Primary Flight Training
Centrifuge
Naval Air Station Pensacola
A young Naval officer clad in a drab green flight suit jumped from the wing of the T-6 trainer aircraft. He turned to the flight instructor standing on the tarmac making checks on his kneeboard card. The young pilot trainee gripped his helmet under one arm, pushed the short hair off his forehead and adjusted his sunglasses, squinting in the glare of the afternoon sun setting behind the runway. He shifted his weight to his other booted foot, anxious to obtain his flight score. He would not learn the assessment of his performance in the cockpit until the debrief.
“What’s with all these sea gulls?” The pilot instructor gestured toward the white and gray birds circling the airfield at NAS Pensacola.
“I don’t know, sir. There do seem to be a lot.”
“Noisy creatures. Pests. The BASH condition is approaching moderate,” replied the older Naval IP. He peered skyward once again before returning to the checklist in his hand, shaking his wrist from the folded sleeve of his flight suit.
The SNA-student naval aviator—contemplated the BASH, the bird aircraft strike hazard, while stifling a sigh, hoping the hours he had spent preparing and briefing for his flight had been enough. He stared into the evening gloaming, following the path of the circling sea gulls, and gauging the danger of bird strikes to aircrafts on the BASH scale, while awaiting his fate.
*****
“Bring her in Ensign Chester. Nice and easy. We are going to report this as an incident. It may qualify as a mishap. Not good. This Sea-6 is headed for maintenance. She’s not reliable.” The IP—Instructor Pilot—barked orders into the wind. “Wings down. Rudder steady. Don’t let her have her head. Wipe that piece of lettuce from your goggles. Steady, steady…”
Chester kept his paw firmly on the stick attached to the ropes guiding the gull’s beak, running the preparations for landing through his head. The Sea-6 trainer had given him problems from the minute he and his flight instructor had climbed the ladder onto her back. She had turned a beady eye on him then refused to start up right away. But he never would have guessed what she would do next. Chester had been in Primary for two months, learning to fly the sea gull air bird. Training had begun in the front seat of the Sea-6 trainer. He would stay here for a couple more months until he switched to NFO specifics. He was grateful for the pilot experience before moving on to qualifying as the back seat weapons systems officer.
This evening, he had awakened well before dark, blinking in the unaccustomed light of day. Exhausted from long hours of preparation, he had attended a lengthy brief to present his flight plan, then climbed aboard the beast. His flight instructor adjusted his tail and buckled himself into the seat behind. Chester couldn’t believe what had followed when he executed the flight plan over Pensacola Beach. Except for the start-up issues, everything had gone well until minutes into the flight when they had swooped across the late afternoon sky above a heavily populated section of the sandy shoreline. He had kept the bird steady at twenty to twenty-five knots, cruising above the hard deck when the Sea-6 began to buck and swivel its beak. He had gripped the stick hard, checking his instruments, watching his altitude. In the blink of an eye, the air bird yanked her lines and dove toward the earth, not responding to his tugs and prods. His instructor shouted to pull her up. He tugged with all his might, the wind whistling through his whiskers and making his teeth ache. Land and sea were a blur as they roared closer to the sandy beach with the Sea-6 emitting piercing shrieks. Chester could not stop her dive.
“Execute a dive recovery!” His instructor shouted.
We’re going to crash! Chester thought. He felt himself pulled into his seat, his snout pushed toward his ears and his eyelids getting heavier. The air bird was pulling maximum Gs.
“Prepare to eject!”
Just as he grabbed the strap to release the clamped spring coiled underneath his seat, the air bird struck an object, flared her wings to arrest her descent and roared toward the sky, barely scooping it out before impact. Chester blinked and gasped for air. He pulled himself together, slowing his breath, unable to believe his eyes. He blinked again. The Sea-6 trainer air bird had a large bologna, cheese, and lettuce sandwich clutched in its beak. Saved by the sandwich, Chester thought. He wondered if he was oxygen deprived and hallucinating. He couldn’t help but notice there was mustard on the sandwich. He hated mustard. All these thoughts happened in milliseconds.
