#pilot retracts landing gear too early

[pacificeagles]

https://pacificeagles.net/boeing-xb-15/

Boeing XB-15

By the mid-1930s the US Army Air Corps (USAAC) saw the need for a new type of long-range bomber. The procurement of the Boeing B-9 and the Martin B-10 and B-12 series had filled an immediate need for medium bombers but advances in aviation technology suggested that a much larger machine capable of inter-continental flight might be feasible. In the early 1930s it was discovered that larger aircraft offered aerodynamic advantages, which coupled with other improvements such as retractable landing gear, controllable pitch and constant speed propellers, and the standardisation on monoplanes meant that a very large bomber could conceivably be constructed. As such, the USAAC initiated “Project A”, approaching both Boeing and Martin to design new aircraft.

On April 14, 1934 the USAAC issued a design request for a new bomber with a combat range of 5,000-miles carrying a 2,000lb bomb load. Boeing produced the Model 294, a large four-engine design which was subsequently designated XBLR-1. Douglas produced their Model 145 which was later designated XB-16. The Boeing design was considered superior and a contract was issued on June 29, 1935 for a single XBLR-1. In July 1936, the “BLR” line was eliminated and the aircraft was redesignated XB-15.

Design

The XB-15 was the largest and heaviest American aircraft ever built when it first flew in 1937. The most striking feature was the huge, broad wings which stretched out to give the aircraft a wingspan of 149ft. The wings were fitted with air brakes and de-icing boots, both recent innovations. The thickness of the wing allowed for crawlspaces that an engineer could use to reach the engine nacelles and carry out minor repairs whilst in flight. The same wing design would later be used on the Model 314 flying boat which carried passengers across the Pacific for Pan American Airways.

A large aircraft requires powerful engines and the XB-15 was originally designed with Allison’s experimental V-3420 in mind. This engine mated two V-1710s together to provide up to 2,600hp for takeoff. Allison struggled to make the huge engine work and they were not considered reliable enough for the XB-15 program. With the risk of project failure due to engine issues considered too high, the designers substituted instead the Pratt & Whitney R-1830-11, rated at just 850hp. Projected performance was naturally greatly reduced as a result.

The fuselage was mostly conventional with several turrets housing six defensive machine guns. There were several innovations for crew comfort – with combat missions expected to last up to 24 hours, living and sleeping quarters for the crew were provided aft of the bomb bay, and heating and ventilation was provided for the crew to keep them comfortable. An automatic pilot was included to ease the burden on the two pilots, and an improved SCR-186 radio compass was installed for the navigator. The XB-15 was the first aircraft to have two auxiliary engines for powering the onboard electrical systems, although these were notoriously unreliable.

Several other innovations were pondered but ultimately rejected for the design. Turbo-superchargers for the engines were considered as they might have resulted in increased power, but were rejected on the basis that too many problems around aerodynamics and propellors needed to be resolved for them to be worth it. Likewise tricycle landing gear was rejected in favour of double-trucked conventional main gear.

Construction took place in Boeing’s Seattle plant. The first flight of the XB-15 took place on 15 October 1937, more than 2 years after smaller and higher-priority XB-17 – this despite the fact that the XB-15 was ordered first. Boeing’s chief test pilot Edmund T. “Eddie” Allen was at the controls alongside USAAC Maj John D. Korkille. The aircraft performed adequately but the top speed was disappointing at less than 200mph. When carrying 2,500lb of bombs the top speed was reduced further to 145mph, which would have made it an easy target for modern fighters. It was clear that the design of the XB-15 was fundamentally flawed and as a result any further production of the type was abandoned.

The Army saw enough potential in the XB-15 to request a modernised version in June 1938, with the ungainly designation Y1B-20. This version was to have featured more powerful Pratt & Whitney R-2180 Twin Hornet engines, offering 1,400hp and a top speed that was anticipated to reach 240mph. The tricycle gear that was proposed for the XB-15 also would have featured. The Y1B-20 would have been slightly larger and heavier than the XB-15, with additional defensive armament. However with the XB-19 already on order and limited funds available for new bombers, there seemed little need for the Y1B-20 so the contracts were cancelled before any were built.

The XB-15 marked something of a dead-end for large bomber development. For an aircraft to meet the USAAC’s requirements it needed much more power which could not be provided by the engines of the day. Research indicated the need to greatly reduce drag, which in turn pointed to a thinner wing with a much higher wing-loading and a fuselage that was as aerodynamically clean as possible. Boeing would learn these lessons and apply them in a series of designs which culminated in the Model 345, which became the B-29 Superfortress.

Service

The sole XB-15 was accepted by the USAAC and delivered to Wright Field in December 1937. It was assigned to the 2nd Bomb Group for extended performance trials and was tested throughout 1938. When in January 1939 an earthquake struck Chillán, Chile, the XB-15 was sent on a humanitarian mission to ferry supplies for the Red Cross to the disaster area. The flight was commanded by Maj Caleb V. Haynes. The XB-15 flew from Langley Field via the Panama canal zone and Lima, Peru to the Chilean capital, Santiago. Haynes was later awarded the DFC for the mission and the crew was awarded the Mackay Trophy for carrying out the outstanding USAAC effort of the year.

A more sombre duty followed for the XB-15 in June 1939, when it was used to carry the body of famed Mexican aviator Francisco Sarabia home to Mexico City. Sarabia had just set a record for flying from Mexico City to New York in time for the 1939 World’s Fair. Sarabia visited Washington on his return trip, and it was here that disaster struck. Taking off from Bolling Field, Sarabia’s aircraft suffered engine failure and crashed into the Potomac River. Sarabia subsequently drowned and the XB-15 was drafted in to carry him to his final resting place. The XB-15 also later made an appearance at the World’s Fair, as a demonstration of American aeronautical engineering prowess.

The XB-15 was also used to set a number of world records for lift capacity and endurance. On July 30, 1939 the aircraft set its first record by lifting a cargo of 14,135kg (31,162lb) to over 2,000m (6,562ft) with pilot Haynes again at the controls (link). A few days later another record was set by the XB-15 when it carried a 2,000kg (4,409lb) payload over a closed 5,000km (3,107-mile) circuit, with an average speed of 267kmh (166mph) (link). Both were ratified as official Fédération Aéronautique Internationale (FAI) records that stood until they were broken in 1946 by a USAAF Boeing B-29 Superfortress.

In 1940 the XB-15 moved to Albrook Field near the Panama Canal. It was used in bombing tests against simulated canal facilities, demonstrating some of their weaknesses against bombing attacks. Capt Curtis LeMay, future commander of B-29 forces in the Pacific, was the navigator. A month later the XB-15 surveyed potential airfield locations in the Galapagos Islands, following which construction began on Baltra and Seymour Island airfields which were used extensively during the war years. Following these exploits the XB-15 returned to the US where its defensive armament was removed and additional seating added so that the aircraft could serve a transport for lend-lease crews returning from Europe.

When the war broke out the XB-15 was pressed into service as a troop transport. Eventually it was adapted for permanent non-combat operations, with all of the defensive armament removed and the bomb-bay reconfigured for carrying cargo with a hoist and cargo doors. The modified aircraft was redesignated XC-105, and thanks to its history as the first true American heavy bomber its crew dubbed it “Grandpappy”. Based again at Albrook Field on the Pacific side of the Panama Canal, the XC-105 regularly flew between Miami and bases across the Caribbean, as far afield as the Galapagos Islands, delivering over half-a-million pounds of cargo during its career.

By 1945 the reliability of the XB-15 was becoming a serious problem.  The aircraft suffered two in-air fires and a complete loss of electrical power due to a failure of the auxiliary generators. Realising that the aircraft was beyond the point of economical repair, the decision was made to scrap the aircraft. In June the XB-15 was stripped of parts and broken up at Albrook Field, and its remains were later buried.

#Boeing #bomber #Aircraft #Allied Aircraft #USAAF

[skyfire85]

-Composite photo of the XB-42 and XB-43. | Photo: USAF (Edit: Justin Gibb)

FLIGHTLINE: 169 - DOUGLAS XB-42 MIXMASTER/XB-43 JETMASTER

The Mixmaster was designed as a fast bomber early in WWII, and later the Jetmaster replaced the piston engines with jets, though neither saw service.

MIX MASTER, CUT FASTER

Originally an unsolicited proposal, what became the XB-42 was presented to the US Army Air Forces in May 1943. Douglas' team wanted to create a medium bomber capable of flying as fast and as far as possible, and the resulting aircraft was quite unusual for the time. The aircraft was highly streamlined, with the engines buried in the fuselage and a contra-rotating propeller mounted in a pusher configuration, thus keeping the wings clear of drag-inducing pods, pylons or other protrusions. The aircraft had tricycle landing gear and a cruciform tail to prevent the propeller blades from striking the runway as the aircraft rotated.

-Orthograph of the XB-42 showing its unusual planform. | Illustration: Dr. Dan Saranga

The aircraft, given the designation XB-42 and the name Mixmaster, was 53' long and had a wingspan of 70'. The plane weighed almost thirty-six thousand pounds fully loaded, and sat a crew of three, a pilot and co-pilot under separate bubble canopies, and a bombardier in the plexiglass nose. Power was provided by a pair of Allison V-1710 V-12 engines (variants of which powered the P-38, -39, -40, -51 and later the F-82), giving the Mixmaster a speed of 410mph and a combat range of 1,800 miles. Production B-42s would have been armed with six .50 machine guns, two each in retractable blisters (aimed remotely by the co-pilot) in the trailing edge of the wing and two more firing forwards in the fuselage. A bomb load of 8,000lbs was planned.

-The first XB-42 prototype, with the twin bubble canopies, on its first flight in 1944. | Photo: USAAF

The first XB-42, s/n 43-50224, took its maiden flight on 6 May 1944. The aircraft was found to perform to expectations, though the separated canopies hampered communications and were replaced by a single piece canopy on the second aircraft. The second Mixmaster soon joined the first, and in December 1945 Captain Glen Edwards (for whom Muroc Army Airfield was later renamed) and Lt. Col. Henry E. Warden set a new transcontinental speed record when they flew XB-42 No. 2 (s/n 43-50225) from Long Beach, California to Bolling Air Force Base in Washington, D.C., a distance of 2,300 miles, in 5 hours, 17 minutes, at an average speed of 434mph. Testing uncovered some stability issues with the XB-42, specifically excessive yaw, as well as problems with vibration and engine overheats due to poor cooling. On December 17th 1945, the second prototype was destroyed after suffering a double engine failure, all three crew survived after bailing out of the stricken aircraft at 400'.

-The second XB-42 prototype, with its single piece canopy. | Photo: USAAF

The end of WWII and the aircraft's own teething troubles saw the USAAF reduce the tempo of the B-42 program, choosing to retain the aircraft as a test-bed. The remaining Mixmaster was modified with the addition of underwing pods containing two Westinghouse 19XB-2A turbojets and was subsequently redesignated the XB-42A. This modification pushed the aircraft's top speed to 488mph, but after 22 flights a hard landing in 1947 saw the aircraft retired. It was repaired and placed into storage before being dismantled for transport and turned over to the Smithsonian Institution in 1949. The aircraft's wings were lost in the move, and it has remained in storage, awaiting restoration, ever since. In 2010 the aircraft, along with the surviving XB-43, were transferred to the National Museum of the USAF for eventual restoration and display.

-The XB-42A with it's podded engines and distinctive double bubbled cockpits. | Photo: USAF

REMOVE "MIX", ADD "JET"

In response to USAAF inquiries about substituting the XB-42's piston engines with jet, Douglas confirmed that the idea was at least feasible, and in 1944 the Mixmaster's contract was amended to include the parallel development of a jet-powered derivation, the XB-43 Jetmaster. In order to save both time and money, Douglas used the XB-42 static test airframe as a starting point, removing the Allison engines with GE J35 jets, which required adding intakes into each side of the fuselage. The tail was remodeled as well, with the ventral fin no longer being needed it was removed and the dorsal fin and rudder being enlarged to compensate. Despite finding on the second XB-42 that a single-piece canopy was better for communications, the XB-43 retained the twin bubble canopies of the first Mixmaster.

-Orthograph of the XB-43. | Illustration: Dr. Dan Saranga

The Jetmasters were somewhat shorter than their older brothers, 51 feet instead of 53, and were somewhat wider at 71'. The XB-43 was heavier too, with a maximum take off weight of 39,533lbs, but GE's turbojets made it faster, with the max speed increased to 515mph and cruise now 420mph. As with all early jet engines, range suffered, with combat range shortened to 1,100mi and ferry range now slightly more than 2,800mi. The bomb load of the XB-43 was still 8,000lbs, but the six fifty cal machine guns were cut to just two in a tail stinger. A separate A-43 attack variant was planned as well, which would mount eight machine guns in a new, solid nose, as well pods of unguided rockets under the wings, but the A-43 was canceled early in the program.

-The XB-43 on the runway at Muroc (later Edwards AFB). | Photo: USAAF

Douglas made short work of modifying the aircraft (s/n 44-61508), but delays in the J35 saw almost two year pass before the XB-43 was ready for a ground test. This test ended spectacularly and inauspiciously, as one of the engines failed catastrophically, sending compressor blades through the casing and the surrounding airframe, injuring a technician. Repairs and a replacement engine took 7 months, but the Jetmaster's maiden flight finally took place on 17 May 1946, making it the first jet bomber to fly for the US. The XB-43 proved it was effective, and the newly independent USAF considered ordering 50, with Douglas assuring them it could deliver up to 200 B-43 and A-43 aircraft per month. The B-43 was old technology though, and the B-45 Tornado outclassed it in almost every category. The XB-43 and it's sibling, the YB-43 (44-61509) kept flying however, providing the USAF much needed data on operating and maintaining jet bombers.

-The YB-43 (s/n 44-61509) in flight. | Photo: USAF

The XB-43 was joined in 1948 by the second prototype, the YB-43, which was occasionally flown with one J35 and one J47. The YB-43s plexiglass nose soon began cracking due to temperature variations, so mechanics at Muroc built a replacement nose, partially from plywood. Ground crews were rather fond of the second Jetmaster, nicknaming it 'Versatile II', which was eventually painted on both sides of the fuselage.

-Color photo of the YB-43 taking off from Muroc air field. The replacement nose, painted bright red, is apparent in this image. | Photo: USAF

Despite their accomplishments and the information they provided, the Jetmasters found themselves rapidly eclipsed by the advance of both technology and aerodynamic theory, and by 1953 the USAF had moved on. The XB-43 had been damaged in a rough landing in 1951, and was cannibalized for spares to keep the YB-43 flying, until it too was retired in 1953. The first aircraft was used for target practice and was eventually destroyed, while the YB-43 was turned over to the Smithsonian like the XB-42, where it languished until 2010 when the two aircraft were turned over to the USAF Museum for eventual restoration.

-The YB-43 in storage, with the weathered 'Versatile II' name still visible. The XB-42 is barely visible to the right. | Photo: George Baczkowski

#aircraft #aviation #avgeek #airplanes #cold war #airplane #cold war history #coldwar #aviation history #usaf #douglas aircraft company #xb42 #xb43 #yb43 #xb 42 #xb 43 #yb 43 #mixmaster #jetmaster

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH8

18+ ONLY Series Content: Graphic descriptions of gore and smut. Din Djarin/Third Person POV.  Chapter Word Count: 8263 (im sorry) Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no use “y/n”

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate.

Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER EIGHT: BLUE MILK PANCAKES

Mando still can’t grasp it actually happened—that he’d been so fortunate to experience such a jaw-dropping night with the Girl, with no ulterior motives no less. Back in his youth, when he was naive and desperate, it wasn’t exactly infrequent for a fling to take advantage of him; spend a quick few minutes so that one may eliminate him in his distraction or gain intel on private matters. The Girl didn’t try that—didn’t want that. She sought to provide him with sweet relief and nothing more, not even her own relief.

He felt so fucking worshipped.

Mando is the first of them to wake in the early rise of the sun. He sits there for a moment, savouring the gleaming rays shining through the viewport to warm his beskar and, consequently, his rigid body underneath. The Crest is coated in a layer of ice, corroding the durasteel beneath and, accompanied by the packed snow resting atop, it’s refrigerating the inside of the spacecraft. Mando slips on the discarded glove from overnight—a warmth surfacing his cheeks upon the reminder of last night’s events—and supplies friction to either hand in the prospect it’ll produce warmth. It’s wishful thinking. 

