“Today during the Senate Armed Services Committee Hearing, I announced the MQ-25A Stingray is moving into the production phase. Integrating unmanned refueling extends the lethality of our Carrier Strike Groups and equips our force with a decisive advantage to fight and win against any adversary.”

—Acting Secretary of the Navy Hung Cao

Mission Briefing

After its maiden voyage, the Navy’s MQ-25 Stingray soared past Milestone C—earning the green light for low-rate initial production. In true sky-pioneer fashion, this uncrewed tanker is now cleared to roll off the line and join the fleet.

Stingray Cleared for the Carrier Tanker Fight

In the marbled halls of the Senate, Acting Secretary of the U.S. Navy Hung Cao steps up to the mic, eyes bright with the kind of excitement only aviators and dreamers know. At a Senate Armed Services Committee hearing, he drops a bombshell—one with the thrum of jet engines behind it: The MQ-25 Stingray, the Navy’s uncrewed aerial tanker, has just hit Milestone C.

Translation? The Stingray has been greenlit for Low-Rate Initial Production. The ink is barely dry on its first official flight, which happened less than a month ago, on April 25.

The Navy’s own Portfolio Acquisition Executive Aviation office is already prepping the paperwork. This summer, they’ll award the first LRIP contract. Three aircraft to start, with the option to tack on three more in Lot 2, and five in Lot 3.

The MQ-25 isn’t just another drone; it’s a force multiplier. “Unmanned refueling extends our reach against any adversary,” Cao tells the senators, his words echoing through the chamber.

“Moving the MQ-25A Stingray to Milestone C and into production is arming our warfighters with a capability that increases the lethality of our Carrier Strike Groups. This is a decisive advantage that delivers our warfighters what they need to fight and win.”

Vice Adm. John E. Dougherty IV, the Navy’s aviation acquisition chief, chimes in, underscoring how the Stingray will keep carriers agile, lethal, and always ready. “Milestone C approval represents an important step for this program. MQ-25A will provide persistent aerial refueling and unlock greater capacity across the air wing, ensuring our carrier strike groups remain lethal, flexible, and forward ready.”

You can almost hear the applause from the Boeing team. Troy Rutherford, their MQ-25 program VP, calls it a “historic milestone,” promising to get this “game-changing unmanned aircraft” out to the fleet and into the heart of carrier operations.

Let’s rewind to April 25, 2026. After years of anticipation, the MQ-25A Stingray finally lifts off for its maiden operational flight from MidAmerica St. Louis Airport, Mascoutah, Illinois.

For two hours, the Stingray soars, guided by both Boeing and Navy pilots at the controls of the UMCS MD-5 ground station. Lockheed Martin’s high-tech system humming in the background. A company-owned TA-4J Skyhawk and a Navy UC-12M Huron tag along as chase planes, keeping a watchful eye.

This flight marks nearly seven years since the original T1 prototype’s first sortie back in 2019. Now, the production MQ-25 flies with the same Cobham ARS pod found on the Navy’s F/A-18s, meaning it can deliver up to 16,000 pounds of fuel 500 nautical miles out to sea. For the Navy, it’s not just a milestone. It’s a leap into a new era of carrier air wing endurance and reach.

The Carrier-Based Unmanned Aircraft

Imagine this: the MQ-25 Stingray is about to make history as the world’s first operational, carrier-based unmanned aircraft, designed to refuel the Carrier Air Wing and Carrier Strike Group right from the deck at sea.

By weaving this persistent, sea-going tanker into the air wing, the Navy will unlock longer missions and free up strike fighters for what they do best, carrying out combat missions far from home.

This isn’t just another drone; the MQ-25 is laying the runway for a future where manned and unmanned aircraft work together seamlessly, pioneering the Navy’s next chapter in carrier aviation.

The plan? Eventually, every NIMITZ and FORD-class carrier will be MQ-25 ready. The journey begins with test flights at Boeing’s Illinois facility, then heads to Patuxent River, Lakehurst, and Eglin AFB, as the Navy puts this game-changer through its paces.

Specifications:

Primary function: Aerial refueling

Contractor: Boeing

Propulsion: Rolls-Royce AE3700N

Length: 51.0 ft

Wingspan (wings spread): 75.0 feet

Wingspan (wings folded): 31.3 feet

Height (wings spread): 9.8 feet

Height (wings folded): 15.7 feet

Stingray Extends the Carrier’s Reach

The U.S. Navy, long master of the seas and sky, now faces a new frontier. Not a battle for air superiority, but a challenge of distance and endurance. Enter the MQ-25 Stingray, the Navy’s cinematic leap from manned might to autonomous innovation.

It’s the world’s first operational carrier-based drone, not just another gadget but a flying lifeline, built to keep the fleet’s most precious assets—its strike fighters—soaring further, longer, and with more punch than ever before.

Imagine yourself on the deck of a carrier, wind whipping past as jets roar to life. In the old days, F/A-18 Super Hornets handled refueling, siphoning their own combat potential to keep others airborne.

But now, the Stingray rolls out from the hangar, wings gleaming in the sunrise, ready to take on the grunt work. Suddenly, more Super Hornets are free to do what they were born for: striking deep, defending the fleet, and making every mile of ocean count.

With the MQ-25, the Navy isn’t just solving a logistics problem. It’s rewriting the rules. This drone can deliver up to 16,000 pounds of fuel 500 nautical miles out, a game-changer for a carrier in hostile waters.

Allies watch and take note: here is a shield that stretches further, a sword that stays sharper, a partner who doesn’t tire. In places where distance and danger once set the boundaries, the MQ-25 pushes them back.

But look closer, and you’ll see more than a refueling drone. This is the quiet revolution. The first step to an air wing where manned and unmanned fly side by side, each learning from the other, each expanding the art of what’s possible on a floating city at sea.

Today, it’s just fuel. Tomorrow? It could be anything. The MQ-25 is the bridge to that future—silent, steady, and utterly transformative.

This Week in Aviation History

It’s June 1942, and somewhere in the vast blue heart of the Pacific, American and Japanese warships clash in a five-day spectacle that would flip the script on the whole Pacific War. The air is thick with tension, engines roar, and history is rewritten in the wake of dogfights and thunderous explosions.

Strategic Background and the Role of Communications Intelligence

Imagine slipping on your flight goggles and soaring back to the spring of 1942, when the world was a chessboard and the Pacific Ocean was the grand arena. Japan’s ambitions were sky-high: they wanted to carve out a vast empire in East Asia and the Southwest Pacific, kicking the United States out of the driver’s seat.

The master plan? Crush the US Pacific Fleet and capture the tiny speck called Midway Atoll, a remote outpost more than 3,200 miles from San Francisco, perched on the edge of nowhere. From there, Japanese bombers could strike Pearl Harbor again, tightening their grip on the Pacific and, they hoped, forcing the Americans to the peace table.

Midway, a lonely set of islands in the far reaches of the Hawaiian archipelago, had quietly become a linchpin. The US had annexed it in the 1800s, but by 1940, it was buzzing with construction crews and military planners fortifying it for the storm they saw coming.

After the shock of Pearl Harbor in December 1941—when Japanese destroyers lobbed shells at Midway’s Naval Air Station—the Americans beefed up their presence. By June 1942, the atoll bristled with PBY Catalinas, B-17s, and 4,000 determined personnel, all bracing for the fight they knew was on the horizon.

The battle exploded from June 3rd to 7th, a five-day clash across an oceanic expanse as big as the continental US. Warships dueled at distances where you could barely see the enemy, trading steel and fire over 50 to 150 miles.

But behind the scenes, the real secret weapon was codebreaking. American cryptanalysts, hunched over their desks, had cracked Japanese messages and learned of an attack on a place called “AF.”

With a clever ruse involving a fake water shortage, they confirmed AF was Midway. Armed with this intel, Admiral Chester Nimitz readied the US Navy for a counterpunch that would echo across history.

The Battle of Midway

Slide into the cockpit with me and let’s fly back to the dawn of 3 June 1942. The Pacific sky is endless, and somewhere below, a PBY seaplane from Midway is on patrol. Suddenly, the crew spots a shadow on the ocean—the Japanese Midway Occupation force, lurking southwest of the atoll.

Throughout the day, more glimpses come in: enemy ships are out there, but the prized Japanese carriers remain like ghosts in the mist. B-17 Flying Fortresses and PBYs scramble from Midway, dropping bombs on the ships they can find.

Anti-aircraft fire erupts in angry bursts, forcing the crews to veer away before they can really see what damage they’ve done. Reports trickle in, maybe a cruiser or two have been hit, maybe a transport, but nobody’s sure.

When night falls, the game changes. Four PBY-5As, loaded with Mark XIII torpedoes, slip out for a daring nighttime attack. The first of its kind by these patrol planes. Explosions flash on the dark water. Did they hit anything? Maybe one or two enemy ships took a beating, but the details are lost in the Pacific night.

Dawn breaks on June 4, and the war drums get louder. Japanese carrier planes swoop in, unloading on the US base at Midway. The Marines dig in and take heavy losses, but the base itself, battered but not broken, stands ready.

Out to the east, the US carrier fleet—Yorktown, Enterprise, Hornet—is poised like a coiled spring. Then, as the Japanese planes head home, the tables turn. The US Navy’s torpedo bombers roar off the decks, drawing enemy fighters away.

In their wake, Dauntless dive bombers plunge from the sky, smashing Japanese carriers Kaga and Akagi, then wrecking Soryu. Only the carrier Hiryu remains. She fights back desperately, launching two strikes that pound Yorktown, but the Americans are relentless. By evening, Dauntlesses from Enterprise find Hiryu and finish her.

June 5: Rear Admiral Spruance chases the retreating Japanese fleet west as Akagi and Hiryu are scuttled. Yorktown’s battered crew refuses to give up. On June 6, Enterprise and Hornet’s SBDs hammer the fleet again, sinking Mikuma and damaging more ships.

But a lurking Japanese submarine sneaks in, torpedoing Yorktown and the destroyer Hammann. At dawn on June 7, Yorktown finally slips beneath the waves, ending one of the most dramatic chapters in naval history.

Midway: The Carrier Battle That Turned the Pacific Tide

The legend of Midway isn’t just about the spectacle of four Japanese carriers slipping beneath the waves. Picture it: June 1942, the Pacific’s vast blue stretching in every direction, and the fate of the war hanging by a thread.

After the gut-punch of Pearl Harbor, Midway was the moment the tide turned. A showdown that stopped Japan’s island-hopping cold and put the wind back in America’s sails. The Naval History and Heritage Command calls Midway one of World War II’s most crucial clashes, and the National WWII Museum agrees: this battle rewrote the script for the Pacific theater.

But Midway’s true legacy? That ran deeper than the dogfights. This was a test of brains, nerve, and new tech. American codebreakers cracked the enemy’s plans before a single bomb dropped, proving that sometimes, victory starts in a stuffy room with headphones, not just out on the sea.

Aircraft carriers took center stage, trading blows from beyond the horizon; it was the pilots and their warbirds, not old-school battleships, that shaped the outcome. When Japan lost Akagi, Kaga, Soryu, and Hiryu, their carrier force was gutted. The U.S. lost the Yorktown, but kept enough punch to go on the offensive.

Midway was also about guts under pressure. Pilots launched into the unknown, sailors and commanders made split-second calls, intelligence officers gambled on half-seen signals. The war didn’t end there, but its course was forever changed. Japan’s expansion hit a wall, and the long, hard push through Guadalcanal and the Solomons began.

The real takeaway? Wars—then and now—aren’t won by machines alone. It takes sharp minds, grit, sacrifice, and bold moves in the heat of the moment. That’s what bridges the decks of 1942’s carriers to the high-tech command centers and contested skies of today.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

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Post Flight Debrief

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– Tog

“The enemy was terrified of Cobras.”

—Walker Jones, Vietnam Cobra pilot

The jungle canopy shivered beneath the rotor wash as the slim helicopter nosed into the fight, its cockpit stacked in tandem like a fighter’s blade drawn over Vietnam.

Ahead, the treeline was no longer just terrain; it was a threat line, a place where ambushes waited, radios cracked, and troop ships needed a guardian fast enough to stay with them and deadly enough to clear the way.

Read more

“Aircraft to be reconfigured between boom and probe refueling capability based on mission requirements.”

—The Air National Guard Air Force Reserve Command Test Center

Mission Briefing

Little more than a month after that first daring test flight, the A-10C now roars over Middle Eastern sands, sporting its new Probe Refueling Adapter. Thanks to this upgrade, the Warthog can top off its tanks from the HC-130J mid-air, using the probe and drogue system, just like the big birds do. It’s a whole new chapter for close-air support, and the sky’s never looked better.

A10s Now Have New Refueling Probe and Angry Kitten EW Pod

The curtain lifts over the Middle East, and the first dramatic stills emerge: the A-10C Thunderbolt II, affectionately known as the Warthog, is caught mid-tango with an HC-130J Combat King II, sipping fuel through its brand new Probe Refueling Adapter.

This valuable upgrade, first trialed in early April, unlocks a whole new world of refueling possibilities for the battle-hardened A-10, which until now had to rely on the lumbering KC-135 Stratotanker and couldn’t yet belly up to the futuristic KC-46 Pegasus.

The brass saw a problem: without more refueling options in theater, the Warthog’s operational leash was just too short. Enter the C-130-based tankers, ready to keep the A-10 in the fight.

The photos, dropped on 21 May 2026, freeze the action: 107th Fighter Squadron Warthogs, Michigan-bred and fresh in theater since April, trading fuel with the HC-130J over the U.S. Central Command’s vast domain.

But look closer, and you’ll spot another twist. These A-10s are sporting the Angry Kitten electronic warfare pod, a gadget that made its combat debut on F-16s during Operation Epic Fury but has never before been spotted on A-10s overseas. For the Warthog, it’s a new chapter of adaptability and grit, with the sky as its stage.

The Pod and the Probe

If you ever catch a glimpse of the A-10C Thunderbolt II on the ramp, you’ll spot its trademark air refueling receptacle right on the nose, just forward of the cockpit. It is a design tailored for the classic flying boom, where the tanker’s operator guides the fuel probe home.

But as the old KC-10 tankers faded into history and the advanced KC-46 certification lagged behind, the Warthog’s world started shrinking. Tethered to the aging KC-135s, planners found their mission map severely restricted, the A-10’s range at the mercy of limited refueling options.

That’s when the call came down for a solution. The answer: a Probe Refueling Adapter, designed and tested at breakneck speed, first trialed on April 2, 2026. This ingenious device slips right into the A-10’s nose receptacle, transforming the jet from a boom-only bird to one ready for probe and drogue refueling, the kind C-130 tankers deliver.

The best part? The adapter is field-configurable. According to the Air National Guard Air Force Reserve Command Test Center, flight line crews can install it in just a few hours—no need for depot downtime. Now, mission planners can switch the A-10 between boom and probe refueling modes on the fly, tuning each jet to the demands of the day’s fight.

But there’s more to this new act than just fuel. If you look closely at those fresh photos, you’ll spot the Warthog sporting the Angry Kitten electronic warfare pod, a gadget with a story of its own. Originally hatched from the AN/ALQ-167 as a humble training pod, Angry Kitten has grown into a modular, digital EW powerhouse.

Its journey began with the South Carolina Air National Guard’s F-16s, headed for the Middle East and Operation Epic Fury. Born from Georgia Tech Research Institute’s vision back in 2013, Angry Kitten was designed to deliver ‘cognitive EW’—a system smart enough to analyze enemy signals and choose its own tailored response, even adapting on the fly to new threats.

Since those early days, Angry Kitten has flexed its digital claws on the A-10, MQ-9 Reaper, F/A-18 Hornet, and C-130 Hercules.

Now, it’s front-line ready. The Navy highlights its core: the Technique Description Language (TDL), a hybrid architecture fusing high-speed hardware with adaptable software—giving the Warthog a new edge in the ever-evolving aerial fight.

A-10’s New Tricks in the Desert Fight

Out in the shifting sands of the Middle East, the A-10 Warthog refuses to fade quietly into history. With its brand-new refueling probe and the Angry Kitten EW pod riding shotgun, the Warthog is proving it’s anything but outdated.

Recently, Aviationist’s lens caught A-10Cs refueling from an HC-130J Combat King II, using the probe for drogue refueling and flexing electronic muscle with Angry Kitten, all on May 9, 2026.

That probe isn’t just a gadget. It’s a ticket to a wider world of tankers. No longer bound to the old boom-only crowd, the A-10 now taps into drogue refueling, giving it more fuel sources and longer legs for close air support, rescue ops, convoy protection, and quick-response missions.

Pairing up with the HC-130J, a specialist in forward-area support and coalition operations, the Warthog gains an expeditionary boost, ready to roam wherever the fight calls.

For America’s allies, these upgrades are a promise: the U.S. still brings relentless, low-flying firepower to the region, and the Warthog is now tuned to face modern electronic threats. Angry Kitten shines brightest here, with rapid software updates between flights, letting crews swap tactics as enemy radars evolve.

Big picture? Washington is wringing more combat utility from its reliable old warriors even as new jets are stretched thin across the globe. Allies see a steady hand; adversaries see legacy aircraft transformed—networked, refueled, and digitally sharpened for today’s fight.

This Week in Aviation History

In the quiet hours just past midnight on 31 May 1967, two HH-3E Jolly Green Giant helicopters lifted off from New York, chasing the horizon in a bold, non-stop dash across the Atlantic. Their engines hummed all the way to Paris, touching down at Le Bourget for the air show just before 2 p.m. on June 1. It was a transatlantic feat that turned heads and wrote a new chapter in aviation history.

Jolly Green Giant’s Non-Stop Transatlantic Flight

The epic flight spanned 4,271 miles, nearly 31 hours of relentless rotor thunder, requiring a staggering nine midair refuelings from HC-130P Combat King tankers.

At the controls were Majors Herbert Zehnder and Donald B. Murras, each commanding a Jolly Green Giant helicopter with a five-person crew. On this journey, Major Zehnder, flying H-211, set an FAI world speed record for helicopters, averaging almost 190 kilometers per hour. It is a record that still stands, a testament to both machine and aviator.

But these weren’t just record-setters, they were warriors. Both Jolly Green Giants, tail numbers 66-13280 and 66-13281, went on to serve with the 37th Air Rescue and Recovery Squadron in Vietnam, where their fates became part of Air Force legend.

“Jolly Green 27” crashed at Kontum in 1970, its pilot, Captain Travis H. Scott, Jr., lost in the inferno, while Major Travis Wofford braved the flames to pull survivors from the wreckage, earning the Air Force Cross and Cheney Medal for his valor. Scott, too, was posthumously awarded the Air Force Cross for his heroism.

Meanwhile, “Jolly Green 28” faced its own trial by fire—shot down over Laos in 1969, her crew rescued before the bird was destroyed to deny it to the enemy. Technical Sergeant Donald G. Smith, the pararescueman, was decorated with the Air Force Cross and the Airman’s Medal for saving the downed pilot of “Misty 11.”

Major Zehnder’s daring didn’t stop with records. He would later pilot another HH-3E on a high-stakes crash landing inside Sơn Tây Prison Camp near Hanoi, earning the Silver Star for his actions.

The Sikorsky HH-3E (nicknamed the Jolly Green Giant) became a legend in its own right. Born from the CH-3C transport, this twin-engine, heavy-lift helicopter was built for Combat Search and Rescue, with a rugged crew of pilots, mechanic, and gunner.

With its massive main rotor, retractable landing gear, rear cargo ramp, and inflight refueling boom, the Jolly Green Giant was always ready for the next impossible mission, no matter where the call came from.

The Rescue Chopper Built to Reach Beyond the Front Line

Picture the HH-3E Jolly Green Giant on the ramp, rotors spinning like a windstorm. She stretches out a majestic 72 feet, 7 inches long and stands 18 feet, 10 inches tall, a true colossus of the rescue world. Her five-bladed main rotor sweeps a massive 62-foot circle overhead. Each blade is nearly half a meter wide, churning the air at a steady 203 rpm, counter-clockwise from above, with the advancing blade slicing right.

Out back, the tail rotor, also five-bladed, spins a 10-foot arc and hums at a fierce 1,244 rpm, balancing the beast with clockwork precision.

Even empty, the Jolly Green tips the scales at over 13,000 pounds, but she’s built for battle, maxing out at just over 22,000 pounds when fully loaded for action.

