Tail of the Storm

by Alan Cockrell

  The tower reports stiff crosswinds. This we definitely don't need, because the crosswind requires extra speed that will gobble up precious runway. We break out of the clouds at about 400 feet into a heavy rain, and I begin to fight the gusting winds. I push the throttles up, then bring them back again and again to control the sink rates and airspeed transients. The yoke moves fore and aft, left and right under my hand in a struggle to maintain attitude. Bones switches on the rain removal system, and the tremendous howling of the pressurized air blowing across the windscreen claws at my concentration, but it clears the rain away.

  With a clear view I can see that we are approaching in a big crab because of the crosswind. Our nose is pointed well to the left of the runway, though we are tracking the center line. We cannot land like this. Seconds before touchdown, I push the right rudder to the floor and roll the yoke hard left. The left wing goes down, and the nose swings to the righttoo much. Now we are angled a bit to the right of the runway centerline. I release a little right rudder pressure and apply a slight back pressure to the yoke. The landing is smooth, not because of my skill, but because of the extra airspeed we've had to carry.

  Immediately I throw all four engines into maximum reverse thrust. The reversers are clamshell like doors that close behind the engine's exhaust pipe and direct the jet blast at a forward angle much as a spacecraft slows by firing a rocket in its direction of travel. But then the snowball gets bigger.

  Bones notices the amber warning light and yells that the number four reverser has malfunctioned. This forces me to discontinue reversing on the number one engine, to avoid running off the left side of the runway because of asymmetric reverse thrust. Now the smoke is the least of our troubles. We have a heavy bird, a wet runway, excessive speed, and half our reverse thrust.

  I begin to apply hard brake pressure at about 110 knots indicated airspeed, far above the maximum 60 knots for brake application. I hope the antiskid brake system will hold up. I remember how it failed me in a similar situation a couple of years ago, but we were lucky then. If the fires blow I might not be able to control it. I pull the inboard throttles back so hard I feel like they're about to bend. Predictably, we hear the popping explosions as the compressors begin to stall, and the engines spit enormous fireballs ahead of the plane. As the runway end approaches, we begin to slow enough to turn off safely, but the snowball hasn't stopped rolling yet.

  Knowing that the brakes will be white hot and in danger of catching fire or even exploding, I stop as soon as we are clear of the runway and call for a quick evacuation. We shut down, jump out, and are passed by firemen as we trot away from the jet through a cold rain. We inhale deep lungs full of freshness and dampness; it never felt better. We laugh and slap one another's backs there in the rain, like sailors delivered through a gale. We've ridden the snowball. We've "cheated death once again," Mike chants.

  The mechanics quickly find the charred wire bundle in the AHRS circuitry. There will be no more flying for us today. The flight surgeon has grounded us temporarily because of the smoke. And before the brakes have cooled, it seems, the rumors have started about us. One crew we meet at the motel has heard that we were recalled and grounded because we were drunk. Another brings us false news that we are to be decorated. Later we learn that we have been killed.

  The doc releases us a couple of days later, and they throw us into the fray again. We had a minimum crew rest at Zaragoza and are now headed back downrange.

  "MAC Bravo 5518, you are cleared direct Barcelona, Upper Golf 33. Maintain Flight Level 330."

  We've reached our cruising altitude, and the Spanish controller has cleared us to proceed along route UG23 to the eastern boundary of his airspace. I look at the computer-generated flight plan for a review of our route clearance, which reads: ZZA UG25 QUV UG23 ALG UB35 CRO UA1 METRU W727 DBA B12 KATAB UA451 LXR W726 WEJ B58 KIA. It looks fairly simple. Barcelona is tuned into both our navigation radios, and we are flying directly to it. Beyond that, with the concurrence of the respective countries, we will continue along UG23 through France and Italy, switching over to Upper Amber 1 (UA1) at Crotone, which is on the toe of Italy's boot. I'm not sure why we sometimes substitute colors for standard aviation phonetics (like "amber" for "alpha") when referring to these international routes, but I do it because I hear other pilots doing it. I suppose it's a way to be a little rebellious in our rigidly structured world without causing too much consternation.

