Real Survival Stories - Fighter Pilot Ejects at Speed of Sound

Episode Date: November 21, 2024

Captain Brian Udell is an elite fighter pilot at the top of his game. But there are still some scenarios that defy all expectations. When his F15 suffers a major malfunction, Brian must hit eject… while travelling at supersonic speed. It’s never been done before - for very good reason. This routine mission is about to become an extraordinary scientific experiment... A Noiser production, written by Rowan Coleman. For ad-free listening, bonus material and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Click the Noiser+ banner to get started. Or, if you’re on Spotify or Android, go to noiser.com/subscriptions If you have an amazing survival story of your own that you’d like to put forward for the show, let us know. Drop us an email at [e-mail] Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

TD Direct Investing offers live support, so whether you're a newbie or a seasoned pro, you can make your investing steps count. And if you're like me and think a TFSA stands for Total Fund Savings Adventure, maybe reach out to TD Direct Investing. It's nighttime on Tuesday, April the 18th, 1995. Off the coast of North Carolina, around 8.45 p.m. Utter darkness grips the skies over the Atlantic. Dense clouds hug tightly together, blocking out any light from the heavens. The sea and the sky merge into one enormous mass of impenetrable blackness. The wind whistles quietly, and the waves keep their never-ending rhythm.

And then, from nowhere, there is an almighty whoosh and a roar. Four F-15 fighter jets rip through the air. Their powerful engines screech as the sleek aircraft soar onwards, approaching the speed of sound. And yet, despite their breathtaking pace, their movements are stealthy and precise. Inside one of the planes, guiding the jet, is Captain Brian Udell. Behind him sits his good friend and colleague, Captain Dennis White. Together, along with their fellow aviators, they're carrying out a series of training maneuvers. Despite the lack of visibility, Brian is a picture of poise.

It's a moonless night that night. No moon, no stars, no discernible horizon. It's pitch black. We're using our instruments in our aircraft to determine which way up and down is. We went through our first two engagements, no problem. They have one last exercise to complete before heading back to base. Brian communicates to his wingman, the guy flying in the plane to his side, that he and Dennis are initiating the maneuver.

At 24,000 feet, he makes a planned 60-degree turn to the right. Brian is following his heads-up display, a square glass of numbers, gauges and measurements directly in front of his face. According to these onboard instruments, everything's on track. But as the plane hurtles through the night sky, Brian senses something isn't quite right. Obviously, trust your instruments. They're telling you what the airplane is doing. But you should also be listening to the airplane. Airplanes will talk to you. They'll tell you things based on the sounds that they're making.

What I was hearing and what I was seeing in my heads-up display didn't make sense. I'm seeing a level flight, 24,000 feet, 400 knots, and a right-hand turn. But what I'm hearing is this airplane is getting extremely fast. I could hear the wind rushing over the canopy. The jet seems to be gathering pace. Both Brian and Dennis can feel it, unmistakably. But the readings suggest they are flying steady. In a flash, it becomes terrifyingly clear.

The heads-up display is broken. The systems Brian relies on to navigate are down and showing him false information. Suddenly, they cannot be sure of their height, their speed, or even which way is up. The darkness outside offers no clue. Rapidly, Brian brings up a secondary display screen positioned between his legs. And then he sees it. This monitor is telling him that they are plummeting nose-first straight towards the water at supersonic speed. He now has literal seconds to make a decision.

Which instrument does he trust? Does he have time to change course? Or will he have to bail out? At 800 miles an hour, Brian makes his choice. That's when I said it's time to get out, eject, eject, eject. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes? If your life depended on your next decision could you make the right choice welcome to real survival stories these are the astonishing

tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations people suddenly forced to fight for their lives in this episode we meet Captain Brian Udell. The 31-year-old is an aeronautical expert, an elite fighter pilot at the top of his game. But there are still some scenarios that defy all expectations. When Brian's F-15 suffers a major malfunction, he is forced to eject while traveling faster than the speed of sound. It's never been done before, for very good reason. Here we are at 700, roughly 780 knots, supersonic. All of this equipment is only tested up to 600 knots