Her heart beats in tandem with two General Electric T58-GE-5 turboshaft engines, each pumping out up to 1,500 shaft horsepower, enough grunt to muscle through the roughest combat zones. The transmission can take 2,500 horsepower, channeling pure force to the rotors.

In the air, she cruises at 154 miles per hour, can dash up to 177, and reach altitudes of 14,000 feet. Fill her tanks (external tanks included), and you’ve got a range of 779 miles; long enough to cross borders or seas for a rescue. For defense, she can bristle with a pair of M60 machine guns, ready to lay down cover on the way in or out.

Born from the CH-3 transport line, just 14 were built new as HH-3Es, while dozens more were converted with extra armor, self-sealing fuel tanks, and a rescue hoist.

With a watertight hull, she could set down on water, and her big rear ramp made loading wounded or weary aviators a breeze. Over 170 S-61Rs in her family tree, but the HH-3E was the Air Force’s dedicated Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) hero.

Her legend was forged in the fires of Vietnam. First arriving in 1967, flying out of Udorn and Da Nang. She pulled off long-range rescues across Southeast Asia, even landing in history with the daring Son Tay prison raid.

Her crews walked tall: one Medal of Honor, twenty-four Air Force Crosses, over 190 Silver Stars. She even answered the call in Desert Storm and stood ready during the early Space Shuttle days. By 1995, the last Jolly Greens retired, but their stories still echo wherever aviators need saving.

The Rescue Footprint That Outlived Vietnam

The legacy of the HH-3E Jolly Green Giant isn’t just counted in hours flown or missions chalked up on a clipboard. It’s measured by the creed every rescue crew carries into the fight: “That Others May Live.”

Born from the sturdy Sikorsky CH-3, the HH-3E was transformed into America’s go-to combat search-and-rescue bird during the crucible of the Southeast Asia War, purpose-built to snatch downed airmen from the jaws of danger. At places like Da Nang, legends like Jolly Green 22 proved their worth, not in headlines, but in the mud and fire of real combat.

The Jolly Green’s reach became the stuff of legend in 1967, when two of these giants pulled off the first nonstop helicopter crossing of the Atlantic, an audacious journey powered by aerial refueling and grit. No longer just battlefield workhorses, these birds became strategic assets, able to push beyond the horizon.

Culturally, the HH-3E left its mark as well. The famous “green feet” symbol—born from the impressions made by its massive landing gear in Vietnam’s paddies—became the unofficial badge of the rescue community, a quiet nod to those who bring others home.

From those first green footprints in Southeast Asia to the rescue squadrons of today, the HH-3E’s spirit lives on. The mission endures: go farther, risk everything, and never leave a comrade behind.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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– Tog

“New heavy bomber analysis of alternatives will begin initial planning activities to develop key performance parameters, key system attributes, and additional performance attributes for a follow-on heavy bomber in the USAF. The FY27 work scope will include key planning activities for programmatic, requirements, capabilities, and vendor options that could field in the future.”

—Quote from Air Force Research, Development, Test & Evaluation Volume IV

Mission Briefing

Next year, the U.S. Air Force is kicking off a bold new chapter: they’re rolling out a Heavy Bomber Analysis of Alternatives. Think of it as a high-stakes mission briefing, where they’ll chart the course for the future—deciding whether to supercharge the legendary B-52 with fresh upgrades or set their sights on designing a brand-new heavy bomber altogether. The sky’s the limit, and the story is just beginning.

The Next B-52 Bomber: Analyzing the Alternatives

The B-52 System Improvements project, as it’s called, is more than just a tune-up for an old warbird. The Air Force has set out on a sweeping mission: to keep the legendary Stratofortress not just flying, but dominating, ready for whatever tomorrow’s skies might bring.

This isn’t just about swapping out a part here or bolting on a new gadget there. We’re talking a top-to-bottom overhaul. Think Advanced Wing Weapon Pylons (AWWP), integrating cutting-edge missiles like the LRASM and JASSM, and pushing the envelope with advanced weapon systems.

But the real headline? The Heavy Bomber Analysis of Alternatives. For the first time, there’s talk of what might come after the B-52, a study launching in FY27 to size up the long-range strike game. Will the Air Force stick with the old champ, or is it time for a new contender to take the stage?

Meanwhile, behind the hangar doors, there’s been a hush-hush Advanced Concept Demonstration—a classified proof-of-concept that wrapped up in FY25. No peeks, no details, just hints and possibilities.

The money trail tells its own story: $1 million is set aside in FY27 for the bomber study, while last year’s demonstration drew nearly $4 million. Now, all eyes are on the future, and the only certainty is that the next chapter for America’s heavy bombers is still being written, high above the clouds.

The Future of the Bomber

The B-52 Stratofortress—America’s legendary airborne heavyweight—has been carving contrails across the skies since the dawn of the jet age. And believe it or not, she’s nowhere near ready for retirement.

In fact, the Air Force expects these titans to keep flying until at least 2050. Imagine that: by the time the youngest B-52 finally parks for good, it’ll have outlived not only its own generation, but even the sleeker B-1B Lancer and the futuristic B-2A Spirit bombers that once threatened to steal the spotlight.

Here’s the game plan: the Air Force is betting big on a mixed fleet: 76 modernized B-52Js teaming up with over 100 of the stealthy, next-gen B-21 Raiders. Once the B-21 enters the fray, the Stratofortress’s mission shifts; she’ll hang back and unleash standoff strikes, letting the new kid on the block handle the sneaky stuff up close.

But to stay relevant in this new era, the B-52 needs more than a fresh coat of paint. She’s getting a major overhaul, transforming from the B-52H to the B-52J. The path hasn’t exactly been smooth; delays and development hiccups have made headlines. But the commitment is clear: the Air Force isn’t letting go of its old warhorse just yet.

Two upgrades stand out above the rest. First, the Radar Modernization Program: Raytheon’s AN/APQ-188, a state-of-the-art AESA radar, is replacing the relic AN/APQ-166 that’s been humming since the Cold War.

Borrowing technology from Navy Super Hornets and Air Force Eagles, this radar brings sharper eyes, better target tracking, and the kind of digital muscle that keeps the B-52 in the fight, whether that’s tracking moving targets on the ground or scanning for threats in the air.

Next up, the Commercial Engine Replacement Program. Out go the ancient Pratt & Whitney TF33s: stalwarts since the ‘60s, but well past their prime. In come Rolls Royce F130s, descendants of engines found in luxury Gulfstreams, promising more range, less maintenance, and a cleaner burn. The new engines look familiar but pack a modern punch, sitting closer to the wing for better aerodynamics.

The upgrade rollout starts in 2026 or 2027, with the first B-52Js ready for action by 2033. Full re-engineering wraps up by 2036. The radar’s big debut is still under wraps. But one thing’s certain: the B-52’s saga is far from over. It’s just taxiing out for its next mission.

After the Stratofortress: America’s Next Heavy Bomber Question

The mighty B-52 Stratofortress, that iron-winged legend of American airpower, is getting a new lease on life: fresh engines, modern guts, still roaring into the sunset. But somewhere in a Pentagon conference room, a new story is quietly preparing for takeoff. The United States and its allies are already plotting what comes after the B-52J, even as the old bird gets its upgrades. In 2027, the Air Force will huddle for a Heavy Bomber Analysis of Alternatives, deciding if the future belongs to souped-up B-52s or a yet-unseen heavy bomber built for tomorrow’s skies.

This isn’t just about swapping out old airframes. It’s about keeping a long shadow over the world’s tough neighborhoods, where China, Russia, and others are raising the stakes with their own missiles and fortress-like defenses.

The B-21 Raider, a stealthy ghost, is set to become the backbone of America’s bomber fleet, but the B-52 brings what Hollywood would call “presence”—endurance, payload, and that unmistakable silhouette on the horizon.

For America’s friends in NATO and across the Indo-Pacific, this means the bomber umbrella stays open. U.S. bombers mean reassurance, headaches for rivals, and a fast-moving response force that doesn’t need to park on every runway overseas.

The B-52J will keep flying, but the first whispers of its successor are already in the air—a cinematic prelude to the day a new aviator’s story takes flight.

This Week in Aviation History

27, May 1931: At Langley Field in Virginia, the world’s first full-scale wind tunnel threw open its massive doors, sixty feet wide, thirty feet high, ready to shape the future of flight. Inside, everything from WWII fighters to space capsules and submarines braved the artificial gale, their secrets revealed in the roaring wind.

Wind tunnels have always been the aviator’s crystal ball, letting designers peer into the unknown before their birds ever left the ground. Even the Wright brothers, chasing their dream of powered flight, crafted their own six-foot wind tunnel to test wings before making history in 1903.

Wind Tunnel Lets Airplanes ‘Fly’ on Ground

It is the Roaring Twenties, aviation’s golden dawn, out in Hampton, Virginia, the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics—NACA, the grandparent of NASA—was dreaming bigger than ever at its Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory.

Their first wind tunnels gave them a taste for aerodynamic adventure, but those early tunnels just whetted their appetite. After seeing what the Propeller Research Tunnel could do with its big test section, the engineers decided to aim for the sky, literally. They set out to create a wind tunnel massive enough to swallow a whole airplane and lay bare its aerodynamic soul.

Enter Smith J. De France, a man with vision and nerves of steel. In 1929, as the world teetered on the edge of the Great Depression, NACA seized the moment, stretching their budget on cheap materials and snapping up a brigade of talented, suddenly unemployed aeronautical engineers.

Construction moved at a clip, and by May 1931, the Full Scale 30- by 60-Foot Tunnel (FST) was ready for action. Its dedication at the Sixth Annual Aircraft Engineering Conference was a spectacle: the world’s largest wind tunnel stood with its steel skeleton visible to all, a colossus measuring 434 feet long, 222 feet wide, and 97 feet tall—a new landmark at Langley and a beacon for every aviator’s ambition.

As the decades rolled on, the FST became a stage for the next acts of flight. In the postwar 1950s, engineers put cutting-edge ideas through their paces: swept wings, delta shapes, and boundary-layer tricks for low-speed performance.

But this wasn’t just about airplanes. Dirigibles, submarines, radar antennae, gliding parachutes, inflatable planes (even entire wind tunnels) took their turn in the FST’s artificial hurricane.

Jet engines eventually outran the tunnel’s top speeds, but the FST never lost its place in the spotlight. When NASA took the reins in 1958, shifting priorities sparked something new—remote-controlled, free-flying models dancing through the vast test section, bigger and bolder than ever before. Suddenly, radical designs got their moment in the sun, tested with a realism that matched the dreams of their creators.

In the grand sweep of aviation history, the FST wasn’t just a wind tunnel. It was a proving ground for every wild idea and a launchpad for the future of flight.

Where Wings Meet the Wind: Features of the Wind Tunnel

Step into the Full-Scale Tunnel and you’re entering the set of a true aviation epic. Its semi-elliptical test section soars 30 feet high and 60 feet wide, with nothing but open air around the wings.

That meant even aircraft with wingspans up to 40 feet could face the wind head-on, as two massive 35-foot propellers—each spun by a thunderous 4,000-horsepower motor—sent air swirling through the tunnel at anywhere from a breezy 25 to a stormy 118 mph.

The air followed a clever double-return path, splitting into left and right streams that looped around the building, perfectly tuned by rows of airfoil-shaped vanes so that the test section saw only the smoothest, steadiest currents—less turbulence than the older tunnels ever managed.

Planes were mounted atop a six-component strut system, each movement and force meticulously measured by dial-type scales that could read every ounce of air pressure. Early calibrations used real aircraft that also took to the skies, letting engineers compare tunnel data with actual flight results. It worked so well that the tunnel quickly became a national testing treasure, shaping generations of aviation and space research for nearly eighty years.

At first, the focus was on how every part of a plane. Its geometry, construction methods, and those seemingly harmless little bumps changed drag and cooling. The winds soon revealed that even the smallest protrusions could steal performance in ways few expected. In 1938, the Navy’s Brewster F2A-2 Buffalo arrived at Langley, stuck at a sluggish 250 mph.

After engineers hunted down every drag-inducing detail (landing gear, exhaust stacks, gun mounts), they recommended fixes that turned the Buffalo into a contender, giving it a 31-mph boost. That’s the magic of the Full-Scale Tunnel: where every airplane faces the wind and comes out stronger.

The Wind Tunnel’s Lasting Legacy

Picture the dawn of aviation, when flying was more dream than science. It is a wild leap into the unknown. Then, in 1931, Langley’s 30-by-60-foot Full-Scale Wind Tunnel roared to life, a colossal cathedral of wind where real airplanes, not just models, met the invisible currents head-on. Suddenly, flight wasn’t just a hunch; it was a calculation.

When war clouds gathered, this tunnel became the proving ground for every U.S. warbird with a future in the sky. Round-the-clock, mechanics and pilots hustled beneath the cavernous fans as engineers chased the secrets of speed and survival.

Drag was the enemy; the wind tunnel became the crucible. Tests here scrubbed off precious seconds and saved countless lives by helping aircraft slip faster, farther, higher.

But Langley’s reach soared beyond dogfights and bomb runs. Its culture of full-scale testing shaped everything from rotorcraft to reentry vehicles. Anything daring the air to resist.

Though the tunnel’s doors eventually closed, its spirit endures. The Smithsonian’s preserved fan blades whisper of the days when steel giants first learned to fly before ever leaving the ground.

Today’s stealth jets and tomorrow’s dream machines all owe a debt to that wind-borne legacy. Langley proved an eternal truth: every aircraft’s fate is first written in the wind.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

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Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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– Tog

“Project Constant Peg was a secret program to train U.S. Air Force, Navy, and Marine Corps fighter aircrews to fly against Soviet-designed aircraft.”

—U.S. Air Force

The Nevada desert is still dark when the briefing room door closes.

Read more

In an effort to rapidly test and make new capabilities available to warfighters, U.S. Air Force and GA-ASI collaborate on demo of Advanced Precision Kill Weapon System using #MQ9A Reaper®.

—General Atomics Aeronautical Systems, Inc (GA-ASI)

Mission Briefing

Out in the Nevada desert, the MQ-9A Reaper took to the skies, loaded with APKWS laser-guided rockets. Pilots and crews watched as the bird unleashed its payload on both air and ground targets, marking another bold chapter in aviation testing.

GA-ASI and U.S. Air Force Test APKWS Guided Rockets on the Reaper

Beneath the endless Nevada sky, where the desert heat shimmers and the horizon seems to go on forever, the MQ-9A Reaper made history. General Atomics Aeronautical Systems, in close partnership with the U.S. Air Force, put the legendary remotely piloted aircraft through its paces, this time armed with the Advanced Precision Kill Weapon System (APKWS) laser-guided rockets.

The setting was the iconic Nevada Test and Training Range, a proving ground where innovation meets the demands of modern warfare.

Over a series of flights cloaked in operational secrecy, test crews executed a ballet of advanced maneuvers, firing off rockets in a variety of shot profiles. Whether the target was in the air or hugging the desert floor, the MQ-9A crews (eyes sharp, hands steady) delivered every shot with precision. According to General Atomics, every launch was flawless, the kind of performance that turns test flights into legend.

Photos from the event showed the Reaper bristling with new hardware: a LAU-131 A/A pod loaded with inert AGR-20 rockets. While there was no word on the use of other ordnance, the message was clear: the Reaper is evolving, and fast.

The entire test program embodied rapid adaptation, moving from planning to live-fire testing in what felt like the blink of an eye. Whether this rush was due to an urgent operational need or simply the pace of progress, nobody’s saying. But out here, speed is survival.

GA-ASI President David R. Alexander summed up the spirit of the test: APKWS isn’t just another weapon. It’s a force multiplier. By integrating these laser-guided rockets, the Reaper gains the ability to carry more, strike smarter, and do it all at a fraction of the cost of traditional fighter jets. It’s proof that with the right collaboration, the gap between idea and reality can be closed in record time.

The MQ-9A’s new capabilities echo lessons learned from the Gray Eagle STOL platform, which last year used APKWS rockets to swat target drones from the sky. It’s all part of a broader push to give the Air Force more persistent, affordable, and versatile options for countering threats like one-way attack drones; without breaking the bank.

Compared to fighter jets, the Reaper can loiter over the battlefield for hours, ready to strike again and again, all while costing just a fraction to operate. For the Air Force, this means more coverage, fewer headaches, and a leap forward in staying power.

As the dust settles on another day at the range, one thing is clear: the MQ-9A Reaper is writing a new chapter in the story of airpower.

What is the APKWS?

The AGR-20, better known as the Advanced Precision Kill Weapon System II (APKWS II), is a shining example of old-school hardware meeting cutting-edge innovation. Born from the classic Hydra 70, an unguided rocket with roots stretching back to the folding-fin rockets of the late 1940s.

The APKWS II transforms a tried-and-true workhorse into a modern precision tool. Where these rockets once screamed over the battlefields of Korea and Vietnam with brute force, today they fly with pinpoint accuracy, guided by the beam of a laser.

The secret sauce? Engineers slipped a laser guidance section right between the rocket’s high-explosive warhead and its trusty Mk66 motor. It’s a clever bit of engineering: take a cheap, reliable rocket and give it brains without reinventing the wheel.

Now, instead of relying on heavy bombs or expensive missiles when a lighter touch will do, Air Force pilots can reach for APKWS II: delivering smart, low-collateral strikes at a fraction of the cost. When you don’t need the thunder of a JDAM or the punch of a Hellfire, APKWS II steps up.

Each guidance module hosts four foldable wings, each wing fitted with laser seeker optics boasting a wide field of view. This lets the APKWS II zero in on both still and moving targets, whether they’re hugging the ground or darting across the sky.

BAE Systems, the mastermind behind this upgrade, made sure the rocket’s transformation was seamless; no need to overhaul the aircraft or fire control systems. The only real change? A slightly longer rocket pod, the LAU-131 A/A, lets jets and helos sling more APKWS rounds downrange.

Perhaps the most cinematic twist is how these old Hydra rockets are now being eyed for air-to-air missions. With drone swarms and cheap enemy fliers on the rise, APKWS II offers a low-cost counterpunch.

Compare that to the million-dollar price tags on AMRAAMs or the hefty cost of Sidewinders, and it’s easy to see why commanders are excited. For the price of one missile, you can send dozens of APKWS II rounds skyward.

Sure, there are trade-offs: APKWS II doesn’t have the range or warhead size of the big missiles. But when the job is swatting drones or fending off saturation attacks, quantity and agility win the day. With seven APKWS II rockets packed into a single pod, American aviators are ready to meet the future—one laser-guided shot at a time.

How APKWS Rockets Could Redefine the Drone-Age Air War

The story of the APKWS rockets meeting the MQ-9A Reaper is a scene straight out of a modern war epic—a high desert sky, sunlight glinting off a drone’s wings, and ground crews prepping a payload that’s about to change the rules of the game.

Picture it: at the Nevada Test and Training Range, the Reaper, long known as a silent sentinel, now flexes new muscle. With Air Force crews at the controls, it fires off BAE’s APKWS (laser-guided rockets), the kind that give a humble 2.75-inch Hydra a precision punch. But this isn’t just about flashy tech. It’s about rewriting the script for air combat in the drone age.

Instead of relying on pricey, manned jets to chase down every threat, this test hints at a future where persistent, unmanned patrols handle the bulk of the work—swatting drones, intercepting suspicious craft, and saving the heavy hitters for when it really matters.

For U.S. allies staring down drone swarms or missile barrages, it’s a blueprint for survival: more shots in the magazine, less money out the door.

BAE’s kit turns simple rockets into smart hunters, capable of striking from the air, the ground, or even at other airborne targets. The Reaper’s transformation shows a cinematic shift: from lone-wolf fighters to layered teams—pilots, drones, and affordable guided weapons —choreographed for endurance and adaptability. This is the new air war, where teamwork and thriftiness win the day.

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This Week in Aviation History

After the legendary F-86 Sabre danced across Korean skies, its successor—the F-100—roared onto the scene as the first production jet ever to break the sound barrier in level flight, topping out at a blistering 760 mph. The adventure began on 25 May 1953, when the YF-100A prototype leapt into the California sky above Edwards Air Force Base, rewriting aviation history with a single flight.

The First Supersonic Fighter

The North American F-100 Super Sabre, proudly nicknamed “The Hun,” earned its place as the world’s first supersonic fighter. With a bold 45-degree wing sweep and a roaring afterburning engine, the very first YF-100A prototype smashed past the sound barrier on its maiden voyage over Edwards Air Force Base on 25 May 1953.

