"There's something about jets that always seemed magical to me. When I was a little boy, I would run around the house making jet noises — not propeller noises, like most kids." Now some 40 years later, Dr. Howard Torman doesn't need to make-believe he's a jet pilot; he flies his very own jet fighter, a MiG-15 UTI, whenever his busy schedule permits. As medical correspondent on television's CBS This Morning, Dr. Torman each weekday joins Harry Smith, Paula Zahn, and Mark McEwen with the latest information on a wide variety of health topics, from breast cancer to what to do about your child's thumbsucking. But his real passion is flying his MiG-15 jet.
Owning a jet like this was almost impossible until fairly recently; the U.S. government will not sell surplus American military jets to civilians, though a few have found their way into private hangars through sales to a third-world country, then back to buyers in the United States. Another couple were retrieved from scrap heaps and surplus yards, then pieced back together by creative and enterprising rebuilders. But what broke the jet market wide open recently was the upheaval in the eastern bloc countries — nothing short of a revolution politically, socially, and, perhaps most visibly, economically. In what was communist Russia, China, Czechoslovakia, and Poland, capitalism is sending down new roots. Cash is king; everything, it seems, is for sale, and that includes surplus military aircraft, some for as little as $25,000.
The reality of owning a cheap jet (if there really is such a thing) is a little different from what it seems. Buying any jet, even one for less than a good used Skyhawk, is a serious investment. The difference between the Skyhawk and the jet warbird is this: The initial purchase price of the jet is just the entry fee; the real cash flow begins after the sale. The $25,000 selling price will buy you a MiG-15 all right, but it comes disassembled in a shipping container or crate; it will take another $75,000 to $125,000 to make it a safe, certified, airworthy airplane. Because "VFR jet" is one of aviation's great oxymorons, the airplane will need a full complement of radios to allow it to fly in high- altitude positive-control airspace. Even so-called ready-to-fly airplanes will need big chunks of money applied in the right places before they are ready to launch into the stratosphere. Systems updates, repairs or airframe replacements, required American flight instruments, and a thorough going-through by an experienced shop can quickly add up.
Some of these imported jets were current working trainers or fighters taken directly from the flight line, then disassembled and shipped to the United States. A few were "gate guardians," impaled ignominiously for years on a pole outside some military base. Concern over the history of some of these airplanes prompted Czech manufacturer Aero Vodochody, maker of the L-29 Delfin jet trainer, to write a letter to the Federal Aviation Administration in December 1992. "We feel Aero has the responsibility to alert U.S. agencies, specially FAA, to the fact that possibly unsafe L-29 aircraft may be imported into the U.S. from different countries' aircraft bone yards or storage areas." The FAA misinterpreted the Czech letter and, with admitted little knowledge of these airplanes' original certification or construction and fears of a massive influx of unfamiliar airplanes, declared a moratorium last July on all airplanes certified under experimental exhibition rules. Experimental exhibition is the catch-all category of the certification regulations that these non- U.S.-certified airplanes are swept into, along with such diverse company as clipped-wing Cubs, Bucker Jungmeisters, Yaks, and Hawker Sea Furys. A chorus of complaints from legitimate sellers of these airplanes; flurries of letters, faxes, and telephone calls; and clarification from Aero Vodochody (it was expressing concern over the pedigree of a few airplanes, not those properly sold and certified) prompted the FAA to lift the moratorium in six weeks. But the FAA's action stunned both owners and sellers of these aircraft who recognized that with one broad stroke of the pen, the Feds had shot down their jets, reducing them to expensive playground novelties.
Since the moratorium, experimental exhibition certification has been a hot topic. Last fall, industry leaders, owners, and resale companies met at the Experimental Aircraft Association's (EAA's) headquarters in Oshkosh to discuss the problem of experimental exhibition. In spite of requests by the participants, the FAA was unable to define a safety problem or accident trend in this segment of aviation to justify increased regulation or scrutiny. It seems the perception of thousands of civilians flying military jets bothered the FAA more than any definable problem. Even so, the industry and the FAA have made a tentative pact, and the agreed rules will debut in August.
