When the Klaxon Sounds

by Robert G. Ray Jr., Lt Col (Retired), ALANG

The realization of consciousness was suddenly and abruptly severed by sound. Overwhelming, invasive noise at a decibel level human beings are denied rational thought, muscle memory or logical synapse function. 

The blaring was relentless and yet unmistakable, the dreaded Klaxon. Flight crews on ready alert during the Cold War were the first to experience the not-so-groovy tones of this electronic call to arms. It was designed to wake up, warn and thoroughly motivate sleeping or otherwise inactive crew members on relaxed duty, to full alert status–so to speak. 

Upon hearing this incessant fire alarm on steroids screaming they were to cease whatever they were doing and without delay and proceed to their combat (in their case nuclear) loaded aircraft. They were to quickly get to their aircraft, start up and take off post haste to whatever fate awaited–Slim Pickens in Dr Strangelove notwithstanding. 

October 16th, 2001, I was one of two fighter pilots on ready alert for U.S. Homeland defense in an unlikely locale, my hometown. I was berthed in a tiny building near the end of the runway on the redneck riviera, where I once drag raced and flipped burgers at Mickey D’s.

Fate and the hijackers of four commercial airliners a tad over a month ago had once again “awakened the sleeping giant.” Our alert assignment base just happened to be the place where my dad previously worked for ten years. I attended high school nearby and took my first flying lessons just down the flight-line at the Aero Club. Home front no doubt.

A month before that infamous day, I was flying commercially for my civilian job as the events unfolded. The reality didn’t fully strike me until on the ground. Seemingly every television screen was on the same channel at the same time showing the same event. The unbelievable reality that we were under attack and at war seemed surreal at first. 

Then anger took over.

The ensuing fight with who or whom was yet to be determined but the reality had struck. I knew regardless of the circumstances I was in, good, bad or indifferent. With a single phone call on 9/11, I was activated. This is the real deal I thought. Turned out it was–but not as I envisioned.

As I threw back the sheets of the single bed and jumped to the floor, muscle memory was momentarily restored. Despite the blaring fire truck parked in my tiny sleep room, I managed to slip on my boots, zip up my former PJs which strangely look like a Nomex flight suit, one each, olive drab. I stood, grabbing the knob and pulled open the door to the outside world. I could see into the 12×12 common area as “Tootie” our enlisted site technician met me head on. Like the amazing Technical Sergeant he was, everything was ready and waiting. He briefed me on the weather as I zipped up my G suit and listened carefully. He’d been up all night knowing somehow, we’d get the call. Next to him was my wingman “Potsy” already zipping up his G suit. He let out a low, unintelligible growl much like a bear who had been awakened too early from hibernation. 

From Tootie’s extended right hand was my lineup card and mission data knee strap card, freshly printed. Nobody in the F-16 world wore kneeboards as they weren’t compatible with high G forces. Our G suits had a sewn strap for securing the necessary pile of paper we carried aloft every flight. In his other hand was a sack lunch complete with water bottle. Important given the last one of these missions I launched on lasted eight hours. 

With items secured in my G suit pockets and a fist bump Potsy and I headed out the door.  

Only a minute or two had transpired since the alarm and we moved with a sense of urgency but not too quick. No mistakes today. 

Outside, less than 100 feet away under large carports were our trusty steeds. Two combat loaded F-16C Block 30 fighter aircraft were fully fueled and ready. 

Each aircraft carried four radar guided Aim-120 AMRAAM missiles and two heat seeking Aim-9M “sidewinders” as well as a full 20mm Vulcan cannon. 

War indeed.

I grabbed my parachute harness hanging from a bolt on a weapons pylon and literally threw it on. While stooped over attaching my crotch straps, I quickly briefed “Tommy” my crew chief on what I knew, which was zilch. Tootie told me an airliner offshore wasn’t responding and was getting close.

Unacceptable given recent events.

I ambled up the ladder with no walk around or standard briefing. This was ready alert and all that was done previously just for this reason. 

Haste.

I sat down in the thirty-degree reclined seat as I’d done literally thousands of times, yet it was suddenly quiet. The Siren had ceased, infernal noise suspended. At least for now. Tommy had my harness attached and was gone in less than five seconds, followed closely by the ladder. I follow suit by raising my left gloved hand and spun two fingers vertically. I glanced at Potsy in the next carport. He was staring directly at me, ready. 

It began. 

The engine start switch rewarded me with the rush and swooshing sound of the Jet Fuel Starter followed closely by the engine spooling up. The canopy hit the rail, and I locked it down. The General Electric F110 fighter engine slowly spun to life with a pronounced vibration under my seat that is unique to the F-16. One never tires of it…there’s nothing like it.

In a few seconds it was fully awake and more than willing to tackle the task at hand. With a few switches flipped and my inertial navigation system quick aligned it was time. I turned my cranium left and once again Potsy was there, staring back, ready. I tapped my helmet with my fist and held up three fingers, radio preset three. For the first time this morning, sensible words were spoken. “Tyndall Tower, Bama One ready.” One minute and thirty seconds has elapsed.

“Bama One Tyndall Tower you’re released, cleared takeoff, happy hunting!” 

At a quick pace I taxid onto the active runway for a rolling takeoff, with Potsy five seconds behind me. Moving the throttle to full or “military” gives a satisfying push in the seat back. However, the real fun begins when the same handle is rotated outward and pushed toward the dashboard. Afterburner fully lit, the fuel flow gauge registers 60,000 pounds per hour and with the tail nozzle fully open. 29,000 pounds of thrust push the tiny warrior forward like a dragster. 150 knots comes and goes almost uneventfully. As we hit 150 the jet got light on its feet and the earth fell away. Acceleration took over and with wheels retracted I accelerated to 350 knots. Potsy had already joined up to a route position roughly 1000 feet to my left, his jet bristling with armament.

Ready.

Unbeknownst to Potsy and I, we would repeat this exact profile on a dark night over western Iraq supporting TF20 two years in the future… but that’s another tale…

Today, in front of us the challenge is yet unknown, behind us and under us is our home. 

One thing is for certain, the world will never be the same.

____________________________

This first appeared in The Havok Journal on November 27, 2024.

Lt Col (ret) Rob “Smokey” Ray is a 24-year veteran of the USAF and ANG as well as a retired commercial airline pilot. His Military Flight experience includes 4,500 hours in the OV10 Bronco and F16C with numerous deployments and assignments to the Pacific Theater, Central America, Europe and several notable rotations to Southwest Asia.

Additionally qualified as a JTAC, he served with and deployed with US Army Cavalry, Infantry and Special Forces units. While deployed to Balad, Iraq in 2006, his F-16 unit directly supported Special Operators in the location, weapons employment and subsequent termination of Abu Musab Zarqawi, head of the Al Qaeda Iraq. He is retired and currently resides in FL.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.