Enjoy:
This is a funny story particularly if you lust over mixed
metaphors. This is from a colorful writer from the 1st Marine Air Wing based at MCAS
Miramar.
There I was at six thousand feet over central Iraq, two hundred
eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a
typical September evening in the Persian Gulf; hotter than a rectal
thermometer and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting. But that's
neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, and
blacker than a Steven King novel. But it's 2006, folks, and I'm sporting the
latest in night-combat technology - namely, hand-me-down night vision
goggles (NVGs) thrown out by the fighter boys. Additionally, my 1962 Lockheed
C-130E Hercules is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective
missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes a nice soothing tone in
your headset just before the missile explodes into your airplane. Who
says you can't polish a ****?
At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Baghdad International
Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs are the
cat's ass.
But I've digressed. The preferred method of approach tonight is
the random shallow. This tactical maneuver allows the pilot to ingress the
landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly
secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-
air-missiles and small arms fire.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my pink bellybutton on that theory but the
approach is fun as hell and that's the real reason we fly it. We get a
visual on the runway at three miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above
the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty knots.
Now the fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend
the mighty Herc to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately,
yank into a sixty degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees
offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse
turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out
aligned with the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the
"Ninety/Two-Seventy."
Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just
to the point my nether regions start to sag, bleeding off energy in
order to configure the pig for landing.
"Flaps Fifty!, landing Gear Down!, Before Landing Checklist!" I
look over at the copilot and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of
ice.
Looking further back at the navigator, and even through the
Nags, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I
glance at my steely-eyed flight engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a
grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am ....
"Where do we find such fine young men?"
"Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all
aim-point and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there are no
lights, I'm on NVGs, it's Baghdad and now tracers are starting to crisscross the
black sky.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Goodyear's
on brick-one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle and then
force the props to full reverse pitch. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my
four Hamilton Standard propellers chewing through the thick, putrid,
Baghdad air.
The huge, one hundred thirty thousand pound, lumbering whisper
pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet.
Let's see a Viper do that!
We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued
Army grunts. It's time to download their beans and bullets and
letters from their sweethearts, look for war booty, and of course, urinate on
Saddam's home.
Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Beretta
92F, 9 millimeter strapped smartly to my side, look around and thank
God, not Allah, I'm an American and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank
God I'm not in the Army.
Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the
hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country?
You bet your ass.
Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to
mention, chicks dig the Air Medal. There's probably some truth there too. But
now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral
properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model. It is
however, time to get out of this ####-hole. Hey copilot , clean yourself up! And
how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist."
God, I love this job!"
Cheers,
RTR
