On April 22, 1996, over the rolling gray waters of the Atlantic Ocean, two U.S. Navy fighter jets collided mid-air in a training drill gone wrong. It was a routine exercise meant to simulate combat. Instead, it became a high-stakes test of survival, skill, and the resilience of American aviation engineering.
Against all odds, both pilots managed not only to survive but to bring their shattered aircraft back to base. What unfolded over the next harrowing hour is a story that still reverberates through military aviation circles almost three decades later.
The day began like many others during the Strike Fighter Advanced Readiness Program (SFARP), a training evolution to sharpen aircrews for deployment. The exercise involved F/A-18 Hornets from Fighter Squadron Composite 12 (VFC-12) simulating Russian MiG-29s, pitted against F-14 Tomcats from Fighter Squadron 41 (VF-41), with EA-6B Prowlers providing electronic warfare support.
Lt. Cmdr. Greg Stubbs, Lt. Cmdr. Greg Anderson, and Lt. Cmdr. Cal Worthington were among the pilots flying that day, all experienced aviators.
As part of the exercise, the pilots engaged in high-speed, aggressive maneuvers over open water. It was during one of these “dogfight” scenarios, when Stubbs and Anderson rolled their aircraft to signal a simulated kill, that disaster struck.
Stubbs would later describe the impact as “violent.” His Hornet lurched violently left; the cockpit shook as though struck by an invisible hammer. In those chaotic moments, it was unclear what had happened.
Quick assessments told the story: Stubbs had lost part of his left wing and a significant section of his tail fin. Anderson’s situation was even more dire. His Hornet’s nose cone was gone. The canopy had shattered, leaving him exposed to the slipstream at hundreds of miles per hour. One of his engines was barely functioning.
Yet somehow, both jets remained in the sky.
Immediate instinct for most pilots in a situation like that would be to eject. But Stubbs knew the dangers: plunging into the icy Atlantic, even with a survival suit, carried life-threatening risks. With both jets miraculously still controllable, even if just barely, the pilots decided to make for land.
The closest strip was a Coast Guard base at Elizabeth City, North Carolina, roughly 40 miles closer than their home base at Naval Air Station Oceana. But after a quick radio discussion, Stubbs and Anderson opted to head back to Oceana.
It was a pragmatic call. Oceana had crash crews trained for emergencies, superior equipment, and medical personnel ready. If they were going to attempt landings in broken jets, it made sense to do it where help was best equipped to save them if things went wrong.
On the way back, Stubbs experimented to find the minimum speed at which he could maintain control. He quickly realized he needed to keep at least 200 knots to steer—well above the safe landing speed.
It introduced new dangers. The Hornet’s tailhook, used to catch the arresting wire on landing, was only rated for 175 knots. Its tires were certified up to 182 knots. Exceeding those limits risked catastrophic failure.
Nevertheless, there was no real choice.
Two fellow Hornet pilots returning from another exercise offered to assist. Stubbs initially waved them off, concerned about unnecessary complications. But eventually, Lt. Cmdr. Bertrand joined him in formation, helping coordinate the final approach.
Stubbs extended his landing gear—which thankfully locked into place—and made a controlled final descent. His Hornet slammed onto the tarmac at 200 knots. The tailhook strained under the load but caught the arresting cable. The jet screeched across the runway, leaking fuel and hydraulic fluid, but stayed intact.
Behind him, Anderson brought in his mangled aircraft. His canopy gone, fuselage battered, wires exposed to the elements, he somehow managed a safe landing.
The two men climbed out onto the tarmac and shook hands. Battered, shaken, but alive.
The investigation found that the collision resulted from a momentary lapse during a coordinated maneuver—a “split-second judgment error” in the dense, fast-paced environment of simulated combat.
Yet Navy leadership chose not to focus blame. Instead, they emphasized what went right after disaster struck. Training, quick thinking, and discipline had made the difference. The experience led to refinements in how simulated kill maneuvers were conducted during training.
Their Hornets were not so lucky. Damage was so extensive that both aircraft were written off.
A McDonnell Douglas spokesperson was quick to point out the incident as a testament to the F/A-18’s ruggedness. Stubbs agreed: “If we’d been flying any other jet, we wouldn’t have made it,” he later said.
Introduced in the 1980s, the F/A-18 Hornet was designed from the outset to be versatile: a capable fighter and attack aircraft in one frame. It would become the backbone of U.S. Navy carrier aviation for decades.
But by the late 1990s, the Navy recognized that a newer, more capable platform was needed. The result was the F/A-18E/F Super Hornet.
Entering service in 2001, the Super Hornet was an evolution—larger, with greater range, enhanced survivability, and more sophisticated avionics. Its design reflected lessons learned over years of operational experience.
The Super Hornet would quickly prove itself in combat over Afghanistan during Operation Enduring Freedom, and again during the invasion of Iraq in 2003. Its versatility—performing air-to-ground strikes, air superiority missions, and electronic warfare—made it invaluable.
Today, Boeing continues to upgrade the Super Hornet fleet. The Block III upgrade program aims to keep the platform viable into the 2040s, focusing on radar cross-section reduction, updated avionics, and a “smart” next-generation cockpit with enhanced networking capabilities.
The F/A-18E/F remains a frontline asset for U.S. Navy carrier strike groups worldwide. In a world of fifth-generation stealth fighters and evolving threats, the Super Hornet’s adaptability is its greatest strength.
That adaptability was on display again in March 2025, when Super Hornets launched precision strikes against Houthi-controlled sites in Yemen. Flying from the USS Harry S. Truman, they spearheaded attacks aimed at degrading Houthi capabilities to disrupt shipping in the Red Sea, particularly near the Bab-el-Mandeb Strait, a vital global shipping chokepoint.
The strikes targeted weapons storage facilities, radar installations, and command centers across Al Hudaydah, Ras Isa, and parts of Sanaa. Utilizing Joint Direct Attack Munitions (JDAMs) and AGM-88 High-Speed Anti-Radiation Missiles (HARMs), the Super Hornets executed their missions with surgical precision.
The success of these operations reaffirmed the aircraft’s role in modern warfare, balancing raw kinetic power with technological finesse.
The April 1996 mid-air collision is a story of failure narrowly averted, and it highlights enduring truths about military aviation.
First: skill and calm under pressure save lives. Stubbs and Anderson’s decisions—to stay with their aircraft, to push their machines beyond rated limits, to coordinate carefully—were acts of calculated courage.
Second: the right equipment matters. The F/A-18 Hornet’s robust design was critical. Without the aircraft’s built-in redundancies and toughness, survival would have been impossible.
Third: continuous improvement is non-negotiable. From refining training protocols after the crash to modernizing the Hornet into the Super Hornet, the U.S. Navy has worked to adapt and evolve.
Nearly three decades after two pilots fought physics and luck over the Atlantic, the lineage of their aircraft continues to fight—and win—on battlefields far from home.
