KAPTAIN BUZZKILL and THE FAST EDDIES
We're cruising in wanton luxury, up against class A airspace with two hundred mile viz in all directions. I loosen my shoulder straps to lean forward and look behind, awed as ever by the sky's empty vastness. Wondering idly at the actual number of molecules we've pushed out of our way since takeoff, I mumble, “How many zeros.”
“Zero what?”
Zero worries?
“...Uh, disregard.” I check the O2. It seems OK.
When soaring is this easy I get sleepy. Sunlight trapped in the canopy keeps us comfy but outside it’s frigid, so I poke two fingers out the inch-square vent until they’re numb and press them on my eyelids. Pulsing tie-dye sunburst gets them optic nerves cookin'. Oh yeah, now I’m awake. Back to bizness. As eyes refocus...
JET FIGHTERS HEAD-ON, STREAK PAST BLURRY CLOSE!
Gone so fast I doubt they're real. They were.
A time warp vacuum grabs us a quarter second before the tremendous all enveloping wallop and shattering BOOM of those zillion-pound tailpipes now pointed directly at us. Their roar fades almost as quickly, leaving our own bird's normal whisper still vacuous but now somehow more penetrating.
My first response is pull up to dodge their explosive wakes. Already too late, but I do it anyway.
In unison we both squawk, “WHAA?!” Each wondering what the other might say,,, Tremulous, “What’d you see?” and Wary, “I think so,,,”
Four bogies, two on either side. Yes, for one appalling moment we were inside their formation! And they were very nearly inside ours. Certainly they’d seen us – though not until waay too late. If we or they had been a wingspan to either side, scratch millions in hardware and pilot training, and our day too. "Weren't they too low to be going that fast?"
"Maybe.” There is a speed limit of 250 knots, but only below 10,000 feet. (At that altitude 250 indicated is 300 true.) But we were a mile and a half higher than that and those jets were coming much faster than 300 knots, true or otherwise. Realistically, our closing speed was more like 1000 feet per second, roughly the pace of a .22 caliber bullet. And those bogies carry a bit more punch a .22 slug.
My ears start to burn as the bone between them recalls another bit of relevant information. When it's hot altimeters read lower than true, and the higher you fly the greater the difference. Only now I recognize that on this August day above the Black Rock Desert our absolute altitude might be exceed 17,999...
Just curious, I adjust my altimeter to 29.92, noting I'd never had occasion to do that before. It's amazing how such a simple, easy an act can cause one to break a cold sweat.
To Cpt. Buzzkill and his posse loping along at mach or so in their airspace, we were a real life Unidentified Flying Object, and by now on some discrete frequency probably a topic of lively discussion.
Supposing they’ll hurry back for another look, my next reflex is to evade them, but there's nothing to hide behind and we can hardly run away. Should we sit like a frightened rabbit and hope they can’t find us? Our crime is being too high, so going straight down is the way to fix that. Still trembling, I pull spoilers and nose into a steep high-G spiral.
Our ceiling, however, is not their floor...