Hope it's not a re-post:
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 2004,
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 turd?
At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Baghdad International Airport
like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs are he
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 ass 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 Herk 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
NVGs, 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 aimpoint and airspeed.
Aviation 101, with the exception there's 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, I 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!
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 2004,
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 turd?
At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Baghdad International Airport
like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs are he
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 ass 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 Herk 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
NVGs, 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 aimpoint and airspeed.
Aviation 101, with the exception there's 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, I 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!
