The last thing a fighter pilot does before dying is jerk up his knees, squeeze his elbows into his ribs and bend at the waist: the fetal position. Nobody teaches this. It is involuntary, a reflex, a primal act that says, "This is going to hurt a whole bunch." It happened to me.

The F-15 Eagle is a wonderful aircraft and costs millions of dollars.

Luke Skywalker would enjoy its sophisticated technology, and it needs but one pilot to use it effectively. Highly capable, it does not have eyes to avoid every danger; the pilot must do that.

In the early eighties, we deployed six F-15s from Luke Air Force Base (AFB), Arizona, to Nellis AFB, Nevada to fly as adversary, or "red air," against pilots of the USAF Fighter Weapons Instructors Course. They were the elite in the older F-4 Phantom; the top guns of the Air Force about to graduate from a very tough school. We were their graduation exercise; they had to get through us to strike their target. That wouldn't be easy. We were experienced pilots flying the brand new Eagle, a twin-engine, twin-tailed jet that was a quantum leap in technology over the F-4.

It was like two prize fighters brought together in the ring for a title fight. We had the beauty and sophistication of America's newest fighter; they had us out-numbered four to one. We couldn't stand the thought of possessing all that capability and getting shot down by early 50s technology. They wanted very much to graduate. The duel was set, the pressure on.

Dutch Rifler was flight lead for the mission. Orders were to fly combat air patrol (CAP) over the mountainous Nevada desert about 150 miles northwest of Las Vegas. Dutch established an orbit high enough for his radar to see the inbound F-4 attack force. He wanted me to hide low, below the jagged mountainous terrain to mask my position. The F-4 radars would see Dutch and not me. I was to use low altitude tactics, slip through the mountains, down valleys, and shoot down several F-4s before they knew I was there. Dutch would keep me informed of what he saw on his radar and advise when they were coming.

The weather was Nevada clear; visibility 100 miles, with only a few puffy cumulus clouds. Iridescent blue sky washed over buff colored terrain as we entered the air combat area at 18,000 feet. On his signal, I split from Dutch, rolled over on my back and dove to the desert floor. The anchor point for my orbit was halfway between Dutch and the F-4 ingress route. Once there, I established an oval CAP pattern only 300 feet above the sage-covered desert. The legs of the circuit were aligned to the threat, the inbound leg, or "hot leg," flown slow at 250 knots to allow a long look by the powerful Eagle radar. The outbound leg, or "cold leg," was to be flown fast at 500 or more knots to minimize time with my back toward the enemy.

At 500+ knots there is little room for error. The desert floor is a blur. By the time your eyes start to focus on a hawk in front, it's behind and out of sight. Your 47,000 pound jet is traveling at the speed of a .44 magnum bullet. But unlike the bullet, you don't slow down. Meanwhile, desert thermals bounce you like an old pickup truck on a washboard road.

I hugged the sage-covered ground, streaking along at 500+ knots, nearly 600 miles per hour. Time to check over the right shoulder at 6 o'clock to see if F-4s are clearing the hills behind me. I racked the jet hard right and twisted like a licorice stick in the seat. Are they back there? I reversed to a hard left turn, checked in the distance over my shoulder for little specks clearing the hills and then dropping down into my valley. I don't see them! Been looking over my shoulder for a long time. Better look out front.

Time to come back hard right to course, try to open our distance a little more. Oh, my God! The windscreen is filled. Jagged granite everywhere. Looking at me was a monstrous craggy face, a heinous madman; his cavernous mouth would swallow me to blackness.

"Fox one, Fox one kill on the F-15 climbing right hand turn."

What's that? I should be vaporized, a million pieces splattered over the desert floor. There's something in my headset. F-4s talking on the radio. It's coming over the radio! They're calling their missiles on me. The firing squad lowered their guns... this day they would not fire. I'm alive! You guys can call shots on me all you want! 

I continued a right climbing turn, put the throttles in afterburner and let the jet climb to the heavens like a homesick angel. It felt good to get away from the earth. We were playing hardball rules, once "killed" you went home and landed.

Mechanically I went through the motions of taking care of the checklist and landing the aircraft. Mentally I wasn't in the cockpit. The near disaster left me empty and drained, unsure of whether I wanted to do this again. . . .

Late that same afternoon, I was atop of the Nellis AFB control tower serving as Supervisor of Flying (SOF). Positioned in an elevated chair behind the air traffic controllers, the vantage point gave a commanding view of the airdrome. The seat faced west where the sun would soon slide behind desolate, mountain terrain.

The heavens were deep blue, dabbed with red-orange cirrus. Beams pierced a striated sky, bounced off clouds and ricochet into space. Just before the sun dipped below the horizon, colors intensified, clouds became glowing, pink-orange cotton balls. The radio noise in the cab faded, the friendly banter of air traffic controllers slipped into silence. All watched as God's work unfolded in the western sky.

I stepped down from the elevated chair and stared, lost in the wonderful sight before me. Lord, I know I should not see this sunset. Your rod and staff protected me once more. You have allowed me to live, to see one more sunset and fly in Your heavens again. For this, and the undeserved blessing of life, I thank You. . . .

Amen.

This story is dedicated to my friend Captain Dutch Rifler, USAF deceased. A short time after this incident he crashed his aircraft in this same piece of Nevada desert. Dutch was on a classified mission; we never learned what happened. He was a good pilot.