After Italy, the controller's accents begin to get thick and confusing as we cut southeast through Greek airspace. At point Metru, UA1 changes designation to Whiskey 727 and funnels us into El Daba, Egypt. Then we pick up Bravo 12 to Katab and Amber 451 to Luxor, followed by Whiskey 726 across the Red Sea to Wejh and Bravo 58 to Riyadh, which is our destination. Some of the points identified in our route clearance are just points in the sky "fixes" that are unrelated to anything on the ground. The giveaway is the five-letter length. Other points, which are identified by three letters, represent actual navigation stations on the ground and are usually named after the closest towns.
The navigation en route chart is complicated to the point of intimidation. A sheet of Mozart's music would make more sense to me if I didn't have so much experience at reading these things. The charts are cluttered beyond reason. Lines run asunder in every direction, like a pattern of fallen fiddlesticks, each marked with its identifier, course, distance between stations, changeover points, and compulsory and noncompulsory reporting points. Data boxes, latitude/longitude coordinates, flight information region boundaries, prohibited areas, and restricted areas are splattered everywhere. Ominous threats lie within mysterious shaded areas, such as:
WARNING
UNLISTED RADIO EMISSIONS FROM THIS AREA MAY CONSTITUTE A NAVIGATION HAZARD OR RESULT IN BORDER OVERFLIGHT UNLESS UNUSUAL PRECAUTION IS EXERCISED.
And worse:
WARNING
AIRCRAFT INFRINGING UPON NON-FREE FLYING TERRITORY MAY BE FIRED UPON WITHOUT WARNING.
Islands and coastlines are indicated only by subtly shaded lines that are impossible to see in dim light, but they are not considered important. This is a chart of airspace, not ground features. I get rankled when Bones and his generation of young fliers refer to them as "maps." Rand McNally makes maps; mariners and aviators navigate by charts. Don't they teach these things in flight school anymore?
The five-hour-and-twenty-nine-minute flight will take us across 2,952 miles through six countries. We will burn 10,154 gallons of fuel. We will change course sixteen times, navigation frequencies fourteen times, and communication frequencies thirty-one times.
We have no passengers because we are carrying "hazardous cargo." The jet is loaded with pallets stacked with guided missiles. We can't see them; they're enclosed in metal cases stenciled with the usual strings of numbers and codes of the logistical language. But the word "Patriot" is embedded here and there in the printed gibberish.
Those were Patriot batteries we saw at Dhahran a few days ago. These are bound for Riyadh, the Saudi capitol. They really are serious about an Iraqi air attack. From the sleep-inducing training sessions I'm occasionally required to sit through, I have a vague idea of what a Patriot is. It's a radar-guided surface-to-air missile designed to ruin the day of an attacking pilot out to do an honest day's work. But I can't imagine that Iraqi aircraft will be a real threat. Their air force is the YMCA flag league; ours is the NFL. I decide that the missiles are being sent over as a contingency, probably just to soothe some nerves.
Back behind the stacks of Patriots are a few cases of another kind of missile, a smaller one called the "Stinger." This is a "shoulder launched" missile that can be carried by one person. He aims it, bazookalike, at a low-flying aircraft and lets it home in on the aircraft's engine heat "signature." It only has a small warhead about the size of a hand grenade, but it's enough to bring down most helicopters and some fighters. Stingers proved deadly in the hands of Afghan tribesmen against highly sophisticated Soviet aircraft. It shouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what we and our cargo would be worth to a terrorist group.
We often haul hot cargo, which can be anything from acids to nuclear weapons. And lately we've been hauling a lot of it. In peacetime, thorough precautions are taken. A whole chapter in our "you'd better do it this way or else" manual is devoted to them. Volumes are written about precautions for the load planners to follow. Great effort must be made by the crew to see that there is proper documentation, and the destination must be informed of the dangerous stuff. It must be annotated in the flight plan, relayed by long-range radio en route, and relayed again, in detail, just prior to landing. We are required to park in special remote spots to load and unload. At one Stateside base we must taxi over a mile through some scenic, forested countryside, as if on a Sunday drive, to reach the hot cargo ramp.
I remember my first hot cargo flight. I was a new C-130 aircraft commander hauling 10,000 rounds of 30-millimeter antitank ammunition to Canada for a joint exercise. We waited with engines running in the remote parking spot at the Canadian base and soon spotted a truck approaching from the front with a gigantic trailer in tow. The trailer, we deduced, was an external power unita big generator, bigger than those we were accustomed tothat could be hooked up to the aircraft to provide power when the engines were shut down.
A strange thing happened as it approached. I wanted to shake my head vigorously, to draw nearer to the windscreen as if to get a better view I looked over at Larry Beall. The stoical "Beally," as we called him, would light a cigarette and watch a thermonuclear attack as if it were a mediocre fireworks display; it took much to impress him. Now he was staring ahead with a speechless, steadily broadening grin.
The trailer, seemingly in slow motion, detached itself, swerved gently to its right, and passed the truck, as if being driven by an impatient ghost who summarily intended to ram us. The truck stopped as the driver watched helplessly, wanting to steer clear of what was about to transpire. The kamikaze power cart, with its ghost pilot Murphy, gathered speed and bore down on us with our cargo of pyrotechnics.
Our four big propellers, each with four blades that resembled huge paddles, were spinning furiously, as turboprops like to do even at idle. Anything running into the props would tear them asunder, scattering debris at bullet speeds. Our load of sleeping 30 millimeters would not take kindly to such intrusion. With about a hundred feet to go, the errant trailer slowed, veered to the left, across our nose, and toppled into a ditch. Ole Murph shook his fist in frustration at us.
Since the start of Desert Shield, the book on hot cargo had all but been thrown overboard. In the Middle East, a "bad moon was risin'," as the old song goes. I sure felt it. And the ammo had to get there fast. No longer were we parked in remote areas or bothered with busywork. The powers that be had decided, in the interest of expediency, to keep the flow moving as fast as possible and hoped that Ole Murphy would lie low.
For the most part he did, or so some would believe. But the truth is that wethose of us who flew and supported the air logistical tailwere simply better than they thought we were. The Pentagon planners had crossed their fingers and sat nervously in their chairs, hoping that the giant scheme would unfold with some measure of success and a minimal loss of life and property. But their apprehension was entirely unwarranted. The first team was on the field. And we were coming through like the champs we were since the day the red flag went up.
We've exchanged our hot cargo for cold cargo. We're westbound across the pond, headed back to the States. The stars are out by the blue zillions tonight, but no one is noticing. Our thoughts are dwelling on the objects in the rear.
There are four stainless steel boxes in our cavernous cargo bay. We're carrying HRs the Air Force's warm and sensitive code for dead bodies: human remains. The war hasn't even started yet, and already we're bringing home gelatinous masses that used to be human beings.
The loadmasters are in the bunks; there's no reason for anyone to be back there. We have no other cargo or passengers. But nature calls, so I unstrap and, leaving the jet in Bones's charge, climb down the flight deck ladder. Turning toward the lavatory, I stop to view the scene.