Most would find the idea of hopping into a US military aircraft and taking it for an unauthorized joyride unfathomable. However, for a select few, it's a great way to settle a score, go sightseeing in Washington, DC, express the depth of one's love, or make a childhood dream come true. This article will reflect on the stories of four men who attempted the unimaginable, all with one thing in common: their stories are unbelievable, but every one of them is true.

Lance Corporal Howard A. Foote Jr., an enlisted aircraft mechanic at Marine Corps Air Station El Toro in Orange County, California, was no stranger to flight. An avid, record-setting glider pilot, Foote had big dreams of being accepted into the Marine Corps Enlisted Commissioning Program and attending flight school.

Marine Corps General and fellow glider enthusiast William Bloomer befriended Foote, noting his impressive flight skills. Bloomer convinced Foote that he had what it takes to break the glider altitude record, and unsurprisingly, Foote was more than happy to try. The US Marines declined to sanction the event despite General Bloomer's request, but that didn't stop Foote, who was compelled to rise to the challenge.

Foote forged ahead with the record-breaking attempt despite lacking a pressurized flight suit, which the Marines would have provided had they sanctioned the event. As his glider soared to 41,000 ft (12,497 m), Foote suffered a pulmonary embolism, which, in addition to obvious health concerns, disqualified Foote from ever flying for the Marines. Distraught by this turn of events, Foote was determined to realize his dream one way or another.

The current glider altitude record is 76,100 ft (23,195 m), set in 2018 by US pilots Jim Payne and Tim Gardner.

With about 100 hours of A-4 Skyhawk simulator time under his belt and his hands-on mechanical knowledge of the aircraft, Foote concocted a plan. Under the cloak of darkness, at about 2:00 a.m. on July 4th, 1986, Foote donned a flight suit and headed toward an A-4 Skyhawk in a vehicle used to shuttle pilots, avoiding suspicion. Foote climbed aboard, strapped himself in, and taxied toward an unlit runway. Before long, he was airborne.

The flight lasted about forty-five minutes, during which Foote performed loops, rolls, and numerous high-speed maneuvers before landing safely back at MCAS El Toro. Despite its illegality, it was an impressive feat. Upon his return, the runways were well-lit, and Foote had plenty of company waiting for him.

Thanks to his spotless prior record and General Bloomer's involvement in events leading up to the incident, Foote managed to avoid a harsh penalty. He was sentenced to just four-and-a-half months already served in the brig and an other-than-honorable discharge from the Marine Corps. Foote would go on to enjoy an aviation career that included being a civilian test pilot and even working for NASA.

Referring to US Navy and Marines prison as "The brig" evolved from the word "brigantine," which denotes two-masted warships historically used as floating prisons.

Disgruntled helicopter mechanic goes sightseeing in a Huey

If you're going to hop in a US military helicopter and take it for an unauthorized spin, you might as well find a cool place to land. That's precisely what US Army Pfc. Robert K. Preston did when he jumped in a Bell UH-1B Huey Helicopter at Fort Meade, Maryland.

Preston, just twenty years old at the time, was a licensed civilian fixed-wing aircraft pilot who dreamed of becoming a "DUSTOFF" medical evacuation pilot in Vietnam. To his dismay, his dream quickly turned into a nightmare when he washed out of Army aviation training at Fort Wolters, Texas, after 24 weeks due to "deficiency in the instrument phase." With two years remaining on his enlistment, Preston was transferred to Fort Meade and retrained as a helicopter mechanic.

DUSTOFF is an acronym for Dedicated Unhesitating Service To Our Fighting Forces.

Unhappy with this unexpected and unwanted career change, in addition to a failed personal relationship, Preston turned to his first true love, flying, for comfort. Just after midnight on February 17, 1974, Preston drove his vehicle to the unguarded airfield, strapped himself into the Huey, fired up the engine, and lifted off.

After buzzing a few homes and a restaurant and briefly touching down in a trailer park, Preston took to the skies for some sightseeing, enjoying birds-eye views of the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol Building before hovering in front of the Washington Monument for five minutes. Preston then headed for the White House, where he leveled off for a bit to the astonishment of personnel on the ground. But Preston wasn't done just yet.

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A wild aerial chase followed with a Maryland Police Department Bell 47G and two MPD Bell 206 Jet Ranger helicopters in hot pursuit. After a lengthy chase in which Preston demonstrated impressive modern dogfight tactics at speeds ranging from 60 to 120 knots, he realized there was ultimately no escape and decided to turn himself in—not to the police on the ground, but to President Richard Nixon himself.