The Hun started out as a pure day fighter, but she quickly adapted: later models sported wing-mounted munitions for ground attack and even carried nuclear arms, standing ready on alert in Europe for years. In Vietnam, the F-100 wasn’t just a player. It was a legend, flying more combat sorties than any other fixed-wing bird in the conflict, racking up an astonishing 360,283 missions.

Through it all, the Hun proved herself a war horse: tough, reliable, and always ready to deliver ground support when it mattered most, cementing a legacy that would last 45 years in service.

Yet, breaking the sound barrier came with a price. That daring 45-degree wing sweep—so crucial for supersonic flight—brought its own set of challenges.

Early A models had a stubby tail, which didn’t offer enough rudder authority at steep angles, and the aggressive wing design introduced adverse yaw. Imagine rolling left but feeling the jet resist, rolling the opposite way: an unexpected quirk that could catch even seasoned pilots off guard.

At high angles of attack, the downward aileron would drag, the upward one would slip through the air, and suddenly, the Hun would yaw away from your intended turn. The trick? Keep those ailerons centered under heavy Gs, and dance on the rudder pedals to coax the jet where you wanted her to go.

And then there was the infamous Sabre Dance. If a pilot pulled the nose too high on takeoff or landing, the wingtips could stall, the lift would surge forward, and the jet would pitch up uncontrollably; sometimes spinning out in a wild, unrecoverable dance.

One such harrowing Sabre Dance, flown by First Lieutenant Barty Brooks on January 10, 1956, was captured on film—an enduring, cautionary tale from the golden age of supersonic flight.

Even with all her quirks and demanding flight characteristics, the F-100 won the hearts of her pilots. They wore their ability to wring out every ounce of performance from the jet like a badge of honor, relishing the challenge and the thrill.

Under the Hood of the Widely-Produced Super-Sabre—F-100D

Step into the cockpit of the F-100D, the most prolific Super Sabre of them all, with over 1,200 of these fighter-bombers rolling off the line. Built as an upgrade over the F-100C, the D-model was purpose-built for ground attack, not dogfighting the enemy for control of the skies.

She kept the six underwing hardpoints from her predecessor, but swapped out the old gravity-drop pylons for forced ejection—kicking bombs and stores off her wings with a jolt when the time came to unleash hell.

To tame the jet’s wild side, designers beefed up her tailfin and rudder, adding a distinctive square bulge at the back to house a rear-facing radar warning antenna and the fuel dump pipe. Up front, the nose bristled with the AN/APR-25 radar receiver, ever on the lookout for trouble.

Inside the F-100D’s cockpit, the Minneapolis-Honeywell MB-3 autopilot was a game-changer. Now, a pilot could let the jet fly itself to the target, freeing up both hands for map reading or arming weapons; talk about multitasking at Mach speed.

Of course, when flying tight formation with a squadron, real pilots preferred to keep their hands on the stick. The D-model also boasted an improved low-altitude bombsite (LABS), ready to deliver serious firepower: whether conventional bombs or a suite of nuclear options like the Mk-7, Mk-38, or Mk-43. A typical loadout? Six 750-pounders or four 1,000-pound bombs, ready to rain down on the enemy.

Midway through production, the F-100D got even more teeth. Starting with the 184th airframe, Sidewinder air-to-air missiles joined the arsenal, making the Hun a threat to anything in the sky as well as on the ground.

That same milestone model added a centerline mount for “special stores”—Air Force speak for nuclear weapons. With these upgrades, the F-100D could carry a variety of nukes, with yields ranging from a single kiloton to a jaw-dropping ten megatons, depending on the mission.

The nuclear attack profile was a feat of aviation daring: approaching the target at treetop height and 500 mph, the pilot would yank the nose up in a high-G climb. The computer would handle the split-second bomb release, and with a maneuver like an Immelman, the pilot would flip out of harm’s way, firewalled afterburner roaring, racing for home at blistering speed.

The F-100’s Legend in the Skies

The F-100 Super Sabre, gleaming under the sun, roaring off the tarmac into a sky thick with Cold War tension. She wasn’t just the Air Force’s first supersonic fighter. She was the ticket to a new era, where speed met swagger and every mission felt like history in the making.

But the real legend of the “Hun” wasn’t born from headlines or airshow glory. It was written in the humid haze over Southeast Asia, as pilots strapped in, throttled up, and dove into the unknown. From 1964 to 1971, the F-100 flew more than 360,000 combat sorties; delivering close air support, dodging flak, and keeping ground troops alive. She was a workhorse, a lifeline, and sometimes a last hope.

The Super Sabre’s story didn’t end on the battlefield. She became a star with the Thunderbirds, streaking across continents and lighting up the imagination of crowds from Paris to Peoria. During the Cuban Missile Crisis, the F-100 was on the front line, ready for anything. And then came the daring Misty FAC missions—low, fast, and dangerous—where pilots like Dick Rutan etched their names into aviation folklore.

Sure, the F-100 had its flaws. But she taught a generation how to fly on the edge, adapt under fire, and trust their instincts at Mach speed. That’s a legacy worthy of the silver screen and the skies.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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We recently flew the XRQ-73 hybrid-electric unmanned aircraft in collaboration with @AFResearchLab and @northropgrumman at Edwards Air Force Base, Calif. Part of the SHEPARD program, the flight proves the military utility of hybrid-electric propulsion.

—DARPA Twitter Post

Mission Briefing

Northrop Grumman and Scaled Composites teamed up to craft the XRQ-73, an unmanned bird with a whisper-quiet engine that runs on electricity spun from a gas turbine. When it lifted off from Edwards Air Force Base in April 2026, DARPA called that maiden flight a leap toward proving just how game-changing hybrid-electric power could be for the future of military aviation.

DARPA’S SHEPARD Prototype Takes Flight

Born from DARPA’s bold SHEPARD program, the XRQ-73 is the next act in a saga that began with the secretive XRQ-72 Great Horned Owl.

This aircraft, shrouded in mystery, made its maiden flight on 14 April 2026: well past its original 2024 target, with the news trickling out only weeks after the fact. That’s just how things go in the world of black projects: milestones are celebrated in whispers, not headlines.

Tipping the scales at around 1,250 pounds, the XRQ-73 sits comfortably in the U.S. military’s Group 3 Uncrewed Aircraft System class. That puts it alongside stalwarts like the RQ-21 Blackjack and RQ-7B Shadow, built to operate up to 18,000 feet and dash along at speeds hitting 250 knots.

Northrop Grumman’s team has clearly kept busy since we first glimpsed the design in 2024. Spotters note new vertical stabilizers at the wings’ tips, a revised air inlet up top, and some fresh blade antennas. There’s even a mysterious forward-facing gadget between the main intakes, possibly a camera or sensor, hinting at advanced situational awareness.

The large belly fairing remains, likely hiding the true heart of the XRQ-73: state-of-the-art ISR (intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance) payloads, perfectly matched to its stealthy flying wing and whisper-quiet, low-heat hybrid-electric propulsion.

Test flights are marked by the little details; a scatter of black airflow indicators taped to the wings, destined to be peeled off once the engineers have their data. The official photos?

They show the XRQ-73 not on some glamorous runway, but resting quietly on the cracked expanse of Rogers Dry Lake at Edwards Air Force Base. It’s a legendary spot, having welcomed everything from the X-15 to the Space Shuttle, and now it hosts this latest chapter in the evolution of silent, persistent flight.

According to Lieutenant Colonel Clark McGehee, SHEPARD’s program manager, this first flight is just the beginning. “The architecture proven by the XRQ-73 paves the way for new types of mission systems and delivered effects,” he says. This isn’t just a test. It’s a launchpad for tomorrow’s battlefield tech, promising capabilities that are still hidden behind the classified curtain.

So don’t expect splashy airshows or public unveilings anytime soon. The XRQ-73 is likely to remain a ghost on the windswept desert, its advances unfolding quietly, far from the spotlight—just how the best stories in aviation often begin.

Inside the SHEPARD Program

Think of the SHEPARD program as DARPA’s fast-track, risk-busting answer to the Air Force’s Great Horned Owl project: a real-world testbed built on the X-Prime playbook, where fresh tech gets pushed out of the lab and onto the runway in record time.

Instead of endless tinkering, SHEPARD’s mission is clear: take the hybrid-electric bones and key tech from the GHO, fuse them into a new, mission-driven aircraft, and get it flying within just 20 months.

The result? The XRQ-73 SHEPARD—bigger than the earlier XRQ-72, loaded with real-world fuel and mission systems, but still light enough to stay under the Group 3 drone weight limit. Northrop Grumman’s ace team pulled out all the stops in autonomy, design, and rapid prototyping to get this demonstrator airborne.

For them, SHEPARD isn’t just another drone. It’s a leap into the future, a chance to cement their lead in hybrid-electric tech and set the stage for the next era of uncrewed military aviation.

SHEPARD’s Silent Climb: Hybrid-Electric Airpower and the Next Allied Edge

The XRQ-73 SHEPARD isn’t just a new drone. It’s a glimpse into an aviation future that’s quieter, smarter, and tougher to spot. When this hybrid-electric marvel took to the skies over Edwards Air Force Base in April 2026, it wasn’t just about showing off a fancy propulsion system.

DARPA, working alongside AFRL and Northrop Grumman, set out to test how this tech could transform the very way unmanned aircraft deliver effects and adapt to tomorrow’s missions.

For the U.S., SHEPARD hints at a new breed of drone: one that can loiter longer, whisper instead of roar, and slip through contested airspace to gather intelligence without giving away its position. Aviation watchers see the XRQ-73 as the next evolutionary step from the Great Horned Owl, while Northrop Grumman calls it a leap toward lighter, more autonomous systems.

For allies, the promise is even bigger. Imagine sharing a stealthy eye in the sky that can watch vast seas, track shadowy threats, and provide real-time targeting, all without drawing unwanted attention.

SHEPARD’s first flight isn’t just another milestone; it’s a signal that tomorrow’s airpower will be shaped by persistent, discreet machines quietly changing the game before a single missile launches. The future, it seems, is already airborne.

This Week in Aviation History

Marine aviation took flight on 22 May 1912, when First Lieutenant Alfred A. Cunningham arrived at Naval Aviation Camp in Annapolis, eager to join the ranks of early aviators. After just two hours and forty minutes of training in a Wright Model B-1, Cunningham soared solo and earned the distinction of Naval Aviator No. 5.

As more Marines learned to fly, their ambition for independence grew, fueling a push to carve out their own path. That vision took shape on 6 January 1914, when First Lieutenant Bernard L. Smith was sent to Culebra, Puerto Rico, to launch the Marine Section of the Navy Flying School—a bold new chapter for Marine aviation.

A Century of Marine Aviation in the Fight

Marine aviation’s story begins at the dawn of American flight. A time when the Wright brothers had just shown the world what powered wings could do at Kitty Hawk, and the Navy was eager to join the airborne revolution.

Under the guidance of aviation pioneer Glenn Curtiss, the Navy started acquiring its first aircraft, training pilots, and experimenting with bold new ideas: bombing runs, shipboard takeoffs and landings, even the earliest carrier operations.

These early daredevils laid the groundwork for aircraft to become an essential arm in the combined fight.

On 22 May 1912, First Lieutenant Alfred A. Cunningham reported for aviation duty at Annapolis, Maryland, eventually earning the title of Naval Aviator No. 5. Just two years later, the Marines began forging their own path when they established the Marine Section of the Navy Flying School; a sign that Marine aviation was ready to carve out its own legend.

Since those early years, two things have defined Marine aviation: its tight partnership with naval aviation and its relentless focus on helping Marines on the ground.

By 1915, the Corps stood up its first aviation company, and by the time World War I arrived, Marine aviation had grown from a handful of enthusiasts into a fighting force.

Through the 1920s and ‘30s, Marine pilots flew missions over Haiti, the Dominican Republic, China, and Nicaragua, where they honed the close air support tactics that would become a Marine trademark.

World War II was Marine aviation’s crucible, with pilots flying into the teeth of battles at Wake Island, Midway, Guadalcanal, and beyond. The F4U Corsair, with its gull wings and roaring engine, became a symbol of Marine grit and airpower.

In Korea, Marines brought jets and helicopters into the fight, pioneering medevac and troop mobility on rugged terrain, while Vietnam saw Marine Phantoms and Skyhawks, along with helicopters, flying constant support for ground troops from Da Nang to Khe Sanh. Marine aviation’s reach even extended into space, with Marines like John Glenn and Charles Bolden trading cockpits for rockets.

In the decades since, the Corps has kept pushing the envelope. The Harrier jump jet gave Marines the power to take off from tiny ships or rough patches of land, while the MV-22 Osprey blended helicopter lift with airplane speed.

Unmanned drones like the RQ-7 Shadow and ScanEagle joined the lineup, and the F-35B ushered in stealthy, short-takeoff combat power. Through every chapter, Marine aviation has been defined by its mission: to back up the Marine infantryman, whether in canvas-winged biplanes, helicopters, Ospreys, or lightning-fast jets.

That unbreakable bond—sky supporting ground—remains the true heart of Marine aviation.

US Marine Corps Today

The U.S. Marine Corps operates under the Department of the Navy, yet its structure runs more like the Army’s; with a few signature twists.

The Corps is famously organized around the “rule of three,” and its fighting force is built from four main pillars: the operating forces (the tip of the spear), the headquarters (the brains), the supporting establishment (the backbone handling logistics), and the Marine Corps Reserve (the strategic backup).

When big trouble breaks out, the Marines deploy their heavyweight champs—the Marine Expeditionary Forces, or MEFs. There are three MEFs, each a self-sustaining team of ground troops, aircraft, and logistics, ready to take on crises anywhere, whether it’s storming beaches or holding the line at sea.

These MEFs aren’t just for show—they’re designed to fight alone for up to 60 days and act as standing Marine air-ground task forces, ready in both peace and war.

I MEF calls Camp Pendleton, California home and supports the US Indo-Pacific and Central Commands. It’s made up of the 1st Marine Division, 3rd Marine Aircraft Wing, 1st Marine Logistics Group, and its own Information Group, with a track record stretching from Desert Storm to Iraq and Afghanistan. Across the country, II MEF is based in North Carolina, made up of the 2nd Marine Division, 2nd Marine Aircraft Wing, 2nd Logistics Group, and its Information Group, with its focus reaching across the Atlantic to Europe and Africa.

III MEF stands apart, forward-deployed in Okinawa, Japan—America’s tip of the spear in the Pacific—with the 3rd Marine Division, 1st Marine Aircraft Wing, 3rd Logistics Group, and the III MEF Information Group.

Marine aviation has its own unique structure, organized into squadrons (the basic unit), which combine into groups, and then into wings. Each level scales up the Corps’ airpower and flexibility.

Legacy and Lessons of Marine Aviation

The true legacy of Marine aviation isn’t just measured in decades, aircraft models, or battle honors. It’s the unbreakable connection between those who fight on the ground and those who fly above. Since First Lieutenant Alfred A. Cunningham’s first day on aviation duty in 1912, every evolution in Marine aircraft has circled back to one mission: support the Marine infantryman, no matter the theater or era.

From the canvas-and-wood biplanes of the early days to the roar of Corsairs in the Pacific, the thunder of Phantoms and Harriers over Vietnam, the innovative Osprey, versatile drones, and the cutting-edge F-35B, Marine aviation’s heartbeat has always been close to the front lines.

The core lesson is that real innovation in the Corps isn’t about gadgets for their own sake, but about meeting the Marines’ needs on the battlefield. Whether it was pioneering close air support in Nicaragua, providing lifelines with helicopters in Korea, or launching jets from improvised landing sites in Vietnam, Marine aviators have stayed with the fight.

Even as technology leaps forward, the mission holds steady: assault support, offensive strikes, reconnaissance, and guarding the force.

Adaptation is the Marine aviation way, never losing sight of its roots. The story even rockets into space with Marine astronauts John Glenn and Charles Bolden. Through all the changes, one promise endures. Wherever Marines deploy, their wings go with them, linking generations in a legacy of loyalty and purpose.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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– Tog

The Historical Section of the Department of the Navy published seven monographs on the U.S. Navy and World War I between 1920 and 1923.

—Naval History and Heritage Command

Deep below the decks of America’s World War I warships, the true soundtrack of battle wasn’t gunfire, but the pulse of mach…

Read more

The Maverick Act just passed the Senate, allowing the US Navy to transfer a trio of retired F-14D Tomcats and necessary spare parts to the U.S. Space and Rocket Center.

—@OSINTtechnical Twitter Post

Mission Briefing

With the Maverick Act cleared for takeoff, three U.S. Navy F-14D Tomcats are set to land at the Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, Alabama—where, just maybe, one legendary bird might roar back to life and dance in the skies once more.

The Maverick Act

The Senate floor is silent, but the Maverick Act rockets through with unanimous consent. It is a rare moment of unity that kickstarts the next chapter of an American aviation legend.

Now, with the House preparing for its own vote as of May 4, all eyes are on Capitol Hill. If this bill clears its final hurdle, it’ll give the Secretary of the Navy the green light to hand over not one, not two, but three F-14D Tomcats to the U.S. Space and Rocket Center Commission in Huntsville, Alabama.

For those who haven’t strolled through its Saturn V shadows, the U.S. Space & Rocket Center is more than just a museum. It’s the largest shrine to space on this planet, a cathedral dedicated to the dreams of flight and exploration since 1970.

The bill doesn’t just talk in generalities either; it calls out the three Tomcats by name, or rather, by Bureau Number: 164341, 164602, and 159437. These are the chosen birds, set to trade carrier decks for museum floors.

But don’t expect these Tomcats to become warbirds again. The legislation is crystal clear: they’re grounded for good when it comes to combat. No missiles, no dogfights, no tricks up their wings. The Secretary of the Navy isn’t on the hook for any repairs or modifications, either. What comes with the jets is what you get, though the package does include a trove of manuals and any leftover spare parts the Navy can spare.

Here’s where the story takes a turn worthy of a Hollywood script. For the first time, there’s an official mention that one of these Tomcats could actually fly again. The Secretary will provide enough spare parts from existing Navy stock to potentially get one bird back in the air, or at least looking sharp in a static display. But if you’re picturing a team of Navy mechanics wrenching away, think again. From this point on, it’s all in the Commission’s hands.

They can seek out nonprofit partners. Think of what the Collings Foundation did for the F-4D Phantom, the only one of its kind still flying in the U.S., to restore, maintain, and even fly the Tomcat for airshows and commemorative events. The Navy’s role ends at the handoff; every dime, every bolt, every drop of sweat after that belongs to the Commission.

And in true aviator fashion, the bill makes it clear: no cost to Uncle Sam. Every expense—transfer, compliance checks, restoration, operation, maintenance—is on the Commission’s tab.

The price of preserving a legend? Worth every penny.

Tomcat: A Hollywood Icon

Picture this: the legendary F-14 Tomcat, wings folded and sun-bleached, slumbers beneath the desert sky. A relic fiercely protected by Uncle Sam. Ever since the U.S. Navy hung up its flight suit in 2006, getting near these cats—or their spare parts—has been like breaching Fort Knox. Washington’s kept a tight grip, making sure not a single bolt ends up in Iranian hands, the only other Tomcat pilots left in the world.

When those jets retired, crews stripped out vital organs before rolling them out to the boneyard. Anything left behind? Often crushed, melted, or lost to history. Bringing one of these beauties back to life isn’t just a matter of dusting off the sand.

It’s a Herculean feat. Deep, painstaking inspections would be just the start, with every rivet and wire tested before the FAA even thinks about giving a thumbs-up.

After two decades baking in the Mojave, the road to revival is long and paved with dollar signs. The Tomcat was never cheap to run, and with spare parts rarer than a clean flight suit after a dogfight, regular airshows are probably a pipe dream. Still, imagine the roar at a heritage flyby. Maybe, just maybe, that day will come, someday down the line.

Let us take a closer look at this legendary bird

Manufacturer:

Grumman Corporation

Type:

Carrier-based air superiority fighter

Crew:

Pilot and Radar Intercept Officer

Powerplant:

Two 27,800 lb. General Electric F110-GE-400 afterburning turbofans

Dimensions:

Length: 62 ft., 8 in.
Height: 16 ft.
Span (max spread): 64 ft., 1 in.

Weight:

Empty: 43,735 lb.
Gross: 74,350 lb.

