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C-130 Pilot's Description of Approcah into Baghdad
This is a funny story particularly if you lust over mixed
metaphors. This is from a colorful writer from the 3rd Marine Air Wing
based at MCAS Miramar:
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 its 2006, 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 ass. 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 ass 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 Herc 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 shitting on a sheet of ice. Looking further back
at the navigator, and even through the Nags, 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 aim-point and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the
exception there are no lights, I'm on NVGs its 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 forty-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, 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 hole. Hey copilot how's
'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist."
God, I love this job!
__________________
Non Sibi Sed Suis
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It's Good To Be Da King !!!! Just ask NDD !!!! 
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