Blue Devil vs. Blue Angel

FOR ONCE,. even 638 horsepower might not be enough. As I slot the ZR1’s six-speed shifter into first and tilt my gaze toward the flag girl, for reassurance I give the throttle a quick stab with my heel. The supercharged V-8 responds with a shock wave that momentarily warps my vision and clouts my stomach like a 7.2 on the Richter scale. Maybe I have a chance.

The finish line lies one mile in the distance, somewhere beyond the heat waves; after reaching it, I’ll be at very high speed and won’t have a lot of tarmac left to stop. Concentrate, Arthur. Above the background throb of the engine I can hear myself breathing into my helmet, the sound muffled by my Nomex balaclava. A bead of sweat slaloms down my neck. What’s taking so long? I turn my head further to my right.

Maybe I shouldn’t have looked. I can see four wheels and a driver, true, but there all familiarity ends. Because aligned with my Corvette on a parallel runway stands Blue Angel 7, an immaculate, blue-andgold U.S. Navy F/A-18 Hornet strike fighter jet; a $25 million ice pick with razor-blade airfoils and 32,000 pounds of afterburner-fed thrust just waiting to flash-fry me and my ZR1 like a hapless bluefish. A flurry of motion outside my windshield; the nearby Navy personnel are signaling that all is ready. My muscles tense as my heart rate goes triple-digit and once again I turn my attentions to the flag girl between us. She nods at our respective thumbs-up, then raises the flag above her head. My right foot inches down on the gas; the revs climb to 3000 rpm. This race has been months in the making, countless e-mails and phone calls and planning sessions and signed official forms, but right now all I’m thinking is, “Arthur, don’t you dare stall this f—”

The start flag drops.

“BLUE DEVIL.” That’s the code name former GM CEO Rick Wagoner, a long-time fan of the Duke Blue Devils basketball team, bestowed upon the 2009 Chevrolet Corvette ZR1, the supercar he instigated in 2004, the fastest, most powerful, and, at nearly $105,000 base, most expensive production automobile the General has ever built. It’s also the first showroom Vette capable of exceeding 200 mph. The ZR1’s mission: stomp on blueblooded sports cars like so many internal-combustion roaches. And when we conducted our first ZR1 comparison test (February 2009), stomp it did, obliterating a Nissan GT-R, a 530-horsepower Porsche GT2, and a $350,000 Ferrari 599 GTB. During an impromptu four-way drag race, the ZR1 roared off to such a devastating win, it actually made the white Ferrari turn “beat” red.

What, we asked ourselves, could possibly take on Chevy’s almighty Blue Devil? It was then the clouds parted, the sun shone down, and on the wings of divine inspiration our answer arrived from above (well, from a strong cup of coffee anyway). Of course! A Blue Angel. It was just too poetically perfect to pass up.

The Navy was all over the idea. “Sir, you should take a look at this,” read one remark as my e-mail query was forwarded to a superior officer. “Sounds pretty cool.” Thus began a months-long exchange between my desk and Blue Angels HQ. We discussed running a

O OUT OF ABOUT 2300 ACTIVE NAVY AND MARINE CORPS PILOTS, , ROUGHLY 50 FEEL COCKY ENOUGH TO APPLY TO THE BLUE ANGELS TEAM EACH YEAR. TWO, MAYBE THREE, MAKE IT.

NO, THIS ISN'T PHOTOSHOP—just another maximum takeoff for Blue Angels “lead solo” pilot Major Nathan Miller, USMC (Blue Angel 5). Just feet away roars the jet of “opposing solo” Lt. Frank Weisser, USN (Blue Angel 6). Opposite: The team practices absolute, backstraight perfection even when simply boarding and ministering to the aircraft. Opposite top: the author suits up to ride with his race opponent, Lt. Ben “Baxter” Walborn, USN (Blue Angel 7).

