ABOARD A B-52H STRATOFORTRESS — A B-52H Stratofortress’ hulking gray frame rumbles through the cloudless blue sky, closing in on targets 19,000 feet below.
The plane’s weapon systems officer, Capt. Jonathan “Loaner” Newark of the eleventh Bomb Squadron at Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana, furiously taps targeting coordinates right into a computer, his face bathed in green light.
Numbers on the screen tick all the way down to zero because the bomber looms over its destination. The bomb bay doors open with a whir and a thump.
”Weapons hot,” Newark says over a crackling intercom. He reaches to his right and flips open a small panel covering a button designed to set free a 2,000-pound bomb. “Bay three, releasing.”
In considered one of several passes, and suddenly, the bomber jerks sharply upward as its student pilot, 1st Lt. Clay Hultgren, disengages the autopilot on the improper time. Inside seconds, the plane climbs past its assigned altitude limit of 20,000 feet — where it could run afoul of other aircraft.
Instructor pilot Lt. Col. Michael “Fredo” DeVita quickly grabs the yoke and wrestles the 185,000-pound bomber back all the way down to a correct altitude, banking hard to the left. The plane steadies and resumes course as quickly because it veered off target.
No bombs — real or fake — were aboard the B-52 during its Jan. 4 training run. However the five-person aircrew on the flight dubbed “Scout 93″ practiced each step in the method as in the event that they were headed for a airstrike at war.
Stratofortress pilots control six-decade-old hardware with a 185-foot wingspan — and the lives of the 4 or five airmen onboard. However the moment the Vietnam War-era bomber’s wheels leave the bottom, anything can occur — and a few of an important lessons cover greater than routine flight procedures.
During training flights, instructors impress upon younger lieutenants the seriousness of life and death when controlling some of the formidable weapons of war ever built. Its crew must make calculations, all the way down to the smallest decimal point, that ultimately determine whether the bomber strikes its intended goal or innocent civilians.
“It’s tough to essentially glue everybody together,” Newark said. “At the top of the day, we’re all crew and we’re all accountable for those weapons. All of us own them.”
Cold War plane, Twenty first-century training
Hultgren goals to hitch a protracted line of pilots that stretches back to the B-52′s debut in 1954. If his training goes as planned, he’ll be amongst those within the cockpit because the fleet stays in service for many years to come back. The Air Force is now working on a series of upgrades, resembling recent engines, that aim to maintain the B-52 flying until about 2060.
Because the Stratofortress barrels toward a century in operation, its missions and training for the aircrew aboard must adapt to the digital age, too.
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Five crew members were aboard the bomber that day, including three instructors: DeVita, 40, a pilot who commands the eleventh Bomb Squadron; electronic warfare officer Capt. David “Rumble” Bumgarner, 35; and Newark, 34, the weapon systems officer. Rounding out the crew were pilot trainee Hultgren, 27, and WSO student 1st Lt. Jeremiah Tackett, 27, each too early of their careers to have earned their very own call signs.
The mission marked Hultgren’s sixth training flight on the B-52, and Tackett’s tenth.
Their unit, the eleventh Bomb Squadron, is the energetic duty component of the Air Force’s B-52 formal training unit. It takes airmen about nine months to complete the lecturers and flight training syllabi to learn to operate B-52s and their weaponry. About three dozen students graduated last 12 months, the service said.
For Hultgren occupying the co-pilot’s seat is an exciting opportunity. He dreamed of flying when he joined the Air Force and would have been completely happy in any aircraft, he said. But being chosen to operate the B-52 — with its deep history and robust community with others who fly the Stratofortress — was thrilling.
“I like that I’m doing something that folks have been doing for some time,” Hultgren said.
‘You scared him’
On the morning of the training flight, the crew strapped into their parachutes, donned their oxygen masks and buckled up for takeoff.
Their aircraft — accomplished in 1960 and dubbed the “Red Gremlin II” — eased onto the runway, following one other outbound B-52 that spewed a plume of jet fuel exhaust because it departed.
Hultgren’s left hand rested on the bomber’s eight throttle levers, which permit the pilots to individually adjust the ability to any engine that shows signs of trouble. DeVita reached over and guided him as they pushed forward in tandem.
A whine rose from the plane’s engines because it accelerated through the acrid cloud of exhaust. DeVita stuck his hand into Hultgren’s peripheral vision, flashing a thumbs-up. The coed let go of the throttle and gently pulled back on the yoke with each hands. The Red Gremlin II was airborne.
A typical B-52 training mission almost at all times follows the identical script: takeoff, a number of passes with an aerial refueling tanker, simulated bomb runs, and a number of touch-and-go landings. Each sortie lasts 5 or 6 hours.