Granting him the opportunity to adjust to his surroundings, Mando stretches in his chair and virtually moans at the pulsations ranging through his limbs. It starts at his shoulders and travels through his core, nudging against the wound on his back and easing the tension out of his muscles, and reaches to the bottom of his toes which practically curl with delight. 

Mando considers removing the helmet to rub his eyes—the crust in the corners a botheration—lift it a tad in the least, but he doesn’t get the chance. The Child coos beside him, his little arms reaching up for assistance.

 “How did you get up here?” he asks, placing him on his knees. The Child doesn’t answer—why would he—and concentrates on balancing across the joints to tinker with deactivated buttons of the nav controls. “Where to, kid?” Mando scans the system’s database for a paragon planet to hunker down for a few days; spend some time with the kid—and the Girl, of course—before being ripped away from the semi-domestic life and continue on his unwritten path of planet-hopping.

There’s a planet not too far; small population, plenty of wilderness for the kid to explore, and there’s not much traffic that passes through. It’s good, perfect almost, and Mando is hesitant to accept the temptation. The Child’s head rotates to look at his guardian, his large green ears twitching curiously. He sighs and sets the coordinates for the planet despite his better judgement. It’s too fortunate; the last ‘safe’ planet they visited ended up in him protecting an entire village and the kid almost being killed. Although, he’s made a trustworthy ally who’ll assist if something were to go down. He glances behind him at the Girl, raking his brown eyes across her contorted body in the seat.

“Hang on, kid.” Mando lifts himself out of the pilot chair, leaving behind a monitoring toddler in his place, and kneels beside the Girl in the passengers. She’s sleeping peacefully and he doesn’t disturb her, despite the positioning she’s managed to get herself into. It’s unpleasant on his eyes and it couldn’t be comfortable. With a tremble in his back muscles, he reaches behind his neck and peels the cloak from his armour to drape it across her figure, relying on it to provide at least a small portion of warmth to her. She clasps the garment slightly and a smile surfaces his lips, his leathers coming up to brush a stroke across her cheek faintly—only lasting a second or two before detaching from her like an uncooperative magnet. Once she’s finally soothed back into position, Mando retrieves the safety belt from beside her and secures it across her waist before grudgingly tearing away from the Girl. “Looks like you’re with me.”

The Child squeals with enjoyment as the Mandalorian returns to his seat.

“Shh,” he instructs, glancing back to see the Girl motionless. He sighs with relief.

Mando joins the buckle’s latches together and wraps an arm around the Child to secure him against himself. The thrusters wake with a roar and quake the craft’s hull, the ion accelerator chamber thawing the thrusters nozzles of their icy barricade—shit, the ice. It’ll pose a threat, a handicap at the minimum if it doesn’t defrost soon enough. He cringes as the Crest whines against the glacier's dominance on his landing gear, but with the newly-maintenance thrusters, it’s no match against the craft. It rips from the ice and retracts to the hull’s underbelly, allowing Mando to manipulate the ship through the sky and out of the atmosphere; slabs of ice and snow descend to the ground beneath them. 

The feeble bumpiness fades into a smooth flight and Mando activates the autopilot controls. “Not so bad, huh?” He disconnects the buckle from his belt and slips out of the chair, letting the Child sit in the warm leather. “Don’t go touching things—and don’t wake her up,” he quickly adds, noting the Child’s inquisitive staring as though he hadn’t genuinely noticed her earlier. 

Mando sighs and hopes he’ll listen to his request just this once.

The Crest’s hold had been cleaned, just as the Girl promised to do, hardly even a speck of dust surfaced the floor. She’d been busy—and he had just been preoccupied with himself. Mando sighs to himself and browses through his reserved clothing. It mostly consists of bunking apparel—a couple of loose shirts and favourable pants—that he hadn’t had the opportunity to put to use since he fostered the Child. He’s expected—required to remain on the defensive at all times with the Guild breathing down his neck. 

He sorts through the articles and grabs the spare flight suit, his only other. It would be ideal to purchase another, especially now with this one having been ripped, but it wasn’t a necessity presently. The fabric in his hands smells of dirt and grime, residue from the lake he attempted to clean it in all those weeks ago, but it’s better than his current—tattered, bloody, sweaty, and cum-stained. What a combination.

Perhaps he should invest in a refresher for his Crest. That way he wouldn’t be hunched over in the dark corners of the hold, stripping the beskar steel from his body for anybody to stumble across. It didn’t provide much assurance being within eyeshot of the cockpit ladder and with the lack of places to conceal himself, his hurried movements advanced. Then again the sheer thought of the Girl seeing him like this—and joining him—isn’t unpleasant; it would make the situation a whole lot less embarrassing. 

He peels the last of his beskar from his body and stacks it against the wall, reorienting himself to slip out of his boots. It’s been a while since he last stood without any armour, excluding the helmet, and it feels refreshing in a way. But it doesn’t feel right.

Mando wasted no time in replacing the flight suit, smoothing the fabric out with his gloves and reapplying the ensemble of beskar; each patch of steel fitting snugly where it belongs. It’s slightly more bearable, not having to feel his own mess rubbing against him on the inside of the fabric, and he shoves the dirty flight suit in replace of the clean. He’ll get around to washing it when he has the time—or burn it by virtue of the rip across the arm. 

Speaking of arms, the bacta patch on his bicep had aided the wound significantly and within the next day or two, it should be healed. The lesion on his back was a different story. It’s still sore, somewhat better with a night’s rest, but it’ll be a while before he’s out there firing blasters with that same authority. It could cause jeopardy if he’s not cautious.

The Razor Crest abruptly rumbles and falls into a fit of tremors, hurling the Mandalorian against the stationary carbonite pods with fury. “Shit,” he growls and grips his bicep, pleading he won’t bleed through the fresh clothes so soon. It pulses again and the engines’ whining travels through the ventilation, discharging a high-pitched shriek followed by a low hum of a whistle.

“Man-fuck, Mando!” the Girl beckons from upstairs. Mando is quick on his feet up the ladder, clinging desperately to the rungs upon another spasm. “I was sleeping a-and the kid…” She doesn’t need to finish for him to understand, for the Child is sitting underneath the nav panel with colourful cords in his hands; wire coverings peeled away to expose the electricity hazards sparking in his fists.

“Kid, no!” Mando scolds and snatches the cables from his stubborn claws. He babbles a complaint to his guardian as he’s being relocated far away from the electricity. He’s completely dismantled it—Mando will need to implement an entirely new wiring system for the navigation controls alone; a job he’s not suited for. He turns to the Girl for support.

“Don’t look at me,” she raises her hands defensively, “I only know bits and pieces.”

Innocently burbling besides the Mandalorian, the Child watches as leather gloves track across the navigation controls urgently. He’s unbothered by the predicament they’re in—just glad that his guardian had returned to the cockpit’s cabin, it appears. Mando groans in annoyance, fumbling with the nav and fighting against it’s constant glitching. “We’re in luck. There’s a planet on the way. Tatooine. Someone can help us there.” 

“Yeah. Heard of it,” she mutters, regrettably, and he wonders what that is all about but it can wait. It wasn’t the time to sweat over the small details. “We’re not going to crash, are we?”

He contemplates, glancing over the system’s diagnosis and dismisses the electrical yammering it erupts. “Shouldn't—there’ll just be a lot of turbulence.”

That there is—turbulence and a great deal of it. There’s too much to maintain an uncoiled stomach throughout the remainder of the short flight and they’re both surprised when they’re successful in their landing, especially without the contents of their stomach having been dumped over themselves. Peli Motto—an innovative mechanic but a bit too communicatory for the Mandalorian’s preference—stands in her hangar with two greasy hands on her hips, eyes squinting through the viewport to gaze up at Mando. Better have my credits ready to go this time, he can already hear her say and he sighs. Credits he did have, but they weren’t exactly his, and there wasn’t much to spare.

“I’ll see to her,” Mando announces and retrieves the Child, “would you care to join?”

The Girl seems hesitant and peers out the viewport curiously. “Do you trust her?”

Mando takes another glance outside. Peli’s droids are nearing his ship to begin operations but with one stern look from the woman, they back away from the craft. “I do.”

The Girl sighs and peels herself from her seat, fiddling with the cloak that had been laid across her body earlier. “This, uh-”

“Clip it on for me,” he instructs and turns, waiting for familiar hands to run across his shoulders. It takes a moment and he considers retrieving it himself, but he’s patient and it pays off—her fingers playing with the neck covering to manipulate the cloak into place, her digits stroking against the back of his neck underneath all the thick fabric. It’s therapeutic somehow or other. He doesn’t quite understand it himself, but feeling the Girl’s pressure against him relaxes him; eases his eyes closed until all he wants to do is sleep, in her arms preferably and with his head on her chest—his head, not his helmet. Mando wants to press his ear against her flesh and listen to her heartbeat, her breathing, but most of all he just wants to be touched and to touch another.

The Girl smoothes her hands out across the cloak, running her palm down his back and ending just before it reaches the curve at the bottom. “There you go.” She smiles. Fuck, her smile. It makes him want to say something stupid, something embarrassing just to get the same reaction out of her; he wants to be the cause of that smile on her face. She adds, “Thank you.”

Mando twists to face her again, his head tilting. “What for?”

“Buckling me up and, uh, giving me the cloak,” she confesses, a timid hue of pink on her cheeks—she was blushing. “You could have given it to the kid or just kept it yourself, but… you didn’t. So, thank you.”

He swallows and reaches his hand up—for what, he doesn’t know. It’s not until his digits touch the soft padding of her cheek that he notices he’s making a move, his strokes transforming into uncertain shakes. The Girl’s blush deepens at the contact and she places her hand atop his, giving a quick squeeze of reassurance.

With that, his head is back to sorting through indecent thoughts and actions—but none are related to those they had been previously; they’re not obscene nor lustful. It’s his Creed that they’re unethical towards. He imagines the Girl reaching for his helmet, her slender fingers brushing against his chin as she does so, and lifts the steel to unmask the face that’s been sealed away for a long, long time. If she tried to do it right here, right now, he’s not positive whether he would stop her.

“We shouldn’t keep her waiting, it’ll be rude.”

She can wait, is what he wants to say, instead, he murmurs a simple, “Right.”

The Child appears satisfied in Peli’s arms, a large smile on his face as he glares up at the Mandalorian ahead of him. He’s receiving every ounce of attention he can muster out of the woman. “You telling me this little one did all that? Maybe if you gave him a little more attention he wouldn’t be tearing out your cables!”

“What do you mean?” Mando ponders. She runs a finger across the kid’s batwing ears and gestures behind him in the distance where the Girl preoccupies herself tending to their blasters. “What are you getting at?”

“Oh, come on! Do I have to spell it out for you? Are you that oblivious?” She sighs and soothes the Child, “You’ve found yourself another lifeform to harbour—probably spending an awful lot of time with her, aren’t ya?”

He’s not oblivious, not in the slightest; he’s just trying to avoid coming to terms with the thoughts in his head. However, he hadn’t noticed his lack of bonding with the Child and he mentally scolds himself. Of course, the kid wants attention, all kids do, and he’s probably becoming rather frustrated at the inadvertent neglect as a by-product of Mando’s fantasies. 

“I ain’t saying ya shouldn’t indulge a little,” Peli chuckles and wags her hairless eyebrows at the visor, “I don’t blame ya for that. It must be hard adapting to having a girl like that on board your ship.”

Mando quietly sighs under his helmet but a blush lines his cheeks nonetheless. He’s relieved she can’t see it. He grumbles, “Get to the point.”

“Point is, you can’t ignore a child like that,” she explains, “he’s an impish little critter—smart, too. It wouldn’t surprise me if he did that on purpose to get your attention.”

“He’s costing me a lot of credits for attention.” Black-brown eyes observe the looming figure of beskar and Mando softens slightly. Peli watches with interest and returns the toddler to his arms. “The Girl-”

“She’ll be fine,” she assures, “if she wants to help, I’ll be sure to give her a real workout—don’t worry she won’t be too drained.”

The Mandalorian commits a final leer at the mechanic, enough to cause her to pull her lips tight into a smirk, and he returns to the Girl’s side to exchange his goodbyes, “I’m going to head into town and see if there are any jobs available.” 

The Girl raises an eyebrow in question and pauses polishing the blasters, “I’m not coming with you?”

Does she want to come with him? The vocoder emits a hum of thought but ultimately he knows she should stay behind this time, “Peli reckons I should spend time with the kid. Shouldn’t take too long—I’ll just head in and grab the kid a meal, look around for intel… I’ll be back before it’s dark.”

She nods, understanding. “I’ll—just wait here then.”

Mando reciprocates her nod and hesitantly steps back, but the Girl’s fingers loop through his belt and draws him in close to her once again. He steadies himself with a hand on the dip of her waist, digits unconsciously poking into the flesh deeper, and he angles the helmet to her eye level in disarray. 

The familiar weight of his blaster slips into position against his thigh but he doesn’t tear his eyes away to look, he doesn’t want to move at all. “Might need it,” she explains, her tone hushed, “it’s good to go.” She lightly taps the blaster with her free hand and he stiffens when her palm comes to rest atop it, the tips of her fingers brushing against the outside of his thigh.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” Her lips curl into a cunning grin and she tries to hide it by lifting herself onto her toes and breathing through the fabric surrounding his neck. Mando’s muscles flex involuntarily and the hand on her hip slinks a path to the curve of her back, where he fists a bundle of poncho fabric in his leathers. She whispers, “How’s your back feeling?”

“It’s - it’s better.”

She exhales softly and he swears he can feel it through the cloth, warming his jugular with her gleaming words, “So, you won’t be needing my help tonight?” Mando groans as she weakly pats the lesion deep underneath his cloak—it doesn’t hurt, more or less stings like a Droch crawling through his skin and draining his energy, but that was the Girl’s disposition more so than the wound’s sensitivity. 

“Well,” Mando clears his throat and steps closer—if that’s even possible—so his lower-half is pressing against her waist, evoking a hitch of his own breath from the contact. She’s so soft against him. “I might need a hand…”

She chuckles into his neck, sending the vibrations from her throat into his and it makes a beeline to his heart. It vortexes around the organ, a current so strong it’d be fatal to terminate the stream. Not that he wanted to stop it. It’s such a pleasant feeling, the phantoms of sunshine-esque tendrils applying a pacifying pressure that feels like that of an embrace; warm hands clasping his heart and delivering delicate kisses across the muscle. He can almost sense the cushioning of lips against the pulsing organ.

“Ya know, I’ve got more than just hands.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, practically drooling at the mere suggestion—he’d be so sluggish to drag it out as long as possible, every single touch of his deliberate to commit all her curves, bumps, even bruises, to memory. Store it away for a gloomy day, like a breach in the clouds; sunbeams breaking through the overcast and introducing a warmth like none other. 

Mando cranes his neck to the side slightly and she takes the invite to burrow deeper. The blood in his neck is hot and the air in his helmet sultry. He wants to do nothing but drag her back to the ship and lock themselves away for the remainder of the day, but the irritated child on his hip is starting to get antsy. Mando gasps, “Need to - to take the kid out.”

She hums her sympathy against his neck, “Take your time. I’ll be here.”

Well, time was indeed taken, or however the saying goes.

The Mandalorian had been forced into conversations all day courtesy of the Child; he just couldn’t seem to stop touching things or feeding on display products of each stall they’d pass. Mando’s entire vocabulary had been decreased to continuous sorry’s and kid, no! It doesn’t just end there. The Child was inquisitive of all his surroundings, particularly places Mando couldn’t fit himself—it made for some awkward dialogue between him and the kiosk attendants when he’d be on his hands and knees rummaging around for a loose alien baby.

“I’m not stealing!” He’d reassure but it’d have the opposite effect and turn heads, people eyeing him with curiosity; a Mandalorian, like that in folklore, frantically chasing a little green toddler with something half-alive dangling from its mouth. He’s made a fool out of himself enough for a day. The Child, on the other hand, is still persistent—giving him somewhat of the silent treatment until Mando bargains a promise of food. 

The Child attentively watches his food in the arms of the server, streaks of steam and a tender fragrance wafting in his direction as it settles onto the table ahead. “Thank you,” Mando nods and leans back in his seat, unequipping a small bag of leftover credits he could spare for the day and sliding it across the wooden surface, “do you know of any employment opportunities?”

“Regrettably not, sir,” the waiter replies and exchanges final pleasantries before returning behind the buffet to assist an unruly patron.

