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From Neil "Waylon" Jennings -- the pilot of the Tomcat in this video:

September 20^th, 1995 was a standard day aboard the Navy aircraft carrier USS Lincoln, except for only one noteworthy exception.  On that particular day we were headed eastbound, and we were on our way home from a six-month deployment to the Persian Gulf.  We were about half way through a transit that would take us back to our home base in San Diego.  We had spent most of our deployment flying missions over Iraq in support of Operation Southern Watch, and we were finally on our way home to our waiting families.

 It takes approximately six weeks for an aircraft carrier to travel from the Mideast to the West Coast.  On the trip to the Mideast there is a lot of excitement and anticipation regarding the mission that you are on and the ports that you will see.  In contrast, the trip home is marked by long days and sleepless nights, and much of the crew has “channel fever,” longing to be home but not getting there quickly enough.

 The 20^th was a Wednesday, and the day began like any other day on the ship.  I woke up at around the crack of ten, crawled out of the rack, showered, dressed, and then headed down the narrow passage to the ready room, where is where the aircrew congregated in between training, working, and flying events. 

 On the flight schedule I was crewed with my Radar Intercept Officer (RIO), LT “Buga” Gusewelle.  I enjoyed flying with Buga.  He was a great officer and a great RIO, and he had a spark of enthusiasm that set him apart from the crowd.  He loved flying the Tomcat, and that made me love flying it too.  The deployment we were on was Buga’s first and my third overseas cruise.

 The flight schedule had us down for a 1400 brief and a 1600 launch.  Our mission was to fly a ship’s service hop in support of the USS John Paul Jones (JPJ).  We would be flying a cruise missile profile, while simulating an attack on the JPJ.  Neither Buga nor I were particularly interested in either the brief or the mission, mostly because we were designated as the “spare” for the flight.  This meant that we would not get airborne unless one of the “go birds” had a maintenance issue and was unable to launch.  In other words, we had the less than enviable task of getting our aircraft ready to launch, but there was little likelihood that we would get to go flying.  Being the spare usually involved doing all the work of getting ready to go flying, but without the reward of getting airborne.

 Buga and I met in the ready room just before 1400, checked the weather, looked at the list of divert fields, sat through a flight brief, compared notes, did a quick crew brief, and then had about 10 minutes to take care of out other administrative tasks before we headed out the door.

 A little after 1500 we left the ready room and stepped into the passageway where Maintenance Control was located.  The Maintenance Chief handed us the Aircraft Discrepancy Book for Lion 112.  We read through the binder of recent maintenance actions and noted that our jet had a marginal radar but that all the other systems were up and working.  We left Maintenance Control, cut back through the ready room, and headed down a passage that took us to the Para Rigger Shop.  We suited up into our flight gear and headed outside, not knowing that we would be using most of our gear to survive that day.  At around 1515 we arrived on the flight deck and walked aft, looking for our assigned F-14, Lion 112.

 112 was parked all of the way aft on the starboard side of the flight deck, and it had been chained down at the edge of the deck with the tail hanging out over the water.  Considering that we had been on cruise for five months, 112 still looked remarkably good.  Our Plane Captain had taken pride in the aircraft, and he had worked hard to get the exterior of the jet clean.  The flight deck is a greasy, grimy and crowded environment, and it takes extra effort to keep the jets looking good while they are continuously being used on missions.  I was always glad to man up a jet that looked as good as 112 did, because it gave me confidence that the jet was ready to go.

 It was a beautiful day with great visibility and a thin cloud layer at around 10,000 feet.  The temperature was quite bearable compared to the Persian Gulf that we had just recently left.  It was only 87 degrees outside, not the normal 100 to 110 that we had become used to.

 I didn’t pay much attention to the preflight of the aircraft.  When I got to my ejection seat, however, I inspected my Martin-Baker GRU-7(A) like it was the most important piece of equipment on the planet---which it pretty much was.  For most of my career I had been in the habit of double and triple checking every cotter key, pin, fastener, nut, bolt, clip and strap on the seat.  Even though I was in the spare aircraft, I took my time making certain that my seat was ready to use, and it was.

 We started the engines on our F-14 Tomcat, got the generators on line, powered up the systems and completed the required checklists.  We had just finished when we saw a “yellow shirt” heading our direction, giving our plane captain the signal to remove the chocks and chains that held us firmly in place.  Hey, maybe we were going to get to go flying after all.

