Baghdad or Bust (2 page)

    “Thank you for listening to K-J-A-M radio,” Crow cried out over ship’s Private. “We’re AM, FM, and all the way across the dial. We hope you’re enjoyed our programming today and that you’ll join us again soon, real soon. This final selection, Born in the U.S.A.
,
by Mr. Bruce Springsteen, goes out to a Mr. Saddam Hussein. We all know who you are, but do you know who we are?”

    Ship’s PA tweaked. Captain Sammy called out, “Crew, Pilot, you know the words, so sing along!” The lyrics to Born in the U.S.A. screamed over the PA. I began screaming the lyrics into my headset microphone. We were just finishing up an especially tense combat sortie so Captain Sammy was letting us blow off a little steam.

    “Pilot, Navigator, Gypsy’s cleared us off stations in five mike.”

    “Roger, Nav.”

    Before the pilot brought the Lady off orbit, we went through one final combat turn, a crisp turn that dipped the wing nearly sixty degrees and left me once more staring straight down at the desert floor. For a moment, I listened to the Lady’s hum—the four turbo propellers of our venerable EC-130 churning in the wind—then chatter filled my headset.

    “Pilot, MCC, the last of the packages have egressed. Gypsy’s pulling out and Phantom left us five minutes ago. Let’s get the hell out of Dodge,” Tennessee Jim cried out. Bruce Springsteen was just finishing his last rendition on ship’s PA when it tweaked out.

    “Roger that, MCC. We’re coming off orbit.”

    “Crew, MCC, good job! The package got away safe, and the Buffs really smacked the hell out of Mosul.”

    “Pilot, Spotter, traffic high, at nine o’clock moving to twelve,” I called out.

    “Got him, that’s Gas Station. The KCs are heading back to base.”

    “Roger,” I responded. This rotation as spotter had gone without a hitch so far, yet I didn’t know which was worse—staring at a bunch of high-tech displays while frantically working the signal environment or watching explosions light up the sky.

    “Crew, Pilot, let me remind you that we are still airborne over the sensitive area. Our moment of fun is over. We’ll be clear in a few minutes; stay with me until then.

    “Spotter, stay alive back there! There’s been a lot of activity out there today. That AAA is thick as rain.”

    You don’t have to tell me, I wanted to say. I saw it. The flashes in the view port of the NVG made it seem like the Fourth of July.

    Minutes passed. The blood rushing in my ears calmed. The passing of time reverted back to minutes and seconds, and not heartbeats. To my five and six o’clock, I could still see a continuous flurry of artillery bursts flooding the skyline. Soon the guns would fall quiet. We would hopefully be long gone.

    “Crew, exiting the combat zone. Post-combat Entry Checklist.”

    The front-end crew went through their list: pilot, copilot, navigator, engineer, and the air maintenance technician, each calling out in order. The mission control commander said his bit as the mission compartment interior lights turned from combat red to a lusterless white. I shifted from port to starboard and continued my vigil, staring into the night sky. The guns were indeed silent as I turned to look back, but a vast POL storage area was still burning crimson far behind us.

    Soon mountains were below us, whitecaps mixed with jagged black outcroppings. Glancing down with my NVG, they seemed to be waiting, taunting me. I was confident that they wouldn’t get me today. I tugged at my survival vest and felt the reassuring weight of the government issue .38 revolver within it. I sighed; having a loaded weapon always seemed to put a part of my mind at ease.

    A four-ship of F-15 screamed by. I yelled out, “Traffic low, moving seven to twelve. Four-ship. There goes our support CAP. We’re on our own.”

    “Roger, Spotter. Got them; there they go,” responded Ice, our copilot.

    I watched the Falcons go, afterburners filling the NVG with green-white fire.

    I switched to the port side and saw another pair of afterburners. I was about to call it in when my heart stopped. The green-white fire wasn’t coming from afterburners. It was coming from engine number two. A smoke trail was rushing past the window. “Pilot, Spotter, I see smoke and flames coming out of engine two.”

    At the same time I called out, the copilot spotted the warning lights, “Fire warning, engine two!”

    “Roger, Spotter. Roger, Co. Crew shutting down engine two. Spotter, what do you see?”

    “We’re trailing smoke, lots of smoke; but I don’t see any more flames.” I had my face pressed up against the plexiglass.

