Will Mackin - Danger Zone

 

 

June 1986, I just graduated high school. I was working in a parking lot on the Jersey shore. And by working, I mean, I was playing stickball with my friends, surfing when the waves were good, parking a car every now and then. I was happy to do that for the rest of my life. 

 

Then, one night, I went to the movies and I saw Top Gun, starring Tom Cruise as Maverick, the renegade fighter pilot. And that changed everything. From that moment on, I wanted to fly jets. And not only that, I wanted to be Maverick. So, I joined ROTC, graduated college, went to US Navy flight school in Pensacola, Florida. And there, I classed up with a group of 30 young men and women, all of whom had seen Top Gun, [audience laughter] all of whom wanted to be Maverick. But only the top three of our graduating class would fly jets. Everyone else would fly rubber dog shit out of Hong Kong. [audience laughter] 

 

The 30 of us emerged from ground school ranked more or less the same. Flight phase of training was next. And here was where we'd separate the best from the best, the cream from the cream, the puppies from the small dogs. And it was critically important during this phase which instructor was assigned to you, because your instructor graded your flights and your grades determined your class rank. 

 

So, on the spectrum of instructors, a lieutenant I'll call Happy was by far the coolest. Happy walked the halls of the squadron wearing his sunglasses. His flight suit was zipped down well below regs. [audience laughter] He would return our “Good morning, sirs” with a couple shots from his finger pistols. [audience laughter] Whether or not he knew who he was shooting at, it didn't matter. He still felt seen. 

 

On the other end of the spectrum was Major Small, a serial smoker with a bloodshot stare who never said a word to anyone about anything and who seemed genuinely angry at the world. And the reason for this was probably, because not less than a year prior during the first Gulf War, Major Small had been shot down over Iraq and he'd been taken prisoner and tortured. He'd gone from being a POW at Abu Ghraib to Pensacola, where he'd quickly earned a reputation, not only as a merciless instructor but one who could peer into your soul, see all your faults and catalog them on a grade sheet. 

 

We all knew the student a few classes ahead of ours, who, after a bad flight with Major Small, was so shaken he quit the navy, and he started selling Amway. [audience laughter] When he invited me to his house to listen to his Ponzi scheme presentation, I went [audience laughter] and I bought a big box of soap, because I didn't want the karma wheel to spin against me. [audience laughter] 

 

So, on the day of my first flight, I drove into the squadron, praying for a good instructor. Park outside the hangar, I climb the stairs to the ready room. I check the big white status board where all the days flights are listed. In the column of student names, I find mine. Next to my name in the instructor block was Happy. And I was relieved. But my relief soon gave way to nervousness, because I'd never flown a plane before. 

 

So, fast forward to the end of the runway where I'm preparing for my first takeoff, going through my procedures. Engine gauges are all in the green. Flight controls are free and clear. I adjust the rear-view mirror. There's Happy in the backseat, smiling. “You ready to go, sir?” I ask. Happy looks one way, he looks the other way and he looks back at me and says, “I don't see my dad anywhere, so you can knock it off with the sir shit.” [audience laughter] Happy's cool. Transfers wholesale. I take my feet off the brakes, we roll down the runway, we take off into the clear blue sky. 

 

I hang a right at Mobile Bay over the woods of Southern Alabama. I find an abandoned runway where I can practice my landings. In a maneuver called a touch and go, I descend to pattern altitude. I lower the flaps, I lower the landing gear, I complete the landing checklist. I turn to line up with the runway, and then I control my rate of descent all the way down until the wheels touch the pavement. And then I go to full power, climb back up to pattern altitude and do it again. 

 

After 10 touch and goes, we fly back to the squadron and meet up with Happy in the debrief room. He's eating a bag of Funyuns, drinking a Mountain Dew. [audience laughter] “Good job, dude,” he said. It gives me good grades. Next, six flights go more or less the same. Flying with Happy, I'm doing touch and goes, starting to feel confident, starting to feel in control. I'm getting good grades. And meanwhile, I'm climbing the ranks in my class, from 16 of 30 to 12, from 12 to 9, from 9 to 6. That's where I was on the night of my last flight. 

 

I drove in that night under a full moon, which was a good omen. Because I knew no one could see me, I popped my collar of my flight suit, Maverick style. [audience laughter] I played Danger Zone on the tape deck at top volume. [audience laughter] Park outside the hangar, climb the stairs to the ready room. I check the status board, find my name next to my name's Happy, but something was wrong. Happy's name had been crossed off and underneath was written Major Small. 

