Jimmy moved the toggle switch in the other direction.
“Pilot. Nav. We’re forty minutes from Bangkok. U-Tapao is closest, but the last three thousand feet of the runway is NOTAM’d closed.”
“Copy, nav. Eng, can we get by without the last three thousand feet at U-Tapao?”
Martinez pulled out the large 1-1, the performance data manual. “Give me a second.”
Jason adjusted his posture in his seat and scanned the engines. He grinned as his co-pilot flipped through his checklist for the engine fire. The airplane would fly fine on three engines.
“Shit,” Martinez said.
Jason’s eyes moved down the stack and saw what troubled Martinez. The EGT on the number three engine crept higher.
“So much for three engines,” Jason mumbled. “Looks like we’ll be in Bangkok a few days.”
“Pilot,” Martinez said. “I think the bang we heard right before we shut down number four was the engine coming apart. We must have thrown a turbine blade into number three.”
“The engine’s getting hotter,” Jimmy said.
Jason exhaled loudly; his frustration evident. “Here’s our choices—we let the engine get hotter until the fire gets so big, we can’t put it out, or we can shut it down now and fly two-engine into Bangkok.”
“Recommend we shut it down now, pilot,” Martinez said, and he finished scanning his charts. “Good call on Bangkok. Two-engine landing distance is too long for U-Tapao.”
“I agree, pilot,” Jimmy said. “I don’t want to go swimming.”
Jason watched the EGT slowly rise and gave the command to shut down the engine. The flight deck crew executed the procedure quickly and efficiently. Jason applied the full rate of travel for his rudder input, trimming out the pressure.
“Co, you have the aircraft. I’ll need you to fly the airplane most of the way in. I’ll take it from you for the approach,” Jason said. “Ready?”
“Roger, I have the aircraft.”
"Roger, you have the aircraft. Crew, pilot—we're two-engine into Bangkok. Eng, find my two-engine service ceiling. Load, scan number three, and tell me what you see."
“I’m on it.”
“Heading there now, pilot,” the loadmaster said.
“EGT is still high on number three,” Jimmy said.
“Let’s keep an eye on it,” Jason said. “Co, when the airspeed starts to bleed back, start a gradual descent to keep our speed.”
“Co,” Martinez said, “fly 218 knots indicated airspeed. Your two-engine service ceiling is 14,300 feet. We’re still holding pressure.”
“Let’s take it down to fourteen thousand. Nav, check our fuel into Bangkok at fourteen thousand.”
“Roger, pilot,” Chris replied.
Jason declared an emergency with Thailand air traffic control and coordinated for the lower altitude. He took a deep breath and gazed outside for a moment. For the first time, he thought about the beautiful sunset on the horizon. Jason shook himself out of his daydream. How is it in times of key stress, one can focus on something totally unrelated?
“Pilot. Nav. We should be okay with fuel at that altitude.”
“Thanks, nav. Load, let’s go over what we’ve lost. We’ve lost both engines on the right side, so we’ve also lost our utility hydraulics.”
“Yep.”
“So, we’ve lost our flaps, normal gear extension—”
“Pilot. Load. There’s a lot of smoke coming from number three.”
“Copy, load. Any flames?”
“No, just white smoke.”
Jason returned his attention to the EGT gauge. The temperature appeared to be decreasing. “Eng, go check it out. I want to make sure the fire is out before we use all our altitude.”
“Roger.” Martinez tossed off his headset and bolted down the stairs of the flight deck to the cargo compartment. The flight deck sat elevated about four feet above the floor of the main cargo compartment, resting above most of the electrical equipment, making it easy to access in the event it required maintenance.
Jason looked at his young co-pilot. Perspiration rolled down the side of Jimmy’s face. His left leg shook from holding so much pressure on the rudder pedal. “How are you doing over there, co?”
“This sucks. This is my first engine fire since my simulator training at Little Rock.”
“Don’t worry,” Jason said with a grin. “Me, too.”
