delta314
Registered User
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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 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 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
shitting 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!
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 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 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
shitting 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!