  After Italy, the controller's accents begin to get thick and confusing as we cut southeast through Greek airspace. At point Metru, UA1 changes designation to Whiskey 727 and funnels us into El Daba, Egypt. Then we pick up Bravo 12 to Katab and Amber 451 to Luxor, followed by Whiskey 726 across the Red Sea to Wejh and Bravo 58 to Riyadh, which is our destination. Some of the points identified in our route clearance are just points in the sky "fixes" that are unrelated to anything on the ground. The giveaway is the five-letter length. Other points, which are identified by three letters, represent actual navigation stations on the ground and are usually named after the closest towns.

  The navigation en route chart is complicated to the point of intimidation. A sheet of Mozart's music would make more sense to me if I didn't have so much experience at reading these things. The charts are cluttered beyond reason. Lines run asunder in every direction, like a pattern of fallen fiddlesticks, each marked with its identifier, course, distance between stations, changeover points, and compulsory and noncompulsory reporting points. Data boxes, latitude/longitude coordinates, flight information region boundaries, prohibited areas, and restricted areas are splattered everywhere. Ominous threats lie within mysterious shaded areas, such as:

  WARNING

  UNLISTED RADIO EMISSIONS FROM THIS AREA MAY CONSTITUTE A NAVIGATION HAZARD OR RESULT IN BORDER OVERFLIGHT UNLESS UNUSUAL PRECAUTION IS EXERCISED.

  And worse:

  WARNING

  AIRCRAFT INFRINGING UPON NON-FREE FLYING TERRITORY MAY BE FIRED UPON WITHOUT WARNING.

  Islands and coastlines are indicated only by subtly shaded lines that are impossible to see in dim light, but they are not considered important. This is a chart of airspace, not ground features. I get rankled when Bones and his generation of young fliers refer to them as "maps." Rand McNally makes maps; mariners and aviators navigate by charts. Don't they teach these things in flight school anymore?

  The five-hour-and-twenty-nine-minute flight will take us across 2,952 miles through six countries. We will burn 10,154 gallons of fuel. We will change course sixteen times, navigation frequencies fourteen times, and communication frequencies thirty-one times.

  We have no passengers because we are carrying "hazardous cargo." The jet is loaded with pallets stacked with guided missiles. We can't see them; they're enclosed in metal cases stenciled with the usual strings of numbers and codes of the logistical language. But the word "Patriot" is embedded here and there in the printed gibberish.

  Those were Patriot batteries we saw at Dhahran a few days ago. These are bound for Riyadh, the Saudi capitol. They really are serious about an Iraqi air attack. From the sleep-inducing training sessions I'm occasionally required to sit through, I have a vague idea of what a Patriot is. It's a radar-guided surface-to-air missile designed to ruin the day of an attacking pilot out to do an honest day's work. But I can't imagine that Iraqi aircraft will be a real threat. Their air force is the YMCA flag league; ours is the NFL. I decide that the missiles are being sent over as a contingency, probably just to soothe some nerves.

  Back behind the stacks of Patriots are a few cases of another kind of missile, a smaller one called the "Stinger." This is a "shoulder launched" missile that can be carried by one person. He aims it, bazookalike, at a low-flying aircraft and lets it home in on the aircraft's engine heat "signature." It only has a small warhead about the size of a hand grenade, but it's enough to bring down most helicopters and some fighters. Stingers proved deadly in the hands of Afghan tribesmen against highly sophisticated Soviet aircraft. It shouldn't take a roc
ket scientist to figure out what we and our cargo would be worth to a terrorist group.

  We often haul hot cargo, which can be anything from acids to nuclear weapons. And lately we've been hauling a lot of it. In peacetime, thorough precautions are taken. A whole chapter in our "you'd better do it this way or else" manual is devoted to them. Volumes are written about precautions for the load planners to follow. Great effort must be made by the crew to see that there is proper documentation, and the destination must be informed of the dangerous stuff. It must be annotated in the flight plan, relayed by long-range radio en route, and relayed again, in detail, just prior to landing. We are required to park in special remote spots to load and unload. At one Stateside base we must taxi over a mile through some scenic, forested countryside, as if on a Sunday drive, to reach the hot cargo ramp.