Jimmy’s eyes grew wide, and the corners of his mouth sank. Jason pointed at Jimmy’s flight instruments. “Pay attention to what you’re doing. We don’t want to ditch this thing if we don’t have to.”
“Yeah.”
Jason reviewed the approach plate for Bangkok. After a few minutes, Lon’s voice came over the headset.
“Pilot. Load.”
“Go ahead, load.”
“Eng says the engine is looking good. He’s on his way up.”
“Thanks, load.”
"And, pilot, Lacey would like to put in one last request for diverting to U-Tapao," Lon chimed in. Lacey was the crew's other loadmaster.
“I did not, pilot,” a female voice blurted over the interphone.
“Runway’s too short, load,” Chris said. “Quit dickin’ around—we got shit to do.”
“Sorry, nav, just sayin’,” Lon said.
Jason shook his head at the banter. It’s times like these when a good crew shows its mettle, remaining calm in a tense, even dangerous, situation.
“Radio,” Jason said, “see if you can raise the SOG on SATCOM and let them know our predicament.”
“Rog,” the radio operator said, dialing in the frequency.
A few seconds later, Martinez hopped back on the flight deck. Jason briefed the crew on the approach, and the nav relayed specific details about alternate airfields. The flight engineer covered the systems lost and how the crew would extend the landing gear.
Jason strapped his shoulder harness to his seatbelt, adjusted his seat position, and put on his olive-green Nomex and leather flight gloves. The crew rode in silence until they were thirty miles from Don Mueang International Airport in Bangkok when Jason took the controls from his co-pilot.
The ailing MC-130P trudged through the sky toward Bangkok. Jason planned to make his approach a little high to maintain energy, instructing his engineer to remove the rudder trim on their descent. He was confident the aircraft would have plenty of power, the asymmetric thrust was their biggest problem.
Time slowed as the ailing aircraft lumbered through the sky at fourteen thousand feet.
“Pilot, load. It looks like number three is still burning.”
Jason tensed. “Are you sure?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Damn,” Jason muttered.
“EGT is still hot. You want me to go look at it, pilot?” Martinez said.
“No. It won’t change anything. Let’s do the approach checklist and get this thing on the ground.”
They accomplished the checklist, and Jason solicited the crew for suggestions when Jimmy spoke up.
“Pilot, does this look right?”
Jason, distracted by the fire, realized his mistake. At twenty miles, he was still at fourteen-thousand feet, when he should have been at eight thousand. He pulled the throttles of the two operating engines to idle and let the airspeed bleed off to his no-flap final approach speed. The Herc began its descent toward the runway.
“You want to do a three-sixty, pilot?” Jimmy asked.
Under normal circumstances, that would have been the right idea. But their aircraft was on fire, and he was going nowhere but straight ahead. “No,” he replied. “I’ve got this.”
Jason side-slipped the aircraft with aileron and rudder and the MC-130P’s descent rate increased. Not enough, Jason worried as he updated his progress. He was still high at ten miles. At five miles.
“We’re high and fast, pilot,” Martinez said calmly.
“Yup,” Jason said, struggling with the lumbering aircraft. Better than low and slow.
Jason touched down two thousand feet down the runway with twenty knots of extra speed. Emergency vehicles raced onto the runway once he passed them. When the plane stopped, the crew evacuated the aircraft. Before unbuckling his seatbelt and harness, he reached down to grab the satchel sitting by his kick window. The crew met a hundred feet in front of the airplane. Jason counted nine heads, including himself, and then the crew scurried another two hundred feet away. Firetrucks lined up along his plane, and one moved close in, hosing down the burning engine.
The combat gray aircraft sat isolated on the runway. Sent on a mission he was now unable to complete, Jason felt helpless. Still, there were steps to be taken. Jason reached into the outer pocket of the satchel, pulled out the handcuffs, and secured the satchel to his wrist as he walked toward the airplane.