Mando sighs and returns his guard to the Child—who grabs a spoonful of scalding liquid and squeals in delight—and chews on the inside of his lip in thought. Tatooine is just as detestable as the last time he was here—the hustle and bustle never-ending. One would think that the Mandalorian could blend in with such an immense and diverse population, but his outright existence drew attention to himself; it’s becoming a ritual each time he steps foot inside a cantina. People’s discussions quickly cease as they scrutinise the warrior upon his entrance, contemplating whether they could neutralize him and pry the beskar steel from his body to sell in the black market. Some have tried and failed, of course. In his youth, Mando thrived off the sensation. It was empowering to have others tremble in their skin at the sheer sight of a Mandalorian, but he’s matured and those days are long since dead. He’s travel-worn, too exhausted to concern himself with people’s thoughts regarding him, so long as they weren’t orchestrating his downfall. 

“I ain’t never seen a thing like this before,” a disembodied voice mutters from behind the Mandalorian, the shoddy cantina lighting casting a shadow across their table. Mando doesn’t tear his attention from the Child but reaches for his blaster nonetheless, the leathers fiddling with the hilt in preparation. “Where’d you get it?”

When he doesn’t reply, the figure shifts to come between him and the Child—a trandoshan with wide-set eyes and sharp pointed teeth, sneering at the man underneath the beskar. She’s got yellow-brown scaly skin and dons a protective piece underneath an unbuttoned shirt, with a hunting rifle across her back and a carbine strapped to her belt. She steals a chair from the closest table and swings it around to join the pair, placing her elbows on the table and looking back-and-forth between Mando and the Child.

“We’re looking to raise a youngling like this, maybe something a lil’ bit more competent than this one.” The Child’s green ears perk up at the stranger but just as quickly dismisses her, plunging the spoon into the womp rat stew for seconds or thirds—Mando wasn’t keeping track. She glances behind Mando and waves a hand and calls, “Bookoo, what d’ya think?”

Bookoo—a Wookiee decked with nothing more than a dual bandolier across his chest and a small satchel at his hip—appears into view, soaring over the accumulated individuals and extends a welcoming smile at Mando underneath the shaggy rug of his face. “Muawa, ur oh.”

“No? What, you think we’re gonna get anything better?”

Mando interrupts, tired of the banter, “He’s not going with you.”

“We have credits,” she taps the satchel on Bookoo’s hip, they clash against one another inside the leather.

“He’s not for sale.” Mando tears himself from his seat and shepherds the Child into his arms, ignoring the burbles and whines he emits as he tries to grab hold of the bowl. Mando turns for the exit, intently listening to the whispers of the pair behind him, but stops when called for.

“Uh-sir... Mandalorian, sir?” He turns on his heels and eyes the waiter who places two small packages stacked together atop the counter. “Your dessert, sir.”

The Trandoshan eyes the Mandalorian as he awkwardly balances the boxes in one arm and the Child in the other. She steps forwards once his hands are far from his blaster to make her claim, “I promised my group I’d bring back an apprentice, ya see? With a lil’ bit of training, that thing should be good to go. Ain’t that right, Bookoo?”

Bookoo steps back defensively, “Mu waa waa.”

“Stupid Wookiee,” she mutters and rises from her stool, her bare feet tapping against the cantina’s duracrete flooring. She places a claw on the counter in an attempt of intimidation, but she only sustains a pathetic reaction from the waiter. “What’s a Mandalorian need a child for anyways? You raising that thing to become one?”

“We’re done talking.”

“Aw, come on. We’re just having a small chat. No need to run for the dunes.”

The Mandalorian denies her the satisfaction of retaliation and continues outside. The familiar crunch of grit a welcoming sound through his filters—he never thought he’d be comforted by such a sound. The Trandoshan yells one last remark before he steers a corner, “If you change your mind, we’ll be here!”

He’s suspicious of their intentions—and uncertain whether they were tailing him—so he weaves through the night crowd, bumping and pushing the drunkards to and fro. Once he’s scampered plenty, and positive they hadn’t been stalking his footsteps, he returns to Peli’s hangar with a drowsy Child and now-cold dessert. Optimally, the kid will be tuckered out for the rest of the night but it was never a certainty—he just hopes he’ll give him some privacy for at least a few hours.

Peli wipes grease on a rag hanging from a belt hoop of her coveralls and offers Mando a smile, “I assume you got yourself a job?”

Mando shakes his head in defeat and delivers one of the takeaway boxes in her hands.

“What’s this?” She opens the box and her eyes practically light up with joy but it’s short-lived as she eyes him suspiciously, “Is this a bribe?”

“Just a nice gesture. I thought.”

“Hmm,” Peli hums and closes the box, nodding her head slightly. “Well, ‘bout that ship of yours… It’ll be two thousand.”

Two thousand. It’ll bleed their funds dry, but the Crest needs repairs. Without them, they’d be stranded here on Tatooine for the unforeseeable future—something Mando really couldn’t accommodate. There’s too much sand. Too many people. His calloused hands aren’t for sitting on; they’re created to work, and he won’t allow himself to leisure around a planet without performing some act. 

The Girl won’t be pleased to hear he’s gone and spent a large sum of her earnings—not to mention how she’ll react when she ultimately comprehends she will be required to stay a little longer than expected. Mando feels his lips curling and he tries to smother it with reasoning; tries to tell himself he can’t keep her detained alongside him forever, but he’s obstinate and doesn’t take heed of his own advice. There’s a leap in his heart and a twisting in his stomach at the thought she’ll remain beside him for a little while longer—at least until he has the credits.

Perhaps the Child was onto something when he went and ripped all those wires out.

“That’s with a discount,” Peli adds.

“I should buy more of those.”

Peli scoffs at his jesting comment and tosses the takeaway parcel atop a flat surface. “The Girl. She’s good with her hands.”

If only she knew.

Something within the mechanic suggests that she does, in fact, know judging by the speculation written across her face; her squinted eyes waltzing his figure and her teeth chomping on the inside of her cheek to avoid voicing a sarcastic comment. The shield of beskar may disrupt his facial expressions—concealing them to only his cognisance—but his mannerisms are increasingly heightened to others and he’s gradually realising he’s not as proficient in masking them as he originally thought. 

Mando swallows a thick lump in his throat and shifts his weight to one foot, his hip cocking out vaguely. “Is the maintenance finished?” he asks, shifting the topic to something he can reduce the awkwardness with.

Peli clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes, “Oh, you mean the replacement of the entire navigational controls? Yeah, did it all by myself in a matter of a few hours. No help from my droids. No, it’s not done! Do you know anything about spacecraft restoration?”

“I typically leave that in the hands of...professionals.” Mando chooses carefully. “When will it be ready?”

“Me and your Girl are done for the night.”

His Girl?

Mando’s cheeks flush mildly, a faint tint of pink lining across his nose accompanied by a heat tackling the inside of his visor. Those two little words sound exceptional as the settle surrounding him, fogging his head with the seven letters—seven letters that he couldn’t relate to. They don’t belong to him; wouldn’t belong to him.

But he lets himself fantasise they could—they are.

His Girl. 

Mando’s lips ghost underneath the beskar, mouthing the words to himself as though to test the waters; dipping his toes in the substance and sampling the texture before sinking into it, letting it engulf him. He thinks of His Girl’s lips and how soft, how gentle, they looked. Her lips are the sandy borders of a beach—sand he wouldn’t mind if it were to wedge its way through his flight suit to abuse his body— and her tongue, her saliva, are the waters; refreshing but salty, leaving him thirsty for more.

Peli drags him out of his daydreaming without realising it, “But it should be up and running before the suns’ at its peaks. So you better have my credits ready! I’m not free labour, ya know.”

“Don’t worry,” he groans, “you’ll get the payment.”

She crosses her arms taut over her chest and squints at him suspiciously, probably wondering how he’s going to manage to pay her, but her determination fades into moderate compassion with a deep exhale. “All right, gimme the kid.”

“What? Why?”

Her earthy eyes flick up to the cockpit’s viewport and Mando twists his body to observe. The top of the Girl’s head can be seen from his perspective, her arms raised high above her in a stretch and then just as quickly disappears out of sight. Peli teasingly shoves Mando’s shoulder and laughs, “Go on, I’ll take the kid for the night. I’ll even do it for free; reimbursement for the dessert.”

She’s a blessing in disguise—who’s he to decline such a persuasive offer? 

“Just-” Peli stabilises the weight in her arms, the Child placidly dozing off in one, “I better not be hearing all that, okay? If you wake either me or the kid up-”

“Thank you.”

She watches him, stunned, and then shakes her head and mutters something under her breath. Mando doesn’t even feel tempted to know what she’s whispering to herself, he only has one thought on his mind: His Girl.

The Mandalorian reunites with the Girl in the cockpit’s cabin. She’s sitting on the floor tinkering with loose cabling with a craned neck to accommodate for the low-rise control board. Mando’s unsure whether he’s delighted to see her down there or disappointed; something within him expecting her to be somewhere less uncomfortable, awaiting his return—it’s a selfish thought and a very hormonal one at that. He sighs to himself and sits in the passenger’s seat, his elbows leaning on his knees to peer over her shoulder. “I thought Peli said you were finished?” Mando queries.

“She’s finished. I’m not.”

Mando breathes her name, introducing it to the cramped cockpit and it’s stale air, and she pauses a moment to turn her head and look into the magnetising visor. Now he’s the one pausing. It’s comical how he’s so easily conquered by a single glance. She doesn’t look at him like that in holoplays—where her eyes gleam in the low light hanging above and her mouth twitches when she’s restraining a smile—so why does his heart flutter and his blood surge through his veins? Rather, her eyebrows are crinkled with discouragement on account of uncooperative cords and there’s a streak of oil across her forehead—she looks just as gorgeous as ever. 

Mando’s voice softens as he talks to her, “Take a break. It can wait until morning.”

She dismisses his recommendation, “It’s fine, I can keep going.”

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

“Quoting me to myself now, are we?” 

He shrugs his shoulders. “You’re persuasive.” She chuckles some and he delves into the rumbles, enveloping himself in the bubbliness of it. “I brought food. You can have some if you stop working.”

She quirks an eyebrow and eyes the package in his leathers. “What is it?”

“Come here and look.”

“Are you having some?”

Mando contemplates, but he already knows his answer. “I’m not hungry,” he lies.

“Neither am I.” She deceitfully smiles and returns to her labours—it’s arduous, her fingers firmly twining the wires together and unravelling others apart to reconnect to a bundle loosely hanging underneath the panel.

The Mandalorian had completely forgotten how stubborn she can be, especially with his thoughts distorted by the events of last night; she had been so adaptable and willing to aid him. It’s ridiculous to think they’re the same person. Jaw clenching with defeat, Mando sighs heavily and fiddles with the takeaway box. It’s lid lifts from its fastenings to expose a small stack of fluffy cobalt-coloured pancakes. They’re slightly soggy from the absorbed condiments and stone-cold, having been outside for far too long, but they’re a Tatooine delicacy he had yet to try before. 

Mando glances at the Girl and rips the pancake into sections, simultaneously watching her exhaust herself. She groans dramatically and readjusts her position, practically laying on her stomach with her torso hoisted by her elbows. It allows for her to maneuver underneath the control panels—and allows Mando to drag his eyes lower. 

His leathers slide underneath the bottom of his helm and dislodge it from position, the beskar expelling a sharp hiss of air. He freezes at the reminder but the Girl doesn’t seem interested in the newly discovered noise; he continues, elevating the hindrance just above his mouth to slot in a slice of torn pancake.

They’re soft like her hands and he lets himself imagine they are—pretends the sweetness of the syrup is actually his cum on her fingers or, better yet, her own slick. He’s reluctant to even chew, not wanting to shred the impure fantasy he’s created upon himself, so he doesn’t. Mando sits there with the pancake in his mouth just holding it there, letting his tongue flatten underneath it and suck the syrup out to relish in the bittersweetness. 

It’s only once he’s drained it of its flavour that he finally devours the cake in hunger. It’d been a while since he last ate, but he repeats the process with the other sections he had torn apart—struggling to contain his self-control as he savours the sweetness and imagery of the Girl writhing underneath him. 

Mando plops the tips of his leathers in his mouth and absorbs the residual syrup before aligning his helmet in place yet again, his hunger reasonably quenched—his thirst for the Girl, not so much. It doesn’t help matters when she reaches for a cord and her poncho rides up, unmasking the curves of her backside and revealing a splinters-worth of skin above the hem of her pants. He indulges at the sight of taunting skin and licks a drop of syrup from his lips, imagining his head between her thighs lapping at something sweeter—tangier. Mando feels so fucking undignified around her like his honour has been squeezed out of an over-absorbed rag; dripping through the gaps in his fingers and there’s nothing he can do to catch it before it vaporises before his eyes hardly leaving a trace in its wake.

It’s wholly improper how his eyes attack her unclothed skin, obsessing over it like a glass of water in the outskirts of Tatooine. Now that he thinks about it, his mouth is significantly parched and he’s forced to bite his lip to avoid reaching out for the temptation. Still, he hungers to run his fingers across the bare flesh and explore her bumps and curves with his tongue, dragging it over her neck and feel the rumbles of her moans as he sucked on a pulsing vein. Her moans—what a magnificent sound that must be.

The unspoken promise between them plays with the dark crevices of his imagination.

I’ve got more than hands.

Mando’s unsure if she meant it; she hadn’t indicated anything to him since his return. Is she expecting him to make the first move? If so, that’s torturous in itself.

Coffee-coloured eyes battle against the azure cakes and he confronts a moral dilemma. He has an inclination to satisfy the building arousal in his pants but it doesn’t align with his traitorous voice, “Eat.”

The Girl glances over her shoulder and Lord, he could get used to that view especially with him atop of her. She reverts her gaze to the opened box in his lap. “I’m not-”

“I’ve had one,” he confesses and tilts the box to show a stack of three remainders, “two each, but you can have my other.”

“When did you… Did you take off your helmet? In front of me?”

“Behind you,” he corrects.

She doesn’t find the humour in the situation, though, which surprises Mando. “What - what about your Creed? Fuck, Mando. You can’t…”

His expression softens underneath the visor and he sinks to his knees on the ground so he’s eye-level with the Girl, clasping one of her hands in his leathers. “Don’t concern yourself with that. I didn’t remove it entirely, just enough to eat. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a deal? Mando-”

Mando impolitely interrupts her by pushing a torn slab of blue through her parted lips—his digits lingering longer than necessary—and he chuckles at her shocked grimace. 

She swallows and slaps his pauldron, “Rude!”

“Sit down and eat.” 

The Girl conforms to his invitation and settles beside him, her back firmly planted against the durasteel wall of the cockpit. Mando awkwardly lowers to sit as well, the beskar clanking against the wall behind them but he doesn’t take any notice of it. It’d be like herding a group of Nexu—utterly impossible—if he tried to concentrate on anything but her thigh against his or her hand digging through the box on his lap. 

She munches on a blue cake beside him and it takes everything in him to give her privacy and not drool over the sticky syrup running down her fingers. It’s like she can read him though, her unsoiled hand hooking two fingers on the underside of the helmet and dragging it to look at her. “What about you?”

“I’ve...had one.” 

“One. I don’t want you passing out on me. Here, I’ll look away.” 

Mando eyes the divided dessert between her fingers and the drop of golden syrup slowly making way to her third knuckle. She’s not looking at him and can’t identify whether he’s accepting her offer or not, but she doesn’t dare retract her hand; it just hovers in the air waiting for his leathers to grasp the food from her—they don’t. Something so much softer does, though.

Mando licks a long stripe along the underside of her fingers, tearing the pancake from her clutch with his tongue and reserving it in the cheek of his mouth for later—too preoccupied with the sugary concentrate coating her fingers. She tenses at the sensations. It’s overwhelming, consuming her thoughts and spitting them out in a pile of goo. It’s almost irresistible to not look at him, to not watch as he sucks on her fingers so fucking desperately, but she’s respectful of his Creed even if it kills her.

“Mando,” she whispers because it’s too quiet, too real. 

His tongue is persistent, parting her fingers from each other and lapping at the syrup in the crevices of her knuckles. It’s so sweet and he moans around her fingers at the taste on the back of his tongue. Mando doesn’t concern himself with the potential of humiliation—he ought to look downright laughable right now—because she’s so sweet and soft in his mouth, far superior to the pancake he relished earlier. There’s a puny attempt to pull away on her behalf but with a firm grip on her wrist, she holds her position inside his mouth, especially when his teeth lock her digits in place, while her other hand finds the plate of thigh armour and hooks the fingers underneath.

“Shit,” she breathes and leans into him.

The Girl’s palm flattens against his chin and he stiffens his jaw, his movements slacking behind now that he’s focused on the warmth on his face. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him so tenderly, no - he could but he didn’t want to; didn’t want to ruin the moment with the imagery of blaster fire and his mother’s last loving touch.

