A Tomcat's Tale

- 2013

Why did life become so difficult? It was easy before, which is now hard to envision. Here I am, 45 years old and I can barely afford to fuel myself. I live alone in an old decrepit hangar several miles from McConnell Air Force Base, far away from the greedy Cadillacs who turned their trunks on me. I don’t harbor bitter feelings concerning the government of this country; however, all I want is a chance to be worth something to America again. No matter how hard I try, there are just too few choices for a Grumman F-14A Tomcat in this modern world we call home. I was built to fight in an atomic war which never materialized and the international threat has long since ended. Now I am no longer seen by the military as a formidable machine of war, I am deemed a technological relic from a bygone era with swinging wings.
Once I served in the US Navy as a Jolly Wrench and led the squadron, I become a Captain; one profoundly feared by America’s enemies and widely respected by my peers. I served valiantly for 32 years, much longer than most of my kind and certainly longer for my original model. My first deployment was off the coast of Vietnam providing aerial security during the evacuation of Saigon in 1975. At that time I was only 7 years old, but since planes mature quickly I had completed all trials necessary for active service.
In the years following, I flew many hundreds sorties and missions all the way up to Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2003. Then in 2006 my kind was judged by the Navy to be obsolete, replaced in favor of the smaller, lighter and newer F/A-18 Hornet. It was the hardest time of my life, to be decommissioned and retired on such short notice.
Frankly I think the primary reason that we Tomcats were retired was the fact that our engines burned a lot of fuel. I admit that our kind’s appetite for pricy military grade JP-8 kerosene is considerably higher than our smaller brothers in wings. But this higher level of consumption was necessary for us to operate at a superior level. Some 490 Tomcats were left in the American arsenal by the time we were retired, and the lack of free extensive maintenance rapidly took its toll. Many of us fell victim to rust and metal fatigue in the sensitive swing mechanism of our trademark swinging wings.
Because of preventable accidents and foreseeable failures, only a fraction of the original 490 of us remain alive. Now for the most part we are grounded, restricted to infrequent and short flights. All of this is due to the cost of maintenance and fuel, ironically once seen as commonplace and taken for granted during our service years.
Is this how old war heroes are to be treated? Is this fate what we Tomcats ever wanted to befall us? I for one am responsible for 19 aerial kills and 73 air to ground kills throughout my lengthy service life. My name is Logan Alvamel, serial number 157989 and squadron member number 200.
I am yet another Tomcat abandoned and forgotten by the world due to his age and primarily the cost of keeping him in service. Because fuel is no longer freely provided to me, it has become a luxurious commodity for this old war-cat. I must taxi on the ground wherever I go, including attending my monthly examination for rust and corrosion several miles from home.
Whenever it rains out here in Kansas and I happen to be outside, I’m obviously drenched. At the same time my hangar has an annoyingly leaky roof which drips onto my tail area. The residual water on my fuselage only adds to my rust related problems, fortunately for me I have not developed any rust.  Modern jet fighters, mainly those slick new F-16’s and F-22’s look on in dismay from their tidy hangars as this lumbering Tomcat slowly taxis past them on his way home.
To think that I once escorted aircraft carrying fleeing Vietnamese refugees out of Saigon, assisted by attacking ground targets in the Lebanese Civil War and defending Europe against Gaddafi’s Libyan Air Force. Our kind was made world famous in the 1986 Hollywood blockbuster ‘Top Gun’, in which we F-14’s were prominently shown as powerful and lethal aircraft. That one film inspired an entire generation of wannabe naval planes, the film served as an unintentionally exemplary recruiting tool. Not to mention Tom Cruise became the face of all F-14’s, we were indeed in our prime back in those days. Back when we were deemed relevant and had a purpose to fill.
I took part in the Gulf War, enforcing the ‘no-fly’ zones, blowing apart hostile helicopters and assisting in the liberation of Kuwait through 1991. When the terrorists paid us a visit on 9-11, I joined the War on Terror in late 2001. I blew Taliban positions in Afghanistan sky high, making my shots and other guided munitions count. That was a different kind of war for me; I strongly believed that I was avenging all of those innocent American cars and aircraft that were murdered on 9-11. I felt that I had something serious and just worth fighting for, since I personally knew more than a few cars that were trapped within the twin towers and drove out the windows to their deaths.
 After the ensuing chaos in Afghanistan, I returned to Iraq in 2003 for Operation Iraqi Freedom, to toss Saddam Hussein’s dictatorship government out of power. I proved to all enemy ground vehicles and aircraft in Iraq that I was a fearsome killer, death from above. That I was one American who would not stop until the job was done.
Being at the top of my game despite growing older, nothing, not even Iraqi 37mm anti-aircraft fire could stop me. Although I nearly died from oil loss, I pulled through and received a Purple Heart.
Later I was rearming at an airbase in Iraq after a ground attack mission when an enemy Scud missile struck the base. I survived with barely a scratch despite my close proximity to the missile’s blast. I took off minutes later to take part in a precision bombing run, to eliminate hostile positions and rocket launching vehicles.
Then I was abruptly and urgently requested to Washington D.C. from the Persian Gulf in early 2006. Reporting to Washington as instructed, I had no idea that my service life was about to come to an abrupt end.