 All of a sudden there was a flurry of activity as our young plane captain and his two assistants pulled the chains off, kicked the chocks out from under the tires, and did a final visual check of 112 to make sure we were ready to taxi.  Buga jumped on the radio and verified that LT “Haggis” Karger and LT “Smoke” Stinson were having problems with their F-14.  The launch had already started, and airplanes were roaring off the catapults.  Whatever issues they were having, there was not time to fix Haggis and Smoke’s Tomcat before the launch would be complete.  This meant that that Buga and I were definitely getting into the air.

 Any opportunity to go flying is relished.  We were both psyched that we were taxiing to the catapult, because it meant that we were going to escape the floating grey prison that had been our home for the better part of half a year.  Buga used the opportunity to poke fun and Haggis and Smoke on the radio, which was standard fare.  It was to be expected when you went “down” and there was a spare ready to replace you.

 Takeoff checklists complete, engines at full power, final checks done, afterburners lit, and I saluted the catapult officer.  He completed his last look-over, touched the deck, pointed forward, and waited for the catapult to fire. Another catapult officer below the deck pushed a button on a console, steam pressure was ported through a complex launch system, and we were roaring down the catapult, going from zero to 150 knots in just two seconds. 

 The catapult shot takes your breath away.  As the jet accelerates you get tunnel vision, and you feel a rush of adrenaline that cannot be described.  It is both exhilarating and addicting, and there is nothing in the world that matches it.

 Once we were clear of the flight deck I did a clearing turn, got the gear and flaps up, disengaged the afterburner, and leveled off at 500 feet.  Compared to the helter skelter world on the flight deck, being airborne was quite and relaxing.  The air was smooth, our jet was flying crisply, and we were lucky to alive.

 At seven mile we started our climbing left turn to 8.000 feet.  We leveled off at assigned altitude, and I initiated a sharp left turn inbound to go find the ES-3 tanker that was waiting for us overhead the ship.  We visually spotted the ES-3 at about seven miles and proceeded to rendezvous from the left side.  The ES-3 was holding overhead the ship in a continuous left hand turn, waiting to pass us the 3,000 pounds of fuel that would give us enough gas to complete our mission.

 A couple of our squadronmates in another F-14 had gotten to our tanker just before us, and we watched as they completed refueling.  LCDR “Stash” Fristachi and LT “Stinkin” Cassole were the only other F-14 airborne during our cycle, and they were assigned the same mission as we were.  Within a few minutes they disconnected from the fuel hose and departed off the right side of our ES-3.  The tanker pilot then gave us a signal that we were cleared to move aft and plug in.

 Per the brief we were scheduled to get 3,000 pounds of fuel from our tanker, which was enough to pump us back up to a full load of 20,000 lbs of fuel.  It only took a few minutes to get our allocated gas.  I then moved over to the right side of the tanker, the ES-3 pilot and I exchanged hand signals, we watched his fuel hose retract, and we departed off his right side and proceeded outbound.  Buga checked us out with the USS Lincoln controllers as we proceeded on mission.

 The crew of the USS John Paul Jones had recently upgraded their weapons system software, and our mission was to make several low and fast flights by the JPJ to allow them to check the functionality of their radar and weapons system.  The John Paul Jones was only 70 miles from the Lincoln, and it didn’t take us long to transit to our assigned holding fix, which was 40 miles south of the ship at 20,000 feet.

 We caught sight of Stash and Stinkin and rendezvoused on them briefly.  They had arrived at the holding fix a few minutes ahead of us.  Buga checked us in with our controller, and shortly after that Stash and Stinkin departed the holding point, starting their first run on the JPJ.  Our goal was to follow them in a 10-minute trail.

 Within a few minutes we got a call on the radio to turn inbound to the JPJ and start our run.  I pushed the nose of our F-14 over in a descent, unloaded the wings, and willed our fuel-heavy Tomcat to accelerate a quickly as it could. 

 At sea level the speed of sound is more than 600 knots.  The John Paul Jones controller had asked us to do our fly-by as fast and as low as we could go, and our goal was to arrive at the ship at 500 feet doing just over mach. At 30 miles out we could see a small dot on the smooth ocean surface that was our target for the fly-by.  We continued to accelerate and descend, and somewhere around 10 miles we leveled off at 500 feet doing almost 600 knots indicated.

