Excerpt from Air Warriors by Douglas C. Waller, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Okay, everybody, take a deep breath," Redding said cheerily over the radio. "No matter what you've heard, we're not going to hurt you today. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight."

Redding began pumping air out of the chamber. On shelves above the students, black boxes with red digital readouts began clicking off the altitude being simulated inside. The students looked up at the boxes as if they were time bombs: 5,000 feet...5,500 feet...6,000...6,500...7,000. McKinney's ears began popping like crazy.

"Remember, chew and swallow on the ascent," Redding said over the radio. "If you have any problems give us a level-off sign with your hand and we'll stop."

No one raised a hand.

Hanging limply above the instructor seated at the rear of the chamber were two white rubber hospital gloves tied tight at their openings. One was filled with water, the other with air.

"Okay, we've just passed 10,000 feet," Redding said, as if she were announcing the floors in an elevator.

Both rubber gloves began to balloon slightly.

The students' stomachs began to feel the effects of Boyle's law: the volume of a gas is inversely proportional to the pressure placed upon it. The trapped gases inside the body expanded the higher a pilot flew in his plane. McKinney began to feel the two burritos and ham-and-cheese sandwich he had for lunch rumble in his belly.

"Remember, in order to vent your gases you've got two Godgiven ports," Redding said in a singsong. "No aiming. We don't want any fistfights in the chamber."

The students began burping and farting. Before flights, pilots avoided foods that would make them gassy, such as beans, cabbage, or carbonated drinks.

The digital boxes over the students registered 25,000 feet. Redding stopped pumping air out of the chamber and ordered the students to remove their oxygen masks.

McKinney unhooked the left sleeve on his mask so that it dangled from his helmet. He was surprised. He thought he would be gasping at this altitude. But he could still breathe. The air tasted thinner. It also felt dry in his mouth, almost bubbly on his tongue. It seemed that he couldn't produce enough saliva to keep his throat from becoming parched. The chamber also smelled like the inside of a toilet.

"Now turn, face your partner, and begin the Pensacola pattycake," Redding ordered.

McKinney turned left to Scott Pierce, a young Marine second lieutenant from Stone Mountain, Georgia, who had also attended Georgia Tech.* Like children, they began clapping their hands, patting them against each other, then touching the tops of their helmets. The instructors had the students play patty-cake to burn off energy and hasten the onset of hypoxia. It was also an easy way for the students to detect when they became uncoordinated and confused from lack of oxygen.

* The Marine Corps, which is part of the Department of the Navy, and the U.S. Coast Guard, which the Transportation Department oversees, send their flight students through the Navy program to become aviators for their respective services.

On the other row, Eric Turner, another Marine second lieutenant, from Oakland, California, was handed a yellow sheet of paper and pencil. Redding told him to start with the number 1,000 and begin subtracting six each time. Turner wrote 994, then 898, then 892, then 886...

One minute off oxygen. Some students had silly grins on their faces, partly because hypoxia had begun to set in, but also because they felt ridiculous playing patty-cake. McKinney remained serious. He rarely laughed or joked in class. Friends would kid him about being so expressionless. That was because he was more focused than his classmates, he thought. This wasn't a game to him. It was serious business. He had learned to become a good listener in college. He found that professors noticed the students who paid attention and were more apt to help them in class. Always being serious was a character trait McKinney learned from his father, who was a strict disciplinarian. McKinney was not a hell-raiser or partier. He always ended up the designated driver because he never drank. He preferred to sit back at social gatherings, watch others make fools of themselves, learn from their weaknesses. He always wanted to be in control. He just wanted to climb into his plane and fly. An F/A18 Hornet. By himself. Never having to rely on others.

Copyright © 1998 by Douglas C. Waller