Through the nearly 6-hour, counterclockwise loop over Arkansas, Oklahoma and back to Louisiana, the B-52 flew alongside the primary bomber, met up with a KC-135 Stratotanker for aerial refueling practice and logged bombing runs at Fort Johnson, Louisiana.
Aerial refueling is considered one of the toughest things for a pilot to master — especially when flying something as massive because the 159-foot-long B-52, mere feet away from a tanker that is nearly as large, tens of 1000’s of feet within the air at lots of of miles per hour. It requires a gentle hand, Newark said, and is “where pilots make their money.”
“Two big airplanes, with a whole lot of aerodynamic forces, and also you’re attempting to make really small corrections,” DeVita said. “We’re talking corrections of … a pair feet left or right, on airplanes which might be really close together. That’s the toughest part.”
There’s a whole lot of aerodynamics to think about. As Hultgren pulled the B-52 closer to the KC-135 for one more round of refueling, the bomber entered the tanker’s downwash. The B-52 began drafting off the KC-135, causing the bomber to hurry up as its air resistance waned.
A buzzer blared and red light flashed. The KC-135 pulled away. DeVita pushed Hultgren’s hand off the throttle and eased the plane back.
“You scared him a bit,” DeVita said. “That’s why I took over.”
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But after spooking the tanker, Hultgren showed he could learn from his mistakes. DeVita gave him back the throttle and offered tips on making incremental changes to the bomber’s power to seek out the “sweet spot” behind the KC-135.
“Each time you’re ready,” DeVita said. “For those who need slightly bit more of a break, that’s nice.”
“Think we will do another?” Hultgren asked. He slowly maneuvered the B-52 forward for its sixth refueling connection.
“Crank the ability only a hair,” DeVita said. “Good.”
“F—ing awesome,” Hultgren murmured, because the refueling boom loomed larger and bigger above the cockpit.
“That’s really good, dude,” DeVita said because the boom settled into place with a thunk. “Contact. Perfect.”
Hultgren kept practicing to get aerial refueling right, time and again, before the bomber parted ways with the KC-135 and flew back to Louisiana for bombing practice.
Like most training missions, this run was designed to pit the B-52 against a generic, unnamed adversary, Newark said. The crew of the Red Gremlin II practiced entering a simulated battlespace with enemy fighters and friendly forces — on this scenario, F-22 Raptor and F-16 Fighting Falcon fighters and an E-3 Sentry airborne target-tracking jet — before striking imaginary ground targets.
But instructors can throw students some curveballs. The bombing simulation began by striking soft targets resembling aluminum aircraft hangars, before the instructors directed the crew to hit hardened two-story buildings in other locations. The deviation pushed Tackett, the coed WSO, to make a decision what combination of munitions could best destroy the sturdier buildings, and to work with Newark to update the targets.
“It gives them [experience with] live problem-solving,” Newark said. “That’s what drove all those good discussions about, how would we destroy a troop staging area? How would we destroy a hardened constructing? Because we didn’t tell them ahead of time what it might be.”
For years, Stratofortress flights required five airmen — two pilots, two WSOs and an electronic warfare officer. But advancements in technology are allowing the Air Force to fold the EW officer’s duties into the WSO job, mixing the bomber’s offensive and defensive roles and shrinking the crew to 4.
Now WSOs can handle electronic warfare and airstrikes from computers that show data for each jobs, relatively than making airmen sit at a chosen station that may perform just one role.
Combining those tasks isn’t daunting for Tackett, the WSO-in-training. When asked how he juggles the sometimes-conflicting duties of a WSO, whose job is to take a plane close enough to a combat zone to strike targets, and an EW officer, who’s chargeable for keeping a plane out of danger, Tackett said: “Loads of it comes all the way down to commander’s intent, and our mission for the day, making judgment calls, and assessing the situation from there.”
“Knowing either side of it, I’m capable of provide higher recommendations to pilots” about where to go and what to hit, Tackett said.
A cramped ride
Flying on the B-52 may be exhausting, and much more so on operational missions that may last as long as 36 hours. Despite being considered one of the most important bombers ever built, the Stratofortress doesn’t leave much space or comfort for the crew.
It’s cramped and noisy. The constant roar of its six-decade-old engines creates such a din that airmen wear earplugs under their noise-canceling headsets and flight helmets. Without the communications system, it’s unimaginable to listen to what another person is saying, even when shouted from inches away.
Airmen must stoop when making their way from the cockpit to the electronic warfare station behind the jet’s upper level, after which down a ladder to the WSO station. Their posture within the seats isn’t significantly better.
“Because of this our backs are all so screwed up,” DeVita said. “We’re sitting hunched over like this, with this heavy parachute on.”
