The pilot for this flight was Colonel Al Cummings, a man about 5’10” with a slim build and short black hair, and making his first tour at Rhein-Main. He’d been on station for only three months.
Sitting in the co-pilot’s seat was Lieutenant Colonel Drew Flanagan, nearly the same height as Cummings. The redheaded Flanagan had flown the 130s in Vietnam, and would be the first to admit that it was his favorite aircraft.
With fueling complete, hoses were retracted and the fuel truck backed away. The two officers walked around the outside of the aircraft, making visual and hands-on inspections. Flanagan walked forward, ducking down to look at the nose gear, a modified tricycle-type that folded forward into the fuselage.
Cummings inspected the tandem main gear, also a modified tricycle-type. Its retraction was vertical into the fuselage blister fairings.
A distinct sound of chopper’s rotors caught their attention. They walked away from the plane, watching as a Seahawk made it’s slow descent about fifty yards from where they were standing.
“Must be the helo from Bremerhaven bringing the equipment for our passengers,” shouted Cummings. Just as he finished his comment, he saw seven men running across the airfield. “Come on, Drew. We’d better start our checklist and be ready for them.” He waved the flight engineer and navigator towards them.
Within minutes, Cummings and Flanagan had settled into their seats, checking compass, fuel, oil levels, altimeter. Getting final information from Base Ops, the four digit transponder code was set.
A transponder was an electronic device that produced a response when it received a radio-frequency interrogation. The device assisted in identifying an aircraft on radar and on other aircraft’s collision avoidance systems. The code was frequently called a “squawk” code which came from its origin in World War II, the “Identification Friend or Foe” (IFF) system, code-named “Parrot.”
Completing their checklist, they were ready to fire up the engines, and ready to accept their passengers and cargo.
Aboard the Seahawk, two men dressed in flight suits and helmets stood by the open door, motioning for airmen standing by to begin unloading the cargo.
It was now up to the C-130 loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Mike Brewster, to see that all cargo was evenly distributed inside the cargo bay, then secured so nothing shifted during flight, preventing an overload of sensitive sections of the airframe and cargo floor. Rollers in the floor of the cargo compartment enabled quick and easy handling of cargo pallets and could be removed to leave a flat surface, if necessary. The design of the Herc employed a cargo floor at truck-bed height above the ground, with an integral “roll on/roll off” rear loading ramp.
The SEALs dropped their rucksacks outside the open cargo bay, waiting until the loadmaster signaled them aboard. When they were cleared, they climbed the ramp, sat on the webbed jump seats, and locked their seatbelts in place.
Simpson leaned toward Russo, frowning as he said, “Hey, Vince, I could swear we just did this.”
“Yeah, me, too,” responded Russo, “and in the words of Yogi Berra, ‘it’s deja vu all over again.’”
Brewster walked around the cargo one more time, giving it a quick inspection, checking tie-downs. Then he walked over to the panel on the aft bulkhead, and flipped the switch that started the hydraulics. He kept an eye on the ramp as it raised, and once it was secured, he spoke into his mouthpiece, confirming with the flight deck they were good for takeoff.
Nodding his head in response, he then walked over to Grant. “Captain Stevens?” Grant nodded. “Sir, Colonel Cummings would like you to come to the flight deck before we takeoff.”
“Lead the way.”
At the flight deck, Brewster made the introductions. “Captain Stevens, this is our pilot Colonel Cummings, our co-pilot Colonel Flanagan, our flight engineer Lieutenant Young, and our navigator Lieutenant Nelson.”
Cummings pulled one side of his headset from his ear and said, “Welcome aboard, Captain.”
Grant smiled. “Good to meet you all. Knew I could depend on Admiral Torrinson getting us this ride,” he commented.
“Not John Torrinson?” Cummings asked with surprise, turning even more in his seat, and resting an arm on top of the backrest.
“Yeah, he’s my boss at NIS. I take it you’ve met him?”
“Met him? Hell, we were in the same frat house at Oklahoma!”
“Small world, Colonel. Say, you’re not going to reveal any of your past escapades, are you?”
“Nah. At least not on this trip! When you come back through here, we’ll go to the club and have a lengthy discussion, okay?”
“I won’t have to sign a non-disclosure agreement, will I?” Grant laughed through perfect white teeth.
“That’s up to you!”
“I’ll chance it!” He glanced at his watch. “What’s our flight time to drop zone, Colonel?”
“If we kick this baby in the ass, and with a tail wind, just under four hours.” Cummings noticed Grant lower his head, knowing there was concern. “Wish we could make it faster, Captain.”
“Listen, you’re doing more than enough, and we appreciate it.” After a second, Grant asked, “What’s our route?”
“We’ll continue south through Germany, skirt the eastern border of Switzerland, then straight down through Italy until we reach Rome, then head across the Med to Palermo. From there it’s southeast to the town of Enna. Your DZ will be fifteen miles east-southeast of Enna.”
“The town, Enna, is about thirty miles from the facility, right?” Grant asked.
“That’s affirmative.”
“What altitude are you cleared for?”
Cummings checked his chart. “Twenty-two thousand.”
“As a side note, Captain, you should get a pretty good view of Mount Etna,” Flanagan said. “It’s been spewing fire for a couple of days now.”
“I’ll keep a lookout,” Grant answered with a grin. “Well, I’d better get back to my team. We’ve got some work to do.”
“Understand. Don’t know if I’ll see you before you make your jump, so let me wish you good luck.” Again, Cummings extended his hand.
Grant shook everyone’s hand. “Thanks.”
As soon as Grant left the flight deck, Cummings leaned to the side and looked at Flanagan asking, “Think you’d wanna be a SEAL?”
“Wouldn’t stand a chance. They don’t allow water-wings.”
Brewster came up to his passengers and handed them each a small box containing foam earplugs. The noise of the Herc’s engines were a constant, steady drone, but the level was extremely high. And the vibration was enough to rattle teeth.
At 1325 hours, Cummings proceeded to taxi across the infield, stopping once as a C-141 was landing. Then, he guided his aircraft to takeoff position at the end of Runway 22L, setting flaps, continuing to check gauges and dials, waiting for clearance.
He didn’t have to wait long. He brought the four turboprop engines to full power, let off the brakes, and the aircraft rumbled down the runway, taking off in what seemed like slow motion. Then it made a wide bank, making a turn toward the south. Their route leading them toward the island of Sicily.
Once at cruising altitude, Loadmaster Brewster came near the SEALs, announcing with a smile, “Gentlemen, feel free to walk about the cabin,” he indicated with a wide sweep of an arm.
Seatbelts immediately snapped open and the SEALs gathered close to Grant, needing to catch every word of the conversation, reviewing every aspect of the photos.
Grant glanced at his watch. They’d been in the air for almost a half hour. In just over three hours they’d be over the DZ. Time was ticking away. They had to come up with some kind of plan for getting into the compound.
“Look,” Grant said, “keep studying these while I go forward.”