Then, to our surprise and delight a deep, self-confident voice with a Texas drawl interrupts the overloaded Saudis and starts methodically sorting through the communications chaos, like a firm but caring father with his brood.
"OK, EVERYBODY BE QUIET AND LISTEN. Now, who's askin' for lower?"
"MAC Mike 2427, you can expect lower in twenty miles. Break, Texaco 32 go direct Gassim and contact Riyadh 126.0."
"MAC Victor 1834, descend now to two one zero, pilot's discretion to one eight zero. Break, MAC Alpha 4112 fly heading two four zero, intercept Golf fifty-three, expect higher at Bopan."
"Army 26 Romeo Kilo, Roger, cleared tactical, your discretion."
"Now, who else was callin'?"
There it is, straight ahead. At last, the azure blue waters of the Persian Gulf. The yellow-green streaks of shallow reefs contrast vividly with the aquamarine waters. This is far too beautiful and pristine looking to be the most troubled pool of water in the world. It looks so refreshing, so nonthreatening.
Lord, but we're a long way from home.
The Texan hands us over to the Dhahran "Director," whoever that is, who in turn passes us to the airfield control tower. We complete another litany, the approach checklist, and turn on to a twelve-mile final approach, intercepting the electronic beam known as the localizer course, which will guide us to the runway We don't need it, though; the weather is clear and we can see the vast airfield ahead. We pass over the lavish beach residence of a member of the royal family and perform the before landing checklist.
We slow down and welcome the roar of the landing gear and flaps as they are lowered into the 200-knot slipstream. It signifies that a respite is at hand. Half the long duty period is almost over. A huge seawater desalination plant passes off our right wing as I reduce power and start down the electronic glideslope. We drop low over the bleak sands and cross the runway threshold, stealing a quick glance at the man-made hills just east of the runway.
Here we see the first indication that we have arrived at the much heralded line drawn in the sand. The silhouettes of missile launchers and their attendant acquisition radars are pointed northward. They don't seem so very imposing; the launchers are simply box-shaped, housing the missiles within. But they exude a certain cockiness, an arrogance, like Davy Crockett and his Tennesseans, not really embracing the cause of Texas, just spoiling for a sporting fight. Yeah, that missile battery over there is Davy, leaning across the battlements, sighting down Old Betsy
But I figure to be back in Tennessee or somewhere like it when Santa Anna charges.
Bones mumbles something about Toto and Kansas as we roll out on the long runway, six and one-half hours after departing Spain. As we turn westward and taxi toward the military side of the field, it becomes immediately obvious that the Saudis have spared no expense on the airport. It has all the modern facilities of any in the Western world, as will almost every place we go in Saudi Arabia in the months ahead. We take care of the post-landing checklist rituals as we taxi past rows of allied fighter planes parked in concrete revetments. Several American-built A-4 fighters bear Kuwait Air Force markings, with "Free Kuwait" painted boldly on their sides.
We are marshaled into a parking space behind another C-141 on a vast ramp teeming with activity Air Force C-5s, C-141s and C-130s are constantly streaming in and out, often waiting for a parking space to open up. Great jumbo jets bearing the colorful logos of the major airlines look absurdly out of place here, as they disgorge hundreds of troops and thousands of tons of palleted cargo. Trucks, vans, cargo loaders (known to us as K-loaders), tugs, and behemoth fuel trucks bigger than any I've ever seen rush about the ramp, so that we have to be supercautious walking across the tarmac.
We walk toward the great hangar that serves as a staging area for incoming troops and, we would learn, is a favorite backdrop for TV correspondents taping their reports. The noise is incredible, with the scream of idling engines, the throbbing of power carts, the whop-whop of helicopter rotors, and the ground-shaking thunder of afterburners. It seems Dhahran is truly the Da Nang of the Persian Gulf.
As we walk nearer the hangar complex, I can hear, through the din, the intermittent wail of Arabic prayer songs on a distant loudspeaker. The air here seems thick with war.
Five.
Troubled Skies
Bones applies back pressure to the control yoke, and we rise as if perched on the muzzle of a great cannon being elevated for a shot. The 323,000-pound rip-snorting beast begins to run on its main wheels for a distance, allowing enormous cells of high pressure to form under our wings. Then we are flying and none too soon. The end of runway 6 flashes beneath us as I comply with Bones's request to raise the gear. Glancing out to the left, while listening to the familiar groan and plop of the retracting gear, I see that we're still low enough to pick out the white golf balls lying on McGuire Air Force Base's fifteenth green.
We breathe a little easier, now that the mother of all takeoff rolls is behind us, and Bones banks the Starlifter to the east. Torrejon lies eight and one-half hours ahead. As I switch the radio to departure control frequency, I abruptly freeze, motionless, my hand still on the radio knob.
When something goes amiss with your aircraft, you react instantly, if you're well trained. Your eyes go directly to whatever instrumentation can verify the problem. Your hands move immediately to the appropriate switches and levers. Your mind flashes the much rehearsed corrective action. But there is one matter that freezes you like a statue, that reduces you from a refined machine to a simple creature depending utterlyeven desperatelyon your animal senses. Nothing makes your skin crawl and your brain flicker with foreboding more than the pungent smell of burning electrical insulation.
My eyes shift to one side, then the other while I sniff the air. Yes, there seems to be a very faint odor. But I've been battling nasal congestion for weekswho am I to judge subtle smells? It's really barely noticeable. I try to ignore it. I'm busy with the radio and the departure procedure. Besides, there are five of us on the flight deck, if the odor is real, surely someone else will notice it.
But who am I trying to convince? It's time to fess up.
"Do you guys smell anything?" I ask.
Like me, they all are waiting for someone else to make the disquieting suggestion.
"Yeah. Just barely An electrical smell, maybe," Walt replies.
That's not what I was hoping to hear.
Without waiting for guidance from me, Walt sensibly goes down to the cargo bay and into the tunnel underneath the flight deck to examine the tangled jungle of cables and dusty electronic boxes. He reports back that he couldn't smell it down there. That relieves us a bit but heightens our curiosity. We agree that the smell is getting stronger, though it is still elusive.
Trouble usually comes in subtle ways for the flier. It commonly starts out as a sneaky beast. Instead of rearing a big ugly head, it plays peek-a-boo with you. A feeling creeps over you that something is wrong. You rub your eyes, shake the cobwebs out of your head, look around to see if anyone else looks vexed. But trouble is a cunning psychologist. It plays with your mind, tries to convince you that all is rosy, that you're just tired, or that an indicator has gone bad.
And trouble plays havoc with your ego, which is quite hefty, or you wouldn't be here. You feel the need to discuss your suspicions with your crewmates but are afraid of what they might think of you if you're wrong. Then it gradually builds and enlists conspirators such as confusion, fatigue, unfamiliarity, and personality conflicts. External influences such as weather, fuel availability, and conditions on the ground can join in with the swelling, cascading snowball.