Tail of the Storm

by Alan Cockrell

  Still, the Gulf airlift fueled widespread frustration among all the ranks, including those who were ground bound. I complained to one wing commander about how his people were fueling the planes. They were in the habit of filling the jets with as much fuel as the zero-fuel weight would allow because it was easy on the drivers and pumpers, shorthanded as they claimed they were. They don't want to wait for me to arrive at the operations center, then calculate a proper fuel load and relay that information to them, as per regulations. But it seems that regulations work one way. I have to abide by the regs, but they don't. They can just top off the tanks at their convenience and get to the next job. But I don't want to carry fuel that I don't need. The extra weight costs extra fuel burned, causes seriously excessive engine wear when the weight requires max power takeoffs, and creates a hazard when something goes wrong. They don't have to worry about these problems, since they're not on board when number three engine blows up on takeoff and takes number four with it.

  I filed an operational hazard report. I should have called the wing commander personally. Oh, yes, I should have. George told me, later, that I didn't have the guts to call him. But the fact is I didn't have time. And I was tired. I probably couldn't have gotten through to him anyway. But I would have given that guy both barrels. Shorthanded you say? Not enough fuel trucks either? Yes, yes, I understand, Colonelthe war and all. But what about all those SAC bases that are still just sitting around, waiting for the big Klaxon to go off? Have you asked them to lend you a few fuel trucks and men? Or is that a sign of weakness? Certainly, it's hard to get promoted when you display such dependence on someone else. The big what, sir? Oh yes, the Big Picture. Now I understand. Why is it that I can never visualize that Big Picture? Yet I always thought I was one of those who helped paint that fabled canvas. Cocky, you say? And arrogant? Maybe so. But it comes with the territory.

  Yeah, George was wrong about me.

  Seventeen.

  Master Caution (Push to Reset)

  We've just coasted out over Northern Ireland, and have set course for Newfoundland. This crossing will be an especially long one. We're flying into the teeth of the winter winds. The computer-generated flight plan has several hundred numbers crunched out on it, but the one that I keep glancing at as if it may change for the better if I glare at it long enough is the number listed in the space for total en route time: 1115, eleven hours and fifteen minutes from Germany to South Carolina. A normal person could work a full day and another half day's overtime while we're sitting here.

  Eight months into the Persian Gulf operation, we have come as close as possible to blending with the Starlifter. To us, it has become a living creature, but to complete the merger we have had to mutate in its direction. We've become more inanimate. We've learned to compartmentalize our minds. We keep the vital doors of awareness openthose that give us access to engines, fuel, and weather, but the door to the clock stays closed. Time drops from our awareness. We are hardened to the clock; the slow sweep of its hands no longer agonizes us. We are time travelers. We strap the jet on. We do our jobs. And wait to emerge hours into the future. The places are not important anymore, except for the one coded KJAN, which is home.

  I was home last month, pulling stage manager duty. It's a job being rotated among the squadron's senior pilots that involves spending long hours in the command post, coordinating crew scheduling and aircraft movements. It's no fun, but it keeps you home for a few days.

  While I was there, I came to know our new air commander, a fellow by the name of Maxie Phillips. When Colonel Bailey retired, Maxie was asked to leave his job flying RF-4 Phantoms over in Meridian and to join us as Shelly's successor. But Maxie was an outsider, and he was a fighter pilot at that. A few feathers were ruffled because someone from within hadn't been promoted. I didn't know him very well at the timeI didn't really care. I just wanted the Gulf operation to end. After that I doubted I'd be around much longer in the Guam anyway.

  Maxie had been a fighter pilot all his adult life. Starting out flying Phantoms when they were first introduced, he became an experienced and skilled warrior and eventually acquired an intense hunger for an even greater challenge. He wanted what they all do, the men of his kind: test pilot school. While stationed in England, he asked General Chuck Yeager to recommend him, and Chuck said he would, but it was a discouraging meeting. It wasn't like years ago, when experience, ability, and eagerness could get you a test pilot job. Now, Chuck explained, you needed tons of specialized education and experience in a variety of aircraft. A few friends in strategic positions didn't hurt either. Maxie put in his separation papers that day.

  He returned to his native Mississippi and joined the Air Guard in Meridian. For a few years he flew RF-101 jets, the "One-O-Wonder," as they were called, but then in 1979 the unit switched to Maxie's beloved Phantoms. He was as happy as a weevil in a boll; he was living in Mississippi, he had a full-time job flying low and fast, and the pay was good. But Maxie saw the handwriting on the wall. He knew that the aging Phantom would soon be taken out of service. He didn't know what would replace it, but he suspected it would be large planes. When they offered him the air commander job in our unit, he figured he was in for a great change even if he stayed, so he might as well take the challenge.

  When I got to know this man, I realized that the powers at state headquarters who had appointed him had wisdom far beyond my expectations. Maxie was a soft-spoken man with an equally soft style in humor and human relations. He was a deep listener; his door was always open. Somewhere along the line, the Mississippi Air Guard had gone right.