Her reassuring strokes against his cheeks with her free fingers urge him on and he sucked the final of the syrup from her digits before freeing them from his lips, placing a peck on the tips. Once the helmet is resealed, he finishes the neglected pancake in his mouth.

“You’re not as reserved as you act,” she chuckles, “where was that last night?”

Mando smiles. “Come here and let me show you.”

Where was all this confidence coming from?

He doesn’t care—he’s making a fucking move while he can.

The Girl contemplates him with a raised brow and a small smirk toying at her lips. It makes him want to know what she’s thinking—formulating—in that head of hers, but he’s not left in suspense for long. She braces a leg over his lap and straddles him, constricting her inner thighs against the outside of his and tilting his helmet back to look up at her. 

Mando nearly stops breathing, his organs refusing to cooperate in unison with such an unknown weight atop of him. All that confidence from earlier completely obliterates with just one roll of her hips—maybe it wasn’t confidence but arrogance, he thinks. She’s devious, he can see the pleasure in her eyes at his unfolding below her.

“Are you looking at me?” she asks, a hand on either side of his helmet to steady his head.

He nods because he doesn’t trust himself not to whine if he opens his mouth.

She looks back at him and for a moment, just a second, he feels as though she can see him, and then she grinds down and sketches the outline of his stiffening cock below her heat—and fuck if it isn’t one of the friskiest things he’s ever beared witness to. There’s just something so unique about the eye contact when she’s unravelling him like a ball of yarn; he wants to gaze into her eyes without the guard ahead of him and break her apart. “F-fuck, you’re,”-she rolls her hips again, faster-“ah, you’re too - too good to me.”

“I know,” she quips.

Daunting. It’s so fucking daunting being so paralysed with arousal underneath the Girl, stripped down to an accumulated pile of whimpers and twitches as she takes her sweet time tormenting him—and he fucking enjoys every second of it. He’s fatigued from years of bounty hunting, years of being shot, stabbed, beaten, and it’s stimulating having somebody touch him so languidly and voluntarily care for him in such a way.

“Tell me what you want, Mando.”

He swallows.

It’s so fucking ironic. He’s never had more than a few thousand credits to his name at a time and yet, pinned below the Girl with her being so provocative, he feels like the richest man alive—because it couldn’t be luck; he’d never been so fortunate to as receiving a simple bounty commission, a beautiful girl extracting every drop of arousal out of him no less.

He moans her name and inches his fingers under her poncho, “Want - fuck, I need-”

Mando’s pleas are interrupted by a suspiciously familiar disembodied voice shouting, “Come on out and nobody gets hurt!” It’s a gruff, hoarse sound that oils the cogs in his mind. The Trandoshan. She must’ve followed him here…but he took precautions…

He can’t find it within himself to tear his hands away from the Girl to survey the threat outside, so she takes it upon herself to clamber off his lap leaving him cold and hard in his pants. Molten lava rises in his chest as he raises to his feet, staring out the viewport with such vengeance it almost surprises him. The Trandoshan firmly stands with Peli Motto beside her, the barrel of her carbine pressed against her temple, and the Child squirming in her adjacent limb.

“Shit!” he growls and slams a pair of closed fists against the nav controls. It whines upon impact and blips a malfunctioning screen at his outburst.

“Hey, calm down,” she soothes, a hand slipping into his.

“They have Peli! ...The kid.”

The Trandoshan leers at him through the viewport. “Leave that blaster of yours on the ship and get down ‘ere. No funny business either! I’ll fire a hole through her head otherwise. Then the Kid’s.” She accentuates her point by thrusting the barrel against Peli’s temple harder.

The Girl fishes his blaster out of his holster. “They haven’t seen me,” she explains. “I’ll wait until you get close enough to them but don’t try anything without me.”

It could work. It could fail. He didn’t have an alternative plan.

“Okay,” he agrees, understanding the moment between them is long gone.

With one final gawp outside, Mando pries himself away from the nav controls and heads downstairs, bare. It’s not as though he’s completely defenceless; the flamethrower in his vambraces had enough fuel to get him out of a pinch, the whipcord could serve a purpose if essential, and he still possessed his vibro-knife in his boot. None of that can compare to the comfort of a blaster in his hand though.

The Child and Peli Motto’s safety is his priority, so he’ll comply with the Girl’s strategy and get as close to the Trandoshan as possible. He’ll use brute force if necessary.

They’ve relocated to an open region in the hangar where it’ll be near impossible to shield everybody if a blaster fight ensues. Preferably, it won’t come to that. The Trandoshan flexes her finger against the trigger when Peli fidgets with her hands beside her. Mando vaguely shakes his head in her direction and examines the Child’s wellbeing in the yellow-brown scaly arms.

“I’m here.” He raises his hands to demonstrate his compliance, “Let them go and we’ll talk.”

She sneers at him, laughs. “No.” The blaster reels back and whips Peli over the head, knocking her unconscious in a piled heap on the ground. Mando moves forwards, his fists tightening with each step. “Hold it right there.” The Child whines against the cold barrel pressing into his wrinkled forehead. Mando stops hastily, his eyebrows twitching with rage.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve already told you.”

“What do you need a child for?”

She smiles hauntingly, her sharp teeth locking together through her open-mouthed grin. “We don’t need one, but this one’s got a pricey bounty on its head,”—she aims for the flesh above his heart plate—“as do you.”

Guild members. Just his luck they’d be situated on Tatooine at the same time as he is.

The Mandalorian’s visor tilts to the Child in her arms, his eyes narrowing on the outstretched green claw. The kid’s eyes shut and his forehead wrinkles as he desperately tries to concentrate on something, and then it clicks in Mando’s head. His powers. The Child hadn’t used them since they took down the Mudhorn and Mando was beginning to think they had vanished, but they mustn’t have—he’s too focused on the air ahead of him.

The Trandoshan hasn’t noticed his fidgeting and Mando takes it upon himself to keep the barrel focused on him by stepping forwards, providing the Child time to figure out his abilities. “You won’t leave here alive,” he taunts.

She seems unfazed by his remarks, too confident in her plans. “Ah, what do we have here?” The Trandoshan asks curiously, peering over the Mandalorian’s figure and he whips his head to follow. The Girl is subdued in the arms of the acquainted Bookoo, who must’ve been anticipating resistance and remained obscured from their sight. 

The Girl fights against his grip but he’s far too strong for her to overpower and she limps in defeat, glancing up behind her at the Wookiee; eyes enlarging and her mouth falling agape underneath the face-covering she donned for the occasion.

Then—the last thing the Mandalorian expects to hear—the Trandoshan exclaims her name in a greeting, “It’s been a while!”

_______________________________

“Muawa, ur oh” - no, thank you “Mu waa waa” - please leave me alone

A/N: Good lord I am so sorry for an 8k chapter, I really didn’t want to split it into two. However, with this one being so long the next might not be out until the middle of next week (if I can manage to actually concentrate for long enough to write). Let me know how you enjoyed it and if you want to be added to the taglist! PS I’m running of gifs...please help...what do yall search for such hd gifs?

taglist: @ohhersheybars​​, @greatcircle79​​

#the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #mando x you #mando x reader #mando x y/n #din djarin #grogu #peli motto #fan fiction #star wars #star wars fic #star wars fan fiction #star wars smut #mandalorian smut #smut #din djarin smut #cw smut #mandalorian x you #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x y/n #mando/reader #mando/you #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you #lunar fic #baby yoda

[theresa-of-liechtenstein]

cremona is known for violin makers so i should like cremona, but i didn’t really because hester is That Awful so here are some unsolicited thoughts about one of my favorites of all time, douz

douz may be one of my all time faves but this opening isn’t one of them. it’s funny sure but idk. i just don’t vibe w it

the discourse on “brilliant” 🥺🥺🥺

“lumbering on after the uptake” is still far too relatable

oof douglas mentioning checking the fuel tank for water has me thinking about how i wrote that part of preflight into that one fic i wrote for theresa week where douglas teaches theresa how to fly,,,, ugh brain SHUT UPPP brain SHUUUT UPPPP

i was so confused about the “number of takeoffs and landings” back-and-forth until i had that period in my life where i was obsessed with everything to do with commercial aviation and found out that pilots actually do alternate takeoffs and landings to maintain recency/give junior pilots more experience/etc

“i particularly enjoyed the last ground proximity warning, when we were on the ground.” NASHHSJDJDKDJ PLEASE

ARTHUR. BREAK THE EMERGENCY GLASS. I REQUIRE MY BIGGLES HAT

the fact that douglas can be so chill about a hydraulics failure just sends me like sir. that is your LANDING GEAR and your BRAKES. aren’t you going to LAND? using the GEAR? aren’t you going to STOP? using the BRAKES??

and then i realize this hoe has been in the sky for most of his life and knows what he’s doing and i am starting to sound a little too much like martin

douglas’s quiet “you have control” makes my stomach drop every time i hear it, it’s like 👁👄👁

TWO GO-AROUNDS EHHELEJEN no wonder douglas is so pissy!

apart from everything else, he’s had to sit through two rounds of: (1) martin announcing that he will go around and switching the throttle to the go-around position, (2) checking to see if martin’s actually switched the power to the go-around mode (which is a thing i swear i’m not making things up), (3) selecting the right flaps settings and confirming that with martin as martin pitches gerti upwards, (4) checking for a positive rate of climb, (5) raising the already faulty gear, (6) switching on the navigation systems to guide gerti into a missed-approach path, (7) retracting flaps and changing throttle setting, and (8) having douz tower guide them back into the airfield pattern for another approach like GOD MARTIN JUST LET DOUGLAS DO ITTTTTT

“ah! sahara not only brilliant, but hot!”

i don’t understand cricket and i think that’s very secksee of me

and nobody come into my askbox peddling the “up-your-rear american” gotcha insult, i don’t understand baseball either. the only sports i understand are tennis and whatever is in the olympics

carolyn strangling a customer is an image i will forever cherish

martin is disturbingly rude to ground crew, which is a recurrent pattern. even if they mistake him for the junior pilot (which is still immature af and not valid justification for brusque behavior, but whatever) this is just so gross i’m sorry

pour one out for ground crew!! the redcaps! the ramp agents! the airfield managers! the technicians!! the engineers!! they are so important to flight and logistics, and being a pilot doesn’t make anyone any bit superior to ground crew!! ugh!!

just another reason why martin’s development is neat and why early martin is really ✨Awful✨

rip panda charters

continually sends me how mr finnemore lets martin preen over his few successes, and then brings him crashing back down to earth. (pun somewhat intended? some bird imagery happening up there too?)

“we can’t go backwards or sideways.” planes can’t move backwards OR sideways???? but i still love u douglas

CAROLYN BEING VULNERABLE CAROLYN EXPOSING HER HISTORY oh god my chest aches like ma’am!! i will give you a hug!!

IT’S BETTER THAN [BEING] A LITTE OLD LADY MAAAAAAAAAM 😭

i love this episode a lot because of (1) how they get out of this scrape and (2) the wing talk 🥺

WAIT WAIT how martin shuts arthur down but it turns out to be arthur’s idea that saves the day!! POETIC CINEMA

carolyn and douglas and martin taking turns over the satcom with the airfield manager and telling him how they’re outsmarting him is far far more glorious than any marvel climactic battle scene and i stand by that

shout out to “d’you want me to drive for a bit, darling?” “no thanks, dear, you know i get carsick in the passenger seat” for being the exchange i looped most often when i was like 14 without understanding why but they’re on the same siiiide noowwwwww for the most parttttt

let’s see how many i can continue to do 👀 til next time <3

#mine #cabin pressure #fandot listenalong 2020

[birdicode]

Day 43:

I was scheduled to depart after dark, to reduce the chances of being seen. Alex and I drove to the landing site early, and watched the sun set. It was an exciting moment, but also a sad one. This planet has not been kind to me, but the friends I’ve made here have.

We positioned ourselves at the end of the jetty and waited there, car pointed back down the road, the inlet to the bay at our backs. We kept the lights off while we waited, not wanting to draw attention.

The stars, while still wrong, were beautiful. I rested my head against Alex’s shoulder for a while, trying to figure out how to convey feelings I do not have good English words for.

Alex spotted it first -- the distinctive shooting-star glow of a re-entering spacecraft, out over the ocean. Eventually we heard the whine of approaching turbojets, and saw a dark shape against the stars. Alex flashed the car's headlights, and the dark shape flashed a set of navigation lights. That was the signal.

I struck a road flare and Alex lit a second one off it. We dropped both at the end of the road. Then we got in the car and headed toward the other end, dropping one more flare at the curve two miles in. Having reached the entrance, and verified no one else was on the road, Alex turned the car around to point the headlights at the threshold of our makeshift landing strip.

The shadowy, blacked-out ship circled around, lining up behind us for its approach. I could see now that it was a delta wing ship, smaller than mine was, but similar in shape -- there are only so many ways to build a hypersonic aircraft. It was low and slow, flying nose high, its wake pulling streamers of condensation out of the damp air. A part of my brain trained by years of flying started to raise alarm bells about the approach angle. I ducked.

The ship whistled overhead, missing the top of the car by maybe a meter, and its main landing gear touched down close enough that I could see the tire smoke curl in the car’s headlight beams. The pilot clearly hadn’t wanted to waste an inch of runway. A braking 'chute deployed from the tail, and the ship’s engines screamed at full reverse thrust. It finally came to a stop two miles away, just short of the curve in the road, and throttled down. My ears rang in the sudden quiet.

In my excitement I started to run toward it, but Alex pulled up alongside me and gestured for me to get into the car. We drove up to where the ship had stopped and parked the car in a turnout. I walked up to the craft slowly, not sure what to expect.  Its brake discs were still glowing a dull red, and the air was full of the smell of hot metal. The passenger door was open and the boarding stairs were down, but no one came out. “Asterion” was painted in a script font next to the door.

A voice came over the PA, crisp and almost too well-enunciated. “Please board and strap in. Local defense forces are on alert, and I need to leave before I'm intercepted.”

I hugged Alex one last time, then I climbed into the cabin, carrying a backpack with my meager possessions. Inside Asterion was clearly originally a luxury transport, but time had taken a toll and everything was kind of worn around the edges. The door closed automatically behind me. I went forward to the cockpit to speak to the pilot, but it was empty.

The voice came over the speakers again. “I am Asterion. Please have a seat and leave the flying to me.”

I hesitated, then sat in what I figured was the copilot’s seat. I did not want to seem distrustful, but I wanted to see where we were going. I strapped myself in tightly, not sure what to expect.

Asterion held itself in place with the brakes as its turbines began to spool up, something I recognized as standard short-runway procedure. “I apologize in advance for what I am about to do,” it said, cryptically.

Before I could ask, the brakes came off, there was a howl of high-speed pumps from somewhere behind me, and I was shoved savagely back in my seat. We were hurtling down the tiny jetty road, the two red flares approaching at a heart-stopping rate. The landing gear rattled over the patched asphalt, and I could feel myself being shoved left and right as Asterion struggled to stay on the narrow road. Then the nose lifted, rotating into what felt like an almost vertical climb, and the landing gear retracted with a ker-thunk. I imagined the show Alex must be getting -- a silver dart at the tip of a long, white vapor cloud. Probably a once-in-a-lifetime view, for them.

Once we were clear of the atmosphere I went aft to the cabin, and as I write this I'm relaxing for what I'm assured will be an entirely routine flight. Spacecraft AIs aren’t much for conversation, so I'll probably dim the lights and try to get some rest. In microgravity, with the mechanical sounds of a spacecraft around me again, I expect I’ll get the best sleep I’ve had in ages.

Go to: Previous | Next | Chapters: Postscript | 8 | 7 | 6 | 5 | 4 | 3 | 2 | 1

[security-cameras-installation-la]

Pilot error likely caused WWII-era bomber crash in Connecticut that killed 7, including Long Beach man: NTSB

Pilot error probably caused the 2019 crash of a World War II-era bomber in Connecticut that killed seven people and wounded six others, the National Transportation Safety Board said in a report released Tuesday. It cited inadequate maintenance as a contributing factor.

The four-engine, propeller-driven B-17G Flying Fortress bomber with 13 people aboard crashed at Bradley International Airport, north of Hartford, during a traveling vintage aircraft show on Oct. 2, 2019.

The pilot, Ernest “Mac” McCauley, reported a problem with one of the engines shortly after takeoff, and the plane crashed into a maintenance building and burst into flames during a landing attempt.

The NTSB said the flight data indicated that the landing gear was extended too early, adding drag that slowed the plane, and it was traveling too slow on its return to the airport.