Performance:

Max Speed: 1,544 mph at 40,000 ft.
Ceiling: 55,000 ft.

Armament:

One 20mm cannon; AIM-7 Sparrow; AIM-9 Sidewinder; AIM-54 Phoenix missiles

F-14 Tomcat: Ghosts of the Desert Hangar No More

The F-14D Tomcat, that wildcat of the carrier deck, might just roar back to life—but not as a warbird, not this time. Under the so-called MAVERICK Act, the U.S. isn’t gearing up to put the Tomcat back into combat, but to let it fly as a symbol, a living legend.

Word is, three F-14Ds could be handed over to the U.S. Space & Rocket Center Commission. One of them? Destined for a second act in the skies, thrilling crowds at airshows and remembrance flights; no missiles, just memories.

For America, this isn’t about muscle. It’s about meaning. The F-14D, the apex predator of Tomcats, sports twin engines, shape-shifting wings, and a cockpit built for two. Once, it prowled the fleet’s edge, ready to defend, with eyes on two dozen targets and the claws to strike six at once. The Smithsonian and the National Naval Aviation Museum call it a bridge, from Cold War standoffs to the last combat missions over Iraq in 2006.

So why bring one back? Because it’s living history. Seeing a Tomcat on the wing connects the next generation with the legends of the carrier deck, the grit of naval aviators, and the spirit of Top Gun.

In a world buzzing with digital distractions, a thundering flyby can still steal the show. If this all comes together, the F-14D will remind us: some stories don’t fade away. They take flight again, ready to inspire the future.

This Week in Aviation History

The Memphis Belle soared into legend, its crew embodying the grit and sacrifice of every bomber team that battled across the skies of Europe. They weren’t just flying missions. They were writing history, one harrowing sortie at a time. When the Belle touched down on American soil after its 25th mission, it became a living symbol of courage and hope for a world at war.

The Memphis Belle: An American Icon

The Memphis Belle was a B-17F heavy bomber flying out of Bassingbourn, England, with the 324th Bomb Squadron, 91st Bomb Group, right at the heart of the USAAF’s early bombing campaign over Europe.

From November ‘42 to May ‘43, the Belle and its crew braved flak and fighters on 25 missions, targeting enemy strongholds across Germany, France, and Belgium. But in true wartime fashion, things weren’t always by the book.

Sometimes the crew flew other B-17s, and sometimes other crews took the Belle into combat, so by the time the Belle’s crew hit their 25th, the plane itself had only logged 24; she completed her own 25th two days later with a different team aboard, and over fifty airmen would eventually have combat time in her storied fuselage.

The Memphis Belle’s crew was a snapshot of the Eighth Air Force. Young men aged 19 to 26, hailing from across America, including places like Washington, Indiana, Texas, and Connecticut.

Despite the legend, they didn’t always fly every sortie together; shifting assignments and the realities of war meant rotating in different copilots, top turret gunners, and waist gunners.

Names like Leviticus “Levi” Dillon, Eugene Adkins, Harold Loch, Bill Winchell, and E. Scott Miller all became part of the Belle’s narrative. Each mission was a gamble, a roll of the dice at 20,000 feet, and camaraderie was forged in the crucible of enemy skies.

As for her name, the Memphis Belle paid tribute to pilot Robert Morgan’s fiancée, Margaret Polk, from Memphis, Tennessee. It is a romance that made headlines but didn’t survive the war bond tour.

The Belle’s iconic nose art, inspired by a George Petty pin-up from Esquire magazine, was first painted stateside, then touched up and later repainted by the talented Col Tony Starcer at Bassingbourn, whose brushwork adorned several other 91st Bomb Group bombers and flight jackets.

In the grand, cinematic sweep of World War II aviation, the Memphis Belle wasn’t just a plane; she was a symbol. Her story woven from love, loss, and the courage of the crews who risked everything for each other.

Fortress in the Sky: The B-17’s Battle-Ready Features Unveiled

The Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress carved its legend across every WWII combat zone, but it’s over the skies of Europe where its story truly soared. Alongside the B-24 Liberator, the B-17 became the backbone of America’s strategic bombing might, pounding German industry into submission.

Designed for high-altitude flying and speed, the Fortress bristled with guns, ready to fight its way through enemy defenses. Its advanced turbosupercharged engines let it haul bombs and crews up to 30,000 feet—a lofty perch for war. Powered turrets and flexible machine guns gave gunners a fighting chance, covering every angle as flak and fighters closed in.

Even though the prototype took to the skies back in 1935, there were only a handful of B-17s on hand when the U.S. entered the war in ‘41. That changed in a hurry: Boeing, Lockheed-Vega, and Douglas ramped up production, turning out thousands of Flying Fortresses.

The B-17F came first, fast and formidable, leading the charge in the early days of the bombing campaign. Later, the B-17G rolled off the lines, sporting a nose turret that made it even tougher in a head-on fight. By war’s end in May 1945, over 12,700 B-17s had been built, each one a testament to American industry and the courage of those who flew them.

TECHNICAL NOTES:

Crew: 10

Armament: Up to thirteen .50-cal machine guns and 8,000 lbs of bombs

Engines: Four 1,200 hp Wright R-1820-97 turbosupercharged radials

Maximum speed: 325 mph

Range: 2,800 miles

Combat radius: 600+ miles

Maximum ceiling: 37,500 ft

Empty weight: 35,728 lbs

Maximum gross weight: 48,720 lbs

Memphis Belle: An Enduring Call Sign for a Screen Icon

The Memphis Belle’s legend endures because it embodies not just the might of a B-17F Flying Fortress, but the raw survival, sacrifice, and humanity at the heart of World War II’s air war.

This bomber and her crew pulled off what seemed impossible: completing 25 grueling missions over Nazi-occupied Europe and making it home, when so many didn’t.

Braving relentless flak, enemy fighters, and the freezing, perilous altitudes, the Belle’s team became the first heavy bomber crew to finish their tour and fly back to the States, instantly turning them into symbols of hope and resilience.

The National Museum of the U.S. Air Force now calls the Belle and her crew timeless representatives of every man and woman who helped defeat Nazi Germany from the skies.

But the Memphis Belle’s journey didn’t end when the engines cooled. After combat, she toured America, rallying the home front and selling war bonds as a battered but unbroken icon.

Decades later, her story found new life in Hollywood’s “Memphis Belle,” introducing fresh eyes to the courage of young airmen facing one more dangerous mission.

Today, the real Belle sits proudly at the National Museum, more than just polished aluminum and rivets: a living memorial to the pilots, gunners, mechanics, and families forever changed by her legacy. She reminds us that planes can outgrow their blueprints and become vessels for a nation’s hopes, memories, and stories.

Each time we remember the Memphis Belle, we honor not just history’s machines, but the people whose lives they carried through war and into legend.

In Case You Missed It

What if the RAF had Tomcats? It almost happened:

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

Like what you’re reading? Stay in the loop by signing up below—it’s quick, easy, and always free.
This newsletter will always be free for everyone, but if you want to go further, support the mission, and unlock bonus content like the Midweek Sortie, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Your support keeps this flight crew flying—and I couldn’t do it without you.

– Tog

“In consultation with @SecWar, we will EXTEND the A-10 “Warthog” platform to 2030. This preserves combat power as the Defense Industrial Base works to increase combat aircraft production.”

—Office of the Secretary of the Air Force Twitter Post

Mission Briefing

The legendary A-10 Thunderbolt II, that iconic warbird with a bite, is set to keep soaring through American skies until at least 2030. That’s the latest word from the top brass—the Secretary of the Air Force himself confirming the Warthog’s saga isn’t over yet. Buckle up, because the story of this battle-hardened aviator is far from finished.

Warthog’s Service Life Extended Until 2030

Strap in and let me tell you a tale from the cockpit. The saga of the A-10 Thunderbolt II, a legend in its own right, takes another twist. The Air Force’s latest game plan keeps two squadrons of the Warthog flying high until 2030, with a third squadron holding the line until 2029. Just a few years ago, the brass wanted to ground the entire fleet by 2026, but Congress wasn’t having it. The old bird’s story, it seems, isn’t ready for a final chapter.

Now, there was talk once that these rugged airframes could be patched up and pushed on into the 2040s. But here’s the truth, as any aviator will tell you: you don’t keep warbirds in the fight without a steady stream of fresh pilots and maintainers.

With the last batch of A-10 drivers just having graduated, odds are stacked against keeping more than a squadron or two past 2030 unless the Air Force dusts off those support pipelines they’ve already mothballed.

According to Pentagon insider Brian Everstine, the units flying on till 2030 include Moody AFB’s frontline squadron and a stalwart reserve unit out at Whiteman AFB. Another squadron at Moody will keep the engines humming till 2029. These are the last chapters in a saga that’s seen the Warthog fly into more than its share of storms.

The critics have always been circling, pointing out the A-10’s vulnerabilities in a sky bristling with modern anti-aircraft threats. They say she’s too slow and too low for today’s dogfights.

But the Warthog’s adapted, picking up new tricks. Taking on drones, delivering precision strikes, and proving she can still put the fear into anyone on the wrong side of her cannon.

Take Operation Epic Fury: A-10s pounded Iran-backed militias in Iraq and Syria, letting stealthier jets handle the real hot zones. Word is, the Hog even tangled with Iranian forces directly, playing hero in a daring search-and-rescue for a downed F-15E pilot. One A-10 was lost, but the pilot punched out safely back over friendly turf.

And just when you thought the engineers were winding down, they rolled out a new refueling mod for the A-10, letting her gas up from hose-and-drogue tankers. That’s no small tweak, especially with the KC-46 still not cleared for Hog duty and the KC-135’s tricky mixed-fleet refueling.

So, ask yourself: would they have bothered with that if the Warthog’s days were numbered? Looks like there’s still some fight—and a few more stories—left in this old bird yet.

The Anatomy of the Warthog

The Warthog isn’t just a brute; she’s nimble, especially down low and slow, where it matters most. This beast can twist and turn at treetop level, hugging the ground while delivering pinpoint firepower exactly where the grunts need it.

She can hang out near the front lines for hours, ready to swoop in at a moment’s notice, and doesn’t mind roughing it. Give her a patch of dirt and she’ll land there, even with clouds barely a thousand feet overhead and visibility you could measure with a yardstick.

Loaded up with both smart bombs and old-school iron, the A-10C brings the rain wherever the fight is, clear skies or socked in, above or below the clouds, day or night.

Thanks to night vision goggles and a suite of next-gen tech, Warthog pilots can hunt in the dark and hit targets you can’t even see from the ground. The big bubble canopy gives you a panoramic view, while the titanium armor wrapped around the cockpit and vital systems means the pilot is sitting in a titanium bathtub—tough as nails and ready for trouble.

Take a hit? The A-10 shrugs off rounds up to 23mm—armor-piercing or high explosive, it doesn’t matter. If hydraulics go out, manual systems keep her flying. Even the fuel tanks are armored and self-sealing, so the Hog can take a beating and make it home in one piece.

The design’s smart, too. Lots of interchangeable parts, engines, landing gear, even vertical stabilizers can swap left to right, making repairs in the field a breeze.

The cockpit is a techie’s dream: comms, GPS, fire control, and a heads-up display that feeds the pilot everything from airspeed to weapons data. The LASTE system helps drop bombs exactly on target, while a full suite of countermeasures keeps missiles and flak at bay.

And then there’s the heart of the beast. The legendary 30mm GAU-8/A Gatling gun, spitting out nearly 4,000 rounds a minute, able to chew through tanks and anything else in its sights. Add in Mavericks, Sidewinders, and laser-guided bombs, and you’ve got a flying arsenal built for the toughest jobs in the sky.

The A-10’s Final Orbit Before Sunset

The A-10 Thunderbolt II’s extension to 2030 means the U.S. Air Force is buying time, combat mass, and close-air-support insurance while the defense industrial base struggles to produce enough newer aircraft fast enough.

The new plan reverses earlier expectations that the Warthog would be fully withdrawn by fiscal year 2029, keeping two squadrons to 2030 and another to 2029. Military Times adds that the retained force is expected to total 54 A-10s through 2029, then 36 aircraft in 2030.

For the U.S., this is a practical battlefield decision. The A-10 remains a rugged, low-altitude attack aircraft designed for close air support, with long loiter time, accurate weapons delivery, and the ability to hit ground and light maritime targets.

In current operations, it gives commanders a cheaper, available platform for lower-threat missions, freeing stealthier aircraft for more dangerous airspace. The recent use of A-10s in Operation Epic Fury, including missions tied to maritime operations in the Strait of Hormuz and combat search-and-rescue support, shows why the aircraft still has operational value.

For allies, the extension signals reassurance: American close-air-support capacity is not disappearing overnight. NATO, Middle East partners, and Indo-Pacific planners gain a little more breathing room while the U.S. transitions toward F-35s, drones, precision weapons, and future collaborative combat aircraft.

But this is not a resurrection. It is a controlled delay. The Warthog’s growl will remain on the flight line a little longer, setting up the next issue: what aircraft, crewed or uncrewed, finally inherits the close-air-support burden when the A-10’s last gun run ends?

This Week in Aviation History

On 16 May 1963, the roar of reentry echoing across the Pacific as aviator-astronaut Gordon Cooper splashes down, grinning behind his helmet visor. It’s the curtain call for Project Mercury, and Cooper, call sign Faith 7, just pulled off the longest American spaceflight to date: 22 orbits, 34 hours in the cosmic void.

He wasn’t just along for the ride; the man ran 11 science experiments, all while his ship started throwing curveballs. When the hardware faltered, Cooper coolly took the stick, flying Faith 7 home by hand like a true sky cowboy. That day, the legend of Mercury’s final flight was written across the heavens in contrails and courage.

When Faith 7 Mission Was Finally Completed

The sky buzzing with anticipation. L. Gordon Cooper, call sign Faith 7, is about to write his name in the stars as the last pilot of Project Mercury. He’s not just a passenger; Cooper is the tip of the spear, hand-picked in November ’62, with Alan Shepard riding shotgun as backup.

Originally tasked with 18 laps around the blue planet, NASA ups the ante to 22 after Walter Schirra’s triumphant run, transforming Cooper’s ride into a marathon through the heavens. That meant more cameras, more science, more sleepless hours for ground control, and a fresh test of what a single human could handle in orbit.

The launch isn’t without drama. Atlas rocket hiccups and a scrubbed attempt on May 14th keep everyone guessing. But on May 15th, Cooper’s Faith 7 finally blasts off from Cape Canaveral, slicing into the void. The first hours are smooth sailing. Cooper snaps photos of Earth, samples the oddball menu of space cuisine, and wrangles a suite of scientific experiments.

Everything from strobe-lit spheres to a tricky tethered Mylar balloon. Faith 7 even beams back the first TV images from an American spacecraft, grainy but historic, as Cooper quips that he’s flying a camera as much as a rocket.

But as any aviator knows, the skies can turn quick. On orbit 19, a phantom reentry signal flashes, then a short circuit knocks out the auto-control system. Carbon dioxide creeps up in the capsule.

Unfazed, Cooper flips to manual. No autopilot, just nerves of steel and years of training. He lines up Faith 7 by hand, times the retrorockets, and rides a blazing trail back through the atmosphere. Parachutes blossom on cue, and Cooper splashes down less than five miles from the waiting U.S.S. Kearsarge, a textbook recovery.

Faith 7’s voyage was more than a record-setter; it was proof that astronauts could push past the unknown, work the science, and steer themselves home when the chips were down.

Cooper’s cool under pressure and the mission’s success gave NASA the green light for the next big leap: Project Gemini, where the path to the Moon would be paved by rendezvous, docking, and even longer journeys. In the legend of the early space race, Faith 7’s flight is a high-flying tale of guts, grit, and a whole lot of faith.

What is Project Mercury?

Project Mercury, America’s first leap into the cosmos and the bedrock of NASA’s crewed adventures. The mission sounded simple: launch a human into orbit, see if they could thrive up there, and bring both astronaut and spacecraft home safely.

But that challenge was epic, so engineers worked fast, leaned on tried-and-true tech, and adapted everything from Atlas rockets to off-the-shelf gadgets. The Mercury capsule packed in a launch escape tower, manual controls, retrorockets, a reentry design tough enough for fire and fury, and the ability to splash down safely in the sea.

Mercury started with the big question: can an American survive and work in space? Alan Shepard answered with his suborbital flight; John Glenn proved orbital flight was possible.

Each mission stretched the limits. Longer stays, sharper control, new experiments, snapshots of Earth, and medical monitoring, all while boosting confidence in both the astronauts and their machines. Mercury wasn’t just about getting there; it was about learning how to operate in orbit when the stakes were sky-high.

The finale came in May 1963, when Gordon Cooper took Faith 7 for 22 orbits in 34 hours, the longest American spaceflight yet. He ran experiments, snapped photos, and when the automated systems failed, steered Faith 7 home by hand, cool as a test pilot on final approach.

NASA had planned 18 orbits, but after Schirra’s Sigma 7 mission, they extended it to 22, testing endurance, tracking, cameras, and human performance, laying groundwork for Gemini.

By the end, Project Mercury had turned spaceflight from a gutsy gamble into a skilled craft; readying NASA for the next era of exploration, where the Moon was waiting.

Legacy of Project Mercury: Faith 7

Project Mercury’s story found its grand finale in May 1963, when L. Gordon Cooper took Faith 7 for a ride that would seal its legacy. Mercury had started with a bold, dangerous question: could an American survive, function, and return from space?

By Cooper’s launch, NASA was done just proving survival—they were pushing the boundaries of endurance, spacecraft toughness, and the kind of quick thinking it takes to handle the unknown.

Faith 7 was where the astronaut truly became the pilot. Cooper orbited Earth 22 times in over 34 hours, setting a new American record. As the mission neared its end, automatic controls failed, but Cooper kept his cool. He eyeballed the horizon, crunched the numbers, and flew the spacecraft home by hand, splashing down almost perfectly beside the U.S.S. Kearsarge; a high-wire act turned masterclass in cockpit nerve.

Faith 7’s real legacy was confidence. NASA saw it could stretch the limits. Longer missions, trickier operations, and real trust in astronaut skill when the chips were down. That hard-earned confidence carried straight into Gemini, Apollo, and every mission since, where human grit and technology have to work side by side.

From Cooper’s hand-flown reentry to today’s lunar dreams, Faith 7 reminds us that the future of spaceflight depends as much on the courage in the cockpit as on the machines that get us there.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

Like what you’re reading? Stay in the loop by signing up below—it’s quick, easy, and always free.
This newsletter will always be free for everyone, but if you want to go further, support the mission, and unlock bonus content like the Midweek Sortie, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Your support keeps this flight crew flying—and I couldn’t do it without you.

– Tog

“Brevity and clarity are the heart of effective radio communications.”

—quote from Unusual Attitudes Segment of Monthly Safety Bulletin

Up here in the cockpit, the first voice you hear often isn’t even human. It’s the sharp snap of static, a clipped call sign breaking through the engine’s hum.

Instinctiv…

Read more

“By intentionally integrating the 747-8i platform now, we are doing more than bridging a gap; we are executing a strategic stand-up of a high-consequence fleet.”

—@SecAFOfficial Troy Meink

Mission Briefing

It’s 1 May 2026, and the U.S. Air Force takes to the skies with a big announcement. Their newest bird, the VC-25B Bridge (a Boeing 747 graciously gifted by Qatar) has just aced its transformation and flight tests, earning its wings as a stand-in Air Force One.

That’s the call sign reserved for the Commander-in-Chief’s ride. Now, the aircraft is getting suited up in a bold new paint job—classic red, white, and blue—ready to make its cinematic debut later this summer. Buckle up, the next chapter in presidential aviation is about to take flight.

‘Bridge’ Aircraft for New Air Force One Completes Testing

The sky over Texas shimmered with anticipation as a sleek, all-white aircraft took flight, its fresh livery masking a story of urgency and innovation. Fresh from L3Harris’ hangars in Waco, this wasn’t just any airplane. It was the Air Force’s answer to a ticking clock and a fleet growing long in the tooth.

Enter the VC-25 Bridge program, a mission forged from necessity and executed with the kind of focus you see in the movies when the stakes are sky-high. Think of it as the “get it done” squad: one person holding the reins, every player in the game laser-focused on a single goal; putting a new bird in the air, fast, to take the burden off the aging VC-25A jets.