because they don't feel that you're going to survive past that, physically survive. What happens when you eject supersonic? I felt like I'd been hit by a freight train. I'm John Hopkins from Noisa. This is Real Survival Stories. It's Tuesday evening on April 18, 1995. The Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in North Carolina buzzes with activity. Uniformed men and women scurry across runways,

weaving between rows of state-of-the-art fighter jets. More planes are pushed in and out of enormous hangars. People are refueling, carrying out final checks, clambering into cockpits. Walking through the base's busy airfield is 31-year-old Captain Brian Udell. He strides along, smiling and nodding to his compatriots as he goes. It's just like the movies. He's kitted out in a dark green jumpsuit with badges on the arm and

breast, parachute pack on his back, and a helmet under his arm. For this top-of-his-game fighter pilot, life right now couldn't be better. Two years ago, he married his sweetheart, Christy, and the couple are now expecting their first child. Professionally, things are going great, too. After years of strenuous study and training, he's reached the pinnacle of his career. Aviation is in Brian's blood. Growing up in Texas, he inherited a passion for flying from his father, Maurice. In the late 1940s, when Maurice was still just a teenager,

he saved up to buy a battered old plane and incredibly taught himself to fly. He bought a book called Stick and Rudder. It's a kind of a how to fly book or flying for dummies type book. And he read most of that book. However, as Maurice found out, reading and doing are two different things.

One wintry day, he was forced to make a crash landing, plowing into a deep snowbank and narrowly escaping serious injury Furious with himself, Maurice ripped the propeller off the wreckage and took it home as a constant reminder So my whole life, I spent looking at that broken propeller And that broken propeller was a lesson that you always do things correctly. You don't just wing it. You don't just go get a book and take off on your own.

You get some good instruction. Well, my instruction was my father. And he taught me some very valuable lessons that ended up saving my life. While most nine-year-olds might hope their parents buy them a bicycle or a skateboard as a birthday present, Brian got a plane. And just a year later, Maurice took his son out on his first flying lesson. He never looked back. Flying attracts a lot of engineer types, people that inherently are good at math and put square blocks and square holes. But flying is very artistic. Every day is different. Every flight is different.

The environmentals are different. The places you're going, the things you're doing, the decisions you have to make are all different. So that's more of a mindset of an artist, not an engineer. By the time Brian joined the US Air Force, it already clocked up some impressive numbers. I took my first flight at age 10. I took my first cross country. At age 16, I'm soloing the aircraft, which is the youngest that you can solo.

At age 17, I'm getting my pilot's license. And by the time I actually went into the military, I had over 1,000 hours of flying time, my private license, my instrument rating, and my commercial rating, and was flying skydivers on the weekends while I was in college. But to become an elite Top Gun fighter pilot, Brian faced months of rigorous training, learning not only how to master the awesome power of a jet, but also to develop the character,

resilience, and survival skills essential to the role. Nobody gets to where they are overnight. It's a journey, it's a process, and it's a hard one, and it's a hard one and it's a long one. And the people that are successful, they're willing to put in the grind to do every day what is required for that day to be successful. Brian went on to graduate first in his class, receiving the prestigious Commander's Trophy from the Euro-NATO Joint Jet Pilot Training Program. All of this meant that he was able to choose which aircraft he wanted to fly.

Top of his list was the F-15E Strike Eagle, a fighter jet designed for both air-to-air and air-to-ground combat. At the time, it was the most powerful and sophisticated aircraft of its kind. But Brian still had hurdles to clear, including intense prisoner-of-war training and water survival exercises. Eventually, he was deployed to the Gulf War. And once I got deployed, you get over to the desert and now you're an operational fighter pilot. From the length of time you start day one of pilot training till the time that you are considered an operational fighter pilot is about two and a half years. That's the length of training.

Two and a half years, every day, blood, sweat, and tears. You want to be successful in this? It's desire, most of all. Because if you don't have the desire, you're not going to make it. Back at the base in North Carolina, the flurry of activity continues on the airfield. Brian ducks into one of the low-level, nondescript buildings. He's about to lead an exercise out over the Atlantic and needs to do some final checks. He scans the squadron status board, which records when essential training has been completed. Because of prolonged bad weather, Brian's mission status is in the red.