“The B-17 could likely have overflown the approach lights and landed on the runway had the pilot kept the landing gear retracted and accelerated to 120 mph until it was evident the airplane would reach the runway,” the NTSB said.

McCauley, 75, of Long Beach, California, was a veteran pilot who colleagues said had great skills flying the B-17G. He and co-pilot Michael Foster, 71, of Jacksonville, Florida, were killed in the crash, along with five of the 10 passengers. The plane’s mechanic, Mitchell Melton, of Hawkins, Texas, was among the injured and was the only crew member to survive.

The NTSB said there was a power loss in two of the four engines during the flight, a problem it blamed on McCauley’s “inadequate maintenance.” McCauley also served as the maintenance director of the plane’s owner, the Collings Foundation, based in Stow, Massachusetts.

The NTSB also said the Collings Foundation had an ineffective safety management system that failed to identify hazards, including the inadequate maintenance of the plane. Investigators said the ineffective safety system, as well as the Federal Aviation Administration’s ineffective oversight of the system, also contributed to the accident.

[redlegomaniac]

Shot Down [WW2]

Disclaimer : Dreamworks owns everything WWII Shot Down Dear Hiccup, This letter is in response to your most recent sending. It was good to hear from you again, as always, and I was ecstatic to learn of your promotion in your wing. Berk is quiet without you. I miss you, and dare I say it I miss your cousin too - to an extent. I am proud of you son, more than you can ever imagine. PS: I saw Heather Oswaldson the other day, she looked nervous about seeing me. Stay safe and write soon, - Stoick Dearest Love, I am writing to you with a heavy heart. I hope one day you will forgive me, or hold some semblance of respect for me in the future. There were dried tear stains on the paper. I cannot wait any longer, My Love. I want to have a future with someone and to live without the fear of losing that someone everyday…I have been seeing another man, while you have been away. I realize that I am selfish, and for that I am sorry. A Thousand Apologies, - Heather

A young man, nearly twenty years old with auburn hair and forest green eyes, held the small pieces of paper between his index finger and his thumb. He sighed, and looked up to the empty room around him. He checked his watch, reading eleven o’clock pm. Normally he would be in his bunk right now, sleeping quietly through the night along with the others of his wing. Normally, he’d be missing his home. Today was different. The air was damp, and the dew dripped from the blades of grass outside the lounge house he was in. The night’s darkness was noiseless, and the only light of the room he was in was the flickering candle before him. He put his elbows and hands on the table, tapping the rhythm of an old tune he had heard from his mother years ago. He should feel tired, but he wasn’t. He had slept the day’s afternoon away. The door opened, and a figure stood in the doorway. “Are you ready?” The young man didn’t answer. Instead he held the letter from Heather over the flickering flame, and let it burn in his hand, ignoring the heat of the burning paper even as it neared his fingers. The man standing in the door stared with wide eyes, then listened to the young man’s words. “Is anyone ever ready?” Hiccup stood up, picked up the note from his father and folded it before sliding it in his left chest pocket, and sighed. “What were the survivability predictions again, Eret?” The man standing at the door retrieved a notepad from an inside pocket of his coat and thumbed through the pages. “Uhhh… Well it’s double digits.” Eret said carefully. “Freddy Ingerman ran the numbers twice, and given what we know of the region so far…” “I know.” The auburn haired man replied shortly. His high school sweetheart had just given up on him, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care at the moment. He was thirty minutes away from embarking on a solo reconnaissance mission over Denmark. Hiccup clenched his fists, breathing in and out once before walking past the other man, leaving the room and entering the silent night. The two men walked down the stretch of flattened dirt they called a runway towards the hangars and the barracks. “So…eh.. “ Eret said sounding a little unsure. “Is everything alright?” He asked seeing the scowl Hiccup had adopted. “Just…..Just some problems at home.” Hiccup mumbled. “I got a letter… She’s been cheating on me.” Eret sucked in a breath. “That’s harsh, mate.” He muttered. “It’s just… we were high school sweethearts and now I don’t know what I’ll do without her.” Hiccup talked with a hand out before him, swaying his hand to emphasize his point. Eret yawned, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Mate.” A lull in the conversation, and then he continued. “D’you think I can get a cup of tea before we leave?” Hiccup sighed. “I don’t understand you Brits and your tea.” The British man gasped in shock as he placed a hand over his heart. “Oh you wound me, Haddock.” They heard the sounds of boots running towards them, and looking back they saw a figure approaching quickly. “Haddock, Eretson. You two are to report to the briefing room immediately. Further instruction will be delivered there.” The figure, an eighteen year old private, said, saluted, then ran off. After sharing a glance, they walked in silence towards the briefing room. Freddy Ingerman was there, being the top analyst on base, and likely the smartest man there besides Hiccup. “Evening, Haddock and Eretson.” “Evening.” They responded together. Hiccup took a seat, resting his head on an open palm as he leaned slightly onto the armrest while Eret stood at the edge of the room. It was cold in the room, and the ceiling lamp that hung by the wire swung slowly. Freddy Ingerman clasped his hands together. “Right, so you both know your flight paths?” The two pilots nodded, and Hiccup stood up, glancing at Eret. “I’m ready if you are.” He said, to which Eret nodded, and Freddy spoke up. “Great! I-uh, I’ll let traffic control know you’re leaving.” The analyst left the room, leaving Hiccup and Eret together once again. Ten minutes later the two pilots, with Hiccup piloting a Lockheed P38-G Lightning painted a dark navy blue with black stripes, and Eret piloting a stock model of a Supermarine Spitfire MkVb, made their way onto the airstrip to take off into the early dawn’s dark sky. “Traffic Control this is Night Fury 1-1, ready for take-off.” “Copy that Night Fury, you are clear for take off.” The twin engined plane slowly crept down the runway, extending the plane’s control flaps to takeoff position and pushed the throttle lever forward, increasing speed in a rumbling crescendo. After a few moments, Hiccup lifted off the ground, and he flicked the switch for the internal cockpit light on, as well as flicking the switch for the landing gear to retract. Eret took off shortly behind him, taking up a spot on his right around 20-40 meters away to give the larger aircraft room to maneuver. Hiccup leaned his head to the edge of the cockpit glass, to see where his wing-mate had ended up, and saw him wave in his own cockpit. He waved back, and smiled softly. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any problems with this early morning flight. Stars twinkled above them, and Hiccup notified Eret that he was turning his light off. It was times like these that he loved about being a pilot. Just, to be able to experience the sight of stars and sometimes the planets much closer than anyone else in the world. He sighed, and wished the war to be over. He wished to be home. He reached forward, a grabbed a photo that was lodged by the edge of a screw that helped secure the compass’ covering. He snorted, remembering what he had said to Heather when she had sent him the photo of them together. “I’m going to put this next to my compass, so that I will always know how to find home.” He sighed, and felt the small ache of his heart tug at his feelings. No. Not now. He can cry when the war is over. He took his feet off the rudder pedals, and halfway stood up in his cockpit in an attempt to stretch his legs. In the distance he saw large masses of clouds, and above those clouds he saw flashes of white light. He clicked on his radio. “Haddock to Eretson, how copy?” Eret’s british voice was barely louder than the white noise of the radio. “Solid copy, go for it.” “Looks like we have a storm coming up.” “Uh-huh, yeah I see it too, Mate.” There was static, and then he spoke again. “We’re about a kilometer from where I need to turn around.” “Copy that, Eretson, I’ll be fine from here. Drinks are on me when I get back.” The British man’s laugh came over the radio, “Godspeed Haddock, I’ll hold you to that drink.” Hiccup looked to the side to see the British fighter plane dip down before rolling to one side and turning around to return to the airfield. Hiccup pulled the flight stick towards him, and the plane began to climb upwards into the clouds. Pelting rain and thundering lightning did not worry him, he had flown through storms before. This is like any other storm, he reminded himself. There’ll be pockets of clear sky here and there. He was glad he was in a larger plane, since the turbulence didn’t affect him as much. He flew alone across the Channel, making his way to mainland Europe, and from there he’d be flying towards Denmark. He had been tasked with taking pictures of cities and manufacturing complexes, but because it is dark and the moon cannot shine through rumbling clouds, Hiccup feared that his mission would be doomed a failure. Lightning flashed before him, illuminating the skies and the ground to his south. When he saw land, he was supposed to head East, so after checking the compass, he rolled to his left and banked in a wide turn to conserve speed before aligning himself to the horizon when the compass dial rested on North East. He stayed within sight of the coastline, however the only sight he had of the coastline was when lightning flashed around him. Thunder rumbled louder than the engines on either side of him. He looked out over his right wing, watching freezing rain slide across the side of the cockpit. Looking forward once again he saw an opening in the dark clouds, and after pulling the flight stick this way and that he maneuvered toward it. Hiccup took his hands off the controls, letting the plane fly itself since he was out of the clouds, and stretched. After a breathy sigh he popped his knuckles and reached down under the main console for a pair of wool gloves and a thick scarf. The temperature was dropping, and the standard issue wool insulated leather jacket wasn’t helping as much as it should. Hiccup retrieved the small pieces of clothing from the net-sack that was tied to additional screws going into the console and placed the gloves on his lap while loosely wrapping his neck in the scarf. He picked up the gloves and slid them onto his hands, and flexed his fingers to get used to the additional movement for the stiff finger sections. Even in the darkness he saw the cloud of breath as he exhaled. Since he was the designated reconnaissance pilot, the plane mechanics suggested that they take off as much weight as possible to make him faster and lighter. Unfortunately, this meant removing the cockpit heating system. He looked at the altimeter, and saw that he was at seven thousand meters above the ground. The moon made an appearance soon after, shining down it’s dusk rays on the ground. Hiccup looked up, really hoping someone on the ground didn’t see a black dot move across the white moon. He was fully above ground now, having flown inland from the coastline. It was a quiet night, and the rumbling engines beside him almost lulled him to sleep, but unfortunately, he was jolted awake at the sight of green traces of light flying over him. Hiccup cursed, punching the throttle forward and looking back to see two black lines with circles. Orange and white muzzle flashes made Hiccup duck into his seat. Bullets flew around him, luckily not hitting the plane. He lowered the plane’s nose, hoping to lose them when he converted his altitude to speed. Hiccup looked back again, seeing the two hostile planes gaining on him, and when he turned around he realized there was a third plane in front of him. He rolled, using his elevators and ailerons to barrel roll out of the way of the incoming spray of bullets. He heard and felt several thumps, looking out over his left wing he realized that he had been hit. There were holes punched out of his wing, and Hiccup narrowed his eyes in frustration. Of course there would be a German air patrol at night. Hiccup rolled to the left, and dove in an attempt break the enemy pilots’ sight of him. He looked up, and saw the rectangular wings of the enemy planes continue in a straight line before the lead plane banked left, and the second plane followed soon after. It was a three versus one scenario. It’d be near impossible for him to win. That didn’t mean Hiccup would give up. Instead, adrenaline pumped through his blood and he watched the black shape heading away from him. He maneuvered the plane so he could line up the gunsight with his target. He checked behind him quickly, realizing that he had separated this pilot from his wingmates, and adjusted the gunsight to be just before the target. Hiccup pressed down the button to fire his machine guns, sending a salvo of red tracer bullets after the enemy plane. He saw sparks, letting him know that his bullets hit, and watched as the plane in front of him rolled to the left. Hiccup stamped down on the rudder pedal, jolting his plane to the right while pushing his flight wheel to the left. The contradicting forces made a stable line of travel for the gunsight, and Hiccup fired the guns again, this time also squeezing the trigger for the P38’s cannon. Hiccup straightened out, and dove to dodge the wing of the enemy plane that had been ripped off with gunfire. He sighed. One down, two to go. Flak exploded around him, nearly blinding him and sending shrapnel through his wings. He cursed again, and rolled the plane again when he saw a black shape approaching him quickly. Green tracers pelted the right engine, and Hiccup pulled the throttle lever all the way back to kill speed. The hostile plane overtook him, and began to rise back into the clouds. ‘If he’s in front of me, where’s the other?’ He thought, and ducked while punching the throttle forward again when green tracers flew just past the edge of the windshield from the side. Hiccup chose to go after the enemy pilot that was rising back into the early morning sky, and he looked back to see the other pilot turn towards him and unleash another volley of machine gun fire, striking the right engine again. Hiccup extended the flaps to combat position, giving him more lift and agility, and he pulled the flight stick back and fired a salvo of cannon and machine gun fire towards the enemy in front of him. The red hot tracer hit the fuel tank of the other plane, causing it to burst into purple, orange, and red flames. He was losing speed, and the other plane was gaining on him again. In the fireball of the other plane, he recognized the shape of the fighter to be a Messerschmitt 109 fighter. “Messershit.” He laughed to himself, knowing that he wouldn’t make it home. The white tracers of the cannons’ behind him ripped holes close to his engine, instead clipping the underside of his wings and tearing the flaps off. His plane lurched to the right side, and Hiccup decided to roll with it. He turned the rudder to the left, to avoid a flatspin(1). He felt his stomach rise into his chest as he dove down, going from five kilometers in the sky to two kilometers. He pulled up as hard as he could, knowing that the plane could take the stress even if he couldn’t. The Messerschmitt had dove behind him as well, but pulled up much earlier than Hiccup did. He looked forward, seeing tall trees and open fields in some places. He was alone, and he was going down. Somewhere. He was still able to choose where that may be. Hiccup peeked out from behind the seat once again, seeing lonely log cabins and larger fields. He cursed again when the messerschmitts guns tore off the tip of his left wing, and ducked when the bullets did not stop. He felt several thumps along his back, praying that the steel plate behind the seat did not fail him. He felt a sharp piercing pain in his arm and saw that he had been shot. The cockpit glass had been punched through. Hiccup looked at the ground before him, realizing that he was way closer to it than he had thought. Trees scraped at the underside of his wings, and a tall one snagged and snapped the elevator off. “O-oh shhiiIIT!” The nose dove downwards, and he roughly pushed the lever for the flaps all the way forward. The extra lift brought his nose up. Hiccup looked to the right, to see a wing that had a multitude of holes. Hiccup shut his eyes tightly, a single tear streaming down his cheek as the wing skidded across the ground, and that finally made the rest of the plane fall to the snowy ground as well. The straps holding Hiccup to his seat snapped, and he lurched forward, hitting his head on the leather pad under the gunsight. His head was pounding, but he was alive. That’s all that mattered. Everything hurt, and with fumbling and bloodied fingers, he unlatched the cockpit hinge, and pushed as hard as he could. He was forced back into the seat by the weight of it, and he tried again, with both hands. It gave, and swung over his head before snapping the bolts off that held it to the plane and falling to the snow. Hiccup half stood on unsteady legs, and brought one leg up and over the wall of the cockpit before stumbling and landing on his side in the cold snow. “Pappa! Det er piloten!”(Papa! It’s the pilot!) He heard, at the edge of reality. He heard the snow crunching below feet, and knew this was it. This was the end. He pushed himself to roll over, and try to stand before collapsing to his knees. A few meters away from him stood a young woman and an older man. Hiccup’s vision pulsed with white and red, but he saw a shotgun in the man’s hands, and he began kicking away from them. He didn’t get far however, because he hit the cold metal of his crashed airplane’s tail, yet he covered his head in his arms. The man’s voice was gruff. “Amerikansk?”(American?) Hiccup froze, lowering his arms and nodded slowly. He didn’t know what the extra ‘sk’ was at the end, but he recognized American. The man smiled, and spoke to the woman.“Astrid Finder slæde, tak.”(Astrid find the sled, please) The girl, Astrid, looked at him and nodded before running off into the darkness of the night. The man slowly walked forward, and took his finger away from the shotgun’s trigger. “Du er sikker.”(You are safe) Hiccup blankly stared at him. “Safe.” The man said, and that was when Hiccup slumped over, unconscious. Astrid returned with the sled, and the man loaded him onto it while Astrid poked around the cockpit to see if there was anything of use. Under the seat, she felt leather, and gripped it before pulling it out from under the seat. She also noticed a photograph of the man on the sled and a dark haired woman standing together. “Kom, Astrid.”(Come, Astrid) The young woman looked up, nodded, and followed along as the man tugged on the rope to the sled, dragging Hiccup back to their home. The man pulled the sled to the edge of the patio space, and carefully moved around the pilot before lifting him and carrying him up the stairs and through the door to the cabin. Astrid then dragged the sled around the back of the house and leaned it against the wall before going inside. She saw that her father had placed the man on the floor, and had stripped his shirt off. “Hvad nu?”(What now?) “Vi plejer ham til helbred, så du og han vil blive med dine fætre i Sverige.”(We nurse him to health, and then you and him will join family in Sweden) Her father, narrowing his eyebrows as he inspected the gunshot wound. “Hvad?”(What?) Her blue eyes went wide. “Hvad med dig?”(What about you?) “Jeg skal blive.”(I must stay) Her father kept his eyes away from her, before blinking a tear away. “Astrid, find saks og bandager.”(Astrid, find the scissors and bandages) Astrid went and searched through the cabinet drawers, before finding a wooden box containing string, bandages, and needles. She passed the box to her father, and went into her bedroom. “Jeg går tilbage til at sove, Papa.”(I’m going to sleep, Papa) “Godnat Astrid, sov godt.”(Goodnight Astrid, sleep well) -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Waves rocked the fishing boat, and Hiccup groaned in his sleep. Astrid’s father looked out over the rest of the foggy bay, hoping they would have a smooth sailing. His daughter sat at the front of the boat, silent as a stone. She must’ve been angry at him. “I’m doing this for you, Eliza.” He looked down to his left, to see the American sleeping. He didn’t know how the pilot was still alive after the crash. If he had slid any further he would have gone into a tree. If he had fallen any other way, he would have skidded into other trees. The bandage on his left arm was still in place, though he did not remove the bullet fragments. Hiccup woke up slowly, feeling the slight rocking of the boat. He opened his eyes slowly, and tried to move. He couldn’t move, his body was too sore. He looked up, seeing a man at the wheel. Where was he? He gasped for air, feeling a white thrashing pain in his arm and in his chest. “Godmorgen, amerikansk.”(Good morning American) He stayed silent, his eyes were wide, and slowly, he sat up, feeling muscles stretch and bones shift painfully. “Amerikansk?” Hiccup looked at the man. “Why am I alive?” “…” “Uhm… Parlez-vous français?”(Do you speak French?)Hiccup’s mind was foggy, and french was the only other language he knew, aside from broken German. The man’s features brightened. “Oui.”(Yes) “Pourquoi suis-je vivant?”(Why am I alive?) “Parce que vous êtes - Amerikansk.”(Because you are… American) The man pointed at his ring finger, and Hiccup saw the ring, and then the man pointed at a US flag patch that was on Hiccup’s jacket.

