Tail of the Storm

by Alan Cockrell

  While Mike and the two engineers, Larry Bleakney and Dave Cameron, preflight the Starlizzard, Rob Cox, the other pilot, and I, meet our rent-a-pilot and proceed to the CP for our intel briefing.

  Intel updates us on the status of hostilities and issues our SPINS. The briefing, usually a ho-hum affair, has our attention thoroughly captured this time. We are about to plunge into what we think is just the edge of the maelstrom known now as Desert Storm, but I know that in modern warfare, the edges are ill defined. I must admit I'm excited about this, but I have a gut feeling that the whole thing is pregnant with disaster. I figure that if I'm to be a casualty of this mess, it will likely be a result of our own inattentiveness or of friendly fire, either of which is just as terminal as an Iraqi bullet.

  The three of us report to the jet at 1700 and find the rest of the crew wrapping up their preflight duties. The soldiers have gone to the chow hall and left a guard at the jet to watch over their weapons. Dave warns us that the guard is particularly jumpy and has been pacing nervously and mumbling to himself. We don't know if he is worried about the war or the flight, but he has a loaded M-16 and bears watching.

  At 1800 hours German local, with twenty-five "grunts," 35,000 pounds of cargo, and 158,000 pounds of fuel aboard, we taxi onto the runway in an extremely heavy condition known as EWP gross weight. EWP means "emergency war planning." Not just any war, mind you, but emergency war. What more grave and desperate endeavor can the human race be involved in than emergency war? Because EWP is such a risky operation, from the standpoint of structural stress and reduced performance, I always fancied that if we ever used it, the world would most surely be at the brink of nuclear war. But I was wrong. It wasn't much of a war, but it was all we had. And it had obviously been determined that, to that end, we and our C-141s were expendable.

  This EWP thing is serious business. The wings have to lift ten tons more than what they are normally designed to do. Metal is a funny thing. Unlike wood, which forgets about stress, metal remembers, and the damage is cumulative. Add the effect of the cracks that already exist in the spars and the potential for a catastrophic failure begins to loom as a greater possibility. It may not happen today, but next week or next year disaster could result from stresses accumulated today, especially if the airplane is henceforth subjected to marginal conditions such as turbulence. And the stress of EWP operations doesn't apply only to the wings.

  For an EWP takeoff, we have to use maximum takeoff-rated thrust, or TRT. This is our maximum safe power. If we pushed the throttles as far as they will go, the engines may rip themselves apart under the tremendous internal heat and pressures. But even at TRT the engine turbine blades, under the increased heat and centrifugal force, actually become stretched and cracked. The blades can sling off the compressor and turbine wheels, causing massive engine disintegration. We know that every TRT takeoff reduces engine life and increases the possibly of a catastrophic engine failure, so whenever possible we take off with reduced thrust. But today we wouldn't get airborne by the French border with reduced thrust.

  And there's more still to think about with an EWP takeoff. You're so heavy, it takes the square root of forever to get enough speed to fly. Runway length becomes critical, and the crew's margin for error narrows if something goes wrong. This will be a dreaded "split marker" takeoff. Larry and Dave both calculate the takeoff performance criteria with their Hewlett Packard calculators, comparing results. Rob and I do the same with the computer terminal on our center console, known as the Fuel Savings and Advisory System, or FSAS. Rob sets his airspeed indicator marker at 122 knots. This will be our "go" speed. If a problem develops before we reach this speed, we should be able to stop the jet before we run out of runway if our calculations are correct and if we do everything exactly right. Should a problem occur after 122 knots, we are committed to continue the takeoff. But we cannot lift from the runway until the speed scrolls down to the second marker, which I have set at 140 knots. This will be the "rotate" speed. The calculations indicate that we will reach this speed just prior to the end of Ramstein's frighteningly short runway.