“Get her above the hard deck and hold her there,” his instructor shouted.
The Sea-6 snapped at the sandwich in its craw, dropping clumps of bread and lettuce while gulping the last bit of pink meat and yellow cheese remaining in its grasp. Chester wiped soggy crumbs from his goggles and focused. His heart thudded in his chest and his mind raced through what had just happened.
Now, he as he prepared to land, he hoped nothing more would divert them from their flight plan and a clean execution of the landing. His flight had not gone well. He wondered if he had failed and gritted his teeth in frustration. All his studying in hopes of obtaining a good score on the one-to-five scale, ranking him high in the total NSS, seemed to go up in smoke. He could only hope he would avoid the dreaded pink sheet. A few pink sheets and a student aviator washed out of flight school.
Chester and his instructor perched on the ground next to the unrepentant Sea-6 airbird.
“That was a near miss,” his training officer commented, gesturing with the graphite stick in his paw, “but not a mishap—I don’t see any damage. No damage, no mishap. She’s shut down. We won’t ask for a troubleshooter.” He made another mark on his kneeboard card. “Defective bird. We’ll go to maintenance control to log the flight and file an incident report … a downing discrepancy.” Chester’s PI paused as they strutted across the runway, helmets under forelegs, tails casual and ears flapping in the warm night breeze. “How did you feel while in the deep dive? Did you experience G-LOC—loss of consciousness?”
“I’m not sure,” Chester did not want to report that he had felt very odd—wondering if he might pass out—losing some of his vision into a gray tunnel.
“Did you do your stomach maneuvers?”
Chester had not had time to think about holding his breath and clenching his stomach while making small ‘hic, hic’ sounds. He had focused on remembering and following the proper protocol while in the deep dive. “Well, sir…”
“I thought not. It takes time and practice to respond appropriately. We don’t want to lose you due to G-LOC. Ensign Chester, as luck would have it, you’re assigned to the centrifuge next week. Report Wednesday at zero three hundred.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, get your flight suit cleaned.” He made another mark on the kneeboard card.
Chester glanced down. Splotches of mustard dotted the drab green cloth. It would never come out. He gritted his teeth and sighed.
*****
“We’re getting you up to idle pretty soon. Stand by.” A centrifuge instructor perched on the motor casing above the ceiling fan blades. Chester remained secured inside a box swinging from one of the idle fan blade paddles. He had had to sidle along the smooth blade, rappel down the rope supporting the dangling box, drop in and strap himself tightly to the seat.
The centrifuge apparatus was a massive five-bladed whirling machine suspended from the ceiling in one of the human offices. A gray mouse garbed in a white lab coat, perched on the motor casing above the blades, gesturing with muscular forelegs while calling instructions to Chester dangling in the centrifuge pod. Beyond Chester’s range of vision, a technician perched at his station atop The Remote. When ordered to do so, he jumped on the buttons of the large rectangular control panel, causing the spinning blade to pick up speed or slow to a halt.
Chester stared straight ahead at the wall of the centrifuge pod, awaiting commands and willing himself to stay calm. Pack it down, he thought. He had practiced the Hick Maneuver repeatedly in the last week. Hopefully it was now a reflex.
“Bringing you up to idle. State your name and rank for the file,” shouted the instructor.
“Ensign Chester,” he stated firmly in his deep voice
“All you’re going to do is pull back on the stick until you get 60% light loss.”
Chester nodded. The fan blades began to rotate.
“Feel the onset of G’s now.”
As the fan spun faster. Chester felt his face tighten and eyelids flatten as he performed stomach and grunt maneuvers to combat the effects of the spin. After a moment or two he let go of the control and the fan blades slowed.
“Three-point-four was your relax. What did you experience?” The mouse called from above.
“Light loss”
“How did it happen?”