General Dale White summed it up with cinematic clarity: when you give one leader clear authority and everyone rallies behind them, things move at a breakneck pace. “Deliver a bridge capability as soon as possible,” he said. No time for red tape, just results.

The backstory? The VC-25 Bridge, built on a 747-8i frame, is a stopgap hero, stepping in as the long-awaited VC-25B replacement program faces delay after delay. With Boeing’s timeline drifting past 2024 and maintenance for the old VC-25A fleet dragging out, the Air Force needed a fix, now.

February 2025 saw the launch of a dedicated task force. A full-court press, the kind that doesn’t wait for halftime. They pushed the Bridge program forward while also lighting a fire under Boeing, nudging the VC-25B schedule closer by a year, now aiming for 2028. By May, they’d welcomed a former Qatari jet into the fold, ready for its transformation.

Of course, turning requirements into reality is never easy. Shifting specs had slowed things down before, but this time the team zeroed in on the essentials: keep the President safe, secure, and connected, no matter what.

General Ken Wilsbach put it plainly: the mission is about resilience and reliability, whatever the world throws at them. And while the public speculates, the Air Force is keeping the details of the jet’s transformation under wraps. Letting the results do the talking as the story unfolds above our heads.

Features of the “Bridge”

The presidential air fleet is made up of two iconic Boeing 747-200Bs, bearing the tail numbers 28000 and 29000, officially known as VC-25s by the Air Force. Whenever the president steps aboard—on these or any Air Force plane—the world tunes in to the legendary radio call sign: “Air Force One.”

But these aren’t your standard jumbo jets. The VC-25s are packed with specialized electronics, advanced communications gear, their own baggage loader, built-in air-stairs at both ends, and even the ability to refuel midair. They are the true marvels of airborne engineering.

Inside, it’s a flying White House. The president has a private executive suite, complete with a stateroom, office, dressing room, and shower. A conference and dining room is ready for high-stakes meetings or family meals at 30,000 feet. There are secure spaces for staff, Secret Service agents, guests, and the press.

Two full galleys can serve up 100 meals at once, while six lavatories (including accessible ones) keep everyone comfortable. There’s even a medical suite on board, just in case.

General Characteristics
Primary Function: Presidential air transport
Contractor: Boeing Airplane Co.
Power Plant: Four General Electric CF6-80C2B1 jet engines
Thrust: 56,700 pounds, each engine
Length: 231 feet, 10 inches (70.7 meters)
Height: 63 feet, 5 inches (19.3 meters)
Wingspan: 195 feet, 8 inches (59.6 meters)
Speed: 630 miles per hour (Mach 0.92)
Ceiling: 45,100 feet (13,746 meters)
Maximum Takeoff Weight: 833,000 pounds (374,850 kilograms)
Range: 7,800 statute miles (6,800 nautical miles) (12,550 kilometers)
Crew: 30
Passengers: 71
Introduction Date: Dec. 8, 1990 (No. 28000); Dec. 23, 1990 (No. 29000)
Date Deployed: Sept. 6, 1990 (No. 28000); Mar. 26, 1991 (No. 29000)
Inventory: Active force, 2; ANG, 0; Reserve, 0

The Interim Jet Keeping Air Force One Mission-Ready

With the VC-25B “Bridge” aircraft wrapping up its modifications and flight testing, the United States is putting on a cinematic display of strategic foresight. Picture it: a gleaming, freshly painted 747-8, ready to take its place in the skies by summer 2026. Not just as a showpiece, but as a vital link in the chain of presidential mobility.

For the Presidential Airlift Group, this isn’t just a new ride; it’s a lifeline, a way to keep the gears of government turning at altitude while the long-awaited, permanent VC-25B replacements inch their way through delays and budget hurdles.

This moment is about more than swapping out an old jet for a new one. It’s about ensuring the president (and, by extension, the nation) has a secure, resilient flying command post, regardless of what the headlines say about defense procurement woes.

To America’s friends and rivals alike, the message is as clear as the contrail across a blue sky: the U.S. is committed to maintaining credible, flexible airlift for its highest office, even when the perfect solution is still years away.

There’s a bit of drama, too. The interim jet started life as a Qatari 747, a detail that adds an extra layer of political and security intrigue. But the takeaway here is simple: readiness can’t always wait for perfection. The Air Force has chosen action over delay, fielding an “in-between” aircraft to bridge the gap, because the business of leading a nation doesn’t pause for supply chain issues or shifting budgets.

As Air & Space Forces Magazine points out, this Bridge aircraft will serve only until the new VC-25Bs finally arrive. Still, it sets the stage for a new era in presidential aviation, one where adaptability and speed may matter just as much as the latest technology.

When even Air Force One needs a stopgap, it’s a sign that tomorrow’s aerial battlegrounds will be shaped as much by how fast you can adapt as by what you fly. In this high-stakes game, being ready—right now—might be the most powerful statement of all.

This Week in Aviation History

On 14 May 1973, America launched Skylab. It is their very first space station, riding atop the last mighty Saturn V. The Soviets had Salyut a couple of years earlier, but Skylab was bigger, bolder, and packed with gadgets for all kinds of cosmic science. Astronauts became both lab rats and explorers, studying how their bodies handled floating for weeks, gazing back at Earth, and peering into the sun’s secrets.

Even students got a ticket to the stars—well, their experiments did—making class projects a lot cooler than baking soda volcanoes. Three astronaut crews took turns calling Skylab home, some for nearly two months, carrying out a whopping 270 experiments against the backdrop of endless night and day.

The Launching of America’s First Space Station

Just a minute into flight, Houston’s flight controllers saw trouble brewing: Skylab’s micrometeoroid shield, meant to ward off space debris and protect against the Sun’s relentless heat, had deployed far too early.

As the rocket sliced through a cloud bank and thundered past the sound barrier, aerodynamic forces ripped the shield away, tearing and jamming one of the solar panels.

With the shield gone, the station’s belly was exposed to the Sun, and the lab’s main solar arrays were damaged. One stuck, the other torn right off from the force of retrorockets during the final stage separation.

Inside Mission Control, Flight Director Donald Puddy and his engineers faced a nail-biting dilemma: point Skylab toward the Sun for power but risk roasting the lab or turn away and freeze out their power supply.

After a tense day of calculations and coffee, the team found a delicate balance, buying precious time. But onboard temperatures soared, threatening to wreck sensitive equipment and make the station uninhabitable for the astronauts who were supposed to launch just a day later.

NASA delayed the crew’s flight, sending Pete Conrad, Paul Weitz, and Joe Kerwin back to Houston for an intense crash course in space repair. Engineers in Houston and Huntsville worked around the clock, improvising solutions to deploy the stuck solar panel and shade the exposed workshop.

Meanwhile, NASA chief James Fletcher launched an investigation into what went wrong. The board found the shield simply wasn’t built to survive the supersonic winds of launch, and that engineers had focused mostly on what would happen in the weightless calm of orbit, not the violent ride up.

Nobody had assigned a dedicated engineer to champion the shield’s design, and vital conversations between shield designers and aerodynamic experts never happened. Skylab’s near-disaster was a lesson in teamwork, adaptability, and the real-life drama that unfolds when humans dare to build castles in the sky.

Against the odds, a crew would soon fly uphill to save America’s battered space station, proving that the story of exploration is written not just by triumphs, but by how we respond to setbacks.

A Closer Look at the First Space Station

America’s first experimental space station, Skylab, was designed for long durations. Its objectives were twofold: To prove that humans could live and work in space for extended periods, and to expand our knowledge of solar astronomy well beyond Earth-based observations. The program was successful in all respects despite early mechanical difficulties.

Skylab made extensive use of Saturn and Apollo equipment. Through the use of a “dry” third stage of the Saturn V rocket, the station was completely outfitted as a workshop area before launch. Crews visited Skylab and returned to Earth in Apollo spacecraft.

Three, three-man crews occupied the Skylab workshop for a total of 171 days and 13 hours. It was the site of nearly 300 scientific and technical experiments, including medical experiments on humans’ adaptability to zero gravity, solar observations and detailed Earth resources experiments.

The Skylab complex consisted of four major components: the Orbital Workshop (OWS), the Airlock Module (AM), the Multiple Docking Adapter (MDA), and the Apollo Telescope Mount (ATM). The Apollo Command and Service Module transported crews to and from Skylab and remained attached to the station throughout a crew’s occupancy to serve as an emergency escape vehicle.

The OWS served as the main working, living, and sleeping compartment for the crews, and contained exercise equipment, a galley, and many of the scientific experiments for the life sciences studies.

Two large solar arrays on the OWS provided 12.4 kW of power to the station. The AM enabled astronauts to conduct spacewalks, while the MDA included a prime and backup docking port for the Apollo spacecraft and also housed the Earth Resources Experiment Package.

The ATM contained telescopes for solar observations and four solar arrays for additional power. Once in orbit, the complex weighed 170,000 pounds, by far the heaviest spacecraft at that time.

Skylab’s Lasting Legacy

Skylab’s story kicks off with disaster: a wounded station, battered and bruised, refusing to quit. Launched atop the mighty Saturn V, America’s first space station barely made it to orbit before calamity struck: a ripped-away meteoroid shield and a missing solar array. But here’s where legend takes flight.

Rather than throwing in the towel, NASA turned this near-miss into a masterclass in space survival, showing the world that astronauts could do more than ride rockets. They could roll up their sleeves, improvise, and fix what broke, 270 miles above the ground.

Skylab quickly became America’s first classroom in the sky. Over three missions, crews spent 171 days aboard, running almost 300 experiments: testing what happens to the human body in zero gravity, capturing the Sun’s secrets, and looking back at Earth with new eyes. NASA would later call Skylab the bedrock for the science that powers today’s International Space Station and tomorrow’s Moon and Mars adventures.

But Skylab’s most enduring legacy isn’t just the data it sent home. It’s what it proved about us. Humans could adapt, repair, work, sweat, and thrive in space for months at a stretch.

The lessons learned didn’t burn up when Skylab finally reentered Earth’s atmosphere in 1979. Instead, they live on, woven into the fabric of every space station and mission that followed. Skylab’s past keeps orbiting, high above, shaping the future of exploration.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

Like what you’re reading? Stay in the loop by signing up below—it’s quick, easy, and always free.
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– Tog

“Achieving this first flight underscores the strong partnership between the Navy and our industry partners.”

—Rear Adm. Tony Rossi

Mission Briefing

The first real-deal MQ-25 Stingray just soared into the skies for its maiden voyage—a major leap in the Navy’s quest to bring drone refueling to aircraft carriers. Picture this: a new era of aviation unfolds, with unmanned jets lining up to keep the action going at sea.

A Key Step Toward Carrier-based Unmanned Aerial Refueling

It’s a crisp spring morning at MidAmerica St. Louis Airport, and the future of carrier aviation is about to take flight. The U.S. Navy’s production model MQ-25 Stingray, a sleek, unmanned aerial refueling aircraft, revs up on the runway.

Nearly seven years after its predecessor, the T1 test asset, first kissed the clouds. On April 25, 2026, with anticipation thick in the air, the MQ-25 finally lifts off, trailed by a trusty Boeing TA-4J Skyhawk and a Navy UC-12M Huron, both playing the essential role of chase planes. It’s a cinematic moment: a new chapter for naval aviation, unfolding right before our eyes.

But getting here wasn’t just a matter of flipping a switch. The MQ-25’s first flight had been slated for late 2025, but, like any good adventure, there were a few plot twists. The maiden attempt on April 22 was aborted for reasons still under wraps.

Just another reminder that even cutting-edge tech has its dramatic pauses. Since January, Boeing and NAVAIR have been putting the aircraft through its paces with taxi trials. Those high and low-speed dashes down the tarmac where every system is poked, prodded, and verified. The MQ-25, sporting upgrades like a retractable EO/IR turret, has steadily moved from ground testing to taking on the skies.

The action isn’t slowing down, either. With this first flight in the logbook, the program now shifts into full-on flight test mode, with the Navy’s VX-23 and UX-24 squadrons teaming up to put the Stingray through its paces.

These units, seasoned in both manned and unmanned testing, will orchestrate a series of rigorous evaluations. Everything from system integration checks to new aerial refueling trials, ensuring the aircraft is truly carrier-ready.

All this feeds into the Navy’s vision of achieving Initial Operational Capability by fiscal year 2027, with nine Stingrays set to blaze the trail during testing. The lessons learned from the MQ-25’s journey—every engine start, aborted takeoff, and successful flight—are already shaping the next era of unmanned carrier aviation, where the sky’s the limit and the story’s just getting started.

Fueling the Fight: Inside the MQ-25 Stingray

Think of the MQ-25 as a two-part marvel: there’s the futuristic drone itself—the Air System—and the Unmanned Carrier Aviation Mission Control System, or UMCS, which acts as mission control for carrier launches, recoveries, and everything in between.

The Navy’s PMA-268 crew is at the helm, orchestrating both elements like seasoned conductors, making sure every piece fits just right for seamless carrier integration.

Right now, the MQ-25 is deep into flight testing, building on lessons from its trusty forebear, the T1 test jet. Back in 2019, the first T1 flight opened the door to a whirlwind of discoveries, helping engineers fine-tune systems and software for a fast-paced development cycle.

Boeing came on board in 2018 with a contract to build four engineering models, and by 2020, three more test aircraft were greenlit. The MQ-25 T1 didn’t just taxi around either. By summer 2021, it was already topping off Super Hornets, F-35Cs, and E-2Ds midair.

Then, in December 2021, the MQ-25 took its talents to the USS George H.W. Bush, proving unmanned flight ops are ready for the big stage. The MQ-25’s journey is already rewriting what’s possible for carrier aviation.

General Characteristics

Primary function: Aerial refueling

Contractor: Boeing

Propulsion: Rolls-Royce AE3700N

Length: 51.0 feet

Wingspan (wings spread): 75.0 feet

Wingspan (wings folded): 31.3 feet

Height (wings spread): 9.8 feet

Height (wings folded): 15.7 feet

The Stingray Effect: Extending the Carrier Air Wing’s Reach

For the U.S. Navy, the MQ-25 Stingray isn’t just a high-tech tanker drone. It’s the stealthy solution to one of carrier aviation’s most pressing headaches: how to reach farther, faster, and safer.

As threats like anti-ship missiles and advanced air defenses push carriers farther from shore, the MQ-25 steps in to extend the reach of the carrier air wing. By taking the refueling burden off crewed fighters, this drone lets the F/A-18 Super Hornets get back to doing what they do best—flying strike missions—while pushing the boundaries of how far Navy jets can go on a single hop.

But the Stingray’s impact goes beyond American decks. Wherever U.S. carriers sail; from the Indo-Pacific to the Mediterranean or the Red Sea. So goes the reach of America’s allies.

With the MQ-25 in play, allied air wings can fly farther and linger longer, making coalition carriers a tougher challenge for any adversary and a bigger reassurance for any partner.

Its maiden flight in April 2026 wasn’t just a milestone for the Navy; it was a hint that unmanned systems aren’t just sidekicks anymore. They’re taking center stage. The MQ-25 isn’t about replacing pilots; it’s about letting them fly farther and smarter. As the Stingray proves itself at sea, the real question becomes not if drones have a place on the carrier deck, but just how many roles they’ll take on next.

This Week in Aviation History

On a breezy day on 9 May 1962, the Sikorsky S-64 Skycrane took to the skies for its very first flight over Stratford, Connecticut. Picture this: an audacious machine, more powerful than its predecessor, swapping out the old piston engine for a sleek new turbine. The U.S. Army was so impressed, they snapped up six for testing and soon put in a hefty order for dozens more, dubbing them the CH-54A Tarhe and CH-54B. But the story didn’t end with the military. Sikorsky also crafted a handful of S-64Es and Fs for civilian use. The Skycrane’s debut was pure aviation cinema, marking the rise of a true heavy-lifting legend.

The Skycrane’s Maiden Flight

After the experimental S-60 flying crane proved its mettle, Sikorsky got the green light from the top brass to dream bigger, launching the development of the S-64 Skycrane. This new bird wasn’t just an upgrade. It was a leap, trading the old piston engines for powerful turbines and promising more muscle for heavy lifting.

The mission? Haul hefty cargo with speed and safety, thanks to its clever external load system. But Sikorsky’s team didn’t stop there; they designed a detachable pod slung underneath for moving troops or other internal loads, making the Skycrane even more versatile.

The S-64’s story kicked off with its maiden flight on May 9, 1962, a mere 13 months after Sikorsky’s board gave the go-ahead. By July, the prototype was already strutting its stuff at Fort Benning, Georgia, ready for Army evaluation. All funded straight out of Sikorsky’s pocket up to that point.

The Army was clearly impressed, purchasing six Skycranes for $13 million and giving them the military moniker CH-54A Tarhe. Four of these choppers would soon find themselves in Vietnam, flexing their muscle in the thick of the war. The Germans showed interest too, picking up a couple for testing, but eventually decided to stick with a different bird—the CH-53A, which had an internal cabin.

The Skycrane kept evolving. What began as the S-64A soon morphed, after the Army’s production order and a slew of upgrades (like wider rotor blades), into the CH-54A for the Army and the S-64E in Sikorsky’s books. Years down the line, as new missions emerged, the design evolved again into the CH-54B/S-64F. The Skycrane earned its FAA Type Certificate in July 1965, and by 1969, the beefed-up CH-54B model was rolling off the production line, cementing its legacy as a true heavy-lift legend in aviation history.

The Flying Workhorse That Redefined Heavy Lift

Imagine the S-64 Skycrane rolling out onto the tarmac. A machine that looked more like a flying crane than a traditional helicopter, thanks to its bold, minimalist design. Instead of a standard cabin, Sikorsky stripped things back to basics: just a sturdy “stick” fuselage with no frills, purpose-built for external cargo hauling.

Powering this beast were two roaring Pratt & Whitney JFTD-12 turbine engines, paired with an impressive 72-foot-wide rotor system borrowed from the S-56/S-60, but with some cinematic upgrades: a sixth blade and a beefier blade chord, giving it even more muscle in the sky.

Landing gear got a makeover, too. Gone was the old setup. The Skycrane sported tricycle gear with the nose wheel up front and main wheels behind, a smart tweak learned from the S-60 days to make ground maneuvering around heavy loads far easier.

A tail skid stood guard in case things got wild during nose-up landings. The cockpit setup was pure aviation theater: nestled below the main structure, it housed not just the usual pilot and copilot, but also a third, aft-facing pilot whose job was to command the ship when locking onto or releasing cargo. Add two mechanics to the mix—there for those long missions out in the wild—and you had a five-person crew ready for anything.

One quirk that set the Skycrane apart was its exposed dynamic system—no cowlings covered the guts above, since speed wasn’t the name of the game and easy maintenance trumped aerodynamics. The transmission had its own trick: a three-degree tilt to the left, keeping the chopper level while hovering over a payload, even if it meant the cockpit sat at a quirky angle during cruise.

The aft-facing cockpit was designed with precision in mind, ditching the old rotating seat from the S-60 in favor of a dedicated fly-by-wire station—a pioneering move in helicopter design. Pilots could switch between fine control via SAS servos or take full charge with trim servos connected to the front sticks, letting everyone in the cockpit know what was happening and step in if needed.

And for the grand finale: a 20,000-pound capacity cargo hoist, giving the Skycrane the muscle to raise and lower massive loads at a single point, all while hovering effortlessly in place. This was no ordinary helicopter. It was a flying workhorse, built for the heavy-lifting legends of the skies.

The Helicopter That Turned Lift Into an Art Form

The Sikorsky S-64 Skycrane carved out a legend much grander than its bare-bones silhouette might suggest. Debuting on May 9, 1962, this machine was a radical departure from tradition; a helicopter that ditched the classic fuselage in favor of a raw, exposed frame built purely for lifting. Sikorsky envisioned it as a heavy cargo lifter, built for swift and efficient external-load missions, a design that would go on to reshape how the Army thought about helicopters.

In Army hands, the CH-54 Tarhe proved that helicopters could do so much more than ferry troops or rescue the wounded. It became the go-to for hauling everything from vehicles and artillery to downed aircraft and massive bridge sections, all into rugged terrain where no runway could be found. Drawing on lessons from the earlier S-60, Sikorsky’s Skycrane became the backbone of heavy lifting as the H-54A/CH-54A.

But the Skycrane’s story didn’t end on the battlefield. Thanks to Erickson, it was reborn as the Air Crane, a civilian heavy lifter and firefighting hero, upgraded with modern avionics and improved range to stay relevant well into the twenty-first century.

