OT...C-130 Story (long but good)

If you have the time, it's worth the read. great writing...

> I am forwarding this to you since it is a good story particularly if you
> lust over mixed metaphors. This is from a colorful writer from the 1st
> Marine Aircraft Wing based at MCAS Miramar, (The guy ought to write for a
> living..... This is my nominee for 'Best of the Month.)
>
>
> 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 2004, 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 h*ll 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 pooping 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' 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 thirty-thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig
> comes to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a Viper
> (F-16) 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 h*ll am
> I
> doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You bet your a**. 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, clean
> yourself up! And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist."
>
> God, I love this job!"
>
> Semper Fidelis, Gerry
>
>
>
> "Some people live an entire lifetime and wonder if they have made a
> difference in the world. Marines don't have that problem." Ronald Reagan