  It was a cold day in December when he went over to see them off. The first of Meridian's newly assigned KC-135 jet tankers was already sitting on the ramp. More were on the way. And the last four Phantoms were about to leave for various destinations. Some were bound for the "Bone Yard" in Arizona, others to locations where they would "phly phorever" on a concrete pedestal. Maxie had been invited over to witness the last takeoff. He had expected a ceremony of some sort. Certainly the occasion called for it. There would be a band, a speech, photographs, press coverage, and maybe a gathering of the old heads. Perhaps lots of people and fanfare would help ease his pain.

  Pain. What an outlandish notion to the pedantic masses. A lump the size of a cantaloupe in your throat for a piece of noisy steel and fuel. Maxie's emotions would be considered sheer silliness to the crowds who never dedicate themselves to anything other than selfish, mundane pursuits and are content to remain untouched. They'd never understand. A few people coulda few privileged ones. A wildlife biologist watching the last remaining sandhill crane fly away would understand.

  The low, dreary gray clouds raced across the tarmac, pushed by the chilled winter winds. They turned up their collarsthe small band of pilots, navigators, and mechanics who were there. There was no music, no press, no speeches, no fanfare. Just the wind and the Phantoms starting up the big J-79 engines. There wouldn't even be a four-ship flyby; the weather was too low for that. First a flight of two taxied out and roared away to the west. Then another single ship left, departing to the east. And finally the last lone Phantom started up and taxied to runway one nine.

  He watched as it powered up and lit the burners, accelerating away from them, growing smaller, two slender plumes of amber-blue light under the tail from which the earthshaking thunder emitted. Then for a few brief seconds he could see the top profile as the long nose rotated off the runway. For the last time he saw the peculiar jointed wings, angled upward at the outer sections; the ludicrous downward angles of the tail surfaces; the dull gray paint; growing smaller, then abruptly being swallowed by the grayness. The roar lingered behind like a great invisible tail, leaving the airfield and the wooded countryside, for the last time, awash with its rolling, fading thunder. He stood there a long time looking in the direction of the dying roar. Before it faded completely, it became intermittent, reflected and absorbed by ragged cloud thickets, then it was gone. Only the wind sounded, and it was a bit cold
er. And as Maxie walked away, nursing the cantaloupe, he realized that the uncelebrated departure was strangely appropriatejust the way he and his band of brothers would have wanted it.

  I sink back into the seat and wonder about Maxiea fighter pilot to the core, cast headlong into the world of the "heavies." Had the aircraft change not come about, his old unit might have been thrown into the fray with Iraq. He's got to be thinking about that. And what must he think of us? I would like to go downrange with him. He needs to be broken in by another ex-fighter driver turned trash hauler. But he has eleven weeks of training to go through first, and God willing, this will be over by then.

  Our flying time cumulatives are high, and so we may be able to talk the stage manager at McGuire into sending us home to "burn down." In case that doesn't work, as likely it won't, we are preparing a scheme. In a little while we will establish contact with our own command post back in Jackson and ask the controllers there to bring their influence to bear on McGuire. Sometimes that works even though they are subordinate to McGuire. It depends on how busy our maintenance section is and who is working the command post console at the time.

  As we settle in for the oceanic crossing, one of the many radio transmissions from other pilots catches our attention. The voice comes clear through our radio receiver. But something is amiss. I know after the first five words what's happening and look around at the grinning faces of my crew. They've picked up on it as well. The voice is clear, calm, and thoroughly reassuring.

  "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. Welcome aboard flight 1623 to New York's Kennedy Airport. It's a real pleasure having you with us today Please note that I have turned off the fasten seat belt sign, so go ahead and take a stretch if you feel the need."

  It's a speech I've made in similar fashion many times before. But I've never been able to do it as smoothly as this guy He's been around a while, that's for certain.

  "I strongly suggest, however, that you keep your seat belts securely fastened when you are seated in case we encounter any unexpected rough air."

  He knows the territory. Most companies advise against using the "T" word. That sounds too technical and scary. "Rough air" is better understood but is an understatement. Turbulence can, and has been, so sudden, unexpected, and violent as to nail people against the ceiling of the plane. Necks and backs have been broken. But the marketing departments say that passengers would rather not hear of such unpleasantness.

  I really admire the captain's style; he's very articulate. His voice is deep and soothing. He could narrate a National Geographic broadcast. Too bad the speech is going to waste.

  "We'll be flying at an altitude of 33,000 feet today. Our en route time is seven hours and forty-one minutes. We should be touching down at Kennedy at 12:15 p.m. local time."

  The poor guy still hasn't realized that he's flipped the wrong switch. He is not on his plane's passenger address system; he is, of course, broadcasting on the air traffic control frequency, which happens to be Scottish Control. We and dozens of other planes are hearing the eloquent address and in fact cannot do business until he finishes. This blocking of the frequency is potentially dangerous, but it would be rare that harm could result from it, especially on a high-altitude frequency such as the one that we're on. He thinks he has a captive audience, and he does: for two hundred miles in all directions.

