The Gray Lady was a great bird. I’d heard tell she could fly with two engines out. We were about to find out. In any event, we still had two working engines. I had my parachute.
“In the event of bailout, remember: three short, prepare. One long, execute. Primary bailout from the aft paratroop doors. Secondary, aft cargo door and ramp. Third is the crew entrance door.”
By now, we’d already passed Diyarbakir, which was our alternate recovery point. Instead of turning the plane around, the safest thing to do would be to bring the plane back to our base of origin. This was the plan of action the pilot embarked upon.
We were losing altitude slowly, but the pilot was holding her steady. The bad thing about EC-130s was that with all our equipment and gear we were always heavy. The good thing was we had already used up a good chunk of our fuel, which lightened us a bit. It was this extra bit we were counting on.
Captain Sammy was confident he could safely land the plane; and even though he told us this and we wanted to believe him, there were some worried faces in the back. I was strapped in at the position I had emptied after take-off. Helmet, gloves, and parachute on and ready to go, I double-checked my survival vest and zipped my winter flight up to its highest notch. I was ready for whatever lay ahead; we all were.
A thousand thoughts swam through my mind, only one image in my mind’s eye. It was of Katie. I wished to God I could picture her happy, running into my arms. All I could see in my mind’s eye was her standing in front of the TV. Her listening to the report of our crash. Her breaking down in tears and a fit of heart-wrenching sobs.
If this was to be the end, I wanted it to be over when we slammed into the ground. I didn’t want to freeze to death in the mountains waiting for search and rescue. I’d heard that in such cold, you could just lie down, close your eyes, and let death find you.
Distant in my ears, I heard the pilot calling out. “Crew, Pilot, we’re eighty miles out. The field should come into sight soon.”
As I had all the radios pulled out, I heard Control’s advisories. For a long time afterward, I just prayed. Then I heard it, the call that sent chills to my bone. “Crew, attempting to restart engine one.”
“Engine one?” I wanted to scream.
“She’s flaring,” responded the Co. “Oil pressure’s low, but some power is better than no power. Shit, she cut out again, we’re losing oil pressure.”
“Crew!” screamed the Pilot, “We’re going down. I repeat, we’re going down.”
I started praying; we all started praying. The copilot was trying frantically to re-start engine one.
“The field’s coming into sight. Come on, baby, hold on. Hold on.”
I prayed. We all prayed. It was then I noticed I was holding my breath, waiting, hoping for another call. It seemed an eternity that we waited.
As the plane shifted, pictures of Katie and our life together that should have been flashed before my eyes. It was in that moment that I promised myself that if I survived I would live. I mean really live, taking control of my life instead of letting life control me. Then it happened, the one miracle that could save us all. I saw engine one flare just as the copilot called out, “Pilot, engine one’s flaring again. There she goes.”
I wanted to scream, to shout at the top of my lungs: “I’m not ready to die yet, you sons of bitches,” my voiceless whisper giving life to a thought deep in my mind. Surely the enemy was responsible for all that was happening. Surely we’d been hit by a SAM or AAA.
Captain Sammy applied extra pressure to the yoke and tried to hold the Lady level. Over and over in my mind’s eye I saw flames pouring out of engine two. Until that moment I’d thought I’d seen it all: the black rain of AAA, SAMs, enemy fighters, all hell-bent on knocking us out of the sky. None of them had succeeded until now. None of it had prepared me for this moment.
I couldn’t help thinking, what if we go down in those snowcaps? How many of us will survive? What if we make the runway and go nose first into the tarmac? In the back of my mind, I saw the POL storage area explode to life, the huge flames lapping at the sky.
Seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness. I heard the pilot call out to dump extra fuel. Immediately afterward, I heard Sparrow throwing up her breakfast. I wasn’t sure if it were the turbulence or the anxiety that caused it; I only knew the smell was awful. I had a hard time keeping from throwing up, myself. I was definitely a sympathetic puker. Who wouldn’t be in such tight quarters?