Still evading and outmaneuvering MPD in the air, Preston returned to the White House to land the Huey on the South Lawn, where the US Secret Service was ready and waiting. As Preston descended, the Secret Service opened fire, shredding the Huey and injuring Preston, who, remarkably, was still able to execute a perfect landing.

Preston exited and rolled beneath the Huey and dashed toward the White House front door, where he was swiftly tackled and taken into custody by the Secret Service. Preston served six months in prison for his actions and was given a general discharge. Perhaps more importantly to Preston, he proved that, despite "deficiencies in the instrument phase," he was one heck of a helicopter pilot, a notion with which everyone involved agreed.

'Til death do us part

Just eight weeks after marrying his wife in Virginia, twenty-three-year-old US Air Force C-130E Crew Chief Sergeant Paul Meyer was deployed to RAF Mildenhall, England. His wife, Jane, remained back in Virginia. Before long, their long-distance relationship became unbearable, and Jane incessantly pleaded with her new husband to return home, causing Meyer great anguish.

Under unrelenting pressure from his wife, along with the stress of a failed promotion, Meyer requested a transfer to Langley AFB in Virginia. Regrettably, his request was denied. Just a few days later, on May 23, 1969, Meyer was arrested in an alcohol-related incident and restricted to barracks. Later that same night, the still-inebriated Meyer, determined to return home to Jane in Virginia, snuck out a window of his barracks, stole an officer's flight suit, and called for the C-130E on which he was assigned to be fueled up.

Possessing the necessary credentials, Meyer easily accessed the hangar and his aircraft. Meyer's knowledge of the aircraft, engines, and systems allowed him to start the engines, taxi to the runway, and execute a successful takeoff. Once airborne, Meyer called his wife on the aircraft radio and spoke with her for over an hour despite interruptions from Colonel Kingery from RAF Mildenhall.

Sadly, Meyer never made it home to his wife. About an hour and forty-five minutes after takeoff, the C-130 Meyer was piloting crashed into the English Channel. While some posit the C-130 was shot down, it is generally believed Meyer lost control of the aircraft. The wreckage was discovered in 2018 by professional diver and self-described "story hunter" Grahame Knott.

Unintentionally airborne or a dream come true?

Our last story takes place at Williams Air Force Base in Arizona, where a 20-year-old aircraft mechanic's high-speed taxi unexpectedly turned into the flight of a lifetime.

Airman First Class George R. Johnson was fascinated by airplanes as a young boy and dreamed of someday commandeering a military aircraft. Unfortunately for Mr Johnson, staring directly at the sun during an eclipse as a child left one of his retinas burned, disqualifying him from piloting a military aircraft. As such, Johnson would have to settle for becoming an aircraft mechanic in the USAF, eventually being assigned to the F-86 Sabre.

On September 20, 1956, while working the night shift, Johnson's maintenance team was tasked with performing functional checks on an F-86 after maintenance was performed earlier that day. Johnson requested and was granted a high-speed taxi test on the runway as part of the functional checks, and off he went.

As the F-86 reached 105 knots, the nose wheel began to lift. Before he knew it, the main gear began to lift as well. Fearing it was too late to stop, Johnson decided the best course of action was to safely climb and reevaluate the situation midair. Once in flight, Johnson alerted his superiors to the situation, and they raced to the scene as Johnson circled the base, maintaining an altitude of 10,000 ft (3,048 m).

Johnson requested that his former supervisor and F-86 check flight pilot, Second Lieutenant George Madison, fly on his wing and help him land the plane. Madison was woken from his slumber by Captain Linden Kelly, also an F-86 pilot, and the two of them quickly took to the sky to help guide him down. With Madison and Kelly on his wings, Johnson eventually landed the F-86 safely after being in flight for just over one hour.

After spending the night in a guarded room at the base hospital, the base Commander visited Johnson the following morning. However, the Commander didn't shout and scream as Johnson had anticipated. To Johnson's surprise, the Commander was quite calm and even impressed with Johnson's poise under such circumstances, complimenting his impressive flight skills.

The Commander believed the incident was unintentional and lamented having no choice but to have Johnson court-martialed, fearing that failure to do so would encourage copycat incidents. Johnson would spend six months in confinement, a reduction in rank to Airman basic, and a total forfeiture of $390 in pay. Johnson took the penalty in stride, finishing out his enlistment behind a desk at Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, Japan.

Following his enlistment, Johnson enjoyed a career in the computer industry and eventually became a licensed pilot flying crop-dusters. To this day, Johnson insists the night flight was unintentional, though I suspect that when Johnson felt the main gear begin to lift, he simply couldn't resist nudging the throttle just a hair to make his childhood dreams come true.