simulated course, or perhaps a two-way blitz, before reasons of practicality dictated a straight one-mile drag race. Also on the table were potential locales, among them Edwards Air Force Base and the shuttle landing runway at Kennedy Space Center. Ultimately, though, with no small amount of coaxing (and the promise of a ride in the ZR1) the Blue Angels convinced the commander of their home base, Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida, to shut down all air ops just for our race—an unprecedented move, especially considering that Pensacola is also the Navy’s primary flight-training center. We’d have one hour. Time enough for two runs. And a bonus: After our race, the pilot and I would switch rides. He’d try my Blue Devil, and I’d sample his Blue Angel. I’m sure my friend was only being supportive when he told me, “Dude! That’s gonna be sick!”

Moments after my colleagues and I arrive at Pensacola, the Blue Angels team takes to the air for a morning practice session. Though

BLUE GENES

THE AVIATORS who fl y in the Blue Angels team occupy the top of the pyramid. Of the roughly 2300 active pilots in the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps, roughly 50 feel cocky enough to apply to the Blue Angels each year. Two, maybe three, make it. Because Blue Angels fl ight demonstrations are so demanding and hazardous, new pilots are selected by the current team members and no one else. Trust means everything when you’ll be fl ying with wingtips just two feet apart.

The minimum requirements for application: 1250 hours of tactical-jet fl ight time plus carrier qualifi cation. Each pilot fl ies for two years—except the narrator (like Lt. Ben Walborn), who serves one year in Blue Angel 7 and then joins the six-pilot demo team for two years. The squadron isn’t looking simply for fl ying experience. Key qualities for admission include sound judgment, public-speaking skills, fi tness (daily weight-lifting workouts are mandatory to maintain g tolerance), and poise under stress. And if you look like a movie star, that sure won’t hurt.

Formed in 1946 to showcase naval aviation and attract new recruits, the Blue Angels team is now the world’s oldest active fl ight-demonstration squadron. Each year, the Blues fl y more than 70 air shows at some 34 venues—witnessed by a combined audience of roughly 15 million spectators. Rest assured that some of them are looking up and saying, “One day, that’s going to be me.” no air-show crowd is present, every move—even just boarding the six demonstration aircraft—is executed to spit-polish perfection. Such 24/7 precision is essential, because, quite simply, Blue Angels flying is dangerous as hell. The show’s high-g aerobatic maneuvers—loops, barrel rolls, minimum-radius turns, inverted flight—place intense demands on pilots and aircraft alike. In the six-plane Delta formation, for instance, the F/A-18s fly barely two feet apart. The routines are relentless and absolutely unforgiving: In the Blue Angels’ 63-year history, 26 of its pilots have died in training or show accidents, nearly a 10-percent fatality rate. It’s literally one of the most breathtaking shows on earth.

Shortly after the team lands, I meet my race opponent, Lieutenant Ben Walborn, call sign “Baxter”—from the name of the dog in the movie “Anchorman” (noting my raised eyebrows, a nearby Blue Angels spokesman laughs: “The Air Force has all the cool call signs like ‘Maverick.’ Navy pilots get the goofy ones”). Walborn doesn’t yet fly in the six-pilot show (he’ll join them next year); t instead, he narrates the routines from the ground and pilots Blue h Angel 7, the team’s two-seat F/A-18, used for VIP flights. Like all the ’ Blue Angels, though, Walborn is a kick-ass pilot: more than 1400 flight hours, 346 carrier-arrested landings (he served on the USS Kitty Hawk), numerous decorations and medals, and the kind of aw-shucks, square-jawed confidence that immediately makes you feel embarrassed by your own pathetic, second-rate existence. “ “It’s got 638 horses? Man!” Walborn says as he eyes the ZR1.

“Think you’ll be able to beat it?” I ask.

Walborn flashes a grin. “I think we’ll do all right.”

IT’S TIME. Obviously, I’m at a huge power disadvantage against the Hornet. But the ZR1 accelerates fiercely (the quarter mile in just 11.2 seconds at over 130 mph), whereas it may take Walborn’s twin General Electric turbofans a few seconds to spool up. Looking to minimize that disadvantage, for the first race Walborn will bring the engines up to 87 percent power and hold the aircraft with the brakes until go time.

