(Photo by G.Gierach)

The mention or thought of doing it makes even the most experienced crewmember's pulse race a bit faster. Think of the worst possible situations you can put an aircraft and a crew into, lousy weather, close to the ground (and other unseen obstacles) and add darkness. That's low-level night flying.

It's one of those jobs where the better you do it, the more dangerous it is, and yet the chances of surviving in actual combat are improved. It is, to put it mildly, a unique situation. It's the ability to hide in the clutter or behind a ridge line that may mean the difference between reaching your target or being shot down. The FB-111A was one of the first aircraft to be designated especially for high-speed, low-altitude bombing. The FB-111's terrain following radar scans several miles ahead of the aircraft and automatically adjusts its altitude to put the bomber a set distance above the ground.

In flat terrain, or above water, it is a smooth ride. At the 200-feet clearance setting and on "hard-ride"- which commands a nearly complete zero-G, weightless dive- it can be a real roller-coaster ride. During daytime, TFR flying is an exciting, exhilarating experience. Turn the lights out though, and it's a different story. Even with the computerized magic of the FB-111 working for you, no one can just climb into an Aardvark and fly night TFR. Every crew member must have eight hours of academics and three hours of simulator time before flying night or IFR (instrument flight rules, or bad weather) TFR. The next 10 flights in "blind" TFR are limited to 1,000 feet above the terrain and only fully operable aircraft navigation systems. After all these requirements have been completed, the crewmember is certified to fly blind TFR down as low as 400 feet during training missions.

Mission planning and training takes much of the fear and mystery out of blind TFR. On mission planning day, the route of the flight is carefully briefed to both pilot and navigator. Potential trouble spots, large elevation changes, lakes and rivers (which sometimes look like terrain on radar) are examined. There will be times on each low-level route when one crewmember will be distracted from monitoring the TFR's performance - on a bomb run for, for instance - and such areas need to be identified early. The crew also discusses its exact actions should something go wrong. Then you're airborne. You've already accomplished a ground and inflight check of the TFR's, and everything works perfectly. You are 40 miles northeast of Bar Harbor, Maine, heading southeast at 17,000 feet. The weather has been cloudy and rainy since takeoff, and it's dark out there - not just night time dark, but mean-looking dark! Switches are configured and you're ready to go.

Twenty-two miles from the coast, the pilot engages AUTO-TFR on the autopilot panel. The bomber noses over and screams earthward at 10,000 feet per minute. As the nav calls out the altitudes, the pilot sweeps the wings back. Now you feel like you are hanging upside down in your seat. The altimeter is spinning down like a clock gone crazy. Finally, the descent slows, then stops. Wings forward, you pop through the clouds, just before reaching 1,000 feet above the ground, but all you can see is a sea of black, with a few lighthouses or boats lost in it. You descend to 750....500....400 feet. You can't see the waves rushing beneath you, but you can somehow feel them. You see a lighthouse near the Maine coast, and that's when you realize just how low you are!

Now you're coast-in again. Because of the poor wheater and total darkness, your world has shrunken down to the instrument panel and two radar scopes. Terrain isn't too bad yet, a lot of small lakes and hills, a farm here and there. Gentle slopes. The navigator is careful to tell the pilot when he's not watching terrain on his radar. The nav takes a look at the terrain for seven or eight miles ahead, runs a pre-bomb checklist, then checks terrain again. He runs the Short Range Attack Missile pre-launch checklist, then checks terrain. He checks radio and electronic countermeasures equipment, then checks terrain. Back and forth, never distracted for any longer than a few moments, the nav continues to check what's ahead.

Meanwhile, the pilot compares the navigator's terrain calls with his own TFR E-scope, which gives a profile view of the terrain, with the aircraft on the far left. He watches the hills march across the scope, making sure none of them loom above the line on which the aircraft is flying. If he sees a break in the terrain, he calls it out to the navigator, who then checks it on his attack radar. Again, back and forth - constant coordination. You're now on the "backside" of Ashland, on the Maine-Quebec border northwest of Moosehead Lake. The little hills have grown into mountains. The audio feedback from the TFR is almost constant now - high-pitched "beeps" for climb commands, low-pitched "boops" for dives. The terrain is much higher than your bomber now, so high that you can't see much more than a few miles ahead on radar.

Now the navigator begins making a steady stream of calls: "Terrain five miles, not painting over it....four miles, still not painting over it..." The pilot respond, "Got it on the E-scope". The TFR begin to command a climb - "beep....beep...beep...". "Three miles," the navigator calls, "still not painting over it". The radar scope is now almost completely black, since the TFR cannot pick up ("paint over") the terrain on the other side of the mountain. The TFR audio begins to increase in intensity - "beep beep beep beep..."

Now the bomber is automatically zooming skyward at 4,000 feet per minute. The TFR audio is almost a steady tone - "beepbeepbeepbeep....". "Two miles, not painting over...starting to paint over the terrain!" the navigator says as blobs of white appear on the radar scope. It's like the whole world opens up again - the TFR shows the terrain on the other side of the mountain peak. The TFR begins to pull down the back side of the ridge - "boop...boop...boop...". The pilot loosens his grip on the stick and throttles back, realizing that he unconsciously added a little too much power going up the ridge. The nav sits back in his seat, feeling like he had stopped breathing for 10 minutes. Then it's time to start calling out the next ridgeline.

Nervous? Sure. Scared? Maybe a little, but now you've proved to yourself that you can do it - safely take yourself, your crew and your bomber "down in the dirt". It may one day make the difference between accomplishing the mission or falling short.