  I remember my first hot cargo flight. I was a new C-130 aircraft commander hauling 10,000 rounds of 30-millimeter antitank ammunition to Canada for a joint exercise. We waited with engines running in the remote parking spot at the Canadian base and soon spotted a truck approaching from the front with a gigantic trailer in tow. The trailer, we deduced, was an external power unita big generator, bigger than those we were accustomed tothat could be hooked up to the aircraft to provide power when the engines were shut down.

  A strange thing happened as it approached. I wanted to shake my head vigorously, to draw nearer to the windscreen as if to get a better view I looked over at Larry Beall. The stoical "Beally," as we called him, would light a cigarette and watch a thermonuclear attack as if it were a mediocre fireworks display; it took much to impress him. Now he was staring ahead with a speechless, steadily broadening grin.

  The trailer, seemingly in slow motion, detached itself, swerved gently to its right, and passed the truck, as if being driven by an impatient ghost who summarily intended to ram us. The truck stopped as the driver watched helplessly, wanting to steer clear of what was about to transpire. The kamikaze power cart, with its ghost pilot Murphy, gathered speed and bore down on us with our cargo of pyrotechnics.

  Our four big propellers, each with four blades that resembled huge paddles, were spinning furiously, as turboprops like to do even at idle. Anything running into the props would tear them asunder, scattering debris at bullet speeds. Our load of sleeping 30 millimeters would not take kindly to such intrusion. With about a hundred feet to go, the errant trailer slowed, veered to the left, across our nose, and toppled into a ditch. Ole Murph shook his fist in frustration at us.

  Since the start of Desert Shield, the book on hot cargo had all but been thrown overboard. In the Middle East, a "bad moon was risin'," as the old song goes. I sure felt it. And the ammo had to get there fast. No longer were we parked in remote areas or bothered with busywork. The powers that be had decided, in the interest of expediency, to keep the flow moving as fast as possible and hoped that Ole Murphy would lie low.

  For the most part he did, or so some would believe. But the truth is that wethose of us who flew and supported the air logistical tailwere simply better than they thought we were. The Pentagon planners had crossed their fingers and sat nervously in their chairs, hoping that the giant scheme would unfold with some measure of success and a minimal loss of life and property. But their apprehension was entirely unwarranted. The first team was on the field. And we were coming through like the champs we were since the day the red flag went up.

  We've exchanged our hot cargo for cold cargo. We're westbound across the pond, headed back to the States. The stars are out by the blue zillions tonight, but no one is noticing. Our thoughts are dwelling on the objects in the rear.

  There are four stainless steel boxes in our cavernous cargo bay. We're carrying HRs the Air Force's warm and sensitive code for dead bodies: human remains. The war hasn't even started yet, and already we're bringing home gelatinous masses that used to be human beings.

  The loadmasters are in the bunks; there's no reason for anyone to be back there. We have no other cargo or passengers. But nature calls, so I unstrap and, leaving the jet in Bones's charge, climb down the flight deck ladder. Turning toward the lavatory, I stop to view the scene.

  The cargo bay lights have been turned off to preserve the bulbs, except for a few near the front. The din of the engines assaults the aural nerves. Brian wastes no effort trying to regulate the temperature back here, from his engineering station up front. It is cold enough to make your breath fog.

  A third of the way back, the four boxes are chained to a steel pallet that is, in turn, secured to the cargo floor mooring locks. There are no flags draped over them, but there is a computer printout attached with each occupant's name plus an accounting control number of some sort.

  There is a very hot rumor circulatingintensely talked about everywhere we go. The government has ordered 10,000 of these cold, loathsome containers. In a few weeks I may be looking at a plane packed full of them, a vision that chills me more than the cold air could. The two boxes on the left contain the remains of two fighter pilots.

  They were killed on a training flight somewhere in Saudi Arabia. Their F-15 apparently just flew into the ground while they were maneuvering at low altitude.

  I speculate that the desert did it. Deserts are real killers to low fliers. Taking quick glances at the ground, one who is not familiar with the desert environment can mistake brush and small scrub trees for the large trees he was accustomed to. Instead of being 50 feet above a 100-foot tree, he may be 5 feet above a 10-foot tree. That doesn't leave a lot of room for error. Yes, of course they had a radar altimeter, but in the heat of the fight or the excitement of the chase or whateverwell, it just takes a second's worth of diverted attention. Yeah, I think the desert is to blame for this.

