F-16 beats F-35 in mock dogfight

[fantom]

<<<Someday you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of our country's most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have. John Elway, John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity... Move to Guam . 

Change your name. 

Fake your own death! 

Whatever you do. 

Do Not Go!!! 

I know. 

The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I was toast! I should have known when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach . 

Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way, Fast. 

Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions. ('T-minus 15 seconds and counting .' Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, 'We have liftoff'. 

Biff was to fly me in an F- 14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike Colin Montgomerie. I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning. 

'Bananas,' he said. 

'For the potassium?' I asked. 

'No,' Biff said, 'because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down.' 

The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name sewn over the left breast. 

(No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky or Leadfoot. But, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, this was it. 

A fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would 'egress' me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious. 

Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-rolled over another F-14.. 

Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life. Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80.. It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, snap rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute. We chased another F-14, and it chased us. 

We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Colin Montgomerie. 

And I egressed the bananas. 

And I egressed the pizza from the night before. 

And the lunch before that. 

I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade. 

I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the G's, I was egressing stuff that I never thought would be egressed. 

I went through not one airsick bag, but two. 

Biff said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a tortilla and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to throw down. 

I used to know 'cool'. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know 'cool'. Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and freon nerves. I wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie reliever makes in a home stand. 

A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said he'd send it on a patch for my flight suit. 

What is it?? I asked. 

'Two Bags.'>>>   

[carusoam]

Thanks for the advice, Gary, but...

We are collectively similar to moths drawn to the flame.

Call me Crispy, but I'd go tomorrow.

Best regards,

-a-

[aviatoreb]

Whatever you do. 

Do Not Go!!! 

I know. 

The U.S. Navy invited me to try it.

'Two Bags.'>>>   

 

Dear Two-Bags - I mean Fantom.

 

POST OF THE YEAR!  Not even close - no other post comes even close.  You are hereby the funniest man with a Mooney in the world.

 

How did you end up getting this ride?  How did you get this invite?

 

I hear you and I officially stick my fingers in my ears - I'd ride with Biff, or (up)Chuck or whatever Military Aviator will take me in whatever Fxx they have the keys too.  Take me along too!

[fantom]

Dear Two-Bags - I mean Fantom.

POST OF THE YEAR! Not even close - no other post comes even close. You are hereby the funniest man with a Mooney in the world. too!

Just a joke that I posted, but not too inaccurate based on the several times I took civilians up in the back seat of my F-4.

[1964-M20E]

I know that the local Air national guard would regularly beat regular air force pilots head to head with F-4s versus the newer F15s.  Not decades apart in design but it was impressive.  Of course the guard pilots were all Vietnam vets who flew for their life against enemy fire.  I guess when in hat situation you learn to fly a little differently than just training.

 

An F-16 in the right hands I believe can beat an F35 for sure.  I'm sure an F-15 could as well.

[Loogie]

It's not the jet, it's the driver...

It is a poor craftsman that blames his tools...