  We poll the crew to ensure that all are ready, and point our nose westward down the runway, which lies in a misty valley between parallel rows of hills. This is a place of death, where three Italian Air Force pilots and many spectators died last year in a tragic air show accident. More recently, some of our own died at the end of this runway. We hold the brakes and advance the throttles to TRT. Five sets of vigilant eyes carefully scan the white tapes on the vertical display engine instruments as the jet trembles and strains at the brakes. We check the exhaust pressure ratios, N1 and N2 rpms, the enormous fuel flow readings, and the exhaust gas temperatures; all are as they should be. We're conscious of the extraordinarily loud twang of the engines, noticeably higher at TRT than at normal takeoff thrust. They seem to be appealing to us to get on with itto get this done and over with before it's too late. We swallow hard and release the brakes.

  The 343,000-pound beast begins to shed its static inertia and ever so slowly picks up foward momentum. The heavy weight causes every crack and bump in the runway to be amplified by the nose gear strut. As we wait for the lethargic airspeed indicator to awaken, the distance-remaining markers begin to pass by:

  7,000.

  The bumps increase in frequency and intensity as we gather precious speed. We're driving the engines like wicked taskmasters, pushing them to their pain threshold. They scream in protest.

  6,000.

  Noticeably faster now, the airspeed indicator is showing signs of life.

  5,000.

  We begin a gentle sway as the wings start to fly, but they are capable of lifting only their own weight.

  4,000.

  Finally, the first marker passes under the airspeed indexer. Our senses are pegged. We've become nervous creatures: shifty-eyed, anticipators of calamity. Now we can't stop this runaway beast if something catastrophic happens. We're committed to flying, no matter what.

  3,000.

  The staccato sound of the bumpsas much felt as heardis like rapid cannon fire.

  2,000.

  The end of the runway approaches in the windscreen. The tall conifers of the dense black German forest loom ahead. I'm able, now, to read the numbers on the last distance-remaining marker.

  1,000.

  Our rotate speed of 140 knots is coming down to the indexer, still too slow to suit us. The airspeed seems to hesitate slightly at 135, or is it my imagination? If something went badly wrong now in a fighter, I'd brace and pull the ejection handle. But we have to see this ride through.

  Finally, the requisite 140 knots appears, and we lift into the air as the red lights at the end of the runway flash underneath our belly. We lumber across the forest cover, gathering precious speed and glance down at the wicked gash in the trees where a C-5 crew gave it all for the liberation of Kuwait. A thrust reverser, which is used to slow a large jet during landing, had inadvertently deployed while the other engines were at maximum power. The resultant asymmetric thrust had caused them to careen to the left and roll into the malfunctioning engine. There were only seconds to analyze the problem. No time to discuss solutions. No ejection handles to reach for.

  The broken tree trunks down there and the crater in the earth are silent reminders that it can happen to me, to any of us. When I was a fighter pilot, I had heard all the jokes about the "heavy drivers" and had listened to the condescending remarks and the unflattering stories about those who propped up their feet and drank coffee while they flew. I'm older now and less inclined to confrontation, but the gash in the trees makes me spring-loaded these days, waiting for some swashbuckling fighter driver to pop off about his superiority. Brave airmen died down there, died just as valiantly as the top guns who were catching the missiles and flak over Baghdad.

  But the scars are forgotten as quickly as they pass, and we relax a little as our thunderlizzard picks up more of the life-preserving airspeed. We climb out over southern France as the sunlight
fades and join our old companion the moon for the long trip across the Mediterranean. The run down across the Med is pretty routine, except that we are spending more time studying the SPINS than we usually do. We don't know what to expect tonight, but we'd rather not have events take us by surprise. Rob and I decide to break out our chemical gear to take with us to the flight-planning office, but not the entire suit. The masks and hoods alone should do. I'm surprised at the effort and time it takes to untie the rubber sack and dig the stuff out.

  After a restless respite in the bunk I return to the flight deck as we approach the Red Sea and call Red Crown. I can sense the tension among the crew begin to build as we listen to Navy strike forces checking in and out with the carrier. I can't understand half of what they say. Even their radio terminology is hopelessly mired in traditional buzz phrases and slang. The SPINS ought to contain information to let us decode Navy vernacular. As they've done for years, they are also garbaging up the "Guard" channel.