4
October 11, 2003
Ben set his empty glass on top of the Plexiglas tabletop next to him. Palm trees, umbrellas, and bikini-clad women covered the pool deck, as Counting Crows’ Mrs. Jones blared over the speakers. He winced when he swung his legs off the lounger, the sharp pain in his ribs reminded him to move slowly. Even this late in the afternoon, the heat from the concrete deck singed his feet until he slid them into his flip-flops. His eyes surveyed the scene one more time before walking back inside.
This was the way to fight a war. Not that they fought in a war. They pretended to fight a war. Well, they were pretending to fight a war. Now they sat on their butts for the next week. At least he would. It did not matter—he wasn't a war fighter. He was a finance officer; the moneyman. The mission commander had been too busy the last few days to deal with him. Of course, because of his "incident," they changed hotels yesterday and now found themselves at the Landmark Hotel, a five-star accommodation in downtown Bangkok. Ben thought the upgrade might almost be worth the beating he got from Sarathoon.
The 353rd SOG participated in a bilateral exercise that ended almost two weeks earlier. Because of the scope of the real mission, Ben, a finance officer from Kadena, had been attached to the exercise. It was a good deal for him and staying an extra three weeks for the follow-on mission was even better. Beat the crap out of what his peers were doing in the desert. The stories of the deplorable living conditions in Iraq, Kuwait, and Afghanistan convinced him that coming to Kadena was at least one advantageous decision he made in his career.
The opulence of the lobby impressed him. Exquisite tile flooring ran from wall to wall with an octagonal-shaped wood design embedded in the center. The marble registration desk stretched well over thirty feet long; the wall behind it, custom-built wood paneling. Not much different from most five-star hotels in Bangkok, but the rooms appeared better. He didn't stay in a suite, though it had the appearance of one. Ten-foot-high ceilings, the windows running from one foot above the floor to the ceiling. Jacuzzi, walk-in shower, king-size bed, and a robe. He loved the robe.
Ben started to walk to the downstairs pub when he felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned, the first sergeant stood behind him, gritting his coffee-stained teeth, his arms folded across his chest. A first sergeant’s informal name was “shirt.” Master Sergeant Norquist hated being called “shirt.”
“Captain Harris, Lieutenant Colonel McClendon would like a word with you,” the first sergeant said.
Ben couldn’t stand the first sergeant. A Transportation guy by trade, his tour as the first shirt for the 1st SOS at Kadena proved problematic in many folks’ eyes. The first sergeant envisioned himself a SOF warrior. Ben considered him another douche-bag wannabe.
“Thanks, shirt. I’ll get right on it,” Ben said and turned toward the bar.
The shirt grabbed his arm. Ben stopped and gave the grip a terse look, then glared at the first sergeant.
“Sir, the commander wants to see you . . . now.” The first sergeant released his grip and stepped back. If Ben’s ribs did not hurt so much, he might have punched the shirt right there.
“Oh, I guess you’re supposed to make sure I arrive safely?”
“Yes, sir. It comes with the territory of being under house arrest.”
The first sergeant motioned toward the elevator. Ben pushed the ‘UP’ button and watched the numbers click down as the elevator came to the lobby. The two men rode to the fourteenth floor, to Lieutenant Colonel McClendon’s room. They approached the door, and the first sergeant knocked twice.
The door opened, and the ragged-looking lieutenant colonel in BDUs motioned him inside. The green, brown, and black camouflage Battle Dress Uniform was the standard combat uniform for the Air Force and Army.
Bloodshot eyes perched above dark bags scanned Ben head to toe. “Thanks, shirt, I’ll take it from here,” Lieutenant Colonel Billy McClendon said.
“Yes sir,” the first sergeant said and marched back to the elevator.
“Get your butt in here,” McClendon said as he turned and walked into his room.
Ben closed the door and followed. The colonel had a nice three-room suite. All it lacked was a kitchenette. Of course, who would use that in Bangkok? The best food in the world for pennies on the dollar is just minutes away.
