THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, September 20, 1996 TAG: 9609200540
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY JACK DORSEY, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: 127 lines
We're rocketing at 500 miles an hour over Virginia Beach swamp and farm land when I learn that the vintage-1950s, Soviet-built MiG-21 jet fighter wrapped around me has a few troublesome tics.
Navy Capt. Robert L. ``Hoot'' Gibson, at the controls in the two-seater's front seat, mentions that he's having a slight problem with the plane's trim. The jet keeps wandering to the left.
And he's not eager to get too far from Oceana Naval Air Station. The fighter's compass appears to be broken.
We fly over Sandbridge in the star of this weekend's Oceana Air Show, afterburners kicked on, a silver blur, then swing back toward Oceana. As he sets up for landing, he hollers a question: Can I see three green lights on my cockpit display?
``On your left, down toward the bottom,'' he says. ``I can only see two of them on my screen.''
They indicate, he says, that the landing gear is down and locked.
I look at my display. Yes, I do see some lights over to the left side.
But the labels beneath them are written in Czechoslovakian.
And, unfortunately, I can't read Czechoslovakian.
Not a word of it.
Nobody pointed out those lights to me during preflight, when I was introduced to what seemed the cockpit's every quirk.
Louis Ihnen, the fighter's volunteer crew chief when he isn't on duty as an Illinois State Trooper, strapped me into the rear of this trainer version of the MiG ``Fishbed,'' pointing out the cockpit's features, noting with great firmness what I was not to touch.
``I'm going to say this about 10 times,'' Ihnen said. ``Don't touch those two big handles between your legs, unless you plan to eject and take the pilot with you. And we don't have time to mess around with that today.
``Here are the levers to lock the canopy. Make sure you lock it. They've been known to blow off sometimes.''
He pointed to a little, three-bladed plastic fan, the sort you saw in the cabs of tractor-trailers in the days before air conditioning. ``You can turn on the fan to get a little air back here once we get you some power,'' he said.
He pointed to an instrument cluster labeled in Czech. ``Here's the gyro and that's the air speed.'' Then he pointed to another part of the display. ``Don't touch that.'' He didn't bother to identify it, or to tell me what it did.
Finally, Ihnen handed me a small plastic bag. ``I don't want to embarrass you, sir, but take this with you,'' he said, ``just in case.''
Still, back on the ground there seemed little reason to worry. Before I climbed into the jet I asked Don ``Absolutely'' Kirlin why he bought this MiG from Czechoslovakia last year. ``You tell me,'' he said, smiling, ``after you get back.''
He did not say ``if.''
And I'd been in jet warplanes before - the Navy's A-4, the Air Force's F-15 and some other tactical aircraft.
And my pilot, Hoot, was an astronaut, a five-flight space shuttle veteran, a pilot who has flown more than 50 varieties of aircraft.
And, importantly, Hoot's preflight checklist was written in English.
What's to worry, I thought. Let's go.
I tried to ignore the first omen: An Oceana crewman manning the power generator, eyeing the MiG's shiny silver fuselage and announcing he had no idea what the Czech words stamped there meant.
It was tougher to overlook Hoot's mumbling, as we readied for takeoff: ``I think everything's here.''
And it didn't help when he told me: ``I've never flown this with someone in the back seat.''
Then, as we began our takeoff, all of that was forgotten. The MiG-21 came alive, noisy but steady, as Hoot lit the afterburner. We were up in seconds, doing a quick right-hand break toward the Oceanfront and climbing through a crisp, bright sky toward 10,000 feet.
Hoot banked right and left, pulling up, then nosing down, putting about three times the force of gravity on our bodies.
It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, just uncomfortable - especially trying to figure out what to do with my hands. I remembered Ihnen's warning about the ejection seat handles and decided to grab hold of my harness.
As we flew over Sandbridge, I had no trouble understanding why people like Gibson love to fly. The power of their machines, and the freedom of flight, are simply spectacular.
The MiG's afterburner kicked us from 350 to 500 mph nearly instantly. ``It gets there quick,'' he said.
On approach to Oceana, Hoot made one of those famous rib-bruising Navy breaks, yanking the aircraft onto its left side over the field, screaming by as if to ensure that everyone below was awake.
But now he's asking about the lights.
Well, um, yeah, I tell him, I see three lights.
I am not confident that they're the ones he's asking about; for all I know, these are simply signals that the fan's on.
Hoot is apparently unimpressed with my report. He asks the tower to eyeball the plane, to confirm that the required number of wheels jut from its underside.
The tower replies that we're in good shape.
The exchange helps explain why he's still flying after 25 years: The man takes no chances. Turns out his indicator lights are dimmed. He can't see them in the morning's bright sunshine.
On the ground, I hand over my empty plastic bag, and Kirlin, the owner, greets us. ``Now do you know why I bought it?'' he asks. ``It's the fastest privately owned vehicle in the United States.''
This is a point of pride with Kirlin, a commercial airline pilot from Quincy, Ill., and one of only three private owners of the MiG-21: The plane is faster, he says, than a new F-16 off the assembly line.
``That's what I tell my friends with their Porsches and Jaguars,'' he says, ``and all the fast cars.''
Hoot's fascination with the plane goes beyond speed. When I ask which of the more than 50 planes he's flown he finds the most challenging, he says it's this one.
Only a few pilots are qualified to fly it. It turns quicker than some of the American military's most modern fighters. It takes great skill to master.
And its history intrigues, as well.
``I spent so much time learning how to kill them,'' he says, ``that when I got this chance to fly them, it was a great opportunity.'' ILLUSTRATION: Color photos
D. KEVIN ELLIOTT/The Virginian-Pilot
Wild Ride 1: Barnstorming the Beach
You'll recognize the North Landing River below, of course, as Frank
Ryder takes his Oreck XL aerobatic plane through a practice spin
Thursday prior to his performance at the Oceana Air Show this
weekend. While the audience's view may not be as breathtaking, it
promises to be breath-holding. Ryder offers hammerhead stalls,
loop-the-loop maneuvers, rolling turns, outside loops, figure
eights, and a who's-flying-the-plane? finale when he stands up in
the cockpit as the plane zooms by.
MORT FRYMAN/The Virginian-Pilot
The 1950s MiG-21 will be the star of the weekend Oceana Air Show. by CNB