Trash Haulers Have Fun Too

[erehwon]

Slowly making the rounds from my jet jockey friends, and to the printers of my fellow GFY'ers

Trash Haulers Have Fun Too

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 2003, 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
shit-hole. "Hey copilot, clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the
'Before Starting Engines Checklist."_

God, I love this job!___ - Author chooses to remain anonymous