There were a lot of things I couldn’t do in an A-10, but I was the baddest guy on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked me if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in the field when I would have to say that it was pure fun to be the baddest guy out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when me and my gun were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete my training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado I had passed the century mark. I had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in and I was starting to feel pretty good about myself, not only because I would soon be flying real missions but because I had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 25,000 feet below, I could already see the end of Arizona from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, flexing the plane.

I was beginning to feel a bit envious for the Gun in the front seat. There he was, with a really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with firing 7 different barrels from a rotary cannon. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority target from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the plane, as during my entire flying career I had controlled forward thrust. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking shit on the radio while I was on the ground, however. The gun was so good at many things, but it couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. It understood that and allowed me that luxury.

Just to get a sense of what the gun had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies for other people talking shit. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles or somewhere below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had me on their scope, I was in badass airspace and normally would not talk to them unless I needed to descend to their level.

I listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”

Now the thing to understand about Radio controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, ass hole-ish tone that made one feel stupid. I referred to it as the ” Fuck Face voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct asshole voice of the Radio controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country I would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking shit. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat annoying to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like a boss, or at least like a somewhat cool. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very gay on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the baddest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, Fuck Face voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind everyone that I was a badass. I thought, it must be done – in mere hours I’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must know, and know now. I thought about all of my Sim training and how important it was that I developed well as a badass and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy everyone.

Somewhere, 3 miles above Arizona, there was a badass pilot screaming inside his Warthog. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from my seat. That was the very moment that I knew the gun and I had become a crew. Very unprofessionally, and with emotion, I screamed into the mic, “Brrrrrrrrtttttt!”