The Exhibition category is not meant for airplanes used for personal transportation; exhibition airplanes are certificated only to be flown to and from air shows or other opportunities for display and for proficiency. This proficiency flying long has been subject to interpretation by each owner and will receive increasing scrutiny under the new rules. Turbine-powered experimental exhibition aircraft issued original airworthiness certificates after July 9, 1993, will be allowed to conduct proficiency flights in a 600-mile radius of a designated home airport. A detailed log of the aircraft's activities will be required for annual renewal of the airplane's airworthiness certificate. Owners will have a list of approved airports that they may fly their jet to and from; permission from the FAA will be needed before going anywhere not on the approved list.
The new rules will expand the approved uses from "air show" to "event," which includes organized fly-ins and air races, organized exhibitions, youth education events, shopping mall and school displays — even movie and television productions.
With the roar over the appearance of these old jet warbirds and fears of mass invasion, it's sometimes easy to forget that the realities of jet-airplane ownership (read: ample quantities of American dollars) will keep numbers fairly small. There are actually only about 200 registered jet warbirds in the United States, according to Chuck Parnell, executive director of the Classic Jet Aircraft Association in Oshkosh. His 250-member organization, part of EAA's Warbirds of America, operates a mixed bag of airplanes, from the British-built Vampire, the Paris jet, and the French Fouga Majester, which have been safely owned and operated in this country for more than 15 years, to types like Dr. Torman's MiG-15, which have been in the United States for eight or nine years, to relative newcomers like the Polish Iskras and British Strikemasters. With these and many more types on the horizon, shouldn't we be concerned about the safety of jet-warbird operators and all those innocent civilians on the ground?
Lance Toland, of Lance Toland Associates in Griffin, Georgia, who claims to insure about half of those 200 jet warbirds, has high marks for the safety of the jet owners. "By and large, the jet-warbird community represents one of the safest groups in the business," he says. To keep it that way, the Classic Jet Aircraft Association is developing an operations manual for jet owner/operators, which they hope will set needed standards for the fleet. It contains recommendations on runway length, noise abatement procedures, airport departure and arrival procedures, mission planning, maintenance and inspection, and minimum pilot training and recurrency. Compliance is not mandatory, though.
Are civilians up to the task of flying these airplanes? After all, the men and women who fly them in the military are chosen after much testing, qualification, and training. No such selection/qualification/elimination process exists in the civilian world. The main qualification for civilian jet-warbird ownership is the ability to write large checks.
"Truth is, many of these airplanes are easier to fly than my Baron," says insurance man Toland. The real issue, though, is how they must be flown and maintained to provide an acceptable level of safety. These are jets, after all, and the best way to fly them is the way the military, corporations, and airlines have flown jets for years: procedurally and by the book. Things happen faster in jets than in turboprops and piston airplanes. A low pass at 250 knots requires more planning, precision, and practice than in a Cessna 182 or Beech Bonanza. Cross country in an airplane that carries only 1.5 hours of fuel requires real flight planning, especially if the weather is less than perfect. Toland said there have been a few accidents, and they get a lot of attention, but the reasons seem to have few things in common other than pilot inexperience or stupidity. Most important, very few of the accidents are due to airplane failures.
When asked what it would cost to insure a private pilot with no jet time in a MiG and 1,000 hours total time, Toland replied bluntly, "I wouldn't. That would be irresponsible." He wants the pilot to have previous experience in straight-wing jet trainers or Learjets or prior military time before insuring them in any swept-wing jet. Toland said the insurance bill for a qualified pilot would be about 3 percent on the hull value (we used an airplane valued at $100,000) and another $2,000 for liability coverage.