As we approached for landing it became clear that complications had arisen. The control tower was advising us to go around.
Captain Sammy was angry—I’d never heard him truly angry before. He was screaming, “Tower, Pilot, negative on that go around. We’re heading straight in. Repeat, in-flight emergency, two engines out. We’re heading straight in. Re-direct that traffic. Get those idiots off the runway. We’re not going to make a go around and you’re going to be responsible for thirteen corpses.”
Tower controller’s voice changed, “EC-130, be advised of traffic low and in front of you.”
Captain Sammy and the copilot pulled back as fast as they could. Captain Sammy was still screaming, “Tower Pilot, we’re heading straight in, tell them to pull out of the pattern. Repeat, in-flight emergency, two engines out. We’re trailing smoke. We cannot go around!”
“Pilot, Co, runway’s in sight.”
“Crew, pilot, I’m taking her in. Brace for impact. It’s going to be a rough one.”
“What about that KC?” objected the Nav.
“Screw that KC!” Sammy screamed.
I took in a breath. It felt like I hadn’t breathed for hours. Suddenly the plane slammed the ground. We went in hard, harder than ever before. The plane skidded. We bounced once, twice, and then came down so hard my head slapped the back of my flight chair like it was a hammer and my head a nail. I accidentally bit my tongue; blood gushed into my mouth.
I braced myself as I was jerked forward, felt my head slam back against the headrest a second time. A moment of uncertainty followed. The world slowed. Everything became clear to me, too clear, almost as if I were seeing the world around me for the first time. I was a nerves-of-steel crewer no more. There were tears in my eyes.
I expected at any moment to feel the runway rip away the landing gear because we’d come in way too fast. I expected to see flames pour in through the crew doors as the plane was torn in half. I expected the breath held in my lungs to be my last. I wasn’t okay with it. I’d said my peace, but I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.
I guess I could have been angry, outraged. Twenty-five was too short a life, too little time. There was so much I wanted to do, so much I hadn’t done while I had the chance.
Everything slowed.
Everything smoothed.
Everything became real.
I heard the two remaining engines struggle into reverse in an attempt to slow us down. We were racing down the runway, using it up fast.
The plane jerked to a halt as if we’d slammed into a barrier. The interior lights blackened. Someone popped open the crew door. We piled out just as if it were a drill—only it wasn’t.
I undid the safety harnesses, bolted out of my seat. I looked back as I ran away from the great Gray Lady that I’d been through so much with. I remember one of the pilots saying once that any landing you can walk away from was a good landing.
I counted myself lucky. We were all lucky.
An array of ambulances and fire trucks began to pull up, their sirens screaming, their lights flashing. A fire team rushed a hose to engine two and drowned away the smoke.
A hundred yards or so away from the plane, the crew gathered. Tammy, Sparrow, and Happy were sitting on the tarmac hugging their knees. Ice hurt his ankle in the egress. Bill and Sammy were helping him to an uneasy seat. Crow, Patrick, Chris, Cowboy, Bad Boy, and I stood staring back at the Gray Lady.
The paramedics gave us the once-over. One of them tended to Ice. Five minutes later, our crew van sh
owed up. I watched the great Gray Lady grow smaller and smaller against the black of the runway.
The sudden frenzy on the flight line ebbed as the rescue vehicles began to disperse.
My thoughts strayed.
It seemed just yesterday that I was home in bed, Katie beside me, and I was watching her sleep. Last summer had been so warm and clear, so very warm and clear—and happy.
Germany and Katie seemed so far away.
Afternoon,
Monday, 4 February 1991
Fatigue hit us hard. We were in a slump. The previous flight had been one I almost didn’t walk away from. I could still see the fire engines and rescue vehicles lining the runway. Red lights flashing. Sirens screaming.
Sitting in the back of the crew van as it rolled away from the plane, I watched black asphalt fall away to be replaced by the faded markings of an old Turkish road. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and later wake up with Katie beside me.