  Guard is frequency 243.0, which is supposed to be monitored by all military flights and held in reserve for emergency transmissions. But the way the Navy frivolously blabs on Guard has always been a sore point with Air Force and Army pilots, who often refer to it as "Navy Common" and religiously protect it from such abuse. More than once I've heard an angry voice, in response to Navy chatter, shout out on the frequency, "GET OFF GUARD, DAMMIT!"

  Entering Saudi airspace, we're cleared along a more southerly route than we're used to and proceed without the assistance of air traffic control or ground navigation aids. The stations have been shut down so as not to invite attack. But we have no problem navigating with our two inertial navigation units, as we do over the high seas. Approaching the gulf, we search through the secret air strike frequencies, hoping to monitor the air battle up north, but I guess we're out of radio range. We do, however, hear plenty of activity on the AWACS frequencies, which we're required to monitor. AWACS is the airborne warning and control system, a Boeing 707 with a big rotating radar dish atop. AWACS is busy working with the strike aircraft entering and leaving the target areas and the refueling tracks.

  My headset spews the electronic hiss and crackle of the voices of war, and I feel the absurd longing that I knew would come. I'm not satisfied to be on the periphery of this thing; I want to be in it. I want to rip off a stick of Mark-82's over an Iraqi truck park; to squeeze off an AIM-9 and watch it home on a MiG like a lion closing on a weaving gazelle. I ought to be up there.

  Years ago I attacked a column of infantry at Fort Carson, Colorado. The Army was throwing a big war game party and had invited the Air Force to show up as the bad guys. I was in a flight of four A-7s approaching the war zone low and fast up through the foothills to avoid detection. We'd planned to split up into two elements of two ships and attack separate targets. As the leader and number two broke off to the north, I popped up behind my element leader and rolled hard to the south toward a large meadow. As I rolled out, with my nose pointing at the meadow in a 500 mph dive, I realized that we had caught the soldiers in a complete surprise.

  It was an astonishing sight. Dozens of large vehicles were scattering in all directions, kicking up swirling dust clouds, while hundreds of running figures scurried for cover. It was a "target-rich environment," as the tacticians like to say. We had them cold and had won the game. I was exhilarated. But what if it had been real? How would I carry the baggage of so many deaths? And why the exhilaration? I've always been bothered by it. Yet the same kind of slaughter was being discharged in earnest just over the horizon.

  We are approaching Dhahran; strangely, the sky is not as busy as I had anticipated. But I know a few miles northward the air is as frenzied as a shark feed. I hope it stays up there, because the possibility of a midair collision is now our biggest threat. I listen as the pool pilot in the jump seat calls the ALCE and passes on our load information. They brief us that the airfield is under condition yellow, which signifies an advanced state of chemical warfare readiness.

  The approach is normal, and the city of Dhahran seems to be as lighted as usual. We touch down at 0415 local time and notice that the civil air terminal is shut down. No airliners are at the gates. We turn down the long taxiway to the military side and are soon aware that this is not the Dhahran of past missions.

  It's very different this morning. There's none of the beehive of activity that we're accustomed to. In fact, we're the only aircraft there. The hangar doors are closed. The floodlight coverage is cut back to about a quarter of its usual strength, bathing the flight line in a shadowy ghastliness. Few vehicles move about. I certainly don't expect Iraqi troops to come storming across the field, but still a cool foreboding comes over me. Rob and I don't talk a lot as we walk toward the hangar, but we agree that we need to get our business of offloading and refueling done and leave this place.

  While we proceed to the hangar complex to file our flight plan and get an intel update, the rest of the crew works at the aircraft. Dave takes his station on the "long cord" out in front as a safety observer while Larry monitors the fuel panel in the cockpit. Both wear their headsets and are in communication with the refueler back at the right wheel well. Mike is running the noisy electric winch that is used to load and unload trailers and other unpowered rolling stock. Our twenty-five troops wait restlessly for their transportation to arrive. Then, at 0445, the first one comes.