“Tunnel”
“You got it all back?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Okay. Now we are going to get you up to five Gs for thirty seconds.” The blades began to spin faster. “Do some breathing! Any questions?” The instructor’s voice came and went as Chester whirled around.
“No, sir.” Chester stared at the blank wall in front of him, willing himself to stay alert. He held his breath, gritted his teeth and squeezed muscles. He had no control over his eyelids. They felt as if they were pulling down over his globe eyes. His furry cheeks rumpled and pulled back from his snout as he fought to keep his vision.
“Squeeze your legs! Breathe! Drop your shoulders! Push out with your stomach! What school did you go to?”
“The Naval Mouse Academy, sir,” Chester shouted. He squeezed his hind legs with all his might, grabbing snoutfuls of air and holding his breath. “Hic … hic.”
“Squeeze your tail! Squeeze the haunches!”
Chester’s eyelids drooped further and the corners of his mouth stretched toward his chin as he spun at incredible speed. He gritted his incisors, driving them into his lower lip, fighting to stay in the game.
“Terminate! Terminate!”
Chester felt the speed drop abruptly. He sank back, trying to hide his racing heart and labored breath, grateful for the break.
“Tell me about your light loss.”
“It came in at sixty to seventy percent,” Chester called.
“How did it happen?”
“Tunnel.” With the blades rotating slowly Chester was able to get control of his breathing.
“Next is six Gs for 15 seconds. Let me know when you are ready to go.”
“Ready.”
Chester did not see the instructor motion to the technician to begin the next sequence. In a far corner the technician stomped his hind feet on the buttons of the fan remote control. The blades began their spin. Chester gulped a mouthful of air, gritted his teeth and pushed down into his stomach.
“Legs! Breathe! Pull back! You’re on top. Breathe. Keep your heels in,” The instructor shouted through a macaroni tube as the dangling box containing Chester swung out by centrifugal force.
Chester gulped air again, mouth wrenched down at the corners, eyes stretched toward his chin. His fur felt like it was pulling off his triangle skull. He gulped again, straining his mid-section to gain control.
“Squeeze that tail. Squeeze the haunches! You got it. Looking really good!” The instructor roared encouragement as Chester spun at amazing speed, struggling to stay conscious.
“Keep the fight! Don’t dump so much air! Push in with the abs!”
Chester gulped, squeezed and bore down into his seat, driving his incisors into his lower lip wondering how long he could hold up under the relentless force of the Gs.
“Terminate, terminate, terminate! Catch your breath, Keep the strain. Tell me about your light loss.”
“Maybe about 10 percent.” Chester fought to bring his breathing under control.
“Nice. Good work. How’d ya do it? Push your abs out?”
Chester nodded, then realized the instructor couldn’t see him. “I squeezed my tummy,” he shouted, his breath rasping in his throat.
“Slow your breathing down. The profile is right in front of you. Next one is seven. You’ve already been to five and six.”
Chester stared at the wall of the capsule. He had cleared three and a half Gs, five Gs, six Gs, and now they were going to spin him up to seven. He hoped he didn’t throw up or black out.
“We’re adding a G and a half. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
Chester snuck a peek out of the top of the capsule. The blade had slowed to a lazy spin and now he spied the instructor perched atop the motor case as he rotated with every revolution of the fan blade. He looked away in case it made him sick and concentrated on listening to the voice.
“Make sure you have that brake squeezed before you tell me you’re ready.”
“Ready,” Chester called, pulling in a quick breath and holding it.
“Another ten seconds … Fight’s on!”
Chester gasped for a second breath and clenched his tail hard.
“Another eight seconds! Going to six! Fight’s on!”
He fought to keep the blood from draining from his brain. Pushing down, he squeezed his haunches hard. His ears drooped and remained taut, feeling as thought they might meet under his chin.
“You’re on top! Breathe! You got it. breathe!
Chester allowed a small exhale then wrapped his snout around another gulp, holding it and pushing his stomach toward his tail. His eye lids were drawn so tight, he fought to keep them open.