- 2006

I was escorted to the first floor of the Pentagon after landing at Andrews Air Force Base. Inside the inner south wedge by the Joint Chiefs of Staff and Secretary of Defense greeted me. Even though I folded my wings, they narrowly avoided scraped the walls on several occasions, much to my relief. The Secretary of Defense got to the point immediately; he stated that I was no longer the commander of the Jolly Wrenches. In addition all F-14 Tomcats were to retire and be stricken from the Navy’s roster by the end of 2006.
“What?” was all I could say in stupefied disbelief, my blue eyes had never felt so wide. It was as though my steadfastness and fidelity to my duty meant nothing in the Secretary’s eyes.
The Secretary explained that because of my old age and by being the oldest Tomcat alive I was appropriately the first to be retired. He repeated that all other Tomcats were to follow and be stricken from the US Navy’s roster indefinitely.  I could not believe what I was being told, and I did my best to stand up for my kind.
“You can’t do this to me, to my kind. The US Navy is my life.” I pleaded “Do you know what its like to take 37mm anti-aircraft fire and almost leak to death? Or barely avoid being pulverized on the ground by incoming Scuds?”
The Joint Chiefs were certainly sympathetic and had endorsed the Tomcat program, but I knew that those older Chevrolets and Fords had already made up their minds. I looked at the Secretary, that boorish white Cadillac Escalade ESV smirked at me; he had me beat and I knew it.
“You can’t get rid of us, you need us. We’re the largest and fastest planes on the carriers. We can carry the most ordinance and hit harder than any other plane in the Navy’s inventory.” I replied, tenaciously pleading for one final chance to heard.
The Secretary rolled toward me and made things clear. He said that I was 37 years old and had served for the past 32, in addition I was built for a war which had ended over two decades ago. What made my engine oil boil was his final remark before I was escorted out of the Pentagon. I wanted to plead my case some more, but I was not about to beg from the Secretary.
“You Tomcats made damn good warplanes, that is for certain. It’s just that from a technological standpoint, Captain Alvamel, you’re a fossil.”
And with that I was thrown out of the Pentagon before I could further plead my case. Not that my futile efforts would have helped. Those greedy Cadillacs and Chryslers in Congress across the Potomac will always win, even if it means someone in some way gets hurt. I returned home to Norfolk were my designated hangar stood and I cried like a child. I was simply tossed aside like a load of airworthy garbage, that feeling of futility tore me apart. Congress would be saving money, alright. They would decommission my kind and have us retired just to satisfy their checkbooks. Not to mention the wealthy private defensive contractors that in all likelihood bought them into office.
Being discharged from the Navy meant that I lost my commanding status, all of my income and designated hangar at the same time. Not having much time, I hastily looked online for a hangar where I could pay it all off up front with what little assets I still had and still be large enough for a Tomcat like me. Thankfully I was successful in my search; I found an isolated hangar fitting my parameters to live in. The only problem was that it sat out in the middle of Kansas, several miles from McConnell Air Force Base. I made the flight using up all of the JP-8 I had left in reserve, and it turned out the hangar indeed suited me adequately. It had plenty of room for me to spread my wings and surprisingly exceptional clearance for my tail fins. Other than a leaky roof, the place made a solid home.
I was fortunate to find myself a home and pay it off all at once, many of the returning Tomcats could not spare the money to do so. And the economic depression America experienced in 2008 only made matters worse. Without constant maintenance and service, many Tomcats had developed dangerous levels of rust and metal fatigue which went largely unchecked. Because of this, many Tomcats who could afford to fly died in accidents because of rust or fatigue related problems causing terrible in-flight break ups.