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Amenities are few. A single bunk behind the pilot’s seat allows airmen to grab some shut-eye on long-haul flights; a small, well-used oven that may heat meals as much as 400 degrees sits within the back. Typically, the crew brings light sandwiches or other snacks to ward off hunger, and — because it’s easy to get dehydrated while spending hours at high altitude — large bottles of water.
The B-52 crews find ways to entertain themselves in transit on ultra-long flights. Sometimes meaning bringing a book; other times, eleventh Bomb Squadron members plug a music player into the intercom, courtesy of a jury-rigged cable one airman soldered together.
In 2022, Air Force Global Strike Command launched a program at Barksdale called “Comprehensive Readiness for Aircrew Flying Training,” or CRAFT, to provide airmen the physical, dietary and mental tools to higher weather the grueling missions.
But there’s one thing the Air Force can’t give crews: an actual bathroom.
Behind this bomber’s WSO station, next to the bomb bay hatch, sits a single urinal with no curtain for privacy. Passengers are sometimes reminded of the “Big Ugly Fat Fellow’s” cardinal rule: Don’t go No. 2 on the B-52. An emergency garbage bag is available for individuals who really must go, however the crew is evident: Using it won’t win you any friends.
Debriefing the mission
After a series of repeated touch-and-go landings, the bomber got here to a secure halt at Barksdale. The crew made their way back to Thirsty’s, a heritage room decorated with the insignia of the 93rd Bomb Squadron and other aviation memorabilia, a pair of arcade machines and a bar.
The crew popped jalapeño popcorn and cracked open small beers — just one per person — before the instructors began the debrief to run through the outcomes of the day’s training.
They successfully refueled the bomber, and so they hit their targets, which was good, DeVita said.
But then, DeVita said, the mission “began to go downhill.” The crew missed check-ins and roll calls they were imagined to make with other aircraft, and commenced to fall behind schedule.
“In real life … they could cancel the entire ball, because we didn’t speak up or show up,” DeVita told Hultgren and Tackett. The scholars listened with neutral expressions.
Then there was the matter of the lurch. After a simulated bomb drop at about 19,000 feet, DeVita said, Hultgren had turned off the autopilot while attempting a ‘break turn,’ wherein an aircraft turns away hard from a possible threat. Hultgren didn’t account for the bomber’s nose pitching up, causing the sudden and unexpected climb, DeVita said.
“I’ll take the slap on the wrist for that,” Hultgren said. Among the crew chuckled — but not DeVita.
“Did anybody let you know to kick off the autopilot and make that aggressive of a turn?” DeVita asked him. “Someone taught you that? Or did you teach yourself that?”
“My first-ever break turn, they said don’t use autopilot,” Hultgren said.
“Who?” DeVita said.
Hultgren demurred: “I don’t need to out him.”
DeVita told Hultgren that, at his current skill level, he should keep on with the autopilot in those scenarios. And he warned Hultgren that type of flying endangers the bomber and its crew.
“[At] the roll rate that you simply did today, I wasn’t comfortable that you simply weren’t going to interrupt the airplane — not to say the indisputable fact that we didn’t have control of the airplane, because we climbed 300 feet out of the airspace,” DeVita said.
But DeVita owned up to creating his own mistake, when he relayed the improper data to the crew during bombing practice.
“It might probably occur so easily, even to experienced people,” Newark said. “It needs to be exact.”
The instructors stressed to the scholars that — even after they’re the brand new airman of their squadron, and even when it’s a more experienced commander who made a mistake — they should speak up in the event that they see even a single decimal point misplaced on a bomb’s coordinates. Newark said he’ll sometimes give students the improper coordinates during training to make sure they double-check the numbers.
“I wasn’t being attentive” won’t delay as an alibi in court, Newark said.
“Don’t just be a passenger in that situation,” Newark said. “If we drop the bomb on the improper goal …”
“All of us go to jail,” DeVita answered.
Though the training on “Scout 93″ didn’t go perfectly, that’s why the Air Force spends a lot time training B-52 students, DeVita said. Instructors give their unvarnished feedback; students learn and grow from their mistakes.
Hultgren acknowledged his mistakes and said his aerial refueling skills have greatly improved, due to DeVita’s frank feedback. He and Tackett are on course to graduate in March.
“If we fly a sortie, and we don’t debrief anything [that went wrong], then we shouldn’t have wasted the taxpayer’s money by taking the airplane airborne,” DeVita said. “It’s not personal.”
Stephen Losey is the air warfare reporter for Defense News. He previously covered leadership and personnel issues at Air Force Times, and the Pentagon, special operations and air warfare at Military.com. He has traveled to the Middle East to cover U.S. Air Force operations.