He is laser-focused on the urgent need to fill in the square or catch up on training. His wingmen are going to be deployed into active service in the next rotation and the clock is ticking. A crucial part of their training is flying combat missions and practicing aerial refueling at night. The weather is looking good so there's little time to lose. But before takeoff there are important procedures to follow including checking your aircraft's maintenance log. I looked through it and I noticed that this aircraft had ground aborted twice the week before. And that problem was that the central computer was having issues. The display processor, which is the equivalence to a graphics card

on a computer, was having issues. The heads-up display, which is the combiner glass that we look through that projects our attitude information, our speed, our altitude, that had issues. So I'm not getting the whole warm fuzzy that this airplane is in good shape at that point. Brian asks if there are any alternative aircraft available. There aren't. He consults with his good friend Captain Dennis White, who will be flying with him. They know they have to make this jet work or abort the sortie, putting them even further behind schedule.

The pressure is on. They climb the ladder of the F-15 and strap in. Sure enough, the plane fails the same tests. Brian requests maintenance to come up and test the systems. Three reboots later, everything comes back online. So in theory, we've got a good airplane. By all standards, this airplane is suitable to go fly. The other three aircraft had now taxied down to the end of

the runway and were waiting on us. And so we taxied probably five to ten minutes late. We get down, we meet them in the arming area. They arm us up to get ready to fly and we take off and we launch out as a four ship. I'm thinking we've got a good airplane. Everything passed its test. Everything up to this point now is as briefed and planned. It's an intensely dark night over the Atlantic. There is no discernible horizon. Clouds, sky, and ocean meld into one amorphous black chasm.

But Brian and his formation complete the first part of their mission perfectly. Their F-15s can reach astonishing speeds of over 1,800 miles per hour. Out here, off the North Carolina coast, they can fly combat simulation at supersonic speed without the fear of shattering people's windows or terrorizing wildlife. But the moonless night provides no visibility. The pilots are relying solely on the vital data supplied by the aircraft's heads-up displays. At night, when you're doing air-to-air intercepts, air-to-air training, it's primarily because of the restriction in visibility because it's night. Most of what you're doing is targeting and sorting exercises via the radar and the systems on board the aircraft and effective

communication, communicating effectively between front seat to back seat and from aircraft to aircraft. It doesn't matter if it's present day or thousands of years ago, the key to successful battle is that the group can effectively communicate. The four jets have split into two pairs, engaging each other in a simulated dogfight, as if facing enemy forces. When operating at such speed, the slightest miscalculation or miscommunication could be fatal. A pilot's reactions and reflexes must be instantaneous. But so far, everything has proceeded as it should. Brian smoothly guides his jet through the skies. In the back seats, Dennis, the weapons

system officer, or WIZO, is a consummate pro too. Reliable and focused, the pair make a great team. They are about to complete their final mission of the night, role-playing as the enemy against the trainee pilots. Brian calls action and begins the planned maneuver, splitting from his wingman to bank into a sharp turn. Simultaneously, he watches the information on his heads-up display. Brian frowns. Something's not right. And it's in this moment that sage advice from his father comes to the fore. It really sticks. And it was amazing because the lessons that he taught me about how to fly an airplane was, you know, obviously trust your instruments.

They're telling you what the airplane is doing. But you should also be listening to the airplane. Airplanes will talk to you. What I was hearing and what I was seeing in my heads-up display didn't make sense. I'm seeing a level flight, 24,000 feet, 400 knots, and a right-hand turn, but what I'm hearing is this airplane's getting extremely fast. I could hear the wind rushing over the canopy, and that usually happened at about 550 knots. So I'm seeing 400 knots. I'm hearing 550. Something's not making sense. I'm asking my backseater, Dennis White. I said, Dennis, dude, what's going on? He goes, I don't know. He said, we need to recover. I said,

I'm trying. What's our attitude? He said, I don't know. As the sound of thundering engines and rushing wind intensifies, Brian faces the sickening realization that their heads-up display has malfunctioned. They're not flying steady, they're speeding up, and he has no idea what direction he's facing. He scrambles for accurate data. There's one other display Brian can turn to, but it presents its own problems. It's a color display positioned between his legs. Because the brightness is distracting when flying at night, he has turned the display right down.