What the Skycrane really taught the world is that you don’t need sleek looks or firepower to make history in the skies. All you need is a clear mission, sheer muscle, and the guts to stand out. From the S-64 to today’s high-tech support craft, aviation’s unsung heroes keep quietly carrying the future forward.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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– Tog

“The AH-64 Apache represents the backbone of the U.S. Army’s attack helicopter fleet.”

—Boeing

The cockpit is dark except for the glow of displays, the kind of green-lit world where terrain becomes data and danger appears as heat against the night. Ahead, somewhere beyond the canopy, a target hides behind distance, dust, and darkness.

Inside the AH-64 Apache, the crew does not simply fly toward the fight. They read it, sort it, and prepare to strike before the enemy fully understands what is coming.

Read more

Thank you to @SenTedBuddNC and @SenatorShaheen for introducing bipartisan legislation to support our Airmen & the future of American airpower.

—Office of the Secretary of the Air Force

Mission Briefing

With the Air Force doubling down on the F-15EX Eagle II, Senators Budd and Shaheen are rolling out a trio of bills to beef up America’s fighter lineup and keep top pilots in the cockpit. The next chapter in U.S. airpower is taxiing to the runway.

Eagles Rising: Senators Fuel the Next Flight Crew

Strap in, because the U.S. Air Force is dialing up the afterburners on its F-15EX Eagle II program, and the story’s only gaining altitude. With plans now calling for as many as 267 of these next-gen fighters, you’d think the sky was the limit. But if a squadron of senators gets its way, this is just the first mission in a much bigger campaign.

Not long after the Pentagon dropped a jaw-dropping $1.5 trillion budget request for 2027—the biggest in U.S. history—Senators Ted Budd (Republican, North Carolina) and Jeanne Shaheen (Democrat, New Hampshire) taxied onto the legislative runway.

As key players on the Senate Armed Services Committee, they’ve rolled out three new bills, all laser-focused on making sure American air dominance isn’t just a legend of the past but the headline act of tomorrow’s fight.

Front and center is the Airpower Acceleration Act, a bill that aims to etch into law a surge in orders for both the stealthy F-35 Lightning II and the mighty F-15EX Eagle II. But here’s the kicker: this act doesn’t just lock in the current 267 jets on the books.

It pushes the throttle forward, aiming for a whopping 329 Eagles in the hangar by the 2030s. Why? To make sure the venerable F-15E Strike Eagle gets a worthy replacement and to guarantee the Air Force’s teeth stay sharp in the coming decades.

The act would put the Air Force on track to boost its combat-ready fighter fleet by 10% between 2030 and 2035, totaling at least 1,369 jets, and then crank that up to a 20% increase—1,558 fighters—from 2035 onward.

Normally, decisions about fleet size live with the Pentagon’s top brass, but Congress has been known to put its foot down. Just ask the Navy about its minimum of 11 aircraft carriers and 31 amphibious ships.

While the bill doesn’t spell out an exact number for F-35s, it’s no secret the Air Force has already signaled a hunger for more Lightnings in the 2027 shopping list. Meanwhile, defense insiders have long cheered the Eagle II’s place in the lineup, highlighting how it teams up with stealth birds like the F-22 and F-35 (and soon, the futuristic Boeing F-47) for unbeatable punch.

But it’s not just about hardware. The second bill in this legislative flight pack—the RETAIN Act—is all about keeping experienced pilots in the cockpit. It’s set to offer creative, non-monetary perks to make sure the Air Force’s best and brightest stick around for the long haul.

The next era of American airpower? It’s already rolling down the runway.

The Anatomy of the Eagles

The F-15EX Eagle II is the Air Force’s most advanced Eagle, built off the F-15QA and set to replace the old F-15C/D fleet. For the first time, this USAF fighter comes with digital fly-by-wire controls and a glass cockpit that feels straight out of a sci-fi flick, complete with touch screens.

It launches with top-tier tech, including APG-82 AESA radar, the Joint Helmet Mounted Cueing System, and the EPAWSS self-defense suite. All standards from day one.

The Eagle II also breaks new ground with Open Mission System software, making upgrades and new capabilities as simple as swapping apps. Tied together with the latest Suite 9.1, it shares cutting-edge software with legacy jets, keeping the whole flock ready for whatever the skies throw at them.

Let me give you a rundown of this bird

Contractors: Boeing; BAE Systems (EPAWSS); Raytheon (AESA).
First Flight: Feb. 2, 2021.
Delivered: Mar. 11, 2021-present.
IOC: July 2023 (originally planned).
Production: 104 (planned)
Inventory: Two.
Operator: ACC, AFMC. Planned: ANG.
Aircraft Location: Eglin AFB, Fla. Planned: Fresno ANGB, Calif.; Kadena AB, Japan; Klamath Falls (Kingsley Field); NAS JRB New Orleans, La.; and Portland Arpt., Ore.
Active Variant: •F-15EX. Future F-15C/D replacement based on the F-15QA developed for Qatar.
Dimensions: Span 42.8 ft, length 63.8 ft, height 18.5 ft.
Weight: Max T-O 81,000 lb.
Power Plant: Two General Electric F100-PW-229 turbofans with afterburners, each 29,000 lb thrust.
Performance: Speed Mach 2.5, range approx. 2,762 miles (air refuelable).
Ceiling: 60,000 ft.
Armament: One internally mounted M61A1 20 mm six-barrel cannon (500 rd); combination of up to 12 AIM-9 Sidewinders or AIM-120 AMRAAMs, or combination of up to 24 air-to-ground munitions.
Accommodation: Pilot and (optional) second aircrew member on ACES 5 zero/zero ejection seats.

More Fighters, Sharper Deterrence

For the U.S., this isn’t just another political dogfight in the halls of Congress. It’s a warning light blinking on the Air Force’s dashboard. Senators Ted Budd and Jeanne Shaheen are championing a trio of bills designed to supercharge America’s fighter fleet, green-light more F-15EX and F-35s, and keep veteran pilots in the cockpit as the world gets dicey.

The Airpower Acceleration Act would raise the bar on how many fighters the Air Force must keep ready for action, while companion bills aim to stop experienced aviators from hanging up their helmets just as global competition heats up.

For allies in NATO and the Indo-Pacific, the message rings loud and clear: American jets will still be the thunder overhead when the going gets tough. A bigger, modernized fighter force means more muscle to surge forward, show up where it matters, and seamlessly team up with partner nations across the globe.

The Air Force’s own budget pitch for FY2026 says staying ahead of China’s rising military power demands aggressive modernization. Think F-35As, F-15EXs, new tankers, stealth bombers, and next-gen munitions.

The F-15EX earns its keep not as the stealthy tip of the spear, but as the heavy hitter in the lineup. The missile-hauler backing up the stealth fighters, lugging big payloads into the fight. Air & Space Forces Magazine reports the Air Force could grow its Eagle II fleet to 267, giving old warbirds a rest and slowing down the aging of the force.

But here’s the kicker: buying jets is only half the battle. The real challenge will be making sure ammo stockpiles, pilot training, base defenses, and maintenance crews are ready to keep those birds flying when the sky turns hostile.

This Week in Aviation History

The Battle of the Coral Sea marked the first time the U.S. managed to halt Japan’s unstoppable push across the Pacific after Pearl Harbor. In a groundbreaking twist, it was also the first naval showdown where enemy ships never laid eyes on each other—every shot was called in from afar. The action wrapped up on 8 May 1942, setting a new chapter in naval warfare.

The Battle of the Coral Sea

In early 1942, as the Pacific war heated up, Japan mapped out a bold plan to push their forces south and southeast from the Bismarck Archipelago and the Solomons. Their immediate targets were Tulagi in the Solomons and Port Moresby in New Guinea. They are the key stepping stones for further expansion.

Alongside these, the Japanese eyed the phosphate-rich islands of Nauru and Ocean (Banaba) in the Gilberts chain, vital for fueling their agriculture back home.

Between 29 April and 4 May, Japanese troops stormed and occupied Tulagi, but not without a price: aircraft from the USS Yorktown swooped in, catching several Japanese warships off guard and sending them to the bottom.

With the element of surprise lost, the Japanese Carrier Strike Force surged toward the Coral Sea, eager to track down and wipe out the Allied fleet. What followed, starting on May 7, was a dramatic two-day exchange of airstrikes. Fleets launching waves of aircraft at each other, sight unseen, in a brand-new style of naval combat.

The resulting clashes saw U.S. Navy task forces, reinforced by Australian cruisers, lock horns with the Japanese carriers and their escorts. Tactically, the Japanese came out ahead: they sank the carrier USS Lexington, the destroyer USS Sims, and the oiler USS Neosho, and damaged the Yorktown.

The Allies, meanwhile, managed to sink only the light carrier Shoho and put a hurt on the fleet carrier Shokaku. Forced to withdraw, the Allied ships left the battlefield to the Japanese. But battered Japanese air groups were in no shape for further conquest, and Port Moresby remained out of their grasp.

Crucially, Shokaku was so badly damaged she couldn’t join the next major operation at Midway. Her sister carrier Zuikaku, short on planes and pilots after the heavy fighting, also sat out. When the smoke cleared, Coral Sea had reduced the number of Japanese carriers available for Midway by a third: a pivotal edge for the Allies in the coming fight.

Navy historian Samuel Eliot Morison called it “the Battle of Errors,” with both sides learning on the fly in this new era of carrier warfare. But when the dust settled, it was the Japanese who failed to capitalize on their opportunities.

Amid the chaos, four Medals of Honor were awarded for extraordinary heroism, honoring men from Yorktown, Lexington, and Neosho: some posthumously, all for bravery in the heat of battle.

Inside the Killer Dauntless

Affectionately dubbed the “Slow, But Deadly” by the Marines who flew and cared for it, the Douglas SBD Dauntless dive bomber stood as the Marine Corps’ top-of-the-line bomber when World War II erupted.

Though Dauntless production wrapped up in 1944 with about 5,400 rolling out of the factory, this plucky warbird earned a rare distinction—fighting from the first shots to the final days of WWII, and serving faithfully with the USMC throughout the entire conflict.

Besides the Battle of the Coral Sea, the SBD’s legend was cemented at the Battle of Midway in June 1942, when U.S. Navy Dauntless squadrons dealt a staggering blow to the Japanese fleet, sinking four enemy carriers in just a few hours and turning the tide of the Pacific war.

Let us take a closer look at the Dauntless

SPECIFICATIONS

• Wingspan: 41’ 6”

• Length: 32’ 8”

• Gross Weight: 10,400 lbs.

• Power Plant: Wright C Clone R-1820-52 9 cylinder, Radial Air Cooled, 1000HP

• Armament: 2 .5 cal. Machine guns, 2 .3 cal. Machine guns, 1,200 lbs. of bombs

PERFORMANCE

• Max Speed: 250 mph

• Range: 1,345 miles

• Service Ceiling: 27,100 ft.

• Crew: 2

The Battle of the Coral Sea’s Legacy

The Battle of the Coral Sea rewrote the rulebook for naval warfare in the Pacific. Fought from May 4 to 8, 1942, this clash halted Japan’s drive toward Port Moresby. It is a move that could have put Australia in the crosshairs and stretched Japanese reach even further into the South Pacific.

It came at a steep price: the U.S. lost the carrier Lexington, Yorktown took a beating, and both sides suffered heavy aircraft losses. But the bigger story was this: for the first time in the Pacific War, Japanese expansion was stopped dead in its tracks.

Coral Sea was also a watershed moment for naval combat itself. For the first time, fleets never fired a shot at each other directly. Aircraft did the heavy lifting, launching strikes over the horizon while their ships remained distant sentinels.

Carrier decks, packed with bombers and torpedo planes, became the new center of gravity, and the crews who launched into the unknown became the battle’s true heroes.

That’s why Coral Sea’s echoes still roll through history. Back then, the big question was whether Allied air and sea power could find and stop an enemy before they reached their target.

Today, in the Indo-Pacific, that same challenge remains. Only now, it’s jets, drones, and digital eyes picking up the slack once handled by the likes of Yorktown and Lexington. The real legacy of Coral Sea? The hard-won lesson that whoever commands the skies can shape the fate of the seas and sometimes, the fate of nations.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

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“With the F-47, we are not just building another fighter – we are shaping the future of warfare and putting our enemies on notice. This platform will be the most advanced, lethal, and adaptable fighter ever developed – designed to outpace, outmaneuver, and outmatch any adversary that dares to challenge our brave Airmen.”

—Chief of Staff of the Air Force Gen. David Allvin

Mission Briefing

The race for the sixth-generation fighter jet isn’t about bragging rights, it’s about tackling a real and relentless challenge. Modern battlefields are a jungle of radars, long-range missiles, jamming, cyber threats, drones, and hypersonic weapons, making survival tougher for even the most cutting-edge jets.

That’s why tomorrow’s fighter isn’t just a lone wolf anymore. It’s transforming into the beating heart of a sprawling air combat system. Teaming up with escort drones, scattered sensors, encrypted data links, electronic warfare, and a torrent of data crunching, all working together to outfox whatever the skies throw its way.

A Response to Concrete Military Problem

Let’s set the record straight: there’s no official playbook that spells out exactly what makes a fighter jet “sixth-generation.” The label is really shorthand for a new breed of aircraft that leap past the F-22s, F-35s, J-20s, and Su-57s of today.

It’s not just about better stealth—it’s about reinventing the very rhythm of air combat. These jets aren’t just flying sensors and missile trucks anymore; they’re becoming orchestrators, commanding swarms of drones, blending data from every corner of the battlespace, jamming enemy signals, and outmaneuvering threats in a storm of electronic warfare.

To talk about the next-gen fighter is to stop thinking of it as a lone wolf. Whether it’s American, British, Japanese, or European programs, they all use different jargon—collaborative combat, combat cloud, advanced human-machine teaming—but they’re singing the same tune: the pilot can’t do it all alone when the sky fills with threats.

Now, aviators need remote sensors, algorithmic copilots, and robotic wingmen to keep up.

Right now, the U.S. is out in front. In March 2025, the Air Force handed Boeing the keys to the Next Generation Air Dominance Platform—now called the F-47—officially declaring it the first sixth-gen fighter.

But the real mission isn’t just to outdo the F-22; it’s about building a force where piloted jets and smart drones fight together, with plans for more than 185 crewed aircraft and their robotic partners.

Hot on America’s heels is Team GCAP, a coalition of the UK, Italy, and Japan, targeting service entry around 2035 (though Japan has voiced doubts about the timeline). The trio has set up a joint government group and, as of June 2025, launched Edgewing, the industrial team driving development.

Their vision? A fighter at the heart of a network of sensors, secure links, and unmanned effectors. Meanwhile, France, Germany, and Spain are chasing their own dream with the SCAF/FCAS program, aiming for a holistic air combat system by 2040. But political friction and industrial rivalries—especially between Dassault and Airbus—have clouded its future, leaving the program’s fate uncertain as of late 2025.

Reasons Behind Such Development

When we talk about stealth in the world of sixth-generation fighters, we’re not just dusting off an old playbook. Gone are the days when hiding from radar by minimizing your jet’s profile was enough.

Now, stealth is a multi-layered art: it’s about masking not only radar signatures, but also managing your heat trail, scrambling your electromagnetic footprint, and staying under the radar—literally and figuratively—even while your jet is buzzing with sensors and streaming data.

The paradox of tomorrow’s jet is that it needs to be hyper-connected, sharing information across the battlespace, without becoming so noisy that it paints a target on its own back. In the 2030s, stealth is a balancing act: comprehensive, relentless, and far more demanding than ever before.

But the real sensory overload comes from the second frontier: sensors and data fusion. The challenge isn’t a shortage of intel, but the flood of it. A sixth-gen pilot faces a torrent of information pouring in from radar systems, electronic warfare suites, infrared detectors, drones, satellites, wingmen, and command posts.

It’s no longer humanly possible to keep up. That’s why manufacturers are racing to build adaptive cockpits, digital copilots, and immersive displays. Cockpits where algorithms don’t just shout warnings, but actually help the pilot make sense of chaos, suggesting the right move at the right moment. Airbus, for instance, imagines a flight deck where the pilot can delegate whole tasks to a drone with just a glance or a gesture, all within a futuristic, augmented-reality interface.

Third, there’s the invisible war raging across the electromagnetic spectrum. In a real fight between heavyweights, comms will get jammed, spoofed, or blacked out entirely. So tomorrow’s jet must be able to survive and fight in the dark, leveraging electronic warfare and robust connectivity to stay ahead. As recent war reports make clear, dominance here isn’t just a bonus. It’s a lifeline.

Finally, the crown jewel: collaborative combat. Loyal wingmen—unmanned escort drones—aren’t here to steal the show from human pilots, but to have their backs. These robotic partners can scout ahead, draw fire, jam enemy radars, launch munitions, or absorb risks too great for any aviator.

The US Air Force is already flying these collaborative combat aircraft, aiming to protect pilots and supercharge the entire force by blending manned and unmanned power in the sky.

Network Supremacy: Redefining Airpower for the Sixth-Generation Battlespace

The real fascination with sixth-generation fighters is less about shiny new jets and more about surviving—and dominating—a battlespace that’s merciless to anything slow, short-legged, or flying solo.

The next breed of combat aircraft won’t just sneak through radar; they’ll be deeply networked and ready to command swarms of drones, never fighting alone. That vision is at the heart of the U.S. Air Force’s F-47 and the broader NGAD program: a long-range, stealthy, and modular machine designed to be the conductor of an entire high-tech orchestra, with collaborative drones as its wingmen.

For America, air superiority is shifting from the old “top gun wins” mindset to a new era where the best network—one that adapts and learns on the fly—wins the day.

The Air Force is making it clear to friends and rivals alike: deterrence in the future won’t rest on just having the flashiest piloted jets, but on the ability to blend sensors, hit targets from afar, and seamlessly mesh manned and unmanned teams, especially in the fiercely contested skies of the Indo-Pacific or Europe, where distance and electronic warfare make old strategies risky.

Allies are picking up the signal, but it’s a double-edged call. Initiatives like GCAP show a real hunger among partners for shared next-gen capabilities and a robust defense-industrial backbone by the 2030s.

Yet the struggles of FCAS are a reminder: it’s not just about aerodynamics or cutting-edge tech; politics, industrial teamwork, and digital integration are just as crucial. In the end, the future of allied airpower may depend less on any single super-jet and more on whether coalitions can actually stitch together truly interoperable, adaptable combat networks; on time and under pressure.

What comes next may matter even more than the aircraft itself: the real contest could be over who fields the most resilient combat cloud, the smartest drone partners, and the industrial base strong enough to keep upgrading them before the next crisis arrives.

This Week in Aviation History

When Commander Task Force 76 got the green light for Operation Frequent Wind, it wasn’t just another mission. It was the final, urgent call to evacuate Americans and South Vietnamese whose loyalty had put them at risk. As the helicopters lifted off and the last refugees cleared the rooftops, the Vietnamese Navy set course for safer shores in the Philippines and Guam under Operation New Life. With that, the long chapter of U.S. Navy involvement in Vietnam quietly closed after a quarter-century of struggle and sacrifice. The last flights marked not just the end of an operation, but the final bow of America’s naval commitment to a nation fighting for its very survival.

Operation Frequent Wind

More than 58,000 names are etched into the polished black granite of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. Stand in that quiet, reflective space long enough and the wall itself seems to change.

It stops being cold stone and starts to feel like you’re walking an empty flight line after the day’s last sortie. Every name a call sign, a crew chief, a wingman, a story that ended mid-mission but never really faded away. And near the close of that long, bitter conflict, the final chapter unfolded fast, hot, and utterly chaotic above the rooftops of Saigon.

The last Americans to fall in Vietnam were Marines: Cpl. Charles McMahon Jr. and Lance Cpl. Darwin Judge, killed by a rocket attack at Tan Son Nhut Air Base on April 29, 1975, less than 24 hours before Saigon itself fell.

That same desperate window claimed two more Marines in the air—Capt. Craig Nystul and 1st Lt. Michael Shea—when their CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter plunged into the South China Sea, just short of recovering aboard USS Hancock. Even as the end drew near, the war was still exacting its price in blood and saltwater.

By then, America’s big ground war was already history. The combat troops had pulled out years before, but South Vietnam was unraveling faster than anyone in Washington dared believe.