 We got closer to the ship, and I briefly glanced in the mirrors on the canopy bow.  I saw that a large vapor cloud covered the back half of our aircraft.  At high speeds, and especially on humid days, it was not uncommon to see the “shock wave” that attached itself to the aircraft. 

 A couple of miles from the John Paul Jones we could see several dozen Sailors standing in various places on the deck, waiting to watch us fly past.  The JPJ had been at sea with us for the entire deployment, and their mission was to provide a defensive capability to the Battle Group through their AEGIS radar and SM-2 surface-to-air missiles.  As we flew past the ship we could see the faces of some of the crew.  They were excited to be getting their own personal air show. 

 The ship passed behind us, and I initiated an aggressive right hand climbing turn that would carry us back up to our holding altitude.  As I pulled the stick back and nudged it slightly right I set a little more than six “Gs” for the climb. 

 As soon as I loaded the aircraft up with “G” there was a troublesome “bang” and the jet rolled dramatically and uncontrollably left.  Instinctively I countered the left roll by moving the stick right, but despite my best attempts to control the aircraft we kept rolling harder left.  In an instant it felt like the nose snapped downward in full left yaw, and I was certain we were on a vector headed downward toward the water.  My head banged hard off the right side of the canopy, and all of a sudden time stood still.

 In a span that was perhaps a few hundredths of a second the comfortable air-conditioned cockpit of our Navy fighter became foreign and hostile.  I was confused about what had happened, and I was desperate to sort our situation out.  I stared at the engine instruments and flight instruments, but the gauges held no usable information. In short, the instrument panel was a blank slate staring back at me while telling me nothing about our dire predicament.  

 I attempted to regain control of our tumbling aircraft by centering up the stick and pulling the throttles back out of afterburner.  I noticed fire off the right side of the aircraft, somewhere aft.  I could not discern the horizon.  There was no differentiation between sea and sky.  Nothing made sense, and I was sure that we were not going to make it out of the situation alive.

 The next second-and-a-half lasted for what felt like 45 minutes.  My mind accelerated to hyper speed as I recalled experiences with my wife and children.  My memories were vivid with scenes from home played out in incredible detail.  I recalled countless random thoughts all the way back to my childhood.  I had a deep sense of peace, and there was no fear.  My thoughts of my family were of sadness for my young children, who I imagined would be growing up without a father.

 Watching the canopy come off snapped me back to real time, and everything resumed at normal speed.  Less than two seconds had passed, but I had relived a lifetime of experiences.

 The “ejection decision” is a topic that is often discussed by aircrew that ride on ejection seats when they fly.  In the Navy ejection is a standard briefing item that is discussed during every flight brief.  Most aircrew have similar decision points as to when they would reach down and pull the yellow and black handle, however every aviator puts their own twist on when and why they would make the decision to get out.  For better or worse, when an aircrew pulls an ejection handle, it initiates an unstoppable chain of events that guarantees that a sleek and beautiful aircraft will be turned into a pile of unrecognizable rubble.  The decision is final and irrevocable.

 Sitting just eight feet behind me, Buga knew the situation was dire.  There was a fire in his cockpit, and he knew that regardless of the consequences we were going to have to give Lion 112 back to the taxpayers and find another ride back to the ship.

 Right after the canopy came off, for an instant I thought, “good on you Buga.”  Even though I still didn’t believe we would survive, I was proud of Buga for pulling the handle.  The last time I had looked we were doing more than 600 knots, which was not good.  It was generally known that high-speed ejections were deadly, and we were going way too fast to get out safely.  It didn’t matter.  Our odds outside the aircraft were better than staying in it, and we were on the ride of our life.

 With our fighter turned into a convertible there was nothing more to do, so I let go of the controls. I crossed my arms, grabbing tightly on the webbing on either side of my survival vest, and I wondered if the windblast was going to hurt really bad.  I squinted through the hot fire that enveloped me, and I mentally prepared to ride my seat up the rails.

 There was a bright flash as Buga’s seat fired, and it suddenly became very hot where I was sitting.

 A few hours after the crash Buga told me that he looked down as he punched out, and all he could see was the cockpit of our Tomcat.  The front part of our jet had broken off somewhere forward of the wings. 