To enter the world of jet ownership, Dr. Torman knew he would have to get good training. He turned to two professionals, John Penney and Rick Vandam, of MiG Masters, who had been recommended by Aviation Classics, Limited, where he bought his jet. Both experienced jet pilots, with Penney being one of the most experienced MiG pilots in the country, these professionals come to training sessions armed with tests and training curricula adapted from their own military training, test piloting, and airline flying.
With an ATP, little jet experience, and only 1,000 hours total time, Dr. Torman's first step into the world of jet flying was to obtain a certificate called an LOA, or letter of authorization, from the FAA. Required for each type of turbine or large warbird to be flown, he found that it wasn't easy to get. "As I came to know my instructors, I learned that it was not a simple proposition of 'write checks — get an LOA.' " He started with ground school, complete with slides and overheads, manuals to read, and written tests to take. "Then we marched through the whole basic fighter-pilot syllabus with low-level work, aerobatics, and military-style formation flying." After a little over 15 hours of dual instruction, instructor Penney turned Dr. Torman loose in the jet. That was four years ago, and the training has continued ever since.
Maintenance is a major expense in operating these jets (an annual inspection runs about $7,500 — if there are no surprises), but parts are generally not a problem, according to owners. Even engines like the MiG's Lis-2b are available and seem a steal at only $8,000 a copy.
Dr. Torman figures it costs somewhere between $1,000 to $1,500 per hour to operate his airplane, with nearly half of that cost in fuel alone: The airplane burns between 250 and 350 gallons per hour, depending on whether he's going cross country or flying low-levels. He flies 25 to 40 hours per year, with an average hop of .7 hour. Most of the flying is local; cross countries are rather brief affairs due to the minimal fuel capacity. Internal fuel is only 263 gallons; external drop tanks (made of wood) hold another 105 gallons each, bringing the total to 473 gallons, enough fuel for about an hour's flight with 45 minutes' reserve. The rough equivalent would be to plan a cross country in a Skyhawk with 15 gallons on board.
The secret to all these airplanes is they all convert green money into jet noise and fun. For Dr. Torman, in spite of the costs, the risk, the quirks, and the commitment to training, owning a MiG is the realization of a boyhood dream. "It's a real live, honest-to-God swept- wing fighter that defines what I always wanted my flying to be," he says. Of course, if he wins the lottery and has a little change rattling around in his flight suit, he might look at a JPATS next-generation jet trainer if it becomes available. "That would be wonderful to have and fly, something a bit more docile and forgiving as I get older. But I enjoy the challenge of flying my MiG. It's like skiing a really steep hill." And, he adds, perhaps recalling childhood memories of whooshing a jet model through the hallways of his boyhood home, "It's a lot of fun."
For more information, contact Classic Jet Aircraft Association, 414/426- 4800; MiG Masters, 303/290-0457; Aviation Classics, Limited, 702/972-5540; Lance Toland Associates, 800/282-1219. Torman's company, TACAIR Systems, Limited, flies this MiG under U.S. military contract and performs in air shows and movie productions. TACAIR Systems, Limited, 71 Washington Street, Reno, Nevada 89503.
Michael Maya Charles, AOPA 10826528, is an airline captain for a major U.S. airline and a contributing writer to general aviation publications. He has more than 28 years and 13,000 hours of flying experience.
MiG Jockey
Flight notes from a MiG-15 sortie
Holding the throttle aft with my right hand, I open the guarded switch cover with my left index finger. From somewhere behind me, the Polish Lis- 2B engine begins to slowly spool up. I reach down below the seat to the fuel cock and begin to slowly modulate it open...a little less open...open...a little less open, keeping the engine spinning up — just shy of the low rumbling sound indicating too much fuel for the airflow. I was told before starting that I would have to buy the beer for the ground crew if it rumbled. Well...what kind of beer do you like, guys?
Passing through 1,500 rpm, I advance the throttle to help the engine up to normal idle speed of 2,500 rpm. There's nothing automatic in this airplane; it was built in 1955, in a country that had fewer answers than we did, in a time when ergonomics hadn't even been invented yet.
