing the bill for these babies, they had every right to query the Marshall engineers on the assembly, and as one of NASA’s senior representatives, Tom had free rein to venture wherever he pleased on the shop floor.