  Arabian deserts are all the more dangerous. I heard that the Saudis have to import sand for concrete; theirs is too fine grained. I believe it, because their sand is airborne about as much time as it's not. The ultrafine particles lift into the sky, borne by winds racing unchecked across the landscape, the grains becoming finer with altitude. The result is an absence of horizon. There's only a pale blue zenith that gradually changes to a pale yellow earth below. Your judgment has to be flawless when flying low and fast through such a surreal world.

  Judgment is just one event in the flier's survival sequence. Eye must first see the situation or the threat. The image is flashed to the brain. The brain sorts out the image and makes a decision based on sensory data stored in its memory cells. The decision takes the form of an electrical signal sent through the nerves to the muscles, which in turn grip and apply pressure to the stick, the rudder, the throttles. These linkages move wires, cables, and hydraulic actuators that activate flight control surfaces and fuel control valves. The flight control surfaces flex, resulting in aerodynamic pressures that exert force on the aircraft to change its flight path. The point at which flesh meets metal in the sequence is not important. The only relevant factor is the final resultthe flight path. The flier and the craft are merged. They're one. And they live or die as one.

  The F-15 is moving at 600 miles per hour, maybe faster, 50 feet above an alien, indistinct world. Was it a millisecond's inattention? A heartbeat of a hesitation? I don't know. They just flew into the ground.

  A-7D Corsair

  I wonder if there is anything more in those boxes than a few charred fragments of bone, boot leather, and helmet. I pose the question to Bones. But he just shrugs, and I regret asking, feeling that I've violated some unspoken sacred code.

  I almost flew into the ground once. I was young and quite stupid at times and wanted to impress my boss. I was tapped to fly as number four in a flight of four A-7s. The flight would be part of an experiment. An especially modified C-130 transport would launch an unmanned radio-controlled drogue that would fly across the gunnery range, spewing out chaff in a long corridor. Chaff is like thousands of tiny slivers of aluminum foil that hang for long periods in the sky, like clouds. It is invisible to the distant eye, but radar can see it within certain
frequency parameters. Our mission was to delineate the chaff corridor on our radar scopes and fly so as to remain within it. The idea was that enemy air defense radar would not be able to isolate us within the cloud until we dove out of it onto the target, thus reducing our vulnerability to radar-graded antiaircraft weapons. We were trying to learn from the hard knocks of Viet Nam.

  My role wasn't important, even though I would be the only plane actually to attack the target. Delineating the chaff cloud was the main objective. We just didn't know if our A-7 radars could do it. Colonel Mike Nelson, my squadron commander, was in the lead Corsair, and the wing deputy commander for operations, a very powerful man, was flying as number two. My squadron mate Duane, the number three man, would accelerate out ahead of the formation and fly across the range, visually checking for souvenir collectors and illegal aliens who often crossed the ranges, coming up from Mexico.

  Other experiments had also been inaugurated in this post-Viet Nam era of adjustment. On a few occasions we had practiced the "pop-up" deliveries that are now standard practice. It was a thrilling maneuver in which you flew very low to avoid hostile radar, relying on your inertial navigation system and chart-reading skills until you were close to the target. Then, with an abrupt pull-up, followed by a daring roll to the inverted position, you acquired the target visually while upside down or nearly so. Swiftly rolling wings level, in a thunderous dive, you released the bombs and rolled hard back to the deck to escape. No other fighter tactic made a pilot's aggressive juices pump with such intensity. The thrill was proportional to the danger, but the risk could be minimized by thoroughly planning and thinking through the attack beforehand. Such was my near fatal downfall.

  As Duane called the range clear, I impulsively decided to make a pop-up attack instead of the usual high dive. The bosses were looking; I could easily impress them. The target was an old Korean war vintage F-84 jet parked on a runway in a desert valley. I broke away, dove for a low line of hills south of the target, and leveled off as close to the ground as I dared. The dry washes and scrub brush of the desert floor flashed underneath the nose in a blur. Cliffs of yellow sandstone scurried past the wings.