George is a true son of the South. Descended from a family in which the torch of military service has been proudly passed down through the generations, he is the very essence of a military flier. Handsome, well groomed, and square-jawed, he could equally well have stepped from a Hollywood movie set or from the pages of Faulkner. He is southern to the core, a deep respecter of ancestry and heritage, and a fierce individualist.
George is sometimes regarded as arrogant by those who envy his human skills but not by his crews. He's famous for taking care of his crews, especially the enlisted members. He will use the fresh Mississippi melon and his persuasive southern charm to gain favor with the next crew scheduler. He will secure the best missions, the best quarters, the best crew rest hours, and the best of any amenities that can be had.
A standup comic in small trusted crowds but timid in larger ones, George is a supreme master craftsman in the art of bovine scatology, as General Schwarzkopf would say. Wehis selected friendsare his "clients," he the sponsor ever seeking to impart street wisdom from the other side of his awareness "membrane." He has invited me over to the edge of the membrane a few times for a glimpse through, but I'm unqualified to accompany him across.
It is with few people that I've ever enjoyed such a candid relationship. We can be brutally critical of one another without reprisal. The most damage that's ever done is a slightly miffed ego. We point out perceived flaws in one another's character, sometimes with uncanny accuracy. Of course such accusations always bring vehement denial. I've noticed that he reads me a little better than I read him. We sometimes use the other squadron members as a medium to communicate with one another; they are jealously aware of our unique comradeship. They constantly ask me how he is faring. They ask him about me. I tell someone that he is a sneaky schemer, knowing that my assertion will reach him through the grapevine. He spreads stories that I am a fanciful dreamer who climbs to mountaintops to ponder the schemes of life. To that I plead guilty.
Some people take George too seriously. I think they envy his power and talent to motivate people. Like no other officer I've ever seen, George can simply stick his head into an office or workshop and instantly cause a wave of delight to spread among the enlisted people. And I am closer to him than most. He is a caring man who understands the permanency of true friendship.
George's crew has been alerted for a mission, and I regret that there is no time to spend with him. I'd like to hear some old yarns and catch up on the news of mutual friends. But we speak only briefly, and he vanishes into the sea of airmen, leaving me with a touch of isolation and loneliness.
I roll over at the sound of the knock and watch Jeff rise to open the door. A slit of light sears the darkness, and a barely audible, almost apologetic voice informs us that we are alerted. I stumble over the jumble of bags, cots, and equipment, searching for my sweats while Bones mutters something into his pillow. The combined effects of jet lag, hallway noise, and oppressive heat have left us ragged. Rubbing eyes that feel like sandpaper, I stagger down the hallway like a drunk.
The lobby area is active as usual, and after a few minutes' wait for the phone, I call the CP. We are to deadhead to Dhahran to pick up a broken C-141, an engine problem of some sort, but it has been temporarily repaired and is airworthy, I'm assured. This is doubly bad news. Not only am I unenthusiastic over the prospect of flying a plane that has been "temporarily" field repaired (why didn't the original crew fly it back? might they have refused?), but the deadhead time going down will not count toward our eventual time off at home.
We have a revolving flying time account. Our maximum limits are 150 hours in the last thirty days, 275 hours in the last sixty days; or 330 hours in the last ninety days. When any of the limits are approached, we are routed home to "burn down" to a usable level, which normally takes about a week. Thus we seek to "max-out" as quickly as we can. But duty time doesn't count. Only actual flight time is used. The system is an abominable yardstick to measure crew fatigue because it ignores the endless hours spent performing ground duties, such as flight planning, aircraft preflight, troubleshooting, waiting for parts, cargo, fuel, and clearances. On-duty to off-duty times should be used to regulate our exposure to fatigue, not takeoff to landing times. We said so many times, but the response was always "that's above my pay grade" or something similar.
I tell the controller that my test pilot license has expired, that I decline the offer and will return to bed. With an accommodating chuckle, he ignores the remark and asks when I want the crew bus.
I proceed to wake the engineers. Taking a defensive position, Brian peeps with a painful squint into the bright hallway and questions my sanity when I break the news. He then turns and relays the news to Walt. From within the dark comes Walt's incredulous reply.
"You gotta be shittin' me."
Not surprisingly; the two loadmasters, Mike and Jack, are suited up and packed. Their work/rest patterns do not necessarily coincide with ours. They sleep during a cargo flight but have to stay awake if passengers are aboard. Tonight they are rested and ready. They have anticipated the alert by watching the TV monitor in the lobby, which displays the names of aircraft commanders on a first in/first out order. When my name had scrolled near the top they knew the alert would soon come.
As we receive our briefing at the CP, an unsettling message arrives and spreads ripples of concern among the crews. A jet airlifter has crashed on takeoff from a base in Germany, survivors unknown. I immediately grab a phone and ask for a Stateside line to our home base. Wisely, the Mississippi Air Guard has established a standing order for its crews. In case of an airlifter crash anywhere in Desert Shield, we are to report in so that we can be accounted for during the confusing hours immediately following a crash. Knowing also that the news of the crash will soon break in the press, I ask that the families of our crew be told we are safe. The base wants more information, and I tell them what little I know. It was probably a C-5, but some of our people could have been deadheading on it.
We stop by the intelligence shop for an update. The situation in Kuwait is stabilized, but Iraq has mobilized a great deal of firepower. Our buildup is now in high gear but has just started. If they move south now, there is a good possibility that they could overwhelm us. Their late model Soviet- and French-built fighters are easily capable of reaching our flight paths.
The biggest threat may be our own people. We must take care to follow the voluminous procedures issued us in the form of SPINS (special instructions) to avoid becoming the target of friendly fire. We have to make sure that our radios are tuned to the proper frequencies, most of them classified secret, and that our transponder, which identifies us to ground-based radar, is updated hourly with the secret codes. We are keyed for the code words "CLEARED TO KILL" or "WEAPONS FREE" on any of the tactical frequencies we're required to monitor while in the AOR. If we hear those words, we know that hell has erupted. In such case the SPINS detail what we are to do, depending on location, weather, fuel state, and hostile threats. Its authors must have assumed that we would simply take leave of our instincts and our common sense. They have tried to provide guidance for every conceivable contingency.
We leave the CP complex, black bag bulging with flight plans, weather data, and SPINS, and catch the crew bus to the C-5 Galaxy on which we'll deadhead. The C-5 is a monstrous airplane, similar in size to a Boeing 747 but closely resembling a C-141 in basic shape. The plane is so big that it has complete sleeping quarters, galley, and lounge for a relief crew. But as we board, the aircraft commander tersely informs me that the bunks are reserved for his own crew, Sorry, he says, but we will have to sleep in the passenger seats for the seven-hour flight. Someone grumbles as we turn to transfer our gear. "Sure. No problem with us. Keep the bunks, Mike Foxtrot."