Oh. Hiccup made a mental deduction that his wife must have been from America. Astrid looked back, seeing the American talking in a mixture of English, French, and Danish. Land came within sight, and she beckoned for her father to watch for sea-rocks as they entered a very small and secluded cove. Hiccup looked at the girl at the front of the boat, seeing her braided blonde hair sway as she turned. She had the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen, they reminded him of the sky, and he turned away to look behind them. There were no words shared between them, and by how her eyes turned darker as she looked at him he presumed that she didn’t like him. “Oh!” Hiccup looked towards the man, and Astrid’s father retrieved a leather bound book from inside his coat. He held it out towards the American, and Hiccup looked over it, realizing that it was his journal. “Yours.” He accepted it tentatively, and opened the cover of it, finding the photo of him and Heather staring at him. He sighed, taking the photo in between fingertips and tearing it in half. The man’s eyes widened in surprise. Hiccup put two hands together, making a heart shape, and split them to symbolize a broken heart, then sighed. The man pointed at the book, and then to the girl. “She find book.” He said, with a thick accent. “Je vous remercie.” (Thank you) Hiccup said. On the shoreline there were two skinny figures, dressed in brown fur coats. From what Hiccup could see, they were twins. Astrid’s father cut the engine, and let them drift towards the pebbled shore. The man explained through hand gestures and broken french that they were family that had fled Denmark before Germany invaded. He also made sure to tell him that they were crazy, and to not be shirtless around the girl-twin. Later that evening, after Astrid’s father had returned to Denmark, to their little log cabin, Astrid walked carefully around her new home. For now, that is. When the war was over she fully intended on returning home. She heard, “Me Likeeyyy,” coming from the living room, and walking in there she caught sight of Hiccup’s bandaged torso. The girl-twin was giggling, while the male twin was standing behind the counter, making retching noises into the wastebasket. “Ruffnut, nok.”(Ruffnut, enough.) Astrid said. “Awe, men har du set amerikaneren?” (Awe, but have you seen the American?) Astrid sighed, secretly looking at his toned torso, and poured herself a mug of water before returning to her room. Slowly overtime they had gotten used to the American living with them, the twins found that he was fun to mess with, and that he didn’t get angry often. They had also discovered that he was a much better cook than the rest of them. Astrid thought he was handsome, and overtime they had grown closer. They often didn’t share words, until he stood in the doorway of her room one evening. He looked down at a dictionary. “L-Lær d-dansk?” (Teach Danish?) Hiccup asked slowly, annunciating each syllable carefully before pointing at himself. Months passed after that night, and most of the day Astrid taught him Danish. And, while she taught him Danish he taught her the basics of English. Hiccup sat at the table, with a pencil in hand and a paper before him. He was drawing, in the early hours of the morning, and Astrid crept up slowly behind him. She watched as the flame of the small candle flickered this way and that before she got sight of the charcoal on paper. She realized he was drawing her. She breathed silently, before resting her chin on his shoulder, simply watching his hand move. When he was done, he moved the pencil to one corner, and drew a rose, and a heart, and wrote H + A inside of the heart. She smiled, feeling a warm feeling in her chest before turning and kissing his cheek. 0o0o0o0 Annnnnnnd done. Finally. *whew* okay time to disappear again, probably.

#hiccstrid #fanfic #ww2 #au #hiccup #astrid #stoick #eret #pilot!hiccup #httyd #httyd2

[pacificeagles]

https://pacificeagles.net/boeing-xb-15/

Boeing XB-15

By the mid-1930s the US Army Air Corps (USAAC) saw the need for a new type of long-range bomber. The procurement of the Boeing B-9 and the Martin B-10 and B-12 series had filled an immediate need for medium bombers but advances in aviation technology suggested that a much larger machine capable of inter-continental flight might be feasible. In the early 1930s it was discovered that larger aircraft offered aerodynamic advantages, which coupled with other improvements such as retractable landing gear, controllable pitch and constant speed propellers, and the standardisation on monoplanes meant that a very large bomber could conceivably be constructed. As such, the USAAC initiated “Project A”, approaching both Boeing and Martin to design new aircraft.

On April 14, 1934 the USAAC issued a design request for a new bomber with a combat range of 5,000-miles carrying a 2,000lb bomb load. Boeing produced the Model 294, a large four-engine design which was subsequently designated XBLR-1. Douglas produced their Model 145 which was later designated XB-16. The Boeing design was considered superior and a contract was issued on June 29, 1935 for a single XBLR-1. In July 1936, the “BLR” line was eliminated and the aircraft was redesignated XB-15.

Design

The XB-15 was the largest and heaviest American aircraft ever built when it first flew in 1937. The most striking feature was the huge, broad wings which stretched out to give the aircraft a wingspan of 149ft. The wings were fitted with air brakes and de-icing boots, both recent innovations. The thickness of the wing allowed for crawlspaces that an engineer could use to reach the engine nacelles and carry out minor repairs whilst in flight. The same wing design would later be used on the Model 314 flying boat which carried passengers across the Pacific for Pan American Airways.

A large aircraft requires powerful engines and the XB-15 was originally designed with Allison’s experimental V-3420 in mind. This engine mated two V-1710s together to provide up to 2,600hp for takeoff. Allison struggled to make the huge engine work and they were not considered reliable enough for the XB-15 program. With the risk of project failure due to engine issues considered too high, the designers substituted instead the Pratt & Whitney R-1830-11, rated at just 850hp. Projected performance was naturally greatly reduced as a result.

The fuselage was mostly conventional with several turrets housing six defensive machine guns. There were several innovations for crew comfort – with combat missions expected to last up to 24 hours, living and sleeping quarters for the crew were provided aft of the bomb bay, and heating and ventilation was provided for the crew to keep them comfortable. An automatic pilot was included to ease the burden on the two pilots, and an improved SCR-186 radio compass was installed for the navigator. The XB-15 was the first aircraft to have two auxiliary engines for powering the onboard electrical systems, although these were notoriously unreliable.

Several other innovations were pondered but ultimately rejected for the design. Turbo-superchargers for the engines were considered as they might have resulted in increased power, but were rejected on the basis that too many problems around aerodynamics and propellors needed to be resolved for them to be worth it. Likewise tricycle landing gear was rejected in favour of double-trucked conventional main gear.

Construction took place in Boeing’s Seattle plant. The first flight of the XB-15 took place on 15 October 1937, more than 2 years after smaller and higher-priority XB-17 – this despite the fact that the XB-15 was ordered first. Boeing’s chief test pilot Edmund T. “Eddie” Allen was at the controls alongside USAAC Maj John D. Korkille. The aircraft performed adequately but the top speed was disappointing at less than 200mph. When carrying 2,500lb of bombs the top speed was reduced further to 145mph, which would have made it an easy target for modern fighters. It was clear that the design of the XB-15 was fundamentally flawed and as a result any further production of the type was abandoned.

The Army saw enough potential in the XB-15 to request a modernised version in June 1938, with the ungainly designation Y1B-20. This version was to have featured more powerful Pratt & Whitney R-2180 Twin Hornet engines, offering 1,400hp and a top speed that was anticipated to reach 240mph. The tricycle gear that was proposed for the XB-15 also would have featured. The Y1B-20 would have been slightly larger and heavier than the XB-15, with additional defensive armament. However with the XB-19 already on order and limited funds available for new bombers, there seemed little need for the Y1B-20 so the contracts were cancelled before any were built.

The XB-15 marked something of a dead-end for large bomber development. For an aircraft to meet the USAAC’s requirements it needed much more power which could not be provided by the engines of the day. Research indicated the need to greatly reduce drag, which in turn pointed to a thinner wing with a much higher wing-loading and a fuselage that was as aerodynamically clean as possible. Boeing would learn these lessons and apply them in a series of designs which culminated in the Model 345, which became the B-29 Superfortress.

Service

The sole XB-15 was accepted by the USAAC and delivered to Wright Field in December 1937. It was assigned to the 2nd Bomb Group for extended performance trials and was tested throughout 1938. When in January 1939 an earthquake struck Chillán, Chile, the XB-15 was sent on a humanitarian mission to ferry supplies for the Red Cross to the disaster area. The flight was commanded by Maj Caleb V. Haynes. The XB-15 flew from Langley Field via the Panama canal zone and Lima, Peru to the Chilean capital, Santiago. Haynes was later awarded the DFC for the mission and the crew was awarded the Mackay Trophy for carrying out the outstanding USAAC effort of the year.

A more sombre duty followed for the XB-15 in June 1939, when it was used to carry the body of famed Mexican aviator Francisco Sarabia home to Mexico City. Sarabia had just set a record for flying from Mexico City to New York in time for the 1939 World’s Fair. Sarabia visited Washington on his return trip, and it was here that disaster struck. Taking off from Bolling Field, Sarabia’s aircraft suffered engine failure and crashed into the Potomac River. Sarabia subsequently drowned and the XB-15 was drafted in to carry him to his final resting place. The XB-15 also later made an appearance at the World’s Fair, as a demonstration of American aeronautical engineering prowess.

The XB-15 was also used to set a number of world records for lift capacity and endurance. On July 30, 1939 the aircraft set its first record by lifting a cargo of 14,135kg (31,162lb) to over 2,000m (6,562ft) with pilot Haynes again at the controls (link). A few days later another record was set by the XB-15 when it carried a 2,000kg (4,409lb) payload over a closed 5,000km (3,107-mile) circuit, with an average speed of 267kmh (166mph) (link). Both were ratified as official Fédération Aéronautique Internationale (FAI) records that stood until they were broken in 1946 by a USAAF Boeing B-29 Superfortress.

In 1940 the XB-15 moved to Albrook Field near the Panama Canal. It was used in bombing tests against simulated canal facilities, demonstrating some of their weaknesses against bombing attacks. Capt Curtis LeMay, future commander of B-29 forces in the Pacific, was the navigator. A month later the XB-15 surveyed potential airfield locations in the Galapagos Islands, following which construction began on Baltra and Seymour Island airfields which were used extensively during the war years. Following these exploits the XB-15 returned to the US where its defensive armament was removed and additional seating added so that the aircraft could serve a transport for lend-lease crews returning from Europe.

When the war broke out the XB-15 was pressed into service as a troop transport. Eventually it was adapted for permanent non-combat operations, with all of the defensive armament removed and the bomb-bay reconfigured for carrying cargo with a hoist and cargo doors. The modified aircraft was redesignated XC-105, and thanks to its history as the first true American heavy bomber its crew dubbed it “Grandpappy”. Based again at Albrook Field on the Pacific side of the Panama Canal, the XC-105 regularly flew between Miami and bases across the Caribbean, as far afield as the Galapagos Islands, delivering over half-a-million pounds of cargo during its career.

By 1945 the reliability of the XB-15 was becoming a serious problem.  The aircraft suffered two in-air fires and a complete loss of electrical power due to a failure of the auxiliary generators. Realising that the aircraft was beyond the point of economical repair, the decision was made to scrap the aircraft. In June the XB-15 was stripped of parts and broken up at Albrook Field, and its remains were later buried.

#Boeing #bomber #Aircraft #Allied Aircraft #USAAF

[makeover-blog1]

Macross +++ 1:72 Stonewell/Belcom VF-4A “Lightning III”, aircraft “(7)01 Red” of the VAT-127 “Zentraedi Busters” aggressor squadron; personal mount of Flight Leader Maxim Dadashov; Choir Flight Academy, Mongolia, 2016 (WAVE kit)

Some background: ]The VF-4 Lightning III began development in 2005 under the initial designation of the VF-X-4. Developed as a successor craft to the VF-1 Valkyrie, the VF-4 Lightning III was designed as a variable fighter that emphasized mobility in outer space.

The VF-4’s development began with the prototype VF-X-4 and the VF-X-3. However, when Earth was devastated in Space War I the loss of military facilities also resulted in loss of the VF-X-3. Amongst the airframes under development exist prototype No. 1 craft, VF-X-4V1 and the trial manufactured VF-4A-0 and thus the surviving VF-X-4 was developed and completed as the VF-4 Lightning III. A trial-produced variable fighter, designated the VF-4A-0, was also built using 25% VF-1 Valkyrie parts.

VF-X-4 underwent flight tests, including being test piloted by Space War I veteran Hikaru Ichijo. Once successful operational models were ready, the VF-4 began mass production on February 2012. Initial deployment began on the SDF-2 Megaroad-01 in VF-1 Skull and SVF-184 Iron Chiefs Squadrons on September 2012. When the SDF-2 Megaroad launched in the same month, Hikaru Ichijō flew a VF-4 alongside the new colonization vessel as the ship lifted from Earth and began exploration outside of the Sol system.

As a result of integrating existing Overtechnology and Zentradi-series technology, the VF-4 had a characteristic three-hulled-type airframe structure remarkably different from the conservative VF-1 Valkyrie design. The three-hulled style of the VF-4 increased fuselage volume, propellant capacity and armament load capability that all resulted in a 40% improved combat ability over the VF-1. Fully transformable, the VF-4 could shift into Battroid and Gerwalk modes like previous variable fighters.

However, the VF-4 did suffer minor mobility problems within an atmosphere and the new type was primarily deployed to the Space Air Corps of emigrant fleets to serve as the main fighter craft of the UN Forces in the 2020s. It was because flight performance within the atmosphere was not as good as the VF-1 that the VF-5000 Star Mirage became the main combat craft within atmosphere, while the VF-4 operated mainly in outer space.

Built as a space fighter, the VF-4 primary weapons became two large beam cannons, though the craft was capable of carrying a GU-11 gun pod in Gerwalk and Battroid modes. In addition to the powerful primary beam guns, the Lightning III also featured twelve semi-recessed long-range missiles, as well as underwing pylons for additional missiles and other stores. The VF-4 was only slightly heavier than the VF-1, but featured considerably more powerful engines, making the craft ideal for operations deeper out in space. The Lightning III was also much faster in the atmosphere than the older VF-1, although the VF-4’s flight mobility performance was not as great.

The VF-4 was also notable as the first production variable fighter to utilize a HOTAS system (Hands On Throttle And Stick) for the cockpit HMI (Human-Machine Interface). Furthermore, the VF-4’s cockpit was laid out as a single hexagonal MFD (Multi-Function Display) that proved so successful that it was retrofitted into "Block 6" VF-1 fighters, as well as providing the template for all future variable fighter cockpits.

