Afterburners (3 page)

    “Morning, Chief, what’s up?” I asked.

    “Ah shit, guess no one got hold of the crew that was flying today!” There was something about the way the old chief said it that made me chuckle. He was the only chief I knew who flew every chance he got. The major looked up from his desk. He didn’t say anything; he just sort of smiled. To him, it was just old Jimmie being himself.

    “Guess not.” I replied.

    “Get on down to Life Support and fit a chemical mask. Then head over for mobility processing at the hangar across the lot.”

    “Real world?” I asked.

    “Real world. Mobex is just a prep; but you’ll need your shot records, tags, and your gear. Should be in your bag anyway, right?” Old Jimmie looked up at me and I sort of nodded.

    Just then, I noticed a brand-new bulletin board behind him with lists of names arranged by crews. My name was in position six on crew three. “Position 6?” I asked.

    “We need the best ops on 6 and 7. You’re it. Got it?”

    I nodded agreement, didn’t think much more of it at the time as I headed out the door posthaste.

    In a few minutes I was sucking filtered air through a real-world chemical mask while the life support technician fitted it up and showed me how to use it properly—like I didn’t already know how. But this one was different from the one I was used to; it wasn’t stamped: TRAINING USE ONLY. I’d never really cared before if the seals fit just right. I did then.

    By the time I got into the mobility processing line, it stretched all the way to the back of the hangar. Happy, Topper, Popcorn, Cowboy, and a few other crew dogs were also at the end of the line, mixed in with a large group of ground-support personnel. They had arrived a few minutes before me and under similar circumstances. We all would have preferred flying.

    It didn’t take long to get to the front of the line. We passed the time listening to Happy’s anecdotes. By now a number of crewers had piled into the line behind us. I saw Able and Tommy. You couldn’t miss them. Several others—who were all good friends—including Chris, PBJ, Mike and Captain Willie, were behind them.

    Able was spouting off as usual. “You believe this f’ing shit,” he was saying. Tommy wasn’t helping to calm him down but was cheering him on.

    All I heard of the remainder of their conversation was a string of f-words as I reached the front of the line. Personnel was first with emergency data cards. The cards covered whom to contact in case of emergency, next of kin, and what not. I had one typed. Then came the Security police with ID cards and dog tags. I got a new set made. Afterward the base legal team was there to make powers of attorney and wills. I didn’t think I’d need either of those, so I moved on to the Chaplain and Finance. Immunization was through a door and across a hall. I got four shots. Two in each arm.

    The mobex prep was a rather rude awakening; and about the time the fourth needle pushed into my arm, something I’d neglected to see the importance of clicked. I was on launch crew three and yet the official word was that our unit was still to remain in place. We would not be going to the Gulf, or so the buzz in the mobility line went.

    After the mobility exercises, two weeks passed quietly, yet that morning when I entered the ops building at 07:15 it was buzzing. A crowd had gathered around the DO’s office and there sitting in one of the chairs across from the chief was a man so tanned that I hardly recognized him. He looked like a sun-wrinkled prune. Lost weight, too, I could tell. One of our guys had come home. It was October 15th.

    He was being bombarded by a never-ending onslaught of questions. “How was Saudi?” “Did you get to Riyadh?” “How was the desert?” “What was it like?” “Was it hot?” “What does the situation look like?”

    He was a celebrity, our local expert. He’d been there; we hadn’t. Yet the questions were all about the same thing. We all wanted to hear someone say it—anyone besides the newscasters and the second-guessers. It being the only question no one asked, “Do you think there’ll be war?”

    I stood gawking for about fifteen minutes then went to work, business as usual—well almost business as usual. That day I went home for lunch and ate with my wife, Katie. We didn’t have to talk about Saudi, the Gulf, or the possibilities. We had only to turn on CNN and it spoke for us.

We didn’t have the traditional Thanksgiving fare that year. It wasn’t a well-roasted turkey we pulled steaming out of the oven. We had baked sweet potatoes, corn bread, pumpkin pie, and all the usual. But the main course was ham. Try something different, I had told Katie.

