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Assuming
you land safely, the worst night of flying is still
better than the best day in the office. Not that
this was the worst night by a long shot.
We're
above the Persian Gulf, about to make landfall over
its northernmost tip. The sliver of moon hasn't
risen yet, and the only light is furnished by
orange sodium vapor lamps along the approaching
coastline, which throw their warm glow up to the
thin layer of scattered clouds below us. The
clouds, which would otherwise be invisible, burn
like embers beneath a layer of gray ash.
We
are descending to meet our first tanker of the
night; lights on so we are visible, and the red
strobe splashes steadily across my wingtip. The
mission crew commander calls the roll, ensuring her
crew is configured for tanker rendezvous. My
position is first on the roll call, and I wait,
left foot poised above my microphone switch. This
is one of those routine moments in which I find so
much pleasure. Anticipating the call, I am already
prepared for refueling &endash; gear stowed,
five-point seatbelt fastened &endash; and I reply
the instant my position is called, "ready for
refueling."
I'm
sure it sounds silly, but it is a pleasure to be so
much a part of this crew that I can anticipate
these calls and respond to them the moment they
come across my headset. It's a very small thing,
but of such small things (like not allowing a pause
to occur between a call and a response)
smooth-running crews are made.
As
we approach the tanker, the crew settles down for a
nap. Two years ago, days before the ground war
began, my crew was attacked by an Iraqi MiG at just
such a time. I'd already resolved to stay alert
during refueling, and that day it proved to be a
good policy.
The
habit of staying awake while on the tanker has been
with me ever since, so tonight I tune one of my
radios to listen to the flight deck talking with
the tanker, pull my flight jacket over me like a
blanket (It's cold on the jet.) and let my mind
drift a little.
We're
taking fuel from a KC-10 this time. A KC-135 is a
large jet, and fills the cockpit windows
imposingly, but tanking with a KC-10 is like
docking with The Mother ship. I know before hearing
it on the radio that we are getting close, because
we are buffeting in the larger plane's wake. After
just a moment we are through it, and riding the
smooth pocket of air below and behind the tanker.
I
hear the boom operator call, "Contact" as he flies
the nozzle into the receptacle above and behind our
cockpit. Then my radio is silent. Our flight
engineer has switched from the external radio to an
intercom circuit, connected when we linked to the
other jet.
In
just a minute or two the silence is broken by the
voice of the boom operator saying, "Disconnect"
over the external radio. This is not a command; it
is a statement of fact. The boom has been rejected
by our receptacle. For the next 20 minutes our
aircraft play a ponderous game of tag, like the
mating dance of some enormous flying insects, one
of which expects to be devoured after the
encounter.
The
biological reference is unavoidable, as our jet
repeatedly rejects the advancing nozzle. For some
reason, pressure is building in our fuel lines as
the gas flows in, triggering an emergency pressure
disconnect. We back off from the larger plane while
our flight engineer recycles switches, coaxing
cooperation from the series of valves that
regulates pressure in the fuel system. Finally, as
I begin to wonder whether we'll be forced to admit
defeat, we advance once more through the
turbulence, present ourselves to the insistent
boom, and begin taking on the night's first
consignment of fuel.
The
radio crackles occasionally. The plane vibrates and
hums reassuringly, buffeting gently now and then.
It reminds me very much of a night passage years
ago on the deck of a ferry from Piraeus to Crete -
little sensation of forward movement, but the ship
itself seemed alive, trembling against the rush of
the warm Mediterranean against its hull. I enjoy
the peace, and take advantage of the opportunity to
practice running through checklists. I am surprised
by items I would have forgotten, and, for maybe the
thousandth time, am impressed by the ease with
which very complicated processes can be simplified
by their distillation into lists of tasks.
These
moments, when I find joy in being part of an
efficient crew, or take pleasure in following a
checklist, are personally satisfying, but difficult
to describe. I undertake it now, at risk of
ridicule or failure to explain myself because I
know the number of times I have left to experience
them &endash; at least in this manner &endash; are
limited, and I want to be able to read these words
one day, when this has faded to distant memory, and
relive that pleasure. I hope you will indulge
me.
Almost
too quickly, the refueling is complete. I say
almost, because after taking on our 50 or 60
thousand pounds of gas, the pilot let the copilot
fly a number of approaches to the tanker. As is
often the case with less-experienced pilots, he
relied heavily on the throttles to regulate our
position. This causes a very unpleasant sensation
in the back of the jet, especially when combined
with repeated crossing of the turbulence in the
tanker's wake. When all is said and done, my
stomach is happy to trade the quiet moment for
straight and level flight.
And
besides, duty calls. Before we even reach our
orbit, ground troops are calling us on the radio,
telling us their status, and requesting the benefit
of our high-altitude view of the ground over which
they are traveling. We are happy to oblige. It
amazes me that 20-something people hurtling through
the air at 350 miles per hour in an aluminum tube
are able to do anything for people 30-some thousand
feet below us, but we are uniquely suited to that
task, and we apply ourselves to it happily.
We
are so good, in fact, that we work ourselves out of
a job in short order. While we wait for the night
to bring more work, my colleague Scotty, and I talk
about our wives, our kids, and how long we figure
we can keep working in a career that keeps us away
from them. It's a question without an answer, so it
generates a lot of discussion. We have an intercom
channel shared just between the two of us, one of
five we listen to at all times, in addition to four
radios. It seems a lot to stay on top of at times,
but tonight there's not much going on.
We
take turns on the console, the one not in the seat
perching on the chest in which our life rafts are
stored. It's not exactly comfortable, so we switch
places often. The hours pass, and before we know
it, we're already configuring to rendezvous with
the second tanker of the night.
In
between swapping stories and changing seats there's
time for dinner. We pop frozen pizzas into the
galley oven and, when they're hot, eat them back at
our seat. Some time later, one of the young airmen
pulls a cake out of the same oven and carries
pieces to everyone. She bakes for her crew every
time they fly. The entire aircraft smells of fresh
baking, and for a little while, everything is very
Norman Rockwell, which is strange, because men are
fighting just below us.
Meanwhile,
unnoticed by me, the moon must have risen and
traced its arc across the sky. A faint glow is
flaring on the eastern horizon. One color after
another, the edge of the world tries on each shade
of the rainbow as the sun's rays angle their way up
through the prism of the atmosphere. My wingtip
catches the first white rays of sunlight, and
sparkles like something new. Orderly ranks of
small, fleecy clouds, previously invisible beneath
us, now shine above the still-dark desert.
We've
been in the air 12 hours. I'm tired now, and sore
from sitting on the life-raft box. My legs twitch,
and ache with that vague discomfort that brings
sense to the phrase "bone weary." My lonely bed is
hundreds of miles, two bus rides, and a debriefing
away.
And
I am glad to be here, privileged to try to describe
these things to you. Thanks for
listening.
Steven
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Endless
Desert
Flying above Iraq the desert seems
endless
The
Big Mosque
in B-Dad
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