By the end of 2015, mass production of the VF-1 series at last had come to an end. From 2020 onward, the VF-4 Lightning III officially replaced the VF-1 to become the main variable fighter of U.N. Forces. Production of the VF-4 continued for a decade and ceased in 2022, with a total of 8,245 Lightning III variable fighters produced. The VF-4 variable fighter remained in active service into the late 2040’s but was complemented or substituted in many branches of the UN Forces by the cheaper and more atmospherically maneuverable VF-5000 Star Mirage. The VF-4 Lightning III was eventually replaced as the main variable fighter of U.N. Spacy in the later half of the 2030s by the VF-11 Thunderbolt.

General characteristics: Manufacturer: Stonewell/Bellcom Equipment Type: Variable fighter Government: U.N. Spacy, U.N. Space Marines Introduction: 2012 Operational Deployment: September 2012

Dimensions: Accommodation: pilot only Fighter Mode: wingspan 12.65 meters; height 5.31 meters; length 16.8 meters Mass: empty 13.95 metric tons Structure: space metal frame, SWAG energy conversion armor

Powerplant: 2x Shinnakasu/P&W/Roice FF-2011 thermonuclear turbine engines, rated at 14,000 kg (137.34 kN) each 2x dorsal rocket engines (mounted on top of the main thermonuclear turbine engines) 2x ramjet engines (embedded into the inner wing sections) P&W HMM-1A high-maneuverability vernier thrusters

Performance: Fighter Mode: Mach 3.02 at 10,000 m Mach 5.15 at 30,000+ m Thrust-to-weight ratio: (empty) 2.01 (rating for turbine engine thrust ONLY) g limit: unknown

[Armament: 2 x large beam cannons in forward engine nacelles 12x semi-recessed long range missiles (mounted on engine nacelles and ventral fuselage) 8x underwing pylons for missiles, gun pods an/or drop tanks

The kit and its assembly: Well, this build has been lingering for almost 25 years in the back of my mind. It just took so long that a suitable IP kit (with a reasonable price tag) would materialize! The original inspiration struck me with a VF-4 profile in the source book "This is animation special: Macross PLUS" from 1994, which accidently fell into my hands in a local Japanese book store. Among others, a side and top view profile of an aggressor VF-4 in an all-brown, Soviet-style paint scheme was featured. At that time I found the idea and the scheme pretty cool, so much that I even built a modified 1:100 VF-1 as a ground attack aircraft in this paint scheme.

However, the original VF-4 profile from the source book had always been present, but for years there had been no affordable kit. There have been garage/resin kits, but prices would start at EUR 250,-, and these things were and are extraordinarily rare. Things changed for the better when WAVE announced an 1:72 VF-4 kit in late 2016, and it eventually materialized in late 2017. I immediately pre-ordered one from Japan (in a smart move, this even saved money) and it eventually turned up here in Germany in early 2018. Patience pays out, it seems… I had preferred a 1:100 kit, though, due to space issues and since almost any other Macross variable fighter model in my collection is in this small scale, but I am happy that a decent VF-4 kit at all appeared after so many years!

Concerning the WAVE kit, there’s light and shadow. First of all, you have to know that you get a VF-4A. This is mentioned nowhere on the box, but might be a vital information for hardcore modelers. The early VF-4A is a rather different aircraft than the later VF-4G, with so fundamental differences that it would warrant a completely new kit! On the other side, with a look at the kit’s parts, I could imagine that a VF-4B two-seater could be easily realized in the future, too.

The kit is a solid construction, a snap-fit kit molded in different colors so that it can be built without painting. This sounds toy-like, but – like many small scale Bandai Valkyrie kits – anything you ask for is actually there. When you use glue and put some effort into the kit and some donor parts, you can make a very good model from it.

The kit’s box is pretty oversized, though (any sprue is shrink-wrapped, horrendous garbage pile and wasted space!), and the kit offers just a single decal (water-slide decals, not stickers) option for a Skull Squadron VF-4A – AFAIK it’s Hikaru Ichijoe’s machine that appears in one of the Macross Flash Back 2012 music videos, as it escorts the SDF-02 “Megaroad” colonial ship after launch from Earth towards the center of our Galaxy.

The parts are crisply molded, and I actually like the fact that the kit is not as uber-engineered as the Hasegawa Valkyries. You can actually call the WAVE kit simple – but in a positive sense, because the parts number is reduced to a minimum, material strength is solid and the kit’s construction is straightforward. Fit is excellent – I just used some putty along the engine gondolas due to their complex shape, but almost anything else would either fit almost perfectly or just call for some sanding. Impressive!

Surface details etc. are rather basic, but very crisp and emphasized enough that anything remains visible after adding some paint. However, after all, this aircraft is just a fictional animation mecha, and from this perspective the kit is really O.K..

After building the kit I most say that it’s nothing that leaves you in awe, and for a retail price of currently roundabout EUR 50-70,- (I was lucky to get it for an early bird deal at EUR 40,-, but still pricey for what I got) the kit is pretty expensive and has some weaknesses:

The model comes with a decent (= simple) cockpit and a very nice and large pilot figure, but with no ordnance except for the semi-recessed long-range missiles (see below). The cockpit lacks any side consoles, floor or side wall details. If you put the pilot into the cockpit as intended, this is not a big issue, since the figure blocks any sight into the cockpit’s lower regions. However, the side sticks are molded into the pilot’s hands, so that you have to scratch a lot if you want to present the cockpit open and with an empty seat.

The landing gear is simple, too, and the wells are very shallow (even though they feature interior details). As a special feature, you can switch with some extra parts between an extended or retracted landing gear, and there are extra parts that allow the air intakes and some vectoring nozzles to be closed/extended for orbital operations. However, detail fetishists might replace the OOB parts with the landing gear from an 1:72 F-18 for an overall better look.

Provisions for underwing hardpoints are actually molded into the lower fuselage part (and could be punched/drilled open – another indication that more VF-4 boxings with extra sprues might follow?), but the kit does not come with any pylons or other ordnance than the dozen fuselage-mounted AAMs. Furthermore, the semi-recessed missiles are just that: you only get the visible halves of the only provided ordnance, which are simply stuck into slits on the model’s surface. As a consequence, you have to mount them at any rate – building a VF-4 for a diorama in which the missiles are about to be loaded would require massive scratch-building efforts and modifications.

Another problem indirectly arises when you put some effort into the kit and want to clean and pre-paint the missiles before assembly: every missile is different and has its allocated place on the VF-4 hull. The missiles are numbered – but only on the sprue! Once you cut them out, you either have to keep them painstakingly in order, or you will spend a long evening figuring out where which missile belongs! This could be easily avoided if the part number would be engraved on the missiles’ back sides – and that’s what I actually did (with a water-proof pen, though) in order to avoid trouble.

The clear canopy is another issue. The two parts are crystal-clear, but, being a snap-fit kit, the canopy parts have to be clipped into the fuselage (rear part) and onto a separate canopy frame (front part). In order to fit, the clear parts have cramps molded into their bases – and due to the excellent transparency and a magnifier effect, you can see them easily from the outside – and on the inside, when you leave the cockpit open. It’s not a pretty solution, despite the perfect fit of the parts. One option I can think of is to carefully sand the cramps and the attachment points away, but I deem this a hazardous stunt. I eventually hid the cramps behind a thin line of paint, which simulates a yellow-ish canopy seal. The extra windscreen framing is not accurate, but the simplest solution that hides this weak point.

The kit itself was built OOB, because it goes together so well. I also refrained from adding pylons and ordnance – even though you can easily hang anything from Hasegawa’s VF-1 weapon set under the VF-4’s wings and fuselage. A final, small addition was a scratched, ventral adapter for a 3.5 mm steel rod, as a display for the flight scene beauty pic.

Painting and markings: As mentioned above, the livery is based on an official profile which I deem authentic and canonical. My aircraft depicts a different machine from VFT-127, though, since I could not (and did not really want to) 100% replicate the profile’s machine from the Macross PLUS source book, "13 Red". Especially the squadron’s emblem on the fin would create massive problems.

For the two-tone wrap-around scheme I used Humbrol 72 (Khaki Drill) and 98 (Chocolate Brown), based on the printed colors in the source book where I found the scheme. The pattern is kept close to the benchmark profile, and, lacking an underside view, I just mirrored the upper scheme. The starboard side pattern was guesstimated. As a second-line aggressor aircraft, I weathered the VF-4 with a black ink wash, some post-shading with various lighter tones (including Humbrol 160, 168, 170 and 187) and did some wet-sanding treatment for an uneven and worn look.

Interior surfaces were painted according to visual references from various sources: the landing gear and the air intakes became white, while the cockpit was painted in RAF Dark Sea Grey.

In order to add some color to the overall brown aircraft I decided to paint the missiles all around the hull in white with tan tips – in the profile, the appear to be integrated into the camouflage, what I found dubious.

Most stencils come from the OOB sheet, but I added some more from the scrap box. The grey "kite" roundels come from an 1:72 Hasegawa Macross F-14 Tomcat kit sheet, which I acquired separately for a reasonable price. Even though it took four weeks to be delivered from Asia, the investment was worthwhile, since the sheet also provided some useful low-viz stencils.

The VAT-127 “Zentraedi Busters” unique tail insignia was more complicated, because these had to be printed at home. As a side note, concerning the fin marking, I recently found a translation of the benchmark profile’s text on mahq.net, which is interesting: "The Regult within the targeting reticle on the tail met with disapproval from micronized Zentraedi pilots, and so was only used for a short time." The comment also reveals that the original aircraft’s modex is "713", not just "13" as depicted, so I tried to reflect these details on my build, too.

I eventually settled for a solution that was partly inspired by the kit’s OOB fin marking and the wish for more contrast for the motif: I scanned the original Regult pod illustration from the source book and printed it on white decal sheet. This was sealed with two layers of glossy acrylic varnish (applied with a rattle can) and then cut into a white field that fills the fixed part of the fin (using the WAVE kit’s OOB fin markings as reference). Once in place and dry, two black outlines were added separately (generic decal material) which help blend the decal and the surroundings. Finally, thin strips of silver decal sheet were used for the fins’ leading edges.

This design variation, compared with the original “13 Red” illustration, led to the idea of a flight leader’s machine with slightly more prominent markings. In order to take this concept further I also gave the aircraft a white stripe around the front fuselage, placed under the kite roundel and again with black outlines for a consistent look. It’s not much different from “13 Red”, but I think that it looks conclusive and, together with the white fin markings and the missiles, livens up the VF-4’s look.

The appropriate flight leader tactical code “01 Red” was puzzled together from single digits from a Begemot Su-27 sheet, the rest of the bort numbers were taken from the OOB sheet (which incidentally feature a “01” code, too).

Concerning the OOB decal sheet, there’s much light but also some deep shadow. While the register is excellent and the carrier film flexible enough to lay down smoothly, the instructions lack information where to place the zillion of stencils (“No step” and “Beware of Blast” stuff) are to be placed! You only get references for the major markings – the rest has either to be guessed, OR you are in possession of the VF-4 source book from Softbank Publishing which was (incidentally?) released in parallel with the WAVE kit. This mecha porn offers an overview of all(!) relevant stencils on the VF-4A’s hull, and ONLY with this information the exhaustive decal sheet makes some sense…

As final steps, the VF-4 received some dry-brushing with light grey around the leading edges, some chipped paint was simulated with dry-brushed aluminum and, finally, light soot stains around the vectoring nozzles all around the hull and the weapon bays were created with graphite. Then the kit was sealed with matt acrylic varnish (Italeri).

Well, in the end, it’s not a carbon copy of the inspiring illustration, but rather another machine from the same squadron, with more creative freedom. I stayed as true to the benchmark as possible, though, and I like the result. Finally, after almost 25 years, I can tick this project off of my long ideas and inspiration list.

Considering the kit itself, I am really torn. I am happy that there finally is a VF-4 IP kit at all after so many years, but to me it’s a contradictive offer. I am not certain about the target group, because for a toy-like snap-fit kit it’s too detailed and expensive, but for the serious modeler it has some major flaws. The biggest issue is the kit’s horrendous price – even if it would be more detailed or contained some fine resin or PE parts (which I would not want, just a “good” plastic kit). Sure, you can put some effort into the kit and improve it, e .g. in the cockpit or with a donor landing gear, but weak points like the “flat” missiles and the lack of proper bays for them are IMHO poor. For the relatively huge price tag I’d hoped for a “better” OOB offer. However, the kit is easy to build and a good representation of the Lightning III, and I am curious if there are kit variants in WAVE’s pipeline?

Posted by dizzyfugu on 2018-06-09 15:34:26

Tagged: , wave , vf-4 , model , kit , wip , lightning , iii , macross , flash , back , 2012 , review , building , painting , anime , mecha , valkyrie , vat-127 , zentraedi , UN , spacy , desert , sand , brown , scheme , aggerssor , top , gun , training , fictional , aviation , vf-4a , this , is , animation , special , PLUS , choir , tschoir , mongolia , leader , flight , academy , fighter , interceptor , orbital , canard , wing , ramjet , red , star , regult , pod , emblem

The post Macross +++ 1:72 Stonewell/Belcom VF-4A “Lightning III”, aircraft “(7)01 Red” of the VAT-127 “Zentraedi Busters” aggressor squadron; personal mount of Flight Leader Maxim Dadashov; Choir Flight Academy, Mongolia, 2016 (WAVE kit) appeared first on Good Info.

[skyfire85]

-A SAAB J 21A-3 fighter/bomber in 1983, long after the type was retired by the Swedish Air Force. | Photo: Towpilot

FLIGHTLINE: 179 - SAAB J 21/21R

Development of the SAAB 21, a low-wing pusher design, began in late 1939 over fears by the Swedish Air Force over being drawn into WW2.

The Svenska flygvapnet, or Swedish Air Force, was formed on 1 July 1926 after the aircraft units of the Army and Navy were spun-off and merged. The inter-war flygvapnet fighter force was composed of a hodgepodge of WWI-era biplanes from France, the UK and Germany, and the gathering war clouds over Europe made the Swedes seek a more modern fighter plane, preferably of domestic manufacture. It was estimated that Sweden's production capacity was unable to meet the needs of the air force until 1943 at best, and the county was forced to buy a brace of obsolete Fiat Cr. 42 biplanes as an interim measure.

SAAB J 21

SAAB (Svenska Aeroplan AB), founded in 1937, had been working on design studies during the late 1930s, many of which were of unconventional configuration, and most incorporated the Bristol Taurus radial engine. SAAB's engineers hit upon the idea of mounting the engine behind the pilot, driving a pusher prop with the tail and elevator mounted on twin booms extending back from the wing. This configuration would allow the plane's weapons to be mounted in the nose and provide the pilot with an unobstructed view. It was also felt that the low wing and tricycle undercarriage would provide easy servicing of the plane. During the design phase, the Taurus engine was rejected as being underpowered and the P&W R-1830 Twin Wasp was proposed in its place. The Swedish government wanted a domestic alternative, and Svenska Flygmotor was tapped to produce a licensed version of the Daimler-Benz DB 605B inverted V-12, which produced 1,455hp.

-Orthograph of the SAAB 21. | Illustration: aviastar

The new plane, designated the SAAB J 21, was 10.45m long, with a wingspan of 11.6m and was 3.97m tall. The J 21 was light, weighing just 3,250kg empty and having a max TO weight of 5,200kg. The license-built BD 605B, coupled to a three-blade constant-speed prop, gave the plane a maximum speed of 650kmh and a cruise speed of 495kmh, while the 510l internal fuel load provided a ferry range of 1,190km and a combat range of 750km. The pusher configuration allowed a heavy load of forward-firing weapons, with a 20mm akan m/41A and two 13.2mm akan m/39A cannons in the nose and two more m/39A in the wings. The 21 was fitted with tricycle landing gear, with the main gear retracting into the booms as the SAAB-designed laminar flow wings were too thin. Another innovation of the aircraft was an ejection seat for the pilot, designed in tandem with the J 21, by Bofors, which allowed the pilot to clear the prop and tail in case of an emergency. The engine's coolers and intakes were housed in the central section of the wing in order to reduce drag.