As for me I subsided on a cheaper low grade kerosene, leftover civilian grade Jet A. Although military grade JP-4 fuel was available in relative abundance, I steered away from the stuff due to its known highly volatile nature. To reach the Jet A fuel, I would taxi on the ground all the way to McConnell Air Force Base without starting my engines. This amounted to a trip of several miles on land down open country roads reserved for cars. But for what I could afford with vet benefits, it would be enough to get by. It was always fun when a passing car would see me taxing along the road. They would all claim never to have seen such a thing before. Many times they would have a conversation with me about life, and how money plagued everyday decisions.
A way for we Tomcats to protect ourselves from lethal defects and faults was desperately needed, since most of us could not afford to pay for the hideous bills associated with regular inspections. Fortunately an equitable organization appropriately referred to as ‘Swing Wing’ after its clientele was formed by the Department of Defense to provide fuel and inspections for all retired Tomcats free of charge.
All of the sudden I could fly regularly again using pension payments and burn more expensive JP-8 fuel without worry. I explored one side of America to the other using two surplus external fuel tanks I purchased and had mounted beneath my fuselage. From Los Angeles to Chicago and from there to Miami I flew; for I enjoyed every second that I could fly with my afterburners blazing.
For about six months, life was good again. I would often fly merely for the sake of flying. That is, until I learned that the director of ‘Swing Wing’ was embezzling from DOD and taking pensions for profit while setting heinous prices on the otherwise free services ‘Swing’ provided. Coverage was intentionally increased when more hours were spent in the air, and reduced when on the ground. This meant that risky amounts of flying time would yield more coverage for each particular Tomcat. At the same time they needed to buy more fuel, and therefore boost profits for ‘Swing’ all while pushing the frequent flyers into debt. However taking the safe approach by staying grounded would equal coverage deductions and more pensions being taken, leading to considerable financial losses. Life became a web in which we Tomcats were thoroughly ensnared, and several unfortunate ones died in unnecessary accidents due to engine failure resulting from fuel starvation. The unfortunate essentially ran out of gas and crashed.
The director turned out to be an arrogant little lime green Toyota who obviously thought he could outsmart and outwit anyone. He sure had a lot of gall for a car with four cylinders and less than 100 horsepower. He was promptly arrested and thrown in federal prison for his crimes, I should know. I testified in federal court against him, making certain throughout the judicial proceedings he knew why not to mess with an F-14. Being responsible for the deaths of nearly a dozen Tomcats, I made certain that all who remained were heard and no longer ignored.
As a result of the developments, ‘Swing’ was swiftly shut down by the DOD in 2012. This meant that proper inspection payments were to be provided through the Veteran’s Association and pensions once taken away by ‘Swing’ for profit returned to their rightful accounts.
I can now rest assured that my inspections are covered completely, however I still need to pay for fuel. Even with a lower grade of kerosene, it still costs thousands of dollars for me just to fill my internal fuel tanks with civilian Jet A. Worst of all for my spirit, my afterburners don’t glow as vibrantly and my engines don’t roar as proudly like they did before. My two GE F110 turbofans feel restrained whenever they do run; and I feel the same.
To combat the present woes I look back and reminisce on the past. I often stare at the medals, ribbons and other memorabilia earned during my service years. I would spend hours remembering those good times I had with dear friends who had passed away over the years. I recalled various moments which for me left an impression. Such as my first flight, the first time I used my gun, the first missile I ever launched, my first deployment, my first carrier launch and first kill. All of which are fond memories, all firsts from days gone by. My only dream is to have a purpose once again, to not struggle every day in order to live.
Life is currently an ongoing wartime situation where nothing is of complete certainty, trust is hard to come by and basic resources are scarce at best. I have been living this way for the past 8 years and I want to feel that the war is truly over for me. My war is not one where foes are in the forms of bullets or steel, but one of money, fuel and maintenance. My mindset has become much like how I needed to be when I flew during Desert Storm, or dodging flak over war torn Lebanon.