    The neighbors from one floor up joined us. He was an air maintenance technician, a fellow crew dog, and his wife was a good friend of my wife.

    The beer of choice after dinner, sitting on the couch watching the inevitable football game, was Bischoff, similar to the Budweiser I would have guzzled if I were at home in the good old U.S. of A.

    Quite a few of our activities at work were directed at preparations for a probable deployment. The possible had become the probable although the official word was still a definitive no.

    Some 250,000 allied troops had been deployed to the Gulf by then.

At first glance the sleek gray-painted lady before me looked like any standard C-130 used for transport. But as you came closer, the rear antenna array told you she was different. She was unique.

    I clambered up the entry way and went through the crew entrance door, taking care not to smack my head on the upper metal lip that was a few inches too low for me even as I hunched over. The interior lights were still off and the cabin was dark and silent.

    I groped my way to position six and set my gear down beside the seat. Other than my normal gear, a helmet bag, and an A-bag, I had two extra bags this day. I waited for the external power hookups to kick in and for the AMT to turn on the interior lights. I was eager to get airborne, very eager.

    Seconds later I heard the distant hum of the external power-set kick in. The overhead lights were brought up. The AMT opened the rear ramp and door, negating the need for the overhead lights.

    I waited my turn to stow my extra bags in the rear behind the racks. As I did so, I took a long look up the belly of the Lady. The cockpit was that of a standard C-130 with positions for pilot, copilot, navigator, and engineer. Behind the Nav’s position was the forward bunk and above that the forward escape hatch.

    It was behind station 245 that the Gray Lady really expressed her differences. Her belly was dissected by one main aisle that ran from aft to stern lined on both sides by an array of high-tech gear that filled her insides and weighed her down with thousands of extra pounds.

    Behind the station 245 wall dividing the cockpit from the mission compartment was the emergency oxygen shut-off valve, a fire axe, and an extinguisher. Immediately behind that the tall racks housing the eight mission crew positions began. In front of the racks were eight high-backed flight chairs. The chairs swiveled to face the positions, but that’s about all they did. They looked deceivingly comfortable, but all they were was cold steel and old foam cushions.

    Each position within the two long racks that ran to the mid-section, four to a side, had its array of high-tech gadgetry. On the starboard side near the center hatch, a single position stood all by itself. This was the air maintenance technician’s position. Opposite it was an empty space where spare equipment was usually stowed. Also where most of the emergency medical kits were stored. Behind the AMT’s position were two more rows of equipment, housed neatly in racks. This was the heart and soul of the great Lady. Yet with all her electronic gadgetry turned down, she still looked deceptively innocent, at least to me.

    I opened my flight crew checklist to the Preflight Checklist as I had a hundred times before. Following procedure, I ran my fingers across the equipment racks in front of me. I gave them the usual tugs then sat down. After wadding up a set of foam earplugs, I stuffed them into my ears. The whine of the four turboprop engines was unnerving, and in the long-term damaging. There were a few, though, that had been flying for a very long time. They didn’t need the plugs anymore.

    Headset on, I readied my communication panel, pulling out all the appropriate knobs from a seemingly daunting array of knobs and switches. The knobs were for listening to chatter on a particular channel. The channel selector let me talk on a given channel when I keyed my mike.

    The knob marked PA was for the ship’s loudspeaker; only the front-end could talk on PA. Ship’s Interphone was for cockpit comms and comms to the front-end. Private A was the mission crew commander’s channel. We used it to pass targeted signals to the MCC. Private B was the mission crew’s channel and for comms to the mission crew supervisor. Listen let me hear Flight Crew Hot comms, which, when pulled, activated my microphone without my having to key it. It was used for emergencies. Select was like a dial-in telephone switching bank for general chatter. There were others for out-of-ship comms.

    Mouthpiece in place, I called out, “One, Six, interphone checks.” No reply. One was still busy with her oxygen regulator and helmet. “MCS, Six, interphone checks.”

    The mission crew supervisor’s reply came into my headset loud and clear. We ran through the channel list: Flight Crew Hot; ship’s Interphone; the Privates: A and B, Listen, and Select.