This incident coming so close to the AC-130 Gunship shoot-down opened a lot of people’s eyes. I caught myself wishing I’d gone home with Big John. Yet when the crew van would pull up in a couple of hours, I would pile in, my flight bags in hand; so would Happy, Cowboy, and Bad Boy, who were staying here with me in the PME.
Popcorn was supposed to stop at the commissary and buy steaks for Happy, Bad Boy, Cowboy, and me. He didn’t come through. Now the commissary was closed. I would have to wait another day to taste a juicy grilled steak.
Things weren’t all bad. We hadn’t been alerted yet, so I was trying to get a few more hours of sleep.
Tuesday, 5 February 1991
Leaving the warmth of my sleeping bag was no easy task. As I dragged my tired carcass out of bed to get ready to fly, twelve other crewers were doing the same. Shaving kit in one hand, towel and flashlight in the other, I struggled with the door.
Cold outside air jolted me. Then as my bare feet touched cold concrete, my eyes shot wide open. I’d forgotten to put on my boots, and the ground was colder than the chilly pre-morning air.
Icy cold water from the outhouse sink gave me another rude jolt as I splashed water on my face. Afterward I stared into the dirty mirror, thankful I no longer had hair that needed to be groomed. I ran a wet comb through it and in short order it looked just as it had yesterday. It looked like I had a flat top. I did have a flat top. I glanced at the watch forever strapped to my wrist. 02:10. I hated mornings like this.
After brushing my teeth, I hurried back to the barracks, put on clean socks, and then slipped my flight suit over my cotton long johns. My boots had quick-laces. I pulled the shoe strings taunt, ran the metal cinch back, looped the excess lace around the top of my boot, slapped the velcro over the top, and that was that.
My watch read 02:13.
I grabbed a can of fruit cocktail and an opener then retreated to the rec tent. It would be breakfast while I watched CNN.
At 02:30 the sky seemed especially black. I zipped up my winter flight jacket an extra couple of notches. In a couple of hours we’d be humping the zone and facing a deadly light show of anti-aircraft artillery; yet I could truly say I hated the waiting more than anything else, for it seemed that it never truly ended.
Cosmo, the newlywed, was driving the crew van today. He had returned about fifteen minutes early. As he sat down beside me to watch CNN, he rested his left arm on the chem mask attached to his web belt as if it were his safety blanket. He still had that look in his eyes, the look I had had that first day. The look of wariness and unease, caution and alarm.
“You look so tense!” I finally exclaimed, adding while trying to keep a straight face, “What’s wrong, the ball and chain giving you a hard time back on the home front?”
“Not really. Those guys up?”
“I know Happy is. Cowboy and Bad Boy are probably pushing the sleep time. You’re early; give ‘em a few. This your first day driving?”
“Sixth on MPC.”
Right then I understood the look in his eyes. Working mission planning cell was like a mini vacation, relaxed twelve-hour days spent either planning or driving. After six days he was probably going back to flying soon.
Cosmo continued, “I was planning most of the time. Ziggy was driving nights.”
“Ziggy’s still driving?”
“No, she’s flying now. She went up the line before this one.” He glanced at his watch. I glanced at mine. “I heard about Monday’s mission. What do you think the odds are of that happening again?”
“I’m hoping it’s about the same as lightning striking twice in the same place.”
“Me, too,” Cosmo said dryly.
As he stood and nervously jingled his keys, I knew it was time to load my gear into the van. I hoped the folks at ops would be more cheerful than Cosmo was this morning.
Once in ops, I went straight to the briefing room, which was packed with people waiting for Derrin, our mission briefer. It was a few minutes before the door opened and Derrin entered. “Sorry for the delay,” he said, tackling his pointer and slapping it against the map. “SAR codes are listed. By now I hope you’ve written them down; but if you haven’t, we’ll take a moment to let you do that.”
As he paused, I cast a sideways look at Tennessee Jim. He was in a fire-spitting mood this morning. It looked as if he hadn’t shaved or he’d been up all night and hadn’t thought about it after alert. Chris looked about the same.