- 2014

Now in 2014 I can say that there is cause for hope. In the early days of February I was approached at the fuel station inside McConnell by a flight instructor from Fallon Naval Air Station in Nevada. That sleek grey F/A-18 said that he was stationed at a training base and had recently read my service file. He was interested in my services, since I was in his eyes an experienced aircraft who had a history of being a professional leader. He asked if I could consider becoming a flight instructor; teaching flight tactics to new Navy aircraft training to join the expanding ranks. Fuel, inspections and quarters would be provided in exchange for teaching the next generation of fighters. I was drinking a gallon of JP-4 I splurged on at the time, which I spit out all over the tarmac in surprise. Never in all of my wildest dreams would I have thought that someone would seek me out, an old F-14A.
Without the slightest amount of hesitation, I agreed to the request. I would give just about anything for the opportunity to have a legitimate purpose again. At the same time I made a vow not to let the instructor down, who told me his name was Lieutenant David Nash. Happy to hear me say yes, the kind lieutenant stated that I was expected to arrive at Fallon within the week. As a way to thank me, he paid for my fuel; my internal and external tanks were filled to the brim and I could not thank the lieutenant enough for his generosity.
I spent one last night in Kansas to rest before bidding farewell to those vast plains I called home for the past several years. With the fuel from the day before I flew directly to Nevada, eager to find out what was necessary of me to teach.

- 2017

I must say life is good now, and other Tomcats I’ve spoken with agree. Some became flight instructors like myself and others joined the Air National Guard for various states. Only 250 or so of us remain, but we Tomcats have become known for our longevity. To train the next generation of fighter aircraft has been the greatest virtue of my life.
No longer do I live in the fields of Kansas, now I reside at Fallon NAS in the desert east of Reno and Carson City. I live in a spacious hangar once reserved for a KC-135, and it certainly beats that dusty tin can I used to call home. Never again will I worry about the roof caving in on my head, Lieutenant Nash made certain of that.
For the past three years I have been helping young F/A-18’s earn their wings, and I’m respected for that. I am indeed 50 years old now, but that doesn’t stop this old Tomcat from punching through the sound barrier at Mach 2.3. I admit that I did have difficult times with cocky trainees, but I expected that setback from the start. The new recruits did not put their faith in me at first, they called me ridiculous names like ‘geezer cat’ and ‘granddad’.
To reinforce my point that I did not tolerate their remarks, I ordered the guilty planes to announce to everyone on the tarmac that they were liars and lacked respect for their higher authority. Those who objected thought that they could outdo me in a race across the desert to prove that they were better than this ‘old cat’. However their arrogance got the better of them every time, they failed to remember that I was purposefully designed and built to be faster than any F/A-18.
I proved them all wrong, for I still had my flight training and GE turbofan engines. No matter how old I get, I will always have my speed and agility in the air.
I treated the new recruits much like how I treated my squadron back in the day: I started out rough and mean before loosening up to build trust. I don’t tolerate anyone calling me old, and I make that fact known to from the get go. Nevertheless, some just don’t seem to learn. Then they ask why I yelled at them and made them gallivant around the base preaching that they were liars who lacked respect for authority.
But I am not attempting to be an overtly cruel airplane in the slightest. I am merely training these new recruits how to treat flying as an art. How some old fashioned techniques remain relevant even in modern times, and how trust makes or breaks a squadron. This is what seems to set me apart from other younger instructors, unlike them I have decades of experience backing me.

Once more, I feel that there is purpose in life. The sky calls my name, beckoning for me to spread my wings and take flight with roaring engines. For the sky is where we Tomcats like all aircraft belong.