 I didn’t have long to contemplate the disadvantages sitting by myself in the middle of a gigantic fireball.  My seat fired with a kick, and I rocketed up and away from the burning wreckage.  Strangely, as I cleared the cockpit there was not even a wisp of wind.  There was no windblast, no flailing limbs, no blunt force trauma injury, nothing.

 I had barely accelerated away from our ailing aircraft when I felt my seat let go of me and fall harmlessly away. My parachute opened with an explosive force.  I was incredulous that I was still alive.  I had expected the worst, but by the grace of God I had survived. 

 I have been told that the terminal velocity of a Martin-Baker ejection seat is somewhere around 180 knots. Something interesting happens when you are hurtling along at racecar speeds and then are rapidly decelerated to nearly a standstill.  At that moment the straps on your parachute harness cause friction burns in all the places where the straps are riding close to your skin.  Your flightsuit offers very little protection as the heat is transmitted directly through the material.  It’s amazing to think that the friction created from just a couple of inches of strap movement is enough to cause burns that last several days, but that is a part of the process.

 Immediately after my parachute opened I saw a large splash in the water directly below me.  I looked down and to my right and saw the burning wreckage of our F-14 Tomcat, as it spiraled down toward the water in a left hand death roll.  It was almost completely engulfed in flames.  Panels were missing, I couldn’t tell the top from the bottom, and what was left was nearly unrecognizable.  Hanging in my parachute watching the scene unfold was surreal.  It was like watching a movie that I was in.

 I then conducted a quick body-parts inventory and verified that all my toes and fingers still wiggled.  I was thankful to have all the same pieces attached to me that I started the day with.  As I coasted downward, I thanked God a hundred times.  I also wondered what the saltwater was going to feel like on my burned face and neck, and I knew it was not going to be pleasant.

 My next set actions all mirrored what I was taught in Aviation Physiology.  Inflate the life preserver, connect the lobes, deploy the parachute four-line release, drop the raft, and locate the parachute release fittings.  Initially I attempted to steer over towards Buga, but as I started turning toward him I became concerned that I might actually hit him.  I gave up on trying to land near wherever Buga landed in the water, and I prepared for my own water entry. We each had a little less than a minute to coast down and get ready for the landing.

 I’m not sure what I was expecting, but when my feet hit the water I went three or four feet under.  It was an uncomfortable feeling, but my life preserver popped me back up to the surface within a couple of seconds.  My parachute fell into the water in front of me, and I never saw it again. 

 I then retrieved my raft, which was attached to my seat pan via a lanyard, and  I climbed in and wondered if the warm water meant that there might sharks nearby.  I pulled my feet safely into my cramped raft, but then I thought that if a shark came after me after I had just survived an aircraft crash, then it just wasn’t supposed to be my day.  I put my feet bravely back into the 85-degree water and didn’t think another thought about it.  I was right about the saltwater and the burns.  My face and neck stung like hell.

 As I sat in my raft, taking inventory of what had just happened, the John Paul Jones was bearing down on me at flank speed.  I could see that I didn’t have much time left in the water, so I removed my flare gun from my life vest and started firing off my pencil flares as quickly as I could get them loaded.  I figured I would only have one chance in my lifetime to use some of the equipment that I had been lugging around on every flight, and I wanted to light off all of my pyrotechnic devices before I was rescued.  I also wanted to make sure they knew where to come get me to fish me out.  Before I could get my last flare loaded a motor whaleboat from the JPJ was sitting next to me in the water, and strong hands were pulling me safely inside.  I've gotta say, that felt really good.

 The boat crew gunned the engine and raced over to pick up Buga.  I was happy to see that he was alive and looking good, except he was oddly holding his hands above his raft, showing that he had severely burned fingers. Apparently the fire had been intense back there where he was sitting. 

 Within minutes the entire motor whaleboat was hoisted back aboard the JPJ, with me, Buga, and our three rescuers still in it.  We had no training to prepare us for what was next, and from this point on we just making it up as we went.

 We were first directed to a small broom closet that had a sign on the door that announced that we had arrived at JPJ “Sick Bay.”  Someone treated our burns with a white cream, and we chatted briefly with a few of the crew. The Captain met us in his small Sick Bay, and he graciously presented us with two hats and two shirts that had JPJ’s logo on them.  We were thrilled to receive a souvenir from our valiant rescuers. 