The cockpit is an amazing collection of switches — many guarded, lights, handles, large knobs, and aging, unfamiliar gauges that might look right at home on the instrument panel of the City of New Orleans. Start switches are grouped along the left console, the electrical panel along my right. The altimeter is in feet, and the airspeed in knots, as required by good sense and the FAA, but the vertical speed is in meters per second. The horizon appears inverted, with the brown portion on top and the blue- green on the bottom, opposite of our current airplanes. Familiar faces include an exhaust gas temperature (EGT) gauge in easy-to-interpret degrees Celsius and an rpm gauge — except it shows actual rpm instead of a more manageable percentage rpm like most of our modern jets. Pressure gauges for the hydraulics and air brakes are in kg/cm2, whatever that means, a meaningless quantity to American eyes used to looking at pounds per square inch. It means the same thing, I remind myself: Pressure is pressure, no matter the measure.
I grip the long control stick, squeezing and releasing the motorcycle-type brake lever; a hiss of brake pressure escapes from somewhere below my seat as the ground crew pulls the chocks. When I wind up the little 4,500-pound-thrust Lis-2b engine to 9,000 rpm to break away from our parking position, I am reminded that the shriek of the engine was once a common sound in Siberia; the residents of Reno/Stead Airport now hear these engines as commonly as the Rolls-Royce Merlins in September.
The MiG shares the odd stick-mounted brake lever and differential brake arrangement of many eastern European and British aircraft.
Visibility from the front seat of a MiG-15 UTI is typical vintage fighter: The bulletproof glass immediately in front of me is aged and thick; the wings sweep quickly away from a position behind my seat. The canopy overhead provides a big-sky view but clears my helmet by just a few inches; I make a mental note to remember that during aerobatics. The nonadjustable front seat is about right for my 5-foot 10-inch frame. In an earlier flight from the back seat, I found that rear-seaters would be more comfortable if they had smaller fuselages than mine.
On taxi-out, I arm the gear retraction system with a switch on the left instrument panel and slide a door-bolt-type mechanical lock to one side. This prevents the pilot from retracting the gear on the ground — they didn't put squat switches on Russian fighters in the early 1950s. This is also when a Russian pilot would have pulled the ejection seat pins to arm it; the seats are designed to be used only above 1,500 feet and 120 knots and do little more than get the pilot out of the airplane. Spinal injuries are common.
On line-up, I advance the power to 9,000 rpm, holding the brake lever tightly and checking the final items before takeoff. One of the check-list items is "pitot/clock heat — on." Apparently, back when the MiG was commonly operated from airfields in the northern reaches of Russia, the temperatures would be so brutally cold, the clock often refused to operate. Solution: Heat it. In the balmy air at Reno/Stead, clock temperature was well within limits for this flight, and we were not going to fly through any clouds, so the switch was left off.
Power lever to the stop now, and a quick check for a maximum of 690 degrees C on the EGT gauge. Acceleration is smooth but not as rapid as you might expect from a fighter. I had reservations about my ability to steer with the odd air brakes, but with a little pressure on the brake lever and a slight bit of rudder, you accelerate quickly through 40 knots, where the rudder becomes effective. At 100 knots, I raise the nose slightly, then stop the pitch change — the MiG has a tendency to overrotate, and I had been warned that this could lead to sluggish acceleration and other undesirable characteristics: "Overrotation will result in decreased acceleration and lengthened takeoff roll, especially at heavier weights. The aircraft may lift off at a lower than normal indicated airspeed, possibly at a stalling angle of attack. This may result in loss of aileron effectiveness, wing rock, and wing tips contacting the ground." Ouch. I let the airplane talk to me and gingerly lift off at 125 knots. With a couple of hundred feet and 150 knots, I retract the gear, then flaps, and accelerate to 250 knots for the climb.
Flying the MiG is a pleasure; the ailerons are light due to hydraulic boosting; control harmony in the pitch and yaw axis is fairly good. I noticed my tendency to work the ailerons a little too hard at first and found that a better method was to use smaller inputs and longer cycles to get the job done.