  Events take place with lightning speed, and few people know, at first, what is happening. "What was that?" is the first sign of trouble, as Dave's voice cracks on the interphone. But Larry, on the flight deck, sees nothing. An electric streak appears in the sky over Dave's head, shooting south to north. A sonic boom resounds, echoing off the hangars. A maintenance van swings to a stop beside the jet, and men inside yell for the crew to hurry aboard. Dave relays the warning to Larry, who leaps from his seat and yells from the flight deck door back to Mike. Looking up from the winch cable, Mike hears but can't understand Larry's shouted warnings. Then Mike's blood chills when Larry reappears in the flight deck door wearing his chemical mask, motioning frantically to get off the aircraft.

  Mike drops the cable and runs to his chemical bag. It seems an eternity to untie the wrappings. While he fumbles and claws into the bag for his mask, he hears excited shouts from outside, as the soldiers break into a run, and the blood-curdling wail of an attack-warning Klaxon starts up. Mike knows that it would be impossible to don the entire suit in the few seconds he might have left. Finally finding his mask and hood, he bolts for the crew door and into the van with the rest of the crew.

  The events of the first missile attack of the war are more subtle for me. As I present the flight plan to the Saudi dispatcher, Rob calls the weather station. Across the room a Saudi with telephone in hand shouts over to the dispatcher in their native language, and I clearly pick out the word "Scud." The dispatcher turns to me with a sort of comical grin on his weathered face and repeats the word.

  "Scud."

  I play along with this strange attempt at Saudi humor and feign a dive under the planning table. The dispatcher laughs and takes the flight plan, and Rob and I begin the long walk down the hallway to the intel shop. Along the way we meet a number of Marines who are pulling on their masks, but we've seen such drills before, and as transiting aircrew we are not required to participate.

  Outside things are not so tranquil. The maintenance van races across to the nearest bunkernothing more than a trench about four feet deep covered with sandbags on a wooden frame. The guys breathe heavily and with much effort in the cumbersome masks. In his haste Larry has forgotten to snap on the rubber gasket that allows free breathing when not plugged into the aircraft-supplied oxygen system. Under normal circumstances it is a mistake that would immediately have been noticed; the flow of filtered air was minimal, almost to the point of choking. But in his excitement, fueled by the flood of adrenaline, it takes him several minutes to realize that he is slowly suffocating. Mike has the opposite problem. He tries to calm himself down, realizing he'
s beginning to hyperventilate.

  Filing into the bunker, the men are abruptly halted and turned back. It's full. Along with maintenance people, it is filled with another C-141 crew who arrived after us but parked nearer the bunker. Uttering muffled imprecations, they reverse course and reboard the van, speed down the tarmac to the next hole and dive in. There they, hunker for the next half hour, listening to the maintenance radio blaring excited reports about missiles and explosions. The bunker is dark and muddy, and they feel extremely claustrophobic in the heavy gear, but they know that the air could be laced with lethal chemical agents.

  The heavy door to the intel shop swings open, and Rob and I are stunned to see the intel staff wearing their chem gear. They motion us in and tell us that the field is indeed under attack, but the shop is fortified and serves as a shelter. We put on our masks and listen as the staff converses on their secure telephones, their speech muffled by the masks. We quickly learn that a Patriot missile has intercepted a Scud, fired from Iraq, at an altitude of 17,000 feet just north of the base. I didn't know the Patriot could do such a thing. I thought it was for shooting down aircraft. I immediately wonder if it was one of the many Patriots I had brought from the States in recent weeks. Reports also come in of Scud impacts east and west of the air base. A few minutes later, we are all astounded when the shop's TV set, tuned to CNN, replays the actual attack that has just taken place over our heads. Fascinated, we watch with the entire world as the Patriot streaks into the dawn and impacts the Scud with a bright flash above the thin cloud layer. Other reports come in of Scud attacks on Israel. A few minutes later, the shop receives a phone patch that the Israelis have launched a retaliatory nuclear strike against Baghdad. I stare through the mask lens and listen with detached horror. The world is coming apart at the seams, and there is nothing I can do about it. Yet I have no feelings of disbelief. Everything that is happening is plausible, even predictable. Pink Floyd was right; this is Armageddon.