    I gave the thumbs up sign to the MCS and waited for the others on the crew to check in and do the same.

    A few minutes later the MCS called out, “MCC, MCS, preflight checks complete. Mission crew ready for Before Starting Engines Checklist.”

    “Roger, MCS,” responded the MCC. He then relayed to the navigator that the mission crew was ready to go.

    I could hear the front-end chatter in my ears amidst a chorus of other voices. They were just finishing up their preflight checks.

    “Crew, Before Starting Engine Checklist. Loose articles stowed. Oxygen 100 percent.” There were a number of responses, but by now I was only half listening. I was keying in on Tower, waiting for them to give us taxi and take-off clearance. “Crew, Before Starting Engine Checklist complete.”

    The copilot gave a quick brief, then the AMT pulled the chocks from under the wheels and tossed them in behind the racks. I knew this because they landed with a thunk just as the number three engine was whining to a start.

    “Crew, four engines green.” The engines whined a little louder as the pilot checked forward and reverse thrust and the brakes.

    Taxi went quick. The gate was already open when we got to it, allowing us entrance to the runway. Once the pilot readied, he began the before takeoff checks.

    “Crew ready for taxi and takeoff?” tweaked the MCC’s voice into our headsets. We hoisted our thumbs high. “Pilot, MCC, mission crew ready for taxi and takeoff.”

    “Roger, MCC.”

    Finally we were ready to go. Strapped in, green nomex gloves on, seat facing forward, we listened to the pilot’s voice announce the obvious. “Crew, we’re rolling,” he said and we prepared for takeoff.

    Suddenly the eagerness to be airborne disappeared. A three-day TDY was before me and now all I could think of was what I was leaving behind. I imagined the rolling hills, the farmlands, and the thick green forests. Every German village I’d seen had been like the picture postcards of Europe I’d seen as a boy.

    I’d pursued each and every one of those pictures. I’d followed the Rhine River by boat, admiring the medieval castles that frequented its shores. I’d walked castle bulwarks at night when torches lighted them and their walls reflected an ominous orange amidst thick shadows, imagining medieval knights defending the great walls against invading hordes. I’d been to the Black Forest, bought my cuckoo clock. I’d wandered about Bavarian vineyards. But I’d never been to England, which is where we were heading.

    I had a full itinerary planned. Cambridge and London awaited if I got the chance to see them, and I hoped I would.

    When clearance came after takeoff, I removed my gloves and turned to face position Six. I lowered the zipper on my flight suit so it was away from my neck and stared at the blackened screen before me while I waited for system power to be brought up. Today we’d just check out the equipment and make sure it was all working properly. Tomorrow, a mission.

    My screen blinked. The AMT’s voice tweaked into my headset, “The system’s coming up. She looks good; no gremlins today.”

    I watched the blinking cursor and waited. The maintenance tech was busy bringing up the system, running around switching on boxes, cycling power on others.

    Pressure changes as we climbed again made my ears crackle and pop. As I adjusted the foam earplugs, the roar of engines came in booming.

    “AMT, MCC, system up yet?”

    “Hold one!” came the reply.

    I glanced at my watch; it was 09:15. So far we’d made good time though the three hours of preflight had crawled by.

    The system logo finally started scrawling across my screen. The system was almost up. The screen blanked out for a moment to be replaced by the log-in prompt.

    “MCC, AMT, the system is yours!”

    I looked left. Two positions down, the mission crew commander was logging in and checking out the system. A few minutes later, his voice coming across Private cleared us in.

    Above the keyboard were three long rows of keys, all labeled and in different colors: green, red, yellow, white and black. Each key pulled up a separate action menu. I punched the appropriate key to give me access to the log-in prompt.

    Once logged into the position, I performed the standard checks and waited for final clearance to the signal environment. I switched on the small spotlight above my position and aimed it at the now darkened keyboard as interior lighting had been brought down. I flicked through the settings on the displays above my position’s display, ensuring they were set properly. Now as I glanced about the cabin, the Lady looked exceptionally extravagant; but she still flashed her true colors only when we threw her into jam. During Green Flag we had live-jammed, but ordinarily we didn’t.