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A story I was sent...

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Timebuilder

Entrepreneur
Joined
Nov 25, 2001
Posts
4,625
It's signed "Anon"

I thought you might enjoy it. I have corrected the terms that might activate the censoring software.



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 2003, 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 a$$. 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 a$$ 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 Herk 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 sh1tting 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 aimpoint and airspeed. Aviation 101,
with the exception there's 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
thirty 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, I 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 sh1t-hole. "Hey copilot clean yourself
up! And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines
Checklist."

God, I love this job!

anon
 

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