The start flag is billowing in a good breeze coming straight at us. I’ve got the 6.2-liter V-8 holding at about 3000 rpm, right hand on the shifter, and…the flag drops. I dump the clutch, feather the throttle just a bit to keep the tires from spinning into oblivion, and I’m gone. Second gear, third gear. The speedometer is well past 100 mph and climbing wildly and…there he is! Out of the corner 1 of my eye already I can see the Hornet, ahead of me and pulling away fast. In another blink, Walborn takes off, raises the landing gear, and flashes past the finish line. As I continue to accelerate, Walborn—big showoff—stands the Hornet on its tail and climbs straight up into the clouds. A beat later I cross the finish line at 172 mph, then jump on the ZR1’s carbon-ceramic binders. The 1 Vette easily stops with runway to spare.

Blue Angel: 1. Blue Devil: 0.

For race two, Walborn agrees not to apply any power until the start. This time I’m going to grab a bigger lead for sure. Incredibly, though, when the flag drops and Walborn shoves the throttles to full afterburner, the Hornet is even quicker. I’m barely into second gear when the F/A-18 appears in my peripheral view. It’s all I can do not to lift off the gas in frustration; the Blue Angel is just pummeling my Blue Devil. Again I blaze through the finish at 1 170-plus mph, but by then Walborn is long gone, another vertical climb hiding him up in the clouds. He’d flown across the finish line far ahead—doing around 345 mph.

Moments later, as I’m cooling the brakes on the return, I hear a distant rumble and—whaaapp!—the F/A-18 rips by low and fast. Walborn doesn’t rub it in—no victory roll—but the results

24/7 PRECISION IS ESSENTIAL, BECAUSE, QUITE SIMPLY, BLUE ANGELS FLYING IS DANGEROUS AS HELL. THE SHOW’ ’S HIGH-G AEROBATIC MANEUVERS PLACE INTENSE DEMANDS ON PILOTS AND AIRCRAFT ALIKE.

THE F/A-18S USED by the Blue Angels have their nose cannons removed, inverted fuel pumps and a smoke-oil tank installed, and a special high-effort spring in the flight-control stick (for more precise control). If necessary, each aircraft can be readied for combat duty in just 72 hours.

180

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TORCHED BY AN ANGEL

Blue Angel Blue Devil

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80 speed (mph)

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Blue Angel

Run 1 Run 2 Blue Devil

20

0 time (sec) 0 5 10 15 20 25

0-30 1.6 1.9 1.6 0-40 2.2 2.5 2.1 0-50 2.9 3.1 2.7 0-60 3.5 3.6 3.3 0-70 4.2 4.1 4.1 0-80 4.8 4.7 4.9 0-90 5.5 5.3 5.8 0-100 6.1 5.8 7.0 0-110 6.8 6.4 8.1 0-120 7.5 7.0 9.5 0-130 8.2 7.6 11.1 0-140 8.9 8.3 13.0 0-150 9.6 8.9 15.8 0-160 10.3 9.5 18.9 0-170 10.9 10.1 23.1 1/4 time 10.5 10.3 11.2 1/4 speed 163.7 173.9 130.5 45-65 1.3 1.1 1.4

BLUE DEVIL and Blue Angel are close up to about 80 mph, when the afterburner-fed F/A-18 pulls away with awesome, nearly linear acceleration. are clear. It’s taken a supersonic fighter jet to do it, but the Blue Devil is finally beaten.

The ZR1 isn’t done eliciting “wows,” though. After Walborn lands and I congratulate him on his win, we climb aboard the Blue Devil, this time with me in the passenger seat. Walborn gives the gas a tentative poke, then plants the pedal. “This thing really goes!” he says, grin as wide as the runway. After another minute or two, his confidence climbing fast, he’s gunning past 130 mph and loving it. In fact, the ZR1 has the entire Blue Angels team doing oooohs and aahhhhs. Clearly, testing hot cars for a living is one of the few jobs in the world (maybe Playboy photographer too) that can make a fighter jock envious.