 

I folded down my collar and went to find it. I found Major Small in the briefing room, sitting in a bitter nicotine cloud. He didn't speak a word to me during the brief or the walk out to the plane or startup or taxi. So, we're on the end of the runway. I'm going through my procedures for takeoff. Engine gauges are in the green. Flight controls are free and clear. Adjusted the rearview mirror. There's Small in the backseat, frowning. “You ready to go, sir?” I ask. He doesn't answer me. Instead, he opens the canopy, puts a cigarette in his mouth and he lights it. 

 

Now, to say smoking in a Navy aircraft was prohibited is an understatement. [audience laughter] The nearest place you could legally smoke was on the other side of the hangar, across the parking lot, across the street, past the softball fields where the dumpsters were. [audience laughter] And I suppose I should have asked Major Small to put his cigarette out, but instead I asked myself, what would Maverick do? [audience laughter] 

 

Now, I knew that Maverick was dangerous. He busted the hard deck to shoot down Jester. [audience laughter] He did an unauthorized flyby of the control tower, made everyone spill coffee on their uniforms. [audience laughter] He jumped up and down on Oprah's couch. [audience laughter] So, I took my feet off the brakes, rolled down the runway with Major Small smoking in the backseat. 

 

Somewhere over Mobile Bay, Major Small flicked his first cigarette, out into the night, lit a second, I found my favorite runway, descended to pattern altitude, lowered the flaps, lowered the landing gear, completed the landing checklist, turned a lineup with the runway like I'd done dozens of times before, but this time, something felt off. I realized far too late that I was descending way too fast. We hit the runway so hard my helmet popped off my head. Major Small's lit cigarette flew up from the backseat over my shoulder under the instrument panel, buried itself in the floorboards up by the firewall. [audience laughter] And that's where it stayed burning and glowing as we literally bounced back up into the sky. 

 

As we were climbing away from the ground, I pushed my helmet back on my head. I heard Major Small speak his first words to me, “Can you reach it?” [audience laughter] I unstrapped from my parachute. I bent down as far as I could, but it was no use. “No, sir,” I said. In the silence that followed, I imagined the worst-case scenario. A plane would catch fire, we'd have to bail out, parachute into the pitch-black wood, snag on a tree, cut myself down, break my leg when I hit the ground. [audience laughter] I honestly didn't see another way out. 

 

But then, I heard Major Small's voice again, calm and patient, “Here's what we're going to do.” Major Small talks me through a maneuver called a 0g bunt. 0g, meaning 0 gravity, meaning weightless. And bunt, because it's a gentle maneuver. Kind of fun even, like going over a hill on a roller coaster. So, imagine this. I have the throttle in my left hand, the stick in my right. Major Small says, “Go to full power and pull back hard on the stick.” I pull back hard enough, the skin of my face sags down, blood starts to drain out of my head. “Harder,” Small says. So, I pull harder, and my vision shrinks and I feel pins and needles in my brain. “Good,” says Small. 

 

Next, he has me push forward on the stick. When I do so, I lift up out of my seat, weightless, sand from underneath the floorboards rises in the cockpit and sparkles in the starlight, and up pops the lit cigarette. [audience cheers and applause] 

 

It spins little glowing orange circles right in front of my face. [audience laughter] I let go of the throttles, and I grab the cigarette, and I put it out of my hand and it burns like a son of a bitch. [audience laughter] But I don't scream, because I know that Major Small has been through worse. No more touch and goes for me that night. We fly back to the squadron. I meet up with Major Small in the debrief room. He's looking at my grade sheet like it couldn't possibly contain his disgust. “That was the worst landing I've ever seen,” he says to me. 

 

Now, keep in mind, he’d ejected from a burning aircraft, parachuted into enemy hands, somehow my landing was worse than that. [audience laughter] So, he gives me the worst possible grade for landings. But then, he smiles and says, “But that was a great catch.” [audience laughter] Gives me a good grade for airmanship. So, I even out on that flight. I go into selection ranked 6 of 30. Lucky for me, the Navy needed more than three jet pilots that week, so I got jets. But I no longer wanted to be Maverick, because Maverick was a Hollywood hero. The dangers that he faced were make believe, whereas Major Small had survived very real danger, and now here he was teaching young people like myself to survive it too, and I wanted to be more like him. Thank you.