 A couple of guys then led us down to the mess deck where we addressed a large number of the crew via a P.A. system that had been hastily set up for us.  We thanked the crew for pulling us out of the water and apologized for dripping salt water and making a mess of their clean decks.  A couple of minutes into our visit with the crew we were told that our "ride" had arrived to take us back.  What ride?  I don’t know what Buga was thinking, but I certainly wasn’t ready to go back to the Lincoln.  There was nothing good that was waiting for us back on the aircraft carrier, and I was in no hurry to get back there.

 Our escorts had us practically running up to the aft flight deck, where an SH-60 was waiting with its engines running and its rotors turning.  We were heading back to the floating grey prison, and there was no way to get out of it.  At least we were going to be able to get into some dry clothes.  It was a small consolation, but it was something to look forward to.

 During the 20-minute transit back to the Lincoln our SH-60 pilots kept looking back at us as with an odd look, as if we were aliens from another planet.  I’m not sure what they were thinking, except that maybe they were pissed we were dripping corrosive salt water on the deck of their clean helicopter.  Or, maybe they thought that we were in trouble, and we were really going to get it when we got back.  Whatever it was, I felt guilty, and I wasn't sure why.

 Our chariot entered the USS Lincoln's airspace, and the Air Boss directed our SH-60 into starboard holding on the right side of the ship.  Buga and I watched out the window while all the aircraft we had launched with took their turns at landing back aboard.  It felt odd to be the only guys in our group to come home without an airplane.  At least we made it back on time.  The military thrives on punctuality, and we returned promptly at our recovery time, even if we neglected to bring back our $40,000,000 fighter.  It wasn’t much, but it was all I had to hold onto.

 After the fixed wing aircraft recovered the Air Boss cleared our helicopter to land.  We touched down, the doors flew open, and there were a dozen guys waiting for us.  I saw two stretchers sitting on the flight deck, and I quickly made up my mind that I was going to walk down to the Lincoln Sick Bay on my own two legs, no matter what.  A short argument with my Commanding Officer, CDR “Killer” Killian, ensued, and I embarrassingly loaded myself aboard one of the stretchers, but only after he ordered me onto it for the third time.  I tried not to notice as four relatively small guys struggled to carry me over to the bomb elevator, almost dropping the stretcher twice.  In hindsight, riding the stretcher to the Sick Bay was the second most dangerous thing I did that day.

 For the next two hours Buga and I were poked, prodded, x-rayed, checked out, and treated for our burns.  About an hour into our medical check I got tired of smelling burnt hair, so I borrowed a pair of scissors from one of the corpsmen.  I then snuck off to a nearby bathroom where it took less than two minutes to cut off what remained of my crispy moustache.  The fire had also taken most of my eyelashes and eyebrows, but I didn’t want to look any funnier than I already did so I left them intact.

 In between medical tests my Skipper led me to a side room where he handed me a phone.  My wife Susie was on the other end.  It was 3:00 AM in San Diego, and she had received “the call.”  I always told her that if she got the call it was good news, but if they showed up in an official Navy vehicle wearing their dress blue uniform it was bad.  She was a seasoned Navy wife, and she was glad to get woken by phone.  I downplayed my injuries, and we had a great conversation.  Later she told me that she didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night.

 As soon as the doctors finished their tests Buga and I were turned over to the Mishap Board where the real fun began.  Six officers had been assembled to serve on a board that would investigate every conceivable detail related to the loss of our fighter.  A white-hot spotlight was firmly focused on our noggins, and there was nothing we could do but patiently work with them to get through a lengthy question and answer period. 

 One at a time Buga and I sat down at the far end of the long table and were grilled with countless questions about our flight, our personal lives, our families, our training, and just about everything you could think of.  When you sign for your jet, take it out, and then neglect to bring home your multi-million dollar government asset, there tend to be a lot of questions.

 The day of the mishap the questioning went well past midnight, and it started back up again promptly at 0800 the next morning.  The Mishap Board was annoyingly repetitive in their query.  What did you see?  Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?  Was there anything strange about how the engines were running?  How about the flight controls?  Did you have any electrical issues?  No matter how they rephrased them, the inquisition boiled down to the same set of questions that were asked over and over again.  Personally, I didn’t have a story to tell. One second we were flying along fat, dumb and happy, and the next second we were tumbling out of control at more than 600 knots surrounded by fire.  No matter how many times or ways they asked their questions, the answers were always the same.  I didn’t know what happened or why.