“Fight’s on! Tail alone! Squeeze that tail. Breathe. Not so big exhale! PUSH OUT THE ABS.”
A singing hum sounded in Chester’s head as he gritted his teeth, clutching the small captured breaths in his throat and holding, squeezing his tail where it met his hind quarters. All he could concentrate on was trying to stay alert and in the game. He didn’t know how long he was going to be able to withstand the tremendous pressure pulling his fur from his bones and the breath from his lungs.
“Terminate, terminate, terminate! You’re coming down.”
Chester felt the pull on his consciousness lessen almost immediately when the motor was shut and the fan blades began to slow. He could catch his breath even though his heart continued to hammer in his chest.
“Tell me about your light loss,” the instructor shouted.
“At seven I lost about 50 percent,” Chester shouted back.
“Okay. No problem.”
“I brought it back to ten percent.” Chester continued.
“Way to stay in the fight. Good job. Nice. Last one. Turn your snout and look over your left shoulder.”
Chester turned his nose slowly, trying not to upset his equilibrium which was already off kilter.
“Rest your paw next to the stick. Ready? One second. Fight’s on! Go get ‘em!”
The fan accelerated to the highest speed. Chester grabbed his first breath, trying to keep his eyes open.
“You’re on top. Breathe!
He sucked his tummy toward his tail. Desperately working to stay engaged.
“Dig those heels down. Push with your haunches. Push with your abs. Breathe. Squeeze the knees.”
The light was dimming rapidly. Chester drew a quick rasping snoutful of air, pushing at the floor of the capsule with his hind feet. A sound like a growl began in his throat.
“Keep fighting!”
He pushed the mouthful or air from his mouth and gasped again, fighting to see, pulling his knotted, kinked tail toward his rear haunches. He didn’t have much left.
“Terminate, terminate, terminate!”
Chester held his position, neck turned over his left shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as the fan blade slowed.
“You’re at a stop, believe it or not,” the instructor called kindly.
Chester turned his head a smidge at a time until he faced forward, staring at the wall of the box in front of him. “Phew.”
*****
A fellow SNA perched outside the centrifuge test area awaiting his turn. He eyed his squadron mate, Chester, as he squeezed under the door from the test room into the hallway.
“Hey Chester. How’d it go?” Angus shook his furry forelegs from the rolled cuffs of his green flight suit, attempting to appear casual.
“Pretty good. I passed. It was actually kind of fun.” Now that it’s over, Chester thought.
“Did you learn anything new?”
“Oh, yeah. I had a malfunctioning trainer bird last week. It took me into an unexpected deep dive. This will help me if I should ever have a similar experience again, but I hope not.” Chester remembered the experience all too clearly.
“Do you know what happened to your air bird?”
“Yeah. We went to maintenance control to log the flight and write the report. They need to figure out what happened before that Sea-6 can fly again. She’s downed.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“What?”
“I just flew your trainer bird last night.” Angus smirked.
Chester stared at his fellow aviator’s brown snout in disbelief. “What?” he asked again. “We reported a downing discrepancy. That bird was downed.”
“Not anymore. The report came back. ‘Could not reproduce on the ground’. She’s back in the air.”
Chester stared. “Did they offer it a sandwich?”
“I don’t know what they did, but she’s cleared to fly.”
Chester exhaled through his front incisors. With luck he would not be assigned to the same trainer again. But there were only so many Sea-6 air birds. The odds were, he would be climbing aboard her back once again before the month was over.
THE END.
After delays and snags, the third and final book in the Chester Midshipmouse series, Chester Midshipmouse Time and Tide, has gone to the printer! (Cheers and wild clapping) As an author, this has been one challenging and frustrating experience, to say the least. However, one of the smoothest and most gratifying elements of the publishing journey has been working with artist, Maggie Vandewalle. I am excited for readers to discover the nine color (hardback) or black and white (softcover) full page illustrations plus four thumbnail sketches throughout the pages. She is an incredible talent. Before the cover reveal, please enjoy a sample from the book. ~ Susan Weisberg 