He can't read it clearly. Brian uses rocker switches to brighten the display to visible levels. It only takes him a few seconds, but every moment wasted could be costly. When he is finally able to read the display, it confirms his worst suspicions. I realize now we're 80 degrees, nose low, inverted, going through 10,000 feet,

and we're now supersonic. The jet is plummeting towards the Atlantic Ocean at 800 miles an hour. The impact will crush them to smithereens. Brian cannot be sure which instrument to trust, but neither can he hesitate. He tells Dennis what they have to do. I'm saying, I don't think I can recover this airplane without ripping the wings off or blacking us out. That's when I said, it's time to get out, eject, eject, eject. you're a podcast listener and this is a podcast ad heard only in canada reach great canadian listeners like yourself with podcast advertising from libsyn ads choose from hundreds of top podcasts offering host endorsements or run a pre-produced ad like this one across thousands of shows to reach your target audience with Libsyn ads. Email bob at libsyn.com to learn more.

That's B-O-B at L-I-B-S-Y-N dot com. Brian has just ejected from his F-15E fighter jet at supersonic speeds, something no human has ever survived. The wind explodes as his parachute bursts open with extraordinary force. The impact on his body is horrifying. What happens when you eject supersonic? I felt like I'd been hit by a freight train. The wind blast was so great that as soon as I left the cockpit, my helmet and mask were snatched right off of my head.

The wind blast broke all the blood vessels in my face, my head and face swelled the size of a basketball from the pressure. My lips were the size of cucumbers, my eyeballs all hemorrhaged. They don't know how my eyes stayed in their sockets. At these speeds, even the equipment designed to protect the pilot becomes dangerous. Brian's ribs are crushed by the buckle of his harness. All four of his limbs are smashed and dislocated, although one shoulder miraculously clicks back into place. With both legs and one arm totally out of commission, Brian can barely move.

His blood-flooded eyes render him almost blind. But there's no time to reflect on how he is still alive, or assess the severity of his injuries. Ferocious winds are battering him and he is moments away from landing in the churning, freezing ocean. Again, he has to act fast if he is going to make it through the next few seconds. His life preserver is in tatters, ripped apart during the ejection. If Brian plunges into the sea in his physical condition, he will quickly drown. There is one piece of equipment that can save his life. He just has to hope it's deployed

correctly. It's a life raft attached to his rucksack survival kit by a 15-foot line. So I reached down, I could grab that line, I gave it a good yank. I wanted to make sure that that life raft had inflated. I couldn't see anything dangling down there, but I could feel the weight. I have no idea how high I am above the water or how long it's going to be before I hit the water. But if I don't get to something that floats quickly, I'm going to drown because I knew I was messed up. So I had the presence of mind. I was clear enough thinking to reach down and with my one functioning arm and my teeth, I grabbed that 15-foot line and I started reeling it up to me.

Through agonizing pain, gripping the line in his shaking hand and his chattering teeth, Brian hauls the life raft up towards himself. The crash of the waves comes closer and closer. And as he hits the water, he is just able to grasp hold of the raft before he plunges under the dark and freezing surface of the Atlantic. I grabbed hold of the raft, and I could tell that it was

inflated and that it had functioned properly. I went from hanging under the canopy to about 10 feet under the water. It was splashed out. Having a hold of that inflated raft saved my life. Using the life raft for buoyancy, Brian resurfaces, gasping for oxygen through painful, swollen lips. Hurled around by the gigantic waves, he is at immediate risk of drowning and hypothermia. He must get out of the water and into the raft. With only one functioning limb, it is an exhausting, seemingly insurmountable task.