What remained was a mad scramble: evacuate Americans, get vulnerable Vietnamese and foreign nationals out, and do it before the final curtain dropped. That became Operation Frequent Wind—the biggest helicopter evacuation ever seen—playing out over April 29 and 30, 1975.

The signal to go didn’t come as a bugle or a shouted command. Instead, it drifted through the airwaves: American Forces Radio played Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas,” followed by a weather forecast for a blistering 105 degrees.

It was a code, absurd and surreal: a Christmas song in the humid heat of Saigon spring. But if you knew, you knew: time to move, time to run for your extraction point. The city was on the edge, with no tickets, no guarantees, and no time to spare.

Evacuations had been underway for weeks by then. Fixed-wing flights had already carried out tens of thousands through Tan Son Nhut, but on April 28 enemy fire made the airport too dangerous for anything with wings.

The job now belonged to the helicopters: whirring rotors, rooftop landings, flight decks stacked with refugees, and nerves stretched to the breaking point.

Out at sea, near Vung Tau, an armada waited: carriers, amphibs, destroyers, support ships: a floating lifeline in the South China Sea, thrown out to catch those fleeing the collapse.

Fighters flew overhead, scanning for threats. Marine, Air Force, and South Vietnamese choppers flew round after round, plucking evacuees from rooftops and hustling them out to the ships. The tempo was manic. Decks jammed with helicopters, some shoved overboard to make room for more, others ditched in the sea so the next bird could land. Sentiment had no place here. Every minute saved could mean another life.

And then came one of the war’s defining images. At 7:53 a.m. on April 30, a Marine CH-46 lifted the last embassy guards from the roof of the U.S. Embassy. Master Sgt. Juan Valdez, who had served an earlier tour in Vietnam, was the last to climb aboard: closing the door on a war he had seen from beginning to end. That detail lingers: one man, two tours, the last witness to a nation’s long goodbye.

Still, not everyone made it out. The window was too narrow, the crowds too thick. Some fled later by boat, picked up at sea; others were left behind. In the end, nearly 140,000 evacuees made it to the United States.

Forty-nine Americans stayed behind or were unaccounted for. Aircraft from Australia, Indonesia, Iran, Poland, Britain, France, and more joined the frantic rescue. Each nation scrambling to pull its people clear.

Even as choppers roared away from Saigon, officials in Washington were still struggling to grasp how quickly it had all unraveled. They’d expected danger, not sudden collapse. Saigon didn’t fade gently. It shattered.

And so the war’s final act was written not with parades or speeches, but with overloaded helicopters, a Christmas song on the radio, and a last desperate liftoff into the hazy morning sky.

The Task Force 76: The Armada at the Edge of Chaos

Admiral Maurice F. Weisner, commander of the Pacific Fleet, gave the order: the 7th Fleet’s amphibious task force—Task Force 76—was to steam into position, thirty miles off Vietnam’s southern tip, and stand by for the signal to begin evacuations.

Rear Admiral Donald Whitmire helmed the operation from the USS Blue Ridge, orchestrating a powerful flotilla. Alongside the carriers Midway, Hancock, and Okinawa, thirteen amphibious ships stood ready, each with helipads and room to shelter hundreds of refugees. Onboard those ships, 6,000 Marines from the 9th Marine Amphibious Brigade, led by Brigadier General Richard Carey, were prepped to storm ashore if the situation on land turned catastrophic.

In the wings, carriers Coral Sea and Enterprise prowled nearby, ready to unleash combat air support at a moment’s notice, all shielded by a perimeter of destroyers and frigates.

Altogether, this Navy–Marine Corps team—the muscle behind Operation Frequent Wind. Counted over 29,400 sailors and 6,000 Marines, a formidable force poised on the edge of chaos in the South China Sea.

But as this armada moved into position, trouble brewed at the U.S. Embassy in Saigon. Ambassador Graham Martin, seasoned and stubborn, refused to prepare for evacuation. As the President’s man on the ground, Martin outranked even the admirals; his word was law.

At 64, Martin clung to the hope that South Vietnam’s ARVN forces could hold the line or that a last-minute peace deal could be brokered with Hanoi. He feared that any hint of evacuation would ignite panic in the city. Martin’s resistance ran deep. He wouldn’t even allow the embassy’s great tamarind tree to be cut down to clear a landing zone for helicopters.

The Operation Frequent Wind’s Legacy

Operation Frequent Wind’s legacy lives on in two worlds: the realm of memory and the pages of military doctrine. For many, it’s the haunting, cinematic finale of America’s long ordeal in Vietnam; the desperate helicopter lifts, the embassy rooftop, the chaos in Saigon’s streets.

But for strategists and planners, it’s also a hard-won lesson in what happens when airpower, sea power, and political choices all collide as the ground shifts beneath your boots. In just forty-eight hours, U.S. forces airlifted 1,373 Americans and 5,595 Vietnamese and third-country nationals to safety, marking the largest helicopter evacuation in history and the closing chapter of America’s military presence in Vietnam.

The operation’s ties to the past are clear. Frequent Wind marked the end of more than twenty years of American involvement, and its frantic pace spotlighted the danger of misjudging how quickly an ally can fall once the tide turns. Even seasoned U.S. leaders underestimated how fast the North Vietnamese advance would unravel the South’s defenses.

Yet Frequent Wind’s lessons reach forward, too. It became the benchmark for noncombatant evacuations, interservice teamwork, and embassy crisis planning. It drove home a painful truth: sometimes, the most important fight comes not on the battlefield, but in the scramble to get your people out when the plan falls apart. In those moments, it’s the ships offshore, the choppers overhead, and the discipline of crews under pressure that form the last lifeline between disaster and deliverance.

That’s why Frequent Wind still echoes today. Not just as the end of a war, but as a warning for every planner that the hardest mission might just be the last one out.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

Like what you’re reading? Stay in the loop by signing up below—it’s quick, easy, and always free.
This newsletter will always be free for everyone, but if you want to go further, support the mission, and unlock bonus content like the Midweek Sortie, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
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– Tog

‘I can cure your men of walking off the program. Let’s put on the girls.’

—Jacqueline Cochran

Maps rustled, chairs scraped, and the room carried that wartime mix of urgency and doubt. Somewhere between the briefing table and the flight line, Jacqueline Cochran pressed an argument that still sounded …

Read more

“Operators are putting Collaborative Combat Aircraft to work faster—developing tactics through early experimentation & shaping how they’ll be used in the future fight.”

—U.S. Air Force Twitter Post

Mission Briefing

Under the wide California sky, the U.S. Air Force and Anduril kicked off the maiden tests of the trailblazing YFQ-44A at Edwards Air Force Base, where legends are born. In true aviator spirit, operators are taking the stick early, steering this futuristic bird through real-world trials and shaping the playbook as they go. It’s all part of the Air Force’s bold new approach—less red tape, more throttle—to fast-track game-changing tech straight into the hands of those who fly and fight.

What is Happening at the Edwards Air Base?

Under the endless blue canopy of Southern California, the YFQ-44A’s latest chapter unfolded: a cinematic tale of grit, innovation, and hands-on flying. Air Force personnel from the Experimental Operations Unit (EOU) and the 412th Test Wing weren’t just running drills; they were rewriting the rulebook for operating Collaborative Combat Aircraft (CCA) in the kind of hostile environments where every second counts.

The operation began with the YFQ-44A departing Anduril’s test site—most likely the Southern California Logistics Airport in Victorville, the same ground where it first touched the sky—and making its way to the legendary runways of Edwards Air Force Base.

Once there, EOU airmen took charge of the entire show: from meticulous pre- and post-flight checks to arming and disarming the bird, to commanding its every move during daily sorties. It was the operators, not engineers or test pilots, in the cockpit: real warfighters putting steel to the test.

Lt. Col. Matthew Jensen, commander of the EOU, summed it up: “Every sortie flown was done with a warfighter kicking the tires and controlling the prototypes.” This wasn’t a sterile lab exercise or a carefully staged display.

It was boots on the tarmac, sweat on brows, and a relentless drive to “learn by doing,” moving at a pace and risk level that had the blessing of the Air Force’s senior leadership. The mission: make sure CCAs are battle-ready for the toughest arenas, not just on paper but out in the wild, where it matters most.

Anduril’s secret weapon? Not a sprawling control center or racks of hardware, but a ruggedized Menace-T laptop—fit for a Hollywood close-up—acting as the heart of ground ops.

With just this device and a couple of trusty Pelican cases, the team uploaded mission plans, triggered autonomous taxi and takeoff, managed the bird in flight, and downloaded data for post-mission analysis.

The exercise proved just how lean operations could be, simulating a forward operating base with almost nothing but grit and tech. Even the maintainers, trained up in mere days, were testament to the system’s simplicity and adaptability.

But this wasn’t just about flying; it was about forging the playbook for the future. The EOU is now hammering out the tactics, techniques, and procedures that will embed CCAs as a frontline force, ready for any conflict.

This all happened thanks to a rare fusion of command muscle: Air Combat Command and Air Force Materiel Command joined forces, fast-tracking the experiment and letting real operators shape the future at breakneck speed.

Col. Timothy Helfrich, who oversees acquisition for fighters and advanced aircraft, nailed the spirit: “An 85% solution in the hands of a warfighter today beats a perfect one that never arrives.” It’s innovation on afterburner, where the sky’s not even the limit.

The EOU and the Features of the YFQ-44

June 2025, Nellis Air Force Base—cue the buzz of anticipation as the Experimental Operations Unit (EOU) officially takes flight, charged with fast-tracking the era of Collaborative Combat Aircraft.

Once just a detachment under Eglin’s 53rd Wing, the EOU now stands tall as a full-fledged squadron, a move the Air Force calls a “significant step forward” toward fielding real operational CCAs before the decade is out.

The timing couldn’t be more cinematic: Beale AFB in California is tapped to host the first CCA Aircraft Readiness Unit, while, back at Nellis, the ground shakes as the YFQ-42A and YFQ-44A fire up for their first ground tests in May 2025.

The EOU’s mission? Be the crucible where man and machine learn to fly as one. It’s not just about theory.

This unit will put human-machine teaming to the test in gritty, live-fly scenarios, making sure the tactics and techniques dreamed up in simulators actually hold water where it counts. Every sortie is a chance to refine what works, toss out what doesn’t, and push the edge of what’s possible.

And at the pointy end of this revolution is the YFQ-44A Fury—a jet built for high-G showdowns, brushing up against Mach 1, its modular bay ready to host radar, IRST, or electronic warfare gadgets as the mission demands.

With a pair of AIM-120 AMRAAMs on its wings and the GA-ASI YFQ-42 flying as its partner, the Fury leads a new breed of unmanned wingmen, rewriting the playbook for air combat and locking in the future of the fight.

Writing the Loyal Wingman Playbook

This isn’t just another test flight. It’s a turning point for the U.S. and its allies. The Air Force is no longer treating Collaborative Combat Aircraft as a “someday” vision, but as a real capability, shaped in the here and now by the very operators who may one day fly into combat with these machines.

During the April 2026 exercise at Edwards Air Force Base, the YFQ-44A took flight with the Experimental Operations Unit, laying down the first building blocks for the tactics and procedures that will make CCAs more than just prototypes. They’ll be warfighters’ trusted partners in the battlespace.

The EOU’s mission is clear: get these next-gen aircraft into the field before the decade is out, and do it with a lean, fast-paced model that puts operators and rapid deployment front and center.

For the U.S., this means a future air force that can stretch its wings, spread risk, and keep humans safer by teaming pilots with tough, cost-effective uncrewed wingmen.

For American allies, it’s a sign that the playbook of air warfare is changing—human-machine teams, distributed operations, and quicker adaptation are becoming the new normal.

What matters most isn’t just the tech, but that the Air Force is learning to fight with it now, while the playbook is still being written.

This Week in Aviation History

On 26 April 1948, out in the sun-bleached expanse of Southern California’s Muroc Field—today’s Edwards Air Force Base—test pilot George Welch took the prototype XP-86 Sabre on a legendary flight. He pointed the nose down at a gutsy 40-degree dive and blasted through the Sound Barrier, carving his place in history. That moment marked the Sabre as only the second American aircraft to ever go supersonic, chasing the thunder of those who came before.

Breaking the Sound Barrier

In the annals of high-speed flight, the story of George Welch and the XP-86 Sabre reads like something straight out of a Hollywood script.

According to Albert W. Blackburn, a fellow test pilot and author of “Aces Wild: The Race For Mach 1,” Welch may have been the true trailblazer, pushing the prototype Sabre past the sound barrier as early as its first flight on October 1, 1947, well before Chuck Yeager’s historic X-1 run.

Blackburn claims Welch broke Mach 1 not just once, but three times before Yeager’s red-letter day, citing radar runs recording Mach 1.02 and 1.04 on 13 November 1947. Yet, the world never heard a whisper; allegedly because Secretary of the Air Force W. Stuart Symington, Jr. ordered it all kept under wraps.

The legend might have stayed buried if not for a slip across the Atlantic. During a live radio interview, British test pilot Wing Commander “Bee” Beamont casually revealed he’d smashed the sound barrier in the second XP-86 Sabre prototype.

With the cat out of the bag, the U.S. Air Force finally acknowledged Welch’s feat—though they officially dated it to 26 April 1948.

Back in those early days, not long after the XP-86’s maiden lift-off, Welch dropped by the office of aerodynamicist Edward J. Horkey at North American’s Inglewood plant.

There, he recounted his flight with a wry grin: a climb to 35,000 feet, a steep power dive, and an airspeed indicator that seemed frozen—until, like a scene out of a suspense flick, it suddenly snapped to 410 knots. The jet felt solid, with nothing but a slight roll to the left.

Horkey’s verdict: Welch was brushing up against “Mach effects”—a phenomenon that would become legendary as the “Mach jump,” with Welch its first chronicler.

The XP-86 Sabre would go on to become the stuff of legend, dominating the skies of the Korean War and rolling off production lines nearly 10,000 strong across the U.S., Canada, Australia, and Japan.

Welch himself was already a legend, having been recommended for the Medal of Honor for his daring as a P-40 pilot at Pearl Harbor. Tragically, he lost his life doing what he loved—testing the F-100A Super Sabre—on October 12, 1954. For aviators everywhere, his story is a testament to grit, speed, and the relentless pursuit of the unknown.

A Closer Look at the Sabre

Let me take you back to the golden age of flight, where the sky was a wild frontier and every new jet was a leap into the unknown. Picture this: October 1947—a sleek, silver XP-86 streaks down the runway, powered by a gutsy Allison J35 engine.

That first flight was a taste of things to come. By April 1948, the XP-86 wasn’t just flying. It was breaking barriers, pushing past the speed of sound in a shallow dive, leaving nothing but a sonic boom and wide-eyed ground crews in its wake.

The Air Force saw the future, and they wanted in. On December 1947, they put in a hefty order for 221 P-86As, this time beefed up with a more powerful General Electric J47 engine. Names changed as fast as the technology; by June 1948, the P-86A became the iconic F-86A, the Sabre.

September 1948 brought bragging rights—a world speed record at 671 miles per hour. But the Sabre wasn’t just fast; it was a pilot’s dream, handling like a sports car at 40,000 feet. Armed to the teeth with six nose-mounted .50-caliber guns, and later, a radar-guided sight, the Sabre was ready for anything.

Then came Korea. December 1950 saw the 4th Fighter Interceptor Wing touch down in Seoul, ready to tangle with the MiG-15. In the first-ever clash between swept-wing jets, Lt. Col. Bruce Hinton bagged a MiG, starting a streak. By war’s end, Sabres racked up nearly 800 kills for fewer than eighty losses.

The Sabre kept evolving. New engines, better guns, even all-weather radar models. Built not just in the U.S., but in Canada, Japan, and Italy, over 8,400 Sabres took to the skies. Of those, 554 were the legendary F-86A, a true star of the jet age.

George Welch and the Sabre Legacy

George Welch’s story is stitched right into the fabric of American airpower, standing tall at not just one, but two turning points in aviation history. He was already a legend as one of the first U.S. pilots to scramble and fight back over Pearl Harbor, and that fighting spirit carried him into the jet age, where he blazed new trails.

As the folks at the Smithsonian put it, Welch was among the first to notch an air-to-air victory in World War II, and then he helped kickstart the era of jet and supersonic fighters that would become the backbone of the U.S. Air Force. He wasn’t just a gutsy pilot. He was the bridge that connected the old world of roaring piston engines to the sleek, high-velocity jets that followed.

Enter the F-86 Sabre. The bird that made the leap from propellers to swept wings real and lasting. The National Museum of the U.S. Air Force calls the Korean War the moment the modern Air Force truly took shape, with the Sabre as its unmistakable icon.

But the Sabre’s legend didn’t stop at American borders; the RAF Museum tells how it flew with the Royal Air Force when it mattered most, faced down MiG-15s in NATO service over Germany, and showed the world that Western airpower had met the challenge with a world-class swept-wing fighter. Every time Welch dove toward the sound barrier and every Sabre kill over Korea helped write the new rules for air superiority.

From Welch and the Sabre to the present, the Air Force’s mission hasn’t changed: stay ahead of the curve in speed, tactics, and tech; always one step ahead of the next challenger.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

Like what you’re reading? Stay in the loop by signing up below—it’s quick, easy, and always free.
This newsletter will always be free for everyone, but if you want to go further, support the mission, and unlock bonus content like the Midweek Sortie, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Your support keeps this flight crew flying—and I couldn’t do it without you.

– Tog

“At 0956z it made a right-hand turn off it’s track back to Sigonella and back out into the Persian Gulf. Two minutes later at 0958z it began a descent from 50,000ft down to 9,500ft by 1011z, at which point @flightradar24lost it’s signal.”

—Armchair Admiral Twitter Post

Mission Briefing

High above the shimmering expanse of the Persian Gulf, the MQ-4 Triton glides on its patrol run, slicing through the morning haze. Suddenly, its transponder crackles out a warning, a communication blackout. With the pilot’s voice lost to the wind, the big bird banks gently and begins a silent, self-directed descent, the fate of its mission now hanging in the balance.

MQ-4 Triton Disappears over Persian Gulf

The evening skies over the Persian Gulf had a story to tell on 9 April, 2026. High above the blue, a U.S. Navy MQ-4C Triton drone—one of those silent aviators that fly without a pilot onboard—vanished from the digital gaze of flight trackers.

One moment it was cruising at a breathtaking 52,000 feet, bound for its home base at Naval Air Station Sigonella in Italy. The next, it began a slow, dramatic descent, dropping to 9,500 feet in just under fifteen minutes. On its way down, the drone’s transponder blinked out a 7400 code: a silent SOS to the world, signaling that its remote pilot had lost contact.

But the drama didn’t end there. As the Triton continued its descent, it reportedly switched to a 7700 squawk, the universal sign for a full-blown emergency. In those tense final moments, the drone appeared to veer toward Iranian airspace before its signal faded for good.

No official word has come from the Navy yet, and the fate of the Triton remains shrouded in mystery. Did it crash into the Gulf’s waters? Was it somehow intercepted, jammed, or brought down by unseen hands? The only certainty is uncertainty, though history does offer clues.

The U.S. has lost several drones over the years in the region, including at least sixteen MQ-9 Reapers. Back in 2019, Iran shot down a similar RQ-4A over international waters. These drones are programmed to circle and wait if they lose their link home, not to land, leaving them vulnerable in the vast, contested skies.

For now, the Triton’s last flight is just another chapter in the tense, cinematic saga of unmanned flight over the Gulf.

A Closer Look at the Triton

The Triton is no ordinary machine, but a relentless storyteller in the sky. Soaring above 50,000 feet, it sees farther, lingers longer, and moves with effortless grace. It’s the aviator’s answer to the world’s wildest oceans; a sentry that never tires, keeping watch for over 24 hours at a stretch, covering 7,400 nautical miles on a single mission.

Triton isn’t just watching; it’s narrating the unfolding story of the sea below, tracking ships, spotting threats, and relaying every detail to its crewed allies in real time. The data flows fast—across domains, across continents—giving decision-makers the edge to act before danger even shows its face.

It’s Northrop Grumman’s legacy of high-flying autonomy, now sculpted into a winged guardian that warns of missiles, hunts for hidden dangers, and brings home the big picture from a safe distance.

With its ultra-long endurance and sharp senses, Triton is more than a scout. It’s a sentinel for homeland defense, always present, always vigilant, always ready for the next chapter.