McClendon had been the mission commander for the exercise. While most of the players returned home, he stayed in Thailand to command the SOF personnel supporting POTUS for the upcoming Asian-Pacific Cooperation (APEC) summit next week. He had a small group of weather and communications experts who remained in theater. A SEAL squad of eight from SEAL Team Seven out of Coronado was also attached to the group. They would help provide security with the Secret Service contingent arriving soon. They did not report directly to him. Rather, he was their conduit of communication to SOCPAC, Special Operations Command in the Pacific Theater.
“Harris, you’ve become the number one pain in my rear end. You’re damn lucky you don’t fall under my command back home. Do you realize how you almost compromised our mission here?”
“What? By getting attacked? Sir, I—”
“Captain, this is not a two-way discussion. Here’s the deal. I don’t have the personnel to guard you twenty-four hours a day. You’re still under house arrest. Lucky for you, this will be the cushiest ‘jail’ sentence you’ll ever see. Personally, I think the whole thing is BS, but the Air Force has evolving priorities. We used to worry about killing bad guys, but now I’ve got to stop everything I’m doing because the biggest threat to the United States is Captain Ben Harris, who inappropriately used his government travel card.
“Here’s your sentence until you leave Thailand. You are not to leave the hotel. You can eat meals in the restaurant. No alcohol. No room service—including girls. Stay out of the bar and stay away from the hookers. I’m going to rely on your integrity as an officer that you will abide by these restrictions. If not, I’m sure the wing commander at Kadena will be happy to place you behind bars once you return to the island. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Ben exhaled slowly. It could be a lot worse. “Sir, I thought I was leaving tomorrow?”
“You were. The plane taking you back lost two engines on the way in. It will be a few days before they can make repairs.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Sir, wouldn’t it be easier for me to take an airliner back to Okinawa?”
"You'd think, but with the summit next week, seats are at a premium price, and there's zero availability. We combined your transportation with the delivery of some equipment. Cost of doing business."
“What kind of plane is it?”
“One of ours. An MC-130P,” McClendon said.
Ben’s head shot up. No, could it . . . is it possible? “Sir, do you know who the pilot is?”
“Yeah. Jason Conrad.”
Ben turned and gazed at the floor. For the first time since he walked into the mission commander’s room, a hint of a smile formed on his face.
5
October 11, 2003
The crew made a quick stop through customs and headed to the side of the terminal, dragging their bags and flight gear with them. Jason showed his diplomatic courier letter to the customs officials, and they chose not to look through any of his bags. Once through customs, Jason was steered to a private room where two familiar faces from the SOG, accompanied by two men wearing pistols on their hips, entered right after Jason. Even though Jason knew his counterparts from the SOG, they presented him a letter authorizing them to take the transfer of the satchel. One of them retrieved a key, unlocked the satchel from Jason's wrist, and locked it around his own. After some small talk, the two SOG men and their escorts departed.
Jason rejoined the rest of the crew in the terminal. His seven crewmembers appeared as tired as he felt. Their olive-green flight suits showed streaks of white—salt stains from excessive perspiration. The long trip exhausted them. It was late into the evening already, and they all wound down from their adrenaline-rushed emergency procedure.
The engine failures cost them precious time once they cleared customs. Jason had to coordinate with maintenance personnel and make some phone calls back to Okinawa. He also got in touch with the mission commander to inform him about the situation. The crew chief stayed at the airport to work on getting an engine stand to change the engines when the time came. After an extra two hours filling out paperwork and coordinating plans, they were starving and ready to go.
Jason surveyed their surroundings as they stepped outside the terminal. A familiar white van sat parked against the curb. A spry, old man with a weathered face waved at him.
Jimmy scooted next to Jason. “Who is that?”
“That’s Chaow,” Jason replied. “He’s been my driver every time I come here for an exercise. Great guy. Keeps me out of trouble in a foreign land.”
“He’s your personal driver?”
“No, it just kind of worked out that way. He’s one of the drivers the SOG hires. I met him when I came over for the Cobra Gold exercise last year. We talked every day while we drove to and from the airfield. Nice man.”
The Quiet Professional Page 3