From:
Canadain Free Press
Randy Cunningham, bribes, prison
Vile blue yonder
By John Burtis
Sunday, March 5, 2006
There is a somewhat blurry video tape of a pilot’s first aerial victory, taken through the gun camera on his F-4C Phantom II, which shows an AIM-9 Sidewinder zeroing in on a Mig-21 Fishbed’s heat signature as the Soviet made fighter tries to elude the Mach 2.5 missile by turning away low and to the left. As the action continues, the missile - easily followed by the tell tale smoke trail from its solid rocket motor - acquires, locks, and then flies up the jet exhaust of the fleeing aircraft, and detonates, blowing off the tail section of the opposing plane, the remains of which crash into the paddies and explode.
The action is punctuated by the hoarse, no nonsense, calls of the pilot, a recent graduate of the Top Gun fighter weapons school, who is flying with VF-96 - the Fighting Falcons - based on the aircraft carrier USS Constellation, cruising on Yankee Station in the Gulf of Tonkin on this particular day in January 1972. This is the US Navy’s first aerial victory after a two year hiatus in the air war. The pilot’s name is Randy Cunningham, his call sign is "Duke", and he would go on to become the first fighter ace of the Vietnam War, earning the Navy Cross, two Silver Stars, fifteen Air Medals and a Purple Heart.
After returning stateside, Cunningham would serve as a Top Gun instructor, complete a staff assignment at the Pentagon, fly as the executive officer with the fabled Black Knights of VF-154, sail on the staff of the Commander of the US Seventh Fleet in the western Pacific, and finally as the Commanding Officer of the vaunted VF-126 — the Bandits - the day to day aggressor squadron based at Top Gun. After mustering out of the service with the three stripes of a commander in 1987, Cunningham became the Dean of the National School of Aviation and started an aviation marketing company, Top Gun Enterprises.
In 1990, Randy "Duke" Cunningham, as he is now billed, is elected to Congress as a Republican, representing California’s 50th District. A popular, gregarious man, a naval hero with that special aura about him that attracts folks, the Duke garners both acclaim and seats on the House Appropriations Committee, and subcommittee assignments on the valued Defense Appropriations; District of Columbia Appropriations; Labor, Health and Human Services and Education Appropriations. He is happily married and has three children.
And somewhere along the way, whether in the dark recesses of the Capitol, in a yacht slip in San Diego, in a hotel room inside the Beltway or over in Arlington, on a taxi-way at Dulles, or in a parked car on a country road in Virginia, when somebody dangled a whole lot of cold hard cash in front of him, Randy "Duke" Cunningham, rumored model for that Tom Cruise movie, went bad.
And going bad usually begins with a first time, accompanied by fear, night time sweats, nausea, bouts of paranoia and fears of immediate discovery. But over time it all settles down, especially when they don’t come for you right away. When the second chance arises, there’s a bit less cognitive dissonance and the illicit transaction goes a bit easier. Then it gets very easy, the evil angels in our nature take over, the demands grow shriller, and we become what we once despised. The bob-sled run to perdition once started, cannot be easily exited. Just as a dog-fight once entered, cannot be exited save by death or by running, balls to the wall, in full afterburner, for home. And fighter pilots are loathe to bolt from danger.
For Randy, his walks on the wild side began to go so easily that he scribbled down his own menu of dirty laundry options, with a clear ratio of his expected rake offs visible to beholder — which reminds me of the small enemy flags painted on the side of a fighter plane, signifying the kills the pilot’s made, for all to see — those small visible records of destruction. Sadly, with a view to the Duke’s final resting place, they should have been the red circles on the white flags denoting Zero’s instead of the yellow stars on the red flags indicating MiGs.
It was a quick trip from hero to criminal, beginning in 1990 until the bag men started buying him cars, homes, yachts, doo-dads, trinkets, jewelry, flying carpets and what ever. Presents for Randy meant deals for defense contractors. The stash meant stuff for the kids, the wife and flashy toys for the big, boisterous eternal kid who, more than anything, wanted presents and acclaim rather than a steady legal paycheck. And the salesmen doting on him at the Capital Grill meant a lot, with all the fancy suits, top shelf drinks, the expensive wine, waitresses, the high end entrees, dessert carts and the jealous looks of the other patrons focused only on the Duke.
As Randy Cunningham sits in his jail cell for the next eight years or so, with plenty of time to reflect on his personal rise and fall, the forks in his road to ruin and the roads not taken, with an excess of time replay the video tape of his life over and over, he’ll wonder if the few years of raw excitement, untrammeled greed and the thrill of bribery were worth the remaining lifetime of regret. He’ll miss Nancy’s kind words and the laughter of his kids and the absence of their love will haunt him in the silence of the night. And he’ll fall asleep cursing that vile blue yonder - that cold unforgiving sky and its hungry demons that granted him everything he had wanted as a kid and all the fame he’d prayed for — which had hung a name bigger than any hanger around his all too human neck.
Randy Cunningham was not merely tempted from the straight and narrow- flying in the clear air empty of enemies, his feet dry, experiencing no mechanical problems, he tightened his safety restraints, lowered his face shield, reached back, grabbed the ejection handles with both hands and punched out — directly into the high pressure slip-steam of bribery, kick-backs and shake-downs.
Sadly, he never radioed a May Day until he stood in the dock, faced the court and admitted his guilt and the damage he’d done to the country he once professed to love and promised to defend.
"I made a very wrong turn," he told the judge.
To read other Columns by John Burtis, please click here
John Burtis is a freelance columnist living in New Hampshire. John can be reached at:
letters@canadafreepress.com. You can read your Letters to the Editor here.
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Sad Day In Naval Aviation.
Robbie
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