    The Lady jerked roughly. My heart jumped into my throat as we lost altitude quickly. It felt as if we’d hit a patch of clear air turbulence.

    “What’d we hit? Spotter, check starboard. You see anything?”

    “Dear Jesus, engine three warning light just died,” cried Ice.

    “Crew, we’re two engines out. Prepare to begin in-flight emergency procedures,” Sammy, the pilot called out. The copilot cut in and began reviewing emergency procedures on Ship’s Hot that included contingency plans for bailout, ditching, crash landing, and conditional destruction of our classified equipment. Things the thirteen of us, five in the front and eight in the mission crew had heard, memorized, and reviewed a hundred times.

    “Crew attention to brief, crash landing procedures! Don parachutes, helmets and gloves. Remember, six short rings, prepare for impact. Followed by one long ring, brace for impact. In the event of a crash landing, use any available exit to egress as quickly as possible. Formation site will be three hundred feet off the nose.”

    “Pilot, Spotter, you won’t believe this, but we lost the prop on three. There’s nothing turning out there!”

    Captain Sammy, who had been advising Control, cut in, “Shoulder harnesses fastened and in the locked positions. Gloves on, helmets on, parachutes on.” He was following his checklist per procedure.

    We’d been supporting a pre-dawn strike and now, of all times, the sun decided to begin its lofty climb. I saw engine two’s propellers come to a halt. I held my breath as they did so. I saw a spark of flames and fiery oil spilling out into the shadowy sky. The chute I’d already fitted was in the crew bunk beside me. I strapped it on. “Pilot, Spotter, there’s flames coming out of two again!”

    The Gray Lady was a great bird. I’d heard tell she could fly with two engines out. We were about to find out. In any event, we still had two working engines. I had my parachute.

    “In the event of bailout, remember: three short, prepare. One long, execute. Primary bailout from the aft paratroop doors. Secondary, aft cargo door and ramp. Third is the crew entrance door.”

    By now, we’d already passed Diyarbakir, which was our alternate recovery point. Instead of turning the plane around, the safest thing to do would be to bring the plane back to our base of origin. This was the plan of action the pilot embarked upon.

    We were losing altitude slowly, but the pilot was holding her steady. The bad thing about EC-130s was that with all our equipment and gear we were always heavy. The good thing was we had already used up a good chunk of our fuel, which lightened us a bit. It was this extra bit we were counting on.

    Captain Sammy was confident he could safely land the plane; and even though he told us this and we wanted to believe him, there were some worried faces in the back. I was strapped in at the position I had emptied after take-off. Helmet, gloves, and parachute on and ready to go, I double-checked my survival vest and zipped my winter flight up to its highest notch. I was ready for whatever lay ahead; we all were.

    A thousand thoughts swam through my mind, only one image in my mind’s eye. It was of Katie. I wished to God I could picture her happy, running into my arms. All I could see in my mind’s eye was her standing in front of the TV. Her listening to the report of our crash. Her breaking down in tears and a fit of heart-wrenching sobs.

    If this was to be the end, I wanted it to be over when we slammed into the ground. I didn’t want to freeze to death in the mountains waiting for search and rescue. I’d heard that in such cold, you could just lie down, close your eyes, and let death find you.

    Distant in my ears, I heard the pilot calling out. “Crew, Pilot, we’re eighty miles out. The field should come into sight soon.”

    As I had all the radios pulled out, I heard Control’s advisories. For a long time afterward, I just prayed. Then I heard it, the call that sent chills to my bone. “Crew, attempting to restart engine one.”

    “Engine one?” I wanted to scream.

    “She’s flaring,” responded the Co. “Oil pressure’s low, but some power is better than no power. Shit, she cut out again, we’re losing oil pressure.”

    “Crew!” screamed the Pilot, “We’re going down. I repeat, we’re going down.”

    I started praying; we all started praying. The copilot was trying frantically to re-start engine one.

    “The field’s coming into sight. Come on, baby, hold on. Hold on.”

    I prayed. We all prayed. It was then I noticed I was holding my breath, waiting, hoping for another call. It seemed an eternity that we waited.

    As the plane shifted, pictures of Katie and our life together that should have been flashed before my eyes. It was in that moment that I promised myself that if I survived I would live. I mean really live, taking control of my life instead of letting life control me. Then it happened, the one miracle that could save us all. I saw engine one flare just as the copilot called out, “Pilot, engine one’s flaring again. There she goes.”