For several desperate minutes, Brian fights against the glacial currents as he attempts to haul himself into the raft. It's no good. He simply cannot get any purchase on the slippery inflatable. Soon he is utterly drained, his body so broken and misshapen that any movement is excruciating. It seems he has survived the ejection, only to perish in the water. So at that point, the only thing I knew to do was to stop and start saying a prayer. And I put my head on the side of the raft, and I just said, God, I can't die tonight. I said, I've got a wife that I have to get home to. She's four months pregnant with our first child,

and I've got to see my son be born. I thought how selfish of it would be for me not to be there when she had to deliver our child, and I did not want her to get that knock on the door that said that your husband's gone. That was my motivator. And so I said my prayer, and I said, okay, here we go. And I tried one more time and I just had the strength

to be able to shove that raft down between my legs and I threw my shoulder into it and I rode the waves up. And when I crested the wave and went down the backside, that flipped me right into the raft. With a thud and a squelch, Ryan flops into the life raft, a temporary sanctuary. He takes a few moments to compose himself, to steady his breathing. The decision to eject only minutes earlier has left him mangled, isolated, and on the very edge of life.

But if he hadn't acted, he would already be dead. I made the decision at 10,000 feet, commanded the ejection. I'm pulling the ejection handles at 6,000 feet. That's how fast we're traveling. 4,000 feet went by in that moment. At 6,000 feet, I pulled the handles. The canopy goes off at 4,500 feet. I left the cockpit at 1,500 feet and I got my parachute roughly 500 feet above the water. Had I waited even one-third of a second longer to pull the handles, I would have impacted the water still in my ejection seat and been killed. Right now, Brian doesn't know the full details of just how close a call it was.

He also doesn't know where he's landed or where Dennis is. But there are more immediate concerns. Now, inside the life raft, he can fully appreciate just how catastrophic his injuries are. Though he can barely see his hand in front of his face, Brian gropes around to take stock of the damage. His dislocated legs are at right angles, his head is swollen to four times its normal size, and one arm hangs limp at his side. Disturbed, Brian resolves to do something. Gritting his teeth, he starts to straighten his broken bones. I know I'm not structurally fixing anything, but I'm making myself look a

lot better. And this is one of those times in your life where it's better to look good than to feel good. And I just wanted that. I said, I'm going to be out here all night long and probably well into the next day I want everything pointed in the right direction I don't want to look at arms and legs bitten in the wrong way so now I get everything pointed in the right direction and now I'm starting to shake uncontrollably I'm going into shock Brian Brian convulses violently. He must avoid falling unconscious. If he passes out now, he'll never wake up. Brian always carries a water bottle with him.

But when he reaches for it, he realizes it's gone. Blown through the bottom of his flight suit pocket when he ejected. It's another blow. The problems keep on coming thick and fast the rucksack survival kit that brian needs is on the end of a line somewhere in the ocean and then i was like okay you got to get your focus back and you got to get to some water so you don't go unconscious so i grabbed the line-foot line, to that rucksack survival kit that's somewhere out in the ocean that I can't see. And with my teeth in my one arm, I reeled that kit into the raft with me. Inch by inch, through the drag of the swirling waves, Brian retrieves the

survival rucksack. But even undoing a zip in his state is no simple task. Determined to get to the drinking water to stay awake, Ryan again uses his teeth to slowly, painfully open the bag. I reached in, I grabbed some water packs, I tore a couple of those open, drank that water, and that was like somebody flipping a switch. I stopped shaking, I could start thinking clearly. I got the nasty salt water taste out of my mouth. I thought, okay, it's time to get busy. And survival were taught what's called the rule of threes. The survival rule of threes state that

you can only survive about three seconds if you don't have the will to survive. You can survive about three minutes without air. You can survive about three minutes without air. You can survive about three days without water, three weeks without food, and three months without human companionship. If you follow that survival rule of threes, that tells you what you need to do and when you need to do it.

Now, the other side of that equation is you have a window of time. I'm strong. I'm still injured, but I'm strong. That window is going to close. And over time, the injuries that I have sustained are going to get worse and worse. The pain is going to get worse and worse. My strength is going to get less and less.

