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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 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 terd? > > >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 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 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 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 2F, 9 >millimeter strapped smartly to my side, look around and thank God, not >Allah, that 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 how's >'bout the 'Before Starting Engines' >Checklist." > > >God, I love this job!