Joined: 08 Jan 2008 Posts: 190 Location: grand coulee,wa 190 eGriz Bucks
Very cool... I think it able to turn on a dime because of thrust vectoring... redirecting some of the thrust from the engines to quicken a turn!
BTW...
What military aircraft am I?
F/A-22 Raptor
You are an F/A-22. You are technologically inclined, and though you`ve never been tested in combat, your very name is feared. You like noise, but prefer not to pollute any more than you have to. And you can move with the best.
Joined: 19 Aug 2003 Posts: 2275 Location: Roaming the countryside with GrizChick 2435 eGriz Bucks
We were at the Osh Kosh Air Show last summer and the F/A-22 was one of the birds there. Great show put on by the pilot.
If you have never been there and have a chance go. It is only second to the Paris Air Show.
For those of you who don't like beautiful women and like to complain, click on ignore and don't read my posts. I don't have anything of interest for ewe types. That includes the "mods".
Joined: 06 Aug 2003 Posts: 4651 Location: NE corner of the NEZ 6635 eGriz Bucks
Kind of ont he subject?
thsi was forwarded to me the other day:
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Below is an article written by Rick Reilly of Sports Illustrated. He details his experiences when given the opportunity to fly in a F-14 Tomcat. If you aren't laughing out loud by the time you get to 'Milk Duds' , your sense of humor is seriously broken.
Someday you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your 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've 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 Mrs. 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 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.'
Reader, suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But of course, I repeat myself..."
-Samuel L. Clemens
You are an F-15. Your record in combat is spotless; you`ve never been defeated. You possess good looks, but are not flashy about it. You prefer to let your reputation do the talking. You are fast, agile, and loud, but reaching the end of your stardom.
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class 1996