Brian must optimize this window of opportunity while he still has the strength and the adrenaline in his body. Particularly as a new problem has now presented itself. The main donut-shaped part of the raft he's sitting in has only partially inflated. The frigid seawater is pooling around him. The current is dragging Brian further and further from the crash site. At night, in these heaving, eddying waters, the chances he'll be found are almost zero. So he has to make the life raft as secure and as warm as he can

to maximize his chances of still being alive if rescue somehow comes. Lashed by knife-cold spray, Brian gropes around the raft until he eventually finds the inflation tube. I stuck the tube in my mouth. I opened the valve. I went to try to blow air into it, but my lips were so distorted I couldn't create a seal around the tube. I had to grab the valve with my teeth, clamp my hands down around my lips to create that seal. To give you an idea how distorted my face was, my lips stuck out past my third finger. So I'd blow and I'd blow and I'd blow and I started getting lightheaded, so I had to take a break.

Well, the first time I pulled the tube out of my mouth, the valve didn't self-seal. And about half the air that I just blew in leaked out before I could get it turned off. Lungs refilled. he goes again and again. It takes Brian two agonizing hours to get the raft fully inflated. A spray shield finally pops up around him, and he has some shelter from the elements at last. Now he must bail out the bitingly cold seawater. There's not a lot in his pack that can help, especially given he's only got one working hand. Some lateral thinking is required. The rucksack is full of Ziploc bags included in the kit to keep things dry. Brian has a different use

for them now. So I've got about 20 of these Ziploc bags in here. So I was able to grab a bag. I was able to grab the end of the bag with my two fingers and my thumb, manipulate the bag, get a substantial amount of water in the bag, and then bail it out over the side of the rack. I'm making progress. When you're in a survival situation like that, you have an ultimate goal to survive, but that ultimate goal is broken down into a thousand sub-goals. And it's those sub-goals that are going to be whether you were successful or not. So you set a goal that's achievable. You work through that goal, achieve that goal, and that gives you confidence to continue on to your next goal.

So me getting that water out was a huge success in that goal of bailing that water out, making my home, getting myself in a warm environment to where my body temperature is now heating up the inside of this. It took me several hours to do, but I finally got it done. With the raft as secure and as warm as he's going to get it, Brian can finally rest. For the first time since ejection, he can fully turn his attention to his friend, Dennis. He calls out to his partner periodically, trying to make his voice heard over the roar of the ocean, trying to spot a torch or a flare in the dense night.

There is no response, just a black, lifeless amphitheater all around. It's gone midnight. Nearly four hours have passed since Brian ejected from his aircraft. Even in his sheltered life raft, the freezing temperatures are starting to invade his bones. He has done all he can to survive this far, and now it's up to others to save him. Just then, there is a thrum and a rattle from somewhere in the void above. I heard a unique sound. And once you've heard that sound once, it's a sound that you never forget. And it's the turboprops of a C-130 Hercules aircraft. I could hear that faint sound of those turboprops way off into the distance. I peeked up from my raft. I could see the position lights of the aircraft flying a track pattern back and

forth. And beyond that, I could see a search light and I could hear the faint walk of a rotor from a helicopter. My whole mind up until this point has been nothing but survival. I hadn't even thought about rescue. Rescue happens when rescue happens. So now I have to shift gears into a rescue mode. Even when you shift into that rescue mode, you still have to focus on surviving. Any number of things can go wrong. I could fall out of my raft. I have to still be conscious of what I'm doing and how i'm doing it while i'm working the rescue for the first time it seems brian might just make it but he is a tiny dot lost in a seething dark sea the torch in his rucksack is waterlogged and

useless how else can he make himself seen? Brian struggles to get the flares from his survival kit. There are two types of flares available to him, but both can only be deployed by someone with two working hands. And even if he could light one, the risk of setting fire to the raft or himself is too great. Desperately, Brian tries to work around the setback. At any moment, the rescue aircraft he can hear above him might return to base, leaving him alone again. He turns to his last option, the radio in his survival kit. I started transmitting, Mayday, Mayday, no response. I'm thinking my radio doesn't work. So I tried the