  "Kennedy is currently foggy; but it should have burned off by our arrival time. We can expect partly cloudy skies, a slight breeze from the northwest and an unseasonably pleasant temperature of around sixty five degrees."

  His error is not uncommon. The communications panel on most large airplanes is a thick forest of switches and knobs, crowded together and easily confused by a pilot who may have recently changed over from another type of aircraft. Grabbing the wrong switch isn't catastrophic, but it can be humbling. Sooner or later, everyone screws up with the radio and broadcasts on the wrong frequency or, like the captain, goes "out" instead of "in" with his message.

  "The weather across the Atlantic should be fairly good today We're presently over Glasgow, Scotland. Our route from here will take us just south of Iceland and Greenland, across Newfoundland and the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, and down through New England into New York. If the weather cooperates we should get a nice view of the Canadian coastline."

  He's really dragging the speech out. It's one of the longest I've heard. He's obviously a people-oriented captain, one who enjoys talking to and interfacing with his passengers. He's the type who stands in the cockpit door and greets them as they disembark. He probably wears a vest beneath his uniform jacket and takes the flight attendants out to dinner occasionally. He's the kind who sends cards back to the first class passengers with a personal greeting. Airline executives like pilots such as he.

  He's beginning to wrap it up now. I know what's coming next. Along with every other pilot on the frequency, I start thinking up a wisecrack.

  "Relax now, and enjoy your flight. We want it to be as enjoyable and as comfortable as possible. And please, don't hesitate to ask if you have any questions about our flight or if you need anything at all."

  He's finally finished. Now the inevitable cracks begin to pour in from civil and military pilots alike, all across the sky.

  "Thank you for sharing that with us."

  "Can I have a pillow captain?"

  "I need another glass of wine, please."

  "Captain, can you warm up the cabin? I'm too cold."

  "When did you say we'll be landing?"

  The comebacks go on unmercifully for almost as long as the speech lasted.

  "I need a blanket, please."

  "This chicken is undercooked."

  "What city is that over there, captain?"

  "I want to go back."

  Finally, the clowning is over, and after a few seconds of silence, the same calm, articulate, reassuring voice returns undaunted to the air, sounding as if we were all sitting in a pilot lounge sipping coffee, having known each other for years. "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone."

  I think I'd fly with this guy anywhere, anytime.

  I stare ahead through the windscreen, chuckling over the captain's blunder. We are sandwiched between two thin layers of cirrus cloud, catching glimpses of blue stratosphere through holes and gaps in the speeding vapors. It reminds me of that astronaut in 2001: A Space Odyssey when he cruises through endless corridors of light patterns and color. My imagination runs rampant. I'm a being trapped within a being. The jet's windscreens are its eyes, I its soul. I look out and see the world but I'm detached from it. I'm at a console on another planet, controlling this giant probe remotely. When I'm up here, it's easy to-

  An orange flashing light catches my attention. Joe Brewer sees it too, and he straightens up as well. It's the master caution light on the forward panel telling us something is amiss. Even as Joe resets the light to cancel it and make it ready for another alert, instinctively, our eyes flash down to the center console quarter panel where one of a bank of sixty lights tells us there is a malfunction in the inertial navigation systems.

  The amber warning light flashes its message:

  INS 25 DIFF

  We know that it means the INS units are in disagreement. They are twenty-five miles apart in their determination of exactly where our present position is. This is critical, because a twenty-five-mile offset could put us halfway into a neighboring track, and as time passes, the condition will doubtless worsen, sending us farther off course. We could easily cross into the flight path of other aircraft flying parallel tracks with us.

  In all probability, only one of the units is in gross error, but we don't know which is lying to us and which isn't. If we were committed to high seas navigation, we would have to choose between following one of the two and trying to split the difference and fly a course between the two. We determine that number two is the culprit because it shows an excessive ground speed readout. But we can't go on with just one operative unit while we're still i
n radar contact. So we turn back and request clearance to divert to Mildenhall Air Base in England.

  The master caution light spells trouble. It always means inconvenience at best and calamity at worst. But all military and airline pilots live with it. The light is always located up high on the panel where it will catch your eye when it flashes and jolt you out of whatever form of complacency or concentration you're feeling.

  Years ago I was pulling off a low-angle dive-bomb delivery when the light came on. I had released a bomb and was pulling four or five Gs, and as the nose came up through the horizon, I noticed it.

  MASTER CAUTION

  My eyes fell to the annunciator panel and my lungs seized at the sight of the flashing amber warning light.

  WING FOLD

  WING FOLD

  WING FOLD

  The locking mechanism on the wing fold hinges was unlocked. The A-7, being originally designed to fly off the Navy's big boats, had a folding wing feature, so that many of the jets could be crammed together.