Time to trade Blues. As crew chief Austin Armstrong straps me into the rear ejection seat of Blue Angel 7, he shares a few tips. “Don’t touch anything. ” Then he adds: “Unless you need a barf bag—those are right here.”

The F/A-18 cockpit fits like a wetsuit, with the stick between my legs, throttles to the left, and a few multifunction displays ahead of me. Soon Walborn is climbing the stairs and belting into the forward seat. The Blue Angels don’t wear g suits, because the inflating and deflating air bladders would impair their ultra-precise movements of the control stick. Instead, during high-g aerobatics they squeeze their legs and grunt like crazy to keep the blood in their brains and not pass out—the so-called “hick maneuver.”

I’ll get plenty of chances to hick myself. “We’ll do a vertical takeoff,” says Walborn over the intercom as we line up on the runway. “Pull about 5.5 g.” He shoves the throttles to military power, 10,700 pounds of thrust per engine, then goes to full afterburner—all 32,000 pounds. The acceleration is wicked; my helmet is pinned to the seat. In no time we’re airborne, just feet off the runway, then I hear Walborn again. “Three, two, one!” Instantly I weigh 1000 pounds as the Hornet goes vertical and the g forces crush down hard. In

BLUE ANGELS flight leader, CDR Greg McWherter, USN (Blue Angel 1), prepares for morning practice (top left). After drag race (top right), it’s the author’s turn to fly; he’s strapped into Blue Angel 7 by crew chief AME2 Austin Armstrong (middle left). Opposite: post-flight, St. Antoine and Walborn discuss whose blue machine can make passengers throw up quicker.

five seconds we’re at 7000 feet. And we’re only getting warmed up. Soon we’re well out over the Gulf of Mexico, and Walborn uncorks some Blue Angels magic. We fly an inverted pushover (negative 2.2 g—which makes your eyeballs feel like they’re about to pop out of your skull); we do Immelman turns, loops, steeply banked minimum-radius turns (at well over six g—I’m hicking for all I’m worth), and low-speed, “high alpha” flight (with the Hornet almost sitting on its tail). Then Walborn dives for the water and shoves the throttles to the stops. The speed comes on hard, the water is whooshing past, and…we break Mach 1, the speed of sound. I can’t detect a thing, but I feel absolutely wonderful. “Hey! Check our speed: 666 knots [766 mph],” Walborn says. “I guess the Blue Devil is still riding with us!”

All too soon, we’re headed back to Pensacola. But Walborn has one more trick in store. As we circle in to land, he performs a brutal 180-degree change of direction at speed. The g meter goes through the roof: 7.2 g. Somehow, with all the grunting and leg-squeezing and hickmaneuvering, I manage to stay awake. My lunch even stays put.

After driving the Chevrolet Corvette ZR1, it’s not easy to be impressed by a vehicle, but the Boeing F/A-18 has done it—and then some. And what has our “race” proved? If nothing else, that America builds two of the world's most monumental speed machines. You can even have one of them free of charge.Your local Navy recruiting officer will be delighted to tell you all about it. ■

Ride along in the Blue Devil and the Blue Angel by watching our extended video feature, viewable online at youtube.com/motortrend, hulu.com, and at motortrend.com

Special thanks to: U.S. Navy Blue Angels blueangels.navy.mil Alpinestars racewear alpinestarsinc.com

AFTER START flag drops (thanks to supervisor AZ1 Bridgette Shaw, opposite), Blue Devil (wired with data acquisition and video) stands on its tail and jumps out to brief lead. By 80 mph, though, it’s all over—Blue Angel pulls ahead, goes airborne at 150 knots (172 mph), and disappears into the clouds. On the cool-down, Walborn enjoys a victory flyby (above).