backup frequency, still no response. I went back to the primary frequency. I'd probably made a dozen transmissions thinking, this is all I have. This is all I can do to try to make contact with these people. I can see them flying around. I know I'm line of sight. This should be working. And finally, after one of my transmissions, very faintly, I know I'm line of sight. This should be working. And finally, after one of my transmissions, very faintly, I heard a reply. They know I'm alive. It's now around 1 a.m. And finally, it seems there is an end in sight. Brian breathes a huge sigh of relief as a voice crackles back through the radio. However, before the team can initiate the rescue, they have one more rather bizarre task for Brian.

And they said, OK, we need to authenticate you. And I'm thinking, why are we authenticating someone? How many people do you think are down here? This is the Atlantic Ocean, 65 miles out off the coast of North Carolina. How many people? Here's an idea. Rescue everyone. We'll worry about the pleasantries when I get on board.

After answering questions about his social security number and the color of the van he drives, Brian is at last cleared for rescue. The crew ask him to send up some flares so they can accurately locate him. Something he cannot do. So Brian comes up with another suggestion. I said, guys, I'm doing good just to talk to you. I said, but I can see you. I said, so let me vector you to me.

And so I gave them what we call no gyro vectors. Basically, turn left, stop turn, turn right, stop turn. And so I flew that C-130 right over the top of me, and as he was approaching, I went three, two, one, warp. You just went overhead. Slowly, meticulously, like an elaborate game of Marco Polo, Ryan guides the rotorcraft through the darkness until the team are confident of his

position. But the downdraft of a helicopter at low altitude is over 100 miles an hour. If it gets too close to him, he'll be flipped into the sea. As his tiny raft is thrown around on the chill waters of the Atlantic, Brian positions the helicopter around 50 feet short of his location. That'll do. I'll never forget the picture of the rescue swimmer as he came out of that cabin door and they started lowering him down the cable.

I thought, okay, this is really going to happen. I want to be ready to go when he gets to me. So I pulled a hook blade knife out of my G-suit pocket. I started raking my legs to grab those lines, and I'd grab a handful of those lines with my teeth. I'd create the tension, and with that razor knife, I would cut those lines. Brian frees himself of the web of ropes and parachute lines. Then he lets just enough air out of the raft to allow his rescuer easy access. He swims up to me.

He throws his arms over the side of the raft and he introduces himself. I'm Coast Guard Rescue Swimmer Jim Peterson and I'm here to rescue you. And I said, great, I'm Air Force Captain Brian Udell, and I'm here to be rescued. Let's go. When rescuer Jim Patterson finally reaches the raft, he isn't fully aware of the extent of Brian's injuries. But he has to move him, no matter what. He tells Brian that he's going to swim him across to the rescue cradle, where he will be strapped in and hoisted into the helicopter. Even with Jim's support, the idea of getting into the tumultuous ocean is a daunting one. And I knew that this guy was going to put me through the most pain that I've ever been through in my entire life. Probably more than what I just have already experienced,

because he's going to be thrashing me around as he drags me through this water. And so mentally, I'm preparing myself to be the best survivor this guy has ever seen. I don't want him worrying that he's hurting me. I want him to stay focused on his job. As he's kicking, those flippers are generating a wake. That wake is causing my legs to go back and forth through the water. There's just not a whole lot holding my legs on, so they're just free-flowing out there.

The pain that I was experiencing every time he kicked and every time that wake of water went up against my legs was unbelievable. And my whole goal was to not let him know that he's hurting me. Somehow, Brian remains silent, swallowing the agony. Eventually, the roar of the blades is directly overhead

and Brian is strapped into the rescue cradle. He's secured, the signal is given, and he is lifted into the sky. For a moment, as the cradle twists

and spins on the end of the rope, it seems like he might collide with a helicopter. But at the last moment, the crew pull him inside with a decisive thump. He's safe. With no time to lose, the Coast Guard fly Brian to the nearest hospital in Wilmington. It isn't a comfortable journey. There had been military budget cuts, and they had lost their EMT qualifications, so they weren't allowed to push any fluids, not even an IV to rehydrate me. So I'm laying there. They're not able to do anything for me except give me a neck brace.