-One of the J 21 prototypes, later fitted for operational service. | Photo: SAAB

Two flying prototypes and one static test airframe were built, with the maiden flight of the J 21 occurring on 20 July 1943. The test flight, with SAAB test pilot Claes Smith at the controls, got off to an inauspicious start when Smith used too much flap on takeoff, resulting in the undercarriage striking a fence at the end of the runway. The pilot was able to land without further incident, and the damage was repaired. Delivery of the production J 21A-1 aircraft began on 1 December 1945, with 54 aircraft delivered by 5 December 1946, when production shifted to the more advanced J 21A-2 model. Both the A-1 and A-2 differed from the prototypes in having provisions for two drop tanks of 160l each, and the A-2 differed in having upgraded avionics as well as the m/41A cannon replaced by a Bofors belt-fed akan m/45, also in 20mm. A third model, the J 21A-3 (later redesignated A 21A), was based on the A-2, but was configured for attack missions, and was fitted with a bomb-aiming system as well as pylons on the inner and outer wings, as well as a belly mount, which could accommodate 700kg of bombs or rockets. Drop tanks could be added to the wingtips, and incendiary bombs and napalm tanks were tested, but not used operationally. The A 21A was later fitted with mounts for two RATO bottles to improve takeoffs when carrying heavy loads. Production of the attack model ran from 1947 to 1949, and totaled 66 aircraft.

-A J 21A-3 in flight, some time in the early 1950s. | Photo: SAAB

-Two late 40's products from SAAB. | Photo: SAAB

A fourth model, the J 21B, was initially proposed in 1947, with the 605B engine replaced by either a more powerful 605E or Rolls-Royce Griffon motor. Changes also included a pressurized cockpit with a bubble canopy, improved aerodynamics, an air-intercept radar in the starboard boom, and a change to three 20mm cannon in the nose. Development of jet engines, particularly for SAAB's own J 29 fighter, saw the J 21B canceled in 1945, with only a mockup completed. The post-war shift to jet aircraft also saw the J21As having a short service life, with the A-1s being retired in 1949, and the A-2 and A-3 following in the early 1950s. By 23 July 1954, all of the J 21As were gone from the Swedish Air Force. Three examples remain as museum exhibits, all A-3s, with one having been rebuilt as an A 21R.

-An A 21A ground attack version of the J 21, on display at the Flyvapenmuseum in Malmen, Sweden. | Photo: Alan Wilson

SAAB J 21R

Almost before the J 21 was accepted for service, plans were underway to increase the performance of the aircraft. Aside from the stillborn J 21B, two studies by SAAB, RX 1 and RX 2, which were twin boom aircraft resembling the J 21 but with a jet engine replacing the 605B. Neither program had a specific engine in mind, but an opportunity to acquire a license for the de Havilland Goblin 2 turbojet in 1945 provided the impetus to begin plans to convert a J 21 to accept the new jet. The modified aircraft, SAAB's first jet-powered plane, took its maiden flight on 10 March 1947, and the test program was satisfactory enough that the Swedish Air Force ordered 124 existing J 21s to be converted to jet power, with the resulting aircraft designated J 21R; 4 examples were built as prototypes.

-Orthograph of the J 21R. | Illustration: Kaboldy

The process of converting the A models to R spec was rather intensive, with more than 50% of the fuselage, wing and tail being modified. In particular, the tail was modified to allow the horizontal stabilizer to be raised several feet in order to clear the jet's exhaust. The lack of a propeller meant that the aircraft was overall shorter than the As however, being just under three meters tall versus the almost four meters of the A model. The changes resulted in the R model being somewhat longer than its predecessor, but the wingspan was a third of a meter shorter. A new, curved windscreen was added, as were air brakes, an additional flap on either side, and a modified leading edge. The thirst of the Goblin engine, designated the RM1 in Swedish service, meant the addition of extra fuel tanks in the center wing as well as tip tanks as seen on the A-2 and -3 models, bringing the 21R to a max TO weight of 5,615kg. The main armament remained one 20mm m/45 and four 12.7mm m/39A, with one hard point on the belly allowing carriage of 700kg of stores, including various 10, 14.5, 15 or 18cm rockets, or a paddan ("toad") gunpod, armed with eight 8mm Browning M1919 machine guns, along with 800 rounds per gun.

-A J 21R in flight, showing the modifications needed to incorporate the Goblin engine. | Photo: SAAB

Conversion of newly-retired J 21A-1s began in 1947, with the first 30 receiving British-built engines. The type entered service in 1950, but SAAB had also introduced the J 29 Tunnan two years prior, and the 21R was relegated to attack duties, being redesignated the A 21RA. With the shift to attack missions, the order of 124 was cut to just 64, with the second run of A 21RB aircraft receiving Swedish-built RM1A engines, which provided 1,500kg of thrust vs the 1,360kg of the RM1. The A 21R had a very short service life, with the RA model being retired in 1953, and the RB being withdrawn in 1956. So swiftly was the 21R withdrawn that no examples were preserved. In the 1990s a surviving, but unrestored, A 21A-3 was restored and modified by a group of volunteers to represent an A 21R, which is now on display at the Swedish Air Force Museum.

-The 21R as displayed in 2005, with a load of rockets. | Photo: Wassen

-And in 2019, now armed with a paddan gun pod. | Photo: BugWarp

#aircraft #aviation #avgeek #airplanes #airplane #aviation history #swedish air force #saab aircraft #saab j21r #saab j21 #pusher props #early jet #ealy jets #svenska flygvapnet

[mrcoreymonroe]

A Student Pilot Gets A Surprise On A Pre-Solo Flight

A student pilot gets a surprise during a training flight.

My first solo (or should I say, “solos?”) was two years, five months, 13 days and nine hours in the making. And some of that was pretty exciting stuff.

Just shy of my 15th birthday, I had quite the proposal for my parents "Mom, dad, I want to learn how to fly." I might as well have suggested I wanted to do brain surgery next week on Uncle Bob. Not that he couldn't use a little tweaking of the gray matter, but the look I got from my parents, who truly believed that aircraft flew by magic and should be left to those creatures born with wings, was nothing short of bewilderment.

Not to be deterred, I presented my case. It was the usual argument: “But I wanna be a pilot!” “Flying is safer than driving,” I said and reminded them that it was a hobby that would keep me out of trouble, away from drugs and on the right side of the law (all of which it did). They still hadn’t said "no," so I continued with my closing arguments. I wanted it bad.

After much debate, they finally acquiesced. My $5 (that's not a typo) introductory flight was scheduled for Saturday at 9 a.m. I felt like a cork in a champagne bottle at 2 minutes to midnight. The five days to Saturday were the longest days of my 14 years. I didn't sleep a wink Friday night. But, before I knew it, it was Saturday, and my dad was driving me to Gary Airport (KGYY) for my first flying lesson. The receptionist pointed us to my newly assigned instructor's office. He was relaxing with his feet on the desk, seemingly waiting for the phone to ring. For the record, his phone never rang during our entire visit.

After pleasantries, with my dad attempting to determine if this person could be trusted with my life, we began discussing what was to occur on my introductory flight. While my goals for this flight were different than my dad's—he was just hoping for my safe return to terra firma—flying fever was already taking hold of me. It would prove to be one of those days that shaped my life, a life decades later filled with accomplishments and fond memories of those early flying days.

Since I knew that the regulations stipulated a student pilot must be 16 years old to solo a powered aircraft, my instructor, Pete, suggested that, in order to not get too far ahead of the syllabus or my budget, I fly just 30 minutes each week, slowly building up time and experience while still having me on track to solo on my sweet 16th.

The weeks ticked by, with the typical ups and downs that all students experience. I weathered the weather, managed the maintenance downtimes and sailed through the typical instructor turnovers. After a year or so of my weekly 30-minute habit, I was starting to feel comfortable in the left seat, impatiently awaiting my special day.

On a crisp autumn morning, my relatively new instructor, John, greeted me with an interesting proposition. “How would you like to fly the Arrow today?” As I found out, his reasoning was to give me something a bit more challenging during the buildup to solo age, while prepping me to solo both the Arrow and the 140 on my sixteenth birthday. I was all over that idea. The new goal, if I could pull it off, would make it a birthday worth remembering.

With three months to go until my birthday, my weekly flying lessons consisted mostly of 30-45 minutes in the Arrow, doing circuits in the pattern. Nothing worse than an overly confident almost-16-year-old. Nothing worse for an overly confident almost-16-year-old than an instructor who is even more confident than they and with a lesson plan packed with humility and terror.

With Arrow N7609J preflighted and ready to roll, I scurried up the wing and slid into the left seat. John followed with casual nonchalance. We began our taxi to runway 30. During the five-minute taxi, he kept pointing out trivial tidbits of meaningless minutiae outside the cockpit.

“Seriously,” I thought, “let’s get this bird in the air.”

Little did I know that a valuable lesson was soon to follow, the impact of which would stay with me to this very day. One of my favorite moments in flying is when you arrive at the departure runway, runup complete, and begin the takeoff roll, which I did that day. The sightline of the runway centerline tucked under the nosewheel and the acceleration as you firewall the throttle is a vision that never gets old. My peripheral vision as the runway lights passed by in a rhythmic fashion was followed by a positive rate of climb and, as I’d grown used to doing, flipping the gear lever up to retract the Arrow’s gear.

John had other ideas, though. At approximately 75 feet above the runway, he calmly reached over and retarded the throttle to idle. I used some non-standard pilot verbiage to express my dismay while silently thinking, “I sure hope I initialed the ‘accept’ box on the optional damage waiver coverage on the rental agreement for this flight.”

Regardless, I did lower the nose and kept the shiny side up, but in the back of my almost-16-year-old mind, I could not understand why my multi-thousand-hour instructor hadn’t yet bailed me out of this mess. Descending quickly with nowhere to go but straight ahead (plenty of runway), I lowered the nose, nailed the speed and was confident I could safely land straight ahead.

There was only one thing, but it was a huge thing: I’d forgotten to put the gear lever down. (In retrospect, I’ve often wondered if there would have been enough time for the gear to fully extend prior to impact anyway.) Well into the flare, I was fully expecting to hear the crunch of the underbelly as it slid across the length of the runway. Instead, what I heard was sweet music. “Chirp, chirp, chirp.” No crunch. A beautiful landing. But…what happened?

On the taxi back in, the best I could muster was, “Why did you do that?” It was a question quickly followed by a baffled observation. “I thought the gear was still up.”

Not all flight instructors have sadistic tendencies, but many of them do. Maybe it’s for the good. Without the tough love they sometimes impart, maybe we wouldn’t learn the hard lessons that one day might save our lives, or the lives of our loved ones.

He proceeded to tell me that even after much verbal coaching, on numerous flights, he noticed that I always retracted the gear way too early after takeoff, in many cases with thousands of feet of runway still ahead of me. A lesson to be taught. He also admitted that during one of his minutiae moments during our taxi, he pulled the landing gear circuit breaker. Therefore, when I raised the gear lever after rotation, the gear remained in the down and locked position. I guess I didn’t need the damage waiver after all. He did compliment me on a very nice “emergency” landing. Thanks, pal.

With that lesson learned, I continued my march toward my 16th birthday with the anticipation of soloing the Arrow and the Cherokee 140. The day finally arrived. It was a Monday. I played hooky from school (with the full support of all involved).

My instructor thought it would be more fitting to solo the Arrow first. A quick circuit around the pattern to prove to him I still remembered everything learned in the preceding months, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting alone taxiing back to the active. A casual glance over to the right seat as I taxied into position was a bit unnerving. I was cleared for takeoff. As I pushed the throttle forward, watching those familiar runway lights in my periphery, I remembered that lesson months ago and waited for the appropriate time to retract the gear. Lesson learned. I’m airborne. I’m solo. With the familiar sights and sounds, I continued my pattern, ultimately completing three full-stop landings without incident.

I taxied back with undoubtedly the biggest smile on my face, greeted by instructor John and ready for my solo flight in the 140. With a full audience in view, as I clambered out onto the right wing to deplane, my footing slipped, and I nearly faceplanted into the tarmac.

Another circuit in the 140 with my instructor (to make the signoff legal), and I was taxiing back to the active for takeoff on my own, and this time with the gear permanently down and locked. My third full-stop landing was probably one of the smoothest, nicest landings I had made to date.

As I taxied back to the FBO, I had a sense of accomplishment that few 16-year-olds ever experience. I jumped out onto the wing, making sure to avoid the earlier embarrassment, and was greeted by my instructor with scissors in hand. For those too young to remember, it was common practice to cut the tail of your shirt and have it signed by your instructor, commemorating the achievement of your first solo. It ruined a perfectly good shirt, and I didn’t care a bit.

The post A Student Pilot Gets A Surprise On A Pre-Solo Flight appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

from Plane & Pilot Magazine https://ift.tt/2IRipi9

[jacewilliams1]

Youthful exuberance

My good friend Mark, whom I met shortly after high school, loved to fly as much as me. During my college years in the early ’80s we would take every opportunity to get airborne and go have fun. I was finally able to complete my private pilot license about the time I graduated from Boise State (BSU, where the BS comes before U), and that opened up even more chances for the Two Bad Marks to leap into the blue. What a great, great time!

One day Mark called me up and said, “Let’s fly up to McCall for lunch!” I couldn’t think of a good reason not to (never could), so we departed Nampa in his club’s sweet old straight-tail 182 affectionately known as “Five Seven Dawg.” I brought my girlfriend along too.

After landing at McCall (about 80nm north of the Boise area), we walked across the street to a nice little Mexican place (still there, I think) for a leisurely lunch. As we walked back to the Dawg, Mark noticed several large, smooth “river biscuit” rocks at the edge of the tiedown area. He said, “Hey, let’s grab one of those and we’ll drop it over Lake Cascade on the way home!”

I don’t precisely recall what I said, but it must’ve been something like, “What a GREAT idea!” because I hoisted that forty-some-pound monster aboard, and off we went.

Mark must have held the airspeed pretty close to Vx in the entire climb, because by the time we were over the middle of the lake we were about 7000 feet over the water. I was in the back seat with my pet rock, and my girlfriend was in the copilot seat, looking rather apprehensive right about then. We slowed and performed a couple of S-turns as we scanned the surface a mile and a half below us for any vessels. None seen. The mission was a GO!

Lake Cascade is a big lake, but then again, it was a big rock…

Mark yanked harder on Dawg’s leash and lowered flaps to full. He gave me a thumbs-up, so I opened the right door (girlfriend was thoroughly freaked by now) and wrestled that rock over the side, narrowly missing the gear leg. I yelled “Bombs away!” and secured the door as Mark retracted the flaps and started a left-hand orbit so we could watch the impact.

So we watched. And watched. I remember wondering what the terminal velocity of a big homesick rock actually was, and I’m still wondering that almost forty years later. Finally, WAAAY down there, an itty-bitty blossom of white on that huge green surface appeared for a couple of seconds. Then everything went back to the way it was before we entered the target area. Yay.

That memorable moment being over, it was a nice, boring flight home to Nampa. Later that evening, I was talking with my mom on the phone, regaling her with the saga of my hyper-accurate bombing mission (I did shack the assigned target, if you recall, a 47-square mile lake). She thought that was about the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Before we hung up, she invited me to bring my girlfriend out to their house for dinner the following evening.

That next evening as we were about to sit down to eat, Mom casually said, “Did you all hear what happened up on Lake Cascade yesterday?” I immediately smelled a rat, but my uber-gullible girlfriend perked up her ears like a llama. Mom went on, “Yeah, some poor schlub was out fishing on the lake, and something came out of the sky and killed him, and sunk his boat!”

So, my girlfriend freaked again, but this time it was a good one. Both hands came up to the sides of her face, accompanied by a shriek-gasp (I’m still trying to figure out how that is even possible). “OHMIGAWD!!! WE DID THAT!!!

Mom, Dad, and I were laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe.

In the years since, I greatly raised my standards and married a girl much smarter than me and not at all gullible. I served for 21 years as an Air Force pilot, and another 20 as an airline pilot, striving every day to build discipline and knowledge, and to leave those crazy days behind.

I saw Mark go on to operate several small businesses, become a leader in his community, raise his family, and give over 20 years service as a certified reserve police officer in our home town. He also continued building experience and discipline as a pilot, and was well-respected in local aviation circles.

It was 18 years ago tonight as I write this that my phone rang on a stopover while I was parked at the gate at San Jose International. It was my sheriff back home, telling me that my friend Mark and his police chief (who was also a friend of mine) had been killed in a crash while attempting to land Mark’s beautiful old Bonanza at Atlanta, Idaho. The two of them were scouting for a location to host their church youth camp.

I am so thankful to have been blessed with living through two flying careers, and I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything. But sometimes I miss the carefree nature of flying like it used to be when I was young. And stupid.

And I miss my buddy Mark.

Every single day.

The post Youthful exuberance appeared first on Air Facts Journal.

from Engineering Blog https://airfactsjournal.com/2020/08/youthful-exuberance/