Earlier, I had sampled the stall characteristics of the jet from the back seat and had felt a pretty active rumble and break. Clean stalling speed is 108 to 113 knots indicated; with flaps, it lowers only a few knots, to 103. To keep the airplane from rolling off, it was necessary to work especially hard to stay coordinated and to keep the nose pointing straight. When the break did occur, the airplane pitched down enthusiastically, allowing a full-windshield view of the Nevada desert.
We joined up with our T-6 photo airplane. Flying formation at the low end of any airplane's envelope is a great (or miserable) way to see its true colors. With 150 knots and approach flaps, the MiG showed its easy ability to quickly dart in and out of the formation. The pitch feel seemed a little more sensitive then we needed in the late-afternoon turbulence, and the ailerons required "high-amplitude/low-gain" movements to stay on position for photography. Especially handy were the dive brakes located along the lower aft sides of the fuselage near the tailpipe, though they were noticeably less effective at these slower speeds than when I had deployed them earlier at higher speeds.
When we broke formation, my mentor in the back seat, John Penney, demonstrated a characteristic of the MiG that was not pretty and reminded me of how far we've come with aerodynamics in the past 40 years: In a steep, near-vertical bank with high stick forces, Penney asked me to continue to pull back pressure, resulting in about 4 to 5 Gs. As I tightened the pressure, the stick load increased, as in most airplanes, but when I continued to increase the G load as directed, the stick began to lighten rather than increase, as one would expect from modern airplanes. Though we didn't continue too deeply into this corner of the airplane's envelope, Penney told me that it's possible to reach a point where it becomes necessary to push to increase G loading. Apparently, this reversal characteristic got a few MiG pilots into real trouble in the dogfighting days of the cold war. Another characteristic of the early MiGs is the tendency of the ailerons to become almost immovable at speeds above 0.88 to 0.90 Mach. Remember, this is an airplane designed in the early 1950s, before we had computers to figure out some of the secrets of aerodynamics.
Screaming back to the pattern, I set up for a military-style 360- degree overhead break. At 1,500 feet and 250 knots, I flew down the runway and pitched out at midfield, pulled the engine to idle, and depressed the speed brake button to decelerate. I was surprised how quickly the airplane decelerates to 180 knots, where I threw the gear down and went to half flaps, then full. Though flaps or gear can be extended at 245 knots indicated if needed, we extended both at lower speeds in deference to the old airframe. With gear and flaps down, I visually checked the three green lights on the panel and both 2-inch red mechanical indicator rods that jut from the top of the wing when the respective gear is down and locked. A similar rod extends just to the left of the windscreen for the nose gear. The gear and flaps down configuration yields 150 knots, the minimum recommended speed until turning final.
Lining up with the centerline, I verified three green lights one last time, air brake and hydraulic pressures normal, then slowed to 125 to 130 knots. A healthy amount of power must be carried in this configuration because drag with the gear and flaps extended is quite high. There's an added incentive to maintain high power, too: Spool-up time from idle to full thrust for this early centrifugal-flow engine is a heart-stopping 12 seconds. You never — ever — want to be low and unspooled in this airplane.
My first landing was a floater; I flared too high, but the airplane eventually settled to the runway and landed without a complaint — not a squeaker but certainly acceptable. I was surprised at the float; I expected more jet-like (higher sink rate) characteristics from the MiG. Once the mains are on the runway, the nose tends to drop unceremoniously, and it takes a bit of attention to keep it in the landing attitude to ease the nose gear to the ground.
Parking between two other MiGs on Aviation Classic's ramp is a little nerve-racking due to my lack of proficiency with the steering and brakes, but I manage to get the jet stopped between the other two without any wrinkled metal. As I pull the fuel cock up from below the seat and the engine spools down, it feels good to open the canopy and get my helmet off. MiG pilots, I decided, must have suffered a lot. — MMC
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