 By the afternoon of the second day Buga was making friends with a few of the allegedly beautiful nurses at the Air Force Hospital in Guam.  In contrast I was stuck on the ship getting a first degree grilling from the Mishap Board.  Considering Buga’s burn injuries I definitely would not have elected to trade places with him.

 By the afternoon of the third day the board decided that they had gotten everything out of me that they could. One of the board members, LT “Chuck” Norris took me to a room where a videotape of our crash was cued up and ready to watch.  The tape had been recorded from the bow of the John Paul Jones by one of the JPJ crewmembers. 

 I never met the gent who recorded our crash, but I will be forever grateful for his excellent work with a camera. The video he took told a far more complete story about our mishap than either Buga or I could ever tell.  Even better, the video exonerated us from all responsibility for the unfortunate event.  When Chuck played the tape for me, I was shocked by what I saw.

 The videotape showed our fighter cruising along at the speed of sound, with a vapor cloud intermittently covering the back half of our aircraft.  Just after we passed the JPJ our jet did a “Space Shuttle Challenger” imitation and exploded into a gigantic fireball.  On the TV screen the fireball was about twenty times the size of the aircraft. 

 Less than a second after the detonation two distinct pieces of wreckage emerged out of the fireball, both engulfed in flames.  In hindsight I believe that the larger piece was the main part of the aircraft and the smaller piece was the cockpit section that Buga and I were riding in.

 After I viewed the videotape there were no more questions from the Board Members.  Just like that, it was all over, and I was a nobody again.

 Two weeks later my burns had healed sufficiently enough for me to return to flying.  A couple of months after that Buga was back up in the air too.

 Five months after the crash our squadron was in El Centro, CA, flying missions over the training ranges in California and Arizona.  On one of the flights my new RIO and I were east of Yuma, turning eastbound in a right hand turn at around 15,000 feet and 450 knots.  As soon as I initiated the turn the nose of the aircraft dropped unexpectedly.  I pulled back on the stick to counter the sudden movement, but the stick would not budge.  I tried easing it slightly forward, but that only made things worse.

 I quickly rolled wings level and started working to sort out the problem.  Something was blocking the controls, and the stick would not move back past a certain point.  Trim didn’t help, and there were no other options with the flight controls.  Nothing on the instrument panel indicated that there was anything wrong.

 While watching the ground slowly get closer, I touched the lower ejection handle and felt the comfort of the black and yellow loop in my hand.  I thought it was likely that I was going to have to eject again, but before I did that I decided that I would try pulling the stick back as hard as I could to see what would happen.  At the limits of my strength something gave way, and the stick pulled through whatever obstruction had kept it from moving aft.  It still felt stuck, but it rested slightly aft of where it was previously located, and we were no longer in a descent.

 Using trim only I flew our Tomcat back to El Centro, declared an emergency, and landed on the long runway. During a maintenance inspection of the flight controls a piece of rubber was found wedged in a pulley, right where a control cable was routed through one of the firewalls.  That was close.  I couldn’t believe we nearly lost a jet thanks to a small piece of rubber.

 A couple of months later I was mercifully assigned to NAS Lemoore to fly F/A-18 Hornets, where I served for 10-years as a Strike-Fighter pilot.  The Hornet is a beautiful jet with great flight systems and outstanding avionics. I never had a mission, in training or otherwise, where the F/A-18 gave me a reason to doubt that it would get me home.

 During twenty years of flying fighters I stopped counting the number of jets that crashed and friends that died.  By the time I finished my flying career I had personally watched three jets hit the ground, had been an “On Scene Commander” once, and had served on five mishap boards.  

 In the case our Tomcat crash there was no definitive explanation as to what caused our jet to explode.  The board blamed a faulty component in the engine oil system, but with the wreckage buried in 17,000 feet of water, they never knew for certain.  Personally I am at a loss to explain the event, but I am thankful that we made it back.  I can’t explain how we survived tumbling out of control at 600 knots in a fighter that broke apart, except to say that God was looking out for us that day.  

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