Tina
July 19th 07, 07:22 PM
Now this is not a very ladylike posting, but this story is something
the readers of this newsgroup will enjoy.
This is from a colorful writer from the 3rd Marine Air Wing based at
MCAS Miramar:
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 turd?
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 ****ting 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 forty-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 92F, 9 millimeter strapped smartly to my side, look around and
thank God,
not Allah, 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! Semper Fidelis
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the readers of this newsgroup will enjoy.
This is from a colorful writer from the 3rd Marine Air Wing based at
MCAS Miramar:
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 turd?
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 ****ting 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 forty-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 92F, 9 millimeter strapped smartly to my side, look around and
thank God,
not Allah, 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! Semper Fidelis
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------