    I wanted to scream, to shout at the top of my lungs: “I’m not ready to die yet, you sons of bitches,” my voiceless whisper giving life to a thought deep in my mind. Surely the enemy was responsible for all that was happening. Surely we’d been hit by a SAM or AAA.

    Captain Sammy applied extra pressure to the yoke and tried to hold the Lady level. Over and over in my mind’s eye I saw flames pouring out of engine two. Until that moment I’d thought I’d seen it all: the black rain of AAA, SAMs, enemy fighters, all hell-bent on knocking us out of the sky. None of them had succeeded until now. None of it had prepared me for this moment.

    I couldn’t help thinking, what if we go down in those snowcaps? How many of us will survive? What if we make the runway and go nose first into the tarmac? In the back of my mind, I saw the POL storage area explode to life, the huge flames lapping at the sky.

    Seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness. I heard the pilot call out to dump extra fuel. Immediately afterward, I heard Sparrow throwing up her breakfast. I wasn’t sure if it were the turbulence or the anxiety that caused it; I only knew the smell was awful. I had a hard time keeping from throwing up, myself. I was definitely a sympathetic puker. Who wouldn’t be in such tight quarters?

    As we approached for landing it became clear that complications had arisen. The control tower was advising us to go around.

    Captain Sammy was angry—I’d never heard him truly angry before. He was screaming, “Tower, Pilot, negative on that go around. We’re heading straight in. Repeat, in-flight emergency, two engines out. We’re heading straight in. Re-direct that traffic. Get those idiots off the runway. We’re not going to make a go around and you’re going to be responsible for thirteen corpses.”

    Tower controller’s voice changed, “EC-130, be advised of traffic low and in front of you.”

    Captain Sammy and the copilot pulled back as fast as they could. Captain Sammy was still screaming, “Tower Pilot, we’re heading straight in, tell them to pull out of the pattern. Repeat, in-flight emergency, two engines out. We’re trailing smoke. We cannot go around!”

    “Pilot, Co, runway’s in sight.”

    “Crew, pilot, I’m taking her in. Brace for impact. It’s going to be a rough one.”

    “What about that KC?” objected the Nav.

    “Screw that KC!” Sammy screamed.

    I took in a breath. It felt like I hadn’t breathed for hours. Suddenly the plane slammed the ground. We went in hard, harder than ever before. The plane skidded. We bounced once, twice, and then came down so hard my head slapped the back of my flight chair like it was a hammer and my head a nail. I accidentally bit my tongue; blood gushed into my mouth.

    I braced myself as I was jerked forward, felt my head slam back against the headrest a second time. A moment of uncertainty followed. The world slowed. Everything became clear to me, too clear, almost as if I were seeing the world around me for the first time. I was a nerves-of-steel crewer no more. There were tears in my eyes.

    I expected at any moment to feel the runway rip away the landing gear because we’d come in way too fast. I expected to see flames pour in through the crew doors as the plane was torn in half. I expected the breath held in my lungs to be my last. I wasn’t okay with it. I’d said my peace, but I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

    I guess I could have been angry, outraged. Twenty-five was too short a life, too little time. There was so much I wanted to do, so much I hadn’t done while I had the chance.

    Everything slowed.

    Everything smoothed.

    Everything became real.

    I heard the two remaining engines struggle into reverse in an attempt to slow us down. We were racing down the runway, using it up fast.

    The plane jerked to a halt as if we’d slammed into a barrier. The interior lights blackened. Someone popped open the crew door. We piled out just as if it were a drill—only it wasn’t.

    I undid the safety harnesses, bolted out of my seat. I looked back as I ran away from the great Gray Lady that I’d been through so much with. I remember one of the pilots saying once that any landing you can walk away from was a good landing.

    I counted myself lucky. We were all lucky.

    An array of ambulances and fire trucks began to pull up, their sirens screaming, their lights flashing. A fire team rushed a hose to engine two and drowned away the smoke.

    A hundred yards or so away from the plane, the crew gathered. Tammy, Sparrow, and Happy were sitting on the tarmac hugging their knees. Ice hurt his ankle in the egress. Bill and Sammy were helping him to an uneasy seat. Crow, Patrick, Chris, Cowboy, Bad Boy, and I stood staring back at the Gray Lady.