And I told them, I said, my neck and back are the only things that don't hurt. Finally, we get to the helipad at the hospital. I remember the doors opening up. We roll in through the hallway. We're going down the hallway. I'm looking at the fluorescent lights going overhead. And then all of a sudden, the gurney comes to a stop. I look around and there was my wife, my answered prayer.

She was standing there. She was afraid to touch me. I didn't look human. I reached up and I held her hand and all I could think to say was, so how do I look? And she's like, oh, you look fine. And I thought to myself, babe, you need to be a poker player in Las Vegas. I said, because I know I don't look fine. And so I held her hand for a second and then they said we need to take him in and put him back together.

Brian is wheeled into an operating theater full of 30 medics where his dislocated limbs are reset, still without pain relief. Finally, Brian is put under general anesthetic and taken into the emergency theater where he is slowly reconstructed by a team of surgeons. When Brian comes around, many hours later, he finds out what happened to his friend, Captain Dennis White. About noon that day, my wife came in and woke me up. And I said, did they find him? And they said yes, that he was gone, that he had been killed in the ejection. There's no reason other than for me, just the grace of God, that I'm a lot. I shouldn't be a lot. Why he was taken and why I'm still here, I have no explanation.

It's something that you never get over. It's just something you learn to deal with. He had a wife. He had two kids. And, you know, your realization is that she just lost her husband and they lost their father. That's tough. And it never gets easier throughout life. This in April of 25 will be 30 30 years and it doesn't get any easier half a dozen stainless steel rods are inserted into brian's legs while he's recovering in hospital the doctors tell him that while walking again will be a challenge, flying again will be an impossibility.

That was not something I was willing to accept. I'm a firm believer that your brain dictates what your body does. And if you really want to do something, your mental strength is going to make it happen so i told them i said i may not be able to do anything for the next six weeks while all of this heals i said but i want you to bring me weights so that i can work out in this bed so that my upper body is strong so that when you take these rods out, I can start working the lower half. First, with dumbbells in bed, and then with further surgeries and intensive physiotherapy, Brian regains his strength and movement. On June 5, 1995, less than two months after the ejection,

he takes his first steps on his reconstructed legs. Within six months of the accident, he teaches himself to run again. His son Morgan is born during this rehabilitation period, adding extra inspiration and incentive to Brian's recovery. When he eventually tells the Air Force that he's ready to get back to work, they have serious reservations. They demand he completes a series of rigorous tests to prove to his superior officers that he's ready. He passes with flying colors.

And ten months after the devastating incident, Brian climbs back into an F-15. Pulled that jet fuel starter handle, felt that thing tick off, felt that ramp slam down and the power of that engine. And I thought to myself, I'm back. I did it. I remember taxiing to the end of the runway and the first takeoff that I did, I just got airborne. I was a few feet off the ground. I sucked the gear up, put the flaps up. By the end of the runway, we were over 400 knots, and I pulled that nose straight up into the air, and I climbed that eagle up to 20,000 feet. That's what it's all about. Your mind is what controls everything. How you think is going to be the result of whatever you're going through. If you want to fail,

you care. If you want to succeed, you can. It's your choice. I went through probably the most horrific event that you can possibly put a human through. I wasn't supposed to survive the ejection. I wasn't supposed to survive the time no more. I was never supposed to walk right again. I certainly wasn't supposed to fly again. I choose to make things happen, not to he tackles the tallest peak on the planet. In 1991, with the last of his student loan, Dan blags his way onto a climbing expedition to Mount Everest. He's paired up with Roman, a grizzled Soviet Georgian in his mid-fifties. But as the unlikely duo tackle the mighty mountain, things start to go terribly wrong.

When Roman collapses near the summit, Dan faces an awful choice. The decision he makes, and what happens next, will change him forever. That's next time on Real Survival Stories. and what happens next will change him forever. That's next time on Real Survival Stories. Listen right now without waiting a week by subscribing to Noisa Plus.