• Primary Function: Persistent Maritime ISR

• Contractor: Northrop Grumman

• Propulsion: Rolls-Royce AE3007H

• Length: 47.6 feet (14.5 meters)

• Wingspan: 130.9 feet (39.9 meters)

• Height: 15.4 feet (4.7 meters)

• Weight: Max design gross take-off: 32,250 pounds (14,628.4 kilograms)

• Crew: 5 per ground station (Air Vehicle Operator, Tactical Coordinator, 2 Mission Payload Operators, SIGINT coordinator)

What Triton’s Disappearance Signals

Triton isn’t just a drone. It’s the Navy’s eye in the sky, a high-flying storyteller with the soul of an aviator. Imagine it soaring above 50,000 feet, keeping watch over the endless blue, its sensors sweeping vast stretches of ocean for over a day at a time.

While the world below hustles, Triton glides with cinematic calm, scanning, listening, always collecting the next chapter of the maritime saga.

When one of these silent sentinels vanishes over the Persian Gulf, the story takes a dramatic twist. This isn’t just a technical glitch; it’s a reminder that even the most advanced surveillance can be knocked off course in these tense waters.

For allies who count on Triton’s long reach and sharp vision—catching early warning signs, spotting shifting threats—its loss sends ripples through the whole network.

The big lesson? In this airborne chess game, losing a Triton means more than a blip on the radar. It raises the stakes on how we command, communicate, and secure the skies.

The Triton’s real superpower is giving everyone a heads-up before trouble erupts. Its sudden silence is a cinematic cliffhanger. It is a signal that the watchers, too, are being watched, and the contest for control overhead is only growing sharper.

This Week in Aviation History

The Red Baron—Manfred von Richthofen—soared through the clouds as the most feared ace of World War I, a legend with a flair for the dramatic. In just 19 months, this Prussian nobleman downed eighty Allied planes, his bright-red aircraft cutting a bold figure across the war-torn skies. When he took the helm of the notorious Flying Circus, his myth only grew, the stuff of dogfights and whispered campfire tales. But in April 1918, the sky wrote a new ending: the Baron was shot down over France, his cinematic journey cut short in a blaze of glory.

The Death of the Red Barron

Manfred von Richthofen—the legendary Red Baron—was no stranger to danger in the skies, but his luck nearly ran out in July 1917. During a fierce dogfight with British pilots, a bullet grazed his head, fracturing his skull.

He survived, but the wound haunted him. Richthofen returned to his Flying Circus within weeks, yet he was never quite the same. The headaches lingered, and some believe he battled not just physical pain, but the invisible scars of PTSD: a shadow that followed him through the clouds.

Fast-forward to 21 April 1918. Richthofen’s final chapter unfolds over the fields of Vaux-sur-Somme, France. He chased an enemy fighter low to the ground, his crimson aircraft swooping like a hawk. Suddenly, Australian machine gunners opened fire from below, and Canadian ace Arthur Roy Brown joined the fray from above. In the whirlwind of bullets, Richthofen was struck in the chest.

He crash-landed and died in the field: a cinematic end befitting an aviator’s saga. Brown was credited with the kill, but the truth is murky; historians still debate whether the fatal shot came from the air or the ground.

Allied soldiers buried Richthofen with full honors. He was just 25, but with 80 confirmed kills, he’d set a record unmatched in World War I.

The Red Baron’s legend soared long after his death, immortalized in books, movies, songs, and comic strips. His story remains the stuff of aviation lore—cinematic, mysterious, and forever flying through history.

Who was the Infamous Red Baron?

It’s 2 May 1892, and a boy named Manfred von Richthofen is born into a world of privilege—a stately Prussian manor, old family crests, and rolling estates that would one day become part of Poland.

Young Manfred’s days are a blur of horseback rides, hunting parties, and lively sport, the kind of golden youth you’d expect from aristocracy. But at just 11 years old, the adventure takes a sharp turn: off to military school he goes, trading childhood games for the discipline of cadet life.

Fast forward to 1911, the age of aviation is just on the horizon, and Manfred, now a poised young officer, earns his commission with the 1st Uhlan cavalry regiment. But when the Great War erupts, the world changes overnight. He rides with his regiment across both the Eastern and Western Fronts, earning the Iron Cross for his raw courage.

Yet the trenches soon swallow the glory, and Manfred, bored stiff by supply runs, aches for something more daring. “I didn’t join up to fetch cheese and eggs,” he supposedly quips to his superiors, his eyes lifted skyward.

The fates answer. By the summer of 1915, our restless aviator is soaring above Russia. First, as a backseat observer, scanning the world below from a rattling reconnaissance plane.

He earns his wings soon after on the Western Front, where the real thrill of flight—of combat—calls to him. It’s here he crosses paths with the legendary Oswald Boelcke, who recognizes a kindred spirit and recruits Manfred into Jasta 2, Germany’s new elite fighter squadron.

Under Boelcke’s sharp tutelage, Manfred becomes more than just another pilot. On September 17, 1916, he claims his first aerial victory, sending a British craft spiraling down over France. One by one, the tally grows.

Five kills, and he’s officially a “flying ace.” Sixteen, and he’s the top living German pilot. For his precision and daring, he’s awarded the coveted Pour le Mérite: the famed “Blue Max.”

Come January 1917, Manfred is handed the reins to his very own squadron, Jasta 11, a collection of hotshot pilots that includes his own younger brother, Lothar. But it’s not just his flying that sets him apart.

Manfred’s Albatros D.III soon roars through the clouds painted a brilliant, unmistakable red: a streak of fire against the sky. The legend is born: the Red Baron. Or, as some called him, “le Petit Rouge,” “the Red Battle Flier,” and “the Red Knight.”

In the cockpit, with the wind at his back and his enemies before him, Manfred von Richthofen became the very spirit of chivalry and danger: a hero, a hunter, and the master of the skies.

The Legacy of “Ace of Aces” for Modern-Day Aviators

The legend of Manfred von Richthofen doesn’t just live on because he was World War I’s most famous ace. His last flight, a sun-drenched, adrenaline-soaked chase over the trenches, revealed the true nature of air combat at its core.

As the folks at From Balloons to Drones tell it, Richthofen wasn’t just a hotshot with a crimson triplane. He was a master of discipline, sharp thinking, and knowing exactly when to strike or when to slip away into the clouds.

But on April 21, 1918, something changed. The Red Baron pushed past his own rules, doggedly chasing Wilfrid May low over enemy territory, blind to the danger below. One moment of tunnel vision—one break in discipline—and ground fire brought down the king of the skies.

That’s the gut punch of his story. You can be the best stick-and-rudder pilot in the world, but if your judgment slips. If you let the thrill of the chase override your training, your doctrine, your survival instincts; even legends can fall.

The lesson is as clear as a summer sky: airpower is about more than machines. It’s about the person in the cockpit, their training, their tactics, their split-second choices, and their ability to learn—fast—when the world turns upside down. Richthofen’s last sortie became a textbook on why disciplined thinking and adaptability aren’t just nice-to-haves; they’re what keep you alive up there.

And then there’s the myth. The Red Baron—more than a pilot, now a folk hero with his own share of mystery. Who fired the final shot? The debate rages on, fueling his legend and cementing that last dogfight as one of aviation’s great what-ifs.

All these years later, the lesson still echoes across cockpits and command centers. Whether you’re dueling in canvas-and-wire biplanes or piloting drones by satellite, one thing hasn’t changed: airpower rewards sharp thinking and punishes even the briefest lapse.

That’s the Red Baron’s real legacy: a warning, a legend, and a story still soaring through the ages.

In Case You Missed It

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“This project demonstrates that AATC can serve as a rapid response mechanism when combatant commanders face urgent capability gaps.”

—Col. Daniel Wittmer, AATC commander

Mission Briefing

Now, imagine this scene. There’s a new gadget on the block: the Probe Refueling Adapter. Born out of battlefield urgency, this little invention lets the A-10 break free from always waiting for the KC-135, opening up a whole new world of refueling possibilities for our sky-hardened aviators.

A-10C Can Now Use Probe and Drogue Refueling

Just days after a shadowy photo of the A-10 sporting some unfamiliar hardware made its rounds online, the Air National Guard Air Force Reserve Command Test Center, AATC, for those in the know, decided to pull back the curtain.

They revealed a game-changing upgrade for the venerable A-10C Thunderbolt II. No longer just the tank-busting hero of the battlefield, the Warthog now sports a sleek probe and drogue air refueling capability. It is a transformation that could alter its future in the fight.

Traditionally, the A-10C has been fueled in-flight via a refueling receptacle right on the nose, just ahead of the cockpit, where the boom operator from a tanker would plug in that flying boom.

With the retirement of the KC-10 and the KC-46 still waiting in the wings for certification, the A-10’s options for a mid-air sip of gas were looking slim. Basically, it was stuck relying on the KC-135. But when the situation downrange started getting dicey, commanders put out a call: they needed an answer, fast.

That’s when the magic happened. Multiple organizations leapt into action, compressing timelines and tossing red tape out the hangar doors. The result? The A-10 can now tank up from C-130-based refuelers like the KC-130J Super Hercules, the MC-130J Commando II, and the HC-130J Combat King II.

The AATC became the maestro, coordinating the effort across a whole constellation of units and partners. The probe itself was cooked up by a mystery industry player, while the A-10 System Program Office made sure every bolt and wire met strict standards.

ARCWERX—the innovation engine for the Guard and Reserve—kept contracts flying through the pipeline, while the techs at Luke Air Force Base bent metal and made sure the supporting parts were ready on the double. The 418th Flight Test Squadron even provided a Combat King and crew to test out the new setup.

According to Lt. Col. Luke Haywas, the A-10 Combined Test Force director, everyone moved with a sense of urgency, but never at the expense of safety or technical rigor. They didn’t cut corners. They just put the pedal down on every process.

Here’s the kicker: the adapter slips right into the A-10’s nose refueling port, converting it from the old-school boom method to the probe and drogue setup. It’s field-configurable, meaning flight line crews can swap it in or out in just a few hours: no depot visits, no waiting around.

The Warthog can now morph between refueling modes to fit whatever the mission demands. For the A-10 and its crews, that’s not just a technical upgrade. It’s a lifeline, and a testament to what happens when airmen and innovators rally for the mission.

Warthog’s Probe and Drogue

The A-10 Warthog, that legendary beast of the battlefield, is still waiting for a green light to cozy up for a drink with the Air Force’s shiny new KC-46 Pegasus tanker. Testing is ongoing, suspense in the air, and for now, the Warthog’s only lifeline in the sky is the tried-and-true KC-135 Stratotanker.

The problem is, that’s a single point of failure—one hiccup, one unavailable Stratotanker, and suddenly, a mission could be hanging by a thread.

So, what’s the holdup? Turns out, all eyes are on the boom; specifically, the actuator tucked inside the KC-46’s refueling boom. The A-10C just can’t push hard enough to stay latched on, especially at the lower speeds it calls home.

Unlike its faster, slicker jet siblings, the Warthog isn’t built for breakneck sprints. Top speed? About 420 miles per hour, if you’re asking the Air Force. But when it’s time to refuel, the A-10C is crawling along at a leisurely 200 knots; far below the 300 knots where most fighters get their top-off. That leaves the KC-46 lumbering at the edge of its flight envelope, heavy and slow, just to keep pace.

Now, if you’re thinking, “Why not use something a little more laid-back, like a C-130 tanker?”—you’re onto something. C-130s are naturals at low-and-slow, with altitudes and airspeeds that play nice with the A-10’s style. The Air Force itself points out that these tankers are a better match for close air support and combat rescue missions, too. Problem is, there’s no C-130 with a flying boom out there. At least, not yet.

What we do have are C-130s equipped with the probe-and-drogue system, and they’re already out in the wild. Enter the new Probe Refueling Adapter: simple, clever, mounted right atop the old refueling port. With a little training, A-10 pilots could be cleared for this new system in no time.

Refueling Flexibility, Renewed Relevance

The U.S. and its allies are looking for an edge, and suddenly, the trusty A-10C gets a clever upgrade. It’s not just a quick hardware fix; this new Probe Refueling Adapter is a game-changer.

Instead of being stuck waiting for a giant KC-135 tanker, the A-10C can now refuel from nimble, drogue-equipped C-130s. That’s a big deal because A-10s fly low and slow, just like the C-130s: making them a perfect match.

This tweak means more A-10s can stay in the fight, supporting troops on the ground, swooping into dangerous search-and-rescue ops, and handling missions where tanker access is scarce or risky.

For American planners and coalition partners, it’s a breath of fresh air. Now, they can shape flexible air packages, mixing old legends like the A-10 with newer jets. No need to depend on a single tanker type.

Even better, this fix happened fast; it didn’t get bogged down in endless red tape. The message? Small changes can make a massive difference. It’s about resilience, adaptability, and squeezing new potential from veteran aircraft in modern conflict zones.

And here’s the closing shot: if a quick upgrade can make the A-10 so much more versatile, what other classic warbirds might be waiting for their own revival?

As tanker access shapes tomorrow’s air battles, the future of aviation is looking more like a team sport. Where the right support, not just the flashiest fighter, wins the day.

This Week in Aviation History

Flashback to the Korean War, when Navy pilots faced the harsh reality that their strike aircraft just couldn’t cut it against well-defended targets in any weather. Enter the Grumman A-6 Intruder—a marvel engineered to soar low, slip past enemy radar, and hunt down even the smallest targets, rain or shine.

First taking to the skies in 1960, the Intruder quickly became a fixture on aircraft carriers, joining the Navy in ‘63 and the Marines a year after. By 1968, the “A” model was officially in Navy hands, earning its stripes over the jungles of Vietnam and later in the electrified opening hours of Desert Storm. With more than 7,500 hours in the air, over 6,500 landings, and hundreds of dramatic carrier launches and recoveries, the Intruder’s story reads like a blockbuster saga of grit, innovation, and sheer flying nerve.

The Origins of the Intruder

It’s the late 1950s, and the U.S. Navy needs a new workhorse for the skies. Their trusty Douglas Skyraider, a prop-driven legend, is showing its age. Meanwhile, the Marines are clamoring for a close air support jet that can leap off short runways.

Lessons fresh from the Korean War add urgency; a new attack aircraft needs to fly long, fly low under the radar, and strike with precision, whatever the weather throws at it.

The brass drafts up a wish list in 1957: Speed, range, payload, short takeoff, plus a twist. Instead of patching together airframe and weapons from different shops, this time the winning design must seamlessly integrate the whole system from day one. It’s a tall order, and the competition is fierce.

Enter Grumman, already carving its name in aviation lore. Their answer: the A2F Intruder (later rebranded the A-6 in 1962). Picture this: a twin-jet beast with engines tucked into its wings and a crew of two sitting side-by-side, the Bombardier/Navigator riding a bit lower and further back so the pilot can see right.

Up front, a bulbous nose crams in a powerful radar suite: big for targeting, smaller for hugging the terrain. All this feeds into a cutting-edge nerve center called DIANE (Digital Integrated Attack and Navigation Equipment). Thanks to DIANE, the A-6 could fly blind through clouds and storms, its CRT screens (a first for combat jets) guiding the crew to their mark with all-weather precision.

The Intruder’s oddball looks quickly earned it nicknames including “Flying Drumstick,” “Iron Tadpole,” and, affectionately, “Double Ugly.” But there was beauty in its function. The Navy placed its first order in 1959, and by April 1960, the prototype was airborne.

Early experiments—like jet tailpipes that could tilt for shorter takeoffs—were scrapped after tests, but innovations like beefed-up nose gear for the Navy’s new catapult launch system stuck. The Intruder even beat out most other jets in adopting this new tech.

By 1963, the A-6A was rolling off the line for the Navy, and a year later for the Marines. VA-75, the first operational squadron, took Intruders to Vietnam in 1965, unleashing the aircraft’s true potential: flying at night or through monsoon squalls, zeroing in on targets without ever having to see them out the window. DIANE did the seeing for them.

The story didn’t stop there. As technology raced ahead, so did the Intruder. Some A-6s became specialized Iron Hand B models, hunting enemy missiles. Others (the C models) packed heavy, high-tech sensor pods for night interdiction; though these were eventually replaced by sleeker, more reliable laser targeting pods.

The Intruder’s punch was legendary: in one mission, a pair dropped two dozen bombs on a North Vietnamese power plant so silently, the enemy thought a squadron of B-52s had paid a visit. That raid earned a Navy Cross.

The saga’s final chapter arrived with the A-6E, first tested in 1970. This upgrade brought state-of-the-art avionics, radar, and navigation, with hundreds of older Intruders rebuilt and new ones rolling off the line.

The Intruder, in all its rugged, cinematic glory, became the backbone of Navy and Marine attack squadrons for decades. It is a true legend born from a blend of wartime necessity, technical audacity, and the relentless drive to own the night.

A Closer Look at the Intruder

The Grumman A-6A Intruder—a burly, all-weather attack bomber, tough as nails and powered by not one, but two roaring turbojet engines. Its cockpit? Side-by-side seating for the dynamic duo: the pilot and the “b/n”—that’s bombardier/navigator for the uninitiated. They sat shoulder to shoulder, ready to take on whatever the skies (or the sea) threw at them. The wings? Slightly swept, just enough to let you know this bird means business.

Now, let’s set the stage with numbers that matter: The A2F-1, as the prototype was first called, stretched out a solid 53 feet, 3 inches from nose to tail, and those wings spanned 53 feet even.

Just about the wingspan of a DC-3, if you’re counting. Standing on the deck, it measured over 15 feet tall, with wings that covered more than 500 square feet. Those wings swept back at a cool 25 degrees, giving the Intruder that predatory look.

She was no lightweight, either. Empty, she tipped the scales at over 23,000 pounds, but fully loaded and ready to launch, she could weigh in at a beefy 53,000 pounds.

Under the hood—or, more accurately, under the fuselage—were two Pratt & Whitney J52-P-6 turbojets.

These weren’t just any engines; they’d already proved themselves pushing the AGM-28 Hound Dog cruise missile. Each J52 had a 12-stage compressor, a two-stage turbine, and could kick out 7,500 pounds of thrust at normal power, or crank it up to 8,500 pounds for those “hold my beer” moments.

The exhaust nozzle could even dip down 23 degrees to help the Intruder leap off short runways. because sometimes, you just need a little extra kick.

What about performance? The A-6A could settle into a cruise at 429 knots, high above the world at 44,000 feet, or scream across the deck at sea level at 566 knots. She could claw her way up to nearly 50,000 feet and stretch her legs for over 2,000 nautical miles; enough range to make any adversary nervous.

In short, the Intruder was a cinematic marvel of engineering: rugged, reliable, and always ready for action—rain, shine, or the darkest night over the open sea.

The A-6’s Enduring Flightpath

The A-6 Intruder, the legend born from a bold idea, gave the Navy an attack jet that could hit its mark, rain or shine, day or night, no matter what the clouds or the enemy had to say about it.

When the Intruder first took to the sky on April 19, 1960, it wasn’t just another airplane on the flight deck. This beast could pack a heavy punch and deliver it through the worst weather, thanks to its groundbreaking DIANE navigation and attack system (and later, the TRAM suite on the A-6E).

Vietnam was where the Intruder’s legend really took off. While other jets waited for clear skies, A-6 crews launched into the murk, flying solo or in tight pairs, threading through flak and dodging missiles.

Their accuracy in the soup was the stuff of squadron legend. And the A-6 didn’t retire with Saigon’s fall. It kept coming back, from Lebanon’s chaos to the Libyan coast, over Bosnia, and during the fireworks of Desert Storm and Operation Praying Mantis.

What’s the true legacy? The A-6 proved that a combat jet’s worth isn’t just about speed or looking pretty. It’s about how far it can reach, how sharp its sensors are, how tightly the crew works together, and—most of all—how it performs when the weather turns ugly and the stakes are sky-high. That’s a lesson modern airpower still takes to heart.

In Case You Missed It

Photo Outlet

Every issue of Hangar Flying with Tog gets you a free image that I’ve taken at airshows:

Feel free to use these photos however you like. If you choose to tag me, I am @pilotphotog on all social platforms. Thanks!

Post Flight Debrief

Like what you’re reading? Stay in the loop by signing up below—it’s quick, easy, and always free.
This newsletter will always be free for everyone, but if you want to go further, support the mission, and unlock bonus content like the Midweek Sortie, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Your support keeps this flight crew flying—and I couldn’t do it without you.

– Tog