Derrin continued, “There’s some interesting reading material in the read files. I hope you all take a couple of minutes to read those over. A lot of new stuff. A lot of new stuff.”
The door opened again; Happy and Cowboy entered. An enterprising individual at KC ops had set up a munchies fund. Happy and Cowboy had ambled down for a quick raid on it while the rest of us piled into intel. Derrin looked irritated but continued all the same.
“As you well know, a significant number of Iraqi aircraft have been sneaking into Iran. Clouds are moving in again, along with a strong storm front, which gives them a big window of opportunity. Special emphasis targets won’t come as a surprise; our boys are going to hit those airfields again. Hopefully, we can catch them coming out from their bunkers; if not, we’ll blow up the bunkers. Either way, aircraft is the key goal.
“The secondary targets won’t come as much of a surprise either.” Derrin began slapping the board with his pointer, stopping on a single distant target. “That’s the farthest target you’ll be supporting. Those guys will have a tough time getting in and out. You’re job will be to make it easier for them.
“AAA will be thick as rain. Pilots are reporting emplacements continuing to sprout up all over the place. No surprise. Nearly every half-mile along key military roads.”
Derrin went on for a couple of more minutes, finishing by showing us a group of glossies with the results of a bombing raid we had supported the day before.
Captain Sammy’s briefing was next, followed by Tennessee’s standard spiel and pep speech. Both reminded us that weather was a factor today. If the storm front swept in, the packages wouldn’t go in and neither would we.
After the briefings, Chris and Jim were the first ones to crash out in the lounge while we waited to go. They looked as if they’d had a really rough night. I sat down and resisted the urge to let my eyes slip closed and the urge to ask Jim and Chris what they’d been up to.
Ops at 05:15 was occupied by a small group of bleary-eyed individuals who were looking forward to getting some sleep when their shift ended at 06:00. As the shift change began, ops began to look alive. The bleary-eyed night crew disappeared one by one, replaced by the bright-eyed day crew. It was right then that Derrin and Quincy did the unthinkable. They started a game of spades in the crew lounge; and since their quarters were directly off the lounge, they brought tunes, an array of munchies, and bravos.
As Quincy sat adjacent to me, I noticed his flat top. “Nice. When you do it?”
“Yesterday,” chimed in Derrin at the same time that Quincy did. Derrin held up a pair
of clippers.
I started to respond when Captain Sammy burst into the lounge. “Weather’s moving in. We got to go now! Time to scramble, folks!”
We scrambled all right. Crow and the Eng, Patrick, hadn’t even preflighted the system yet as we prepared for taxi and takeoff. We ran through our checks as fast as we could, racing to beat Mother Nature and already knowing she would probably win in the end.
Fighters had a definite advantage over us. Worst case scenario, they could wait out the weather. It didn’t take them long to reach the zone with afterburners. Either way, it’d be close to an hour before they even had to launch. We, on the other hand, had to make the slow turboprop pedal to the zone.
“How’s that cloud deck, Co? Vis looks pretty bad and dropping fast. Nav, you got the weather reports over target yet?”
“Cloud decks thickening and dropping in on us, vis down to 1500 meters.”
If we got off the ground before the rains hit, we’d be okay.
“Roger, Co, see if we can get taxi clearance from Tower.”
“Roger, Pilot.”
“I’m checking on the weather over target.”
“Roger, Nav, keep a close watch.”
The radios were silent for a moment. Just then I realized that I didn’t have Tower’s channel pulled. I pulled it out.
“Tower just gave us taxi clearance. They’re going to put us out there on hold. Weather’s coming in thicker than they expected. Vis down to 1200 meters.”
“Roger, 1200 meters. Is that acceptable mins, Co? Doesn’t look like 1200 any more, though. Double-check that; how low’s that cloud deck?”
“A thousand.”
“Crew, Pilot, prepare for taxi. Looks like we’ll have a delay out there.”
Baghdad or Bust Page 2