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Air supremacy via the trash hauler - at least we have Beretta M9's!

Discussion in 'General Gun Discussions' started by Gewehr98, May 5, 2004.

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  1. Gewehr98

    Gewehr98 Member

    Dec 24, 2002
    From a fellow crew-dog in the thick of it:

    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 it's 2003, 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 Herk 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 $hitting on a sheet of
    ice. Looking further back at the navigator, and even through the NVGs, 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 aimpoint and airspeed. Aviation 101,
    with the exception there's no lights, I'm on NVGs, it's 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 thirty 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, I 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 clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the
    'Before Starting Engines Checklist."

    God, I love this job!

  2. thefitzvh

    thefitzvh Member

    Oct 9, 2003
    Austin, TX
  3. longtom4570

    longtom4570 Member

    Jul 31, 2003
    FT. Mudge, AZ
    Gotta love it :D :D :D
  4. Jim March

    Jim March Member

    Dec 24, 2002
    SF Bay Area
    That is brilliantly awful writing!

  5. swingset

    swingset Member

    Dec 25, 2002
    That read like a "Dear Hustler Forum" letter. Jeesh.
  6. R.H. Lee

    R.H. Lee Member

    Jan 26, 2004

    Attached Files:

  7. Dienekes

    Dienekes Member

    Dec 26, 2002
    Herks Forever...

    and Phantoms Phorever too.

    Sounds and smells of FREEDOM!
  8. carpettbaggerr

    carpettbaggerr Member

    Nov 13, 2003
    Like Mickey Spillane without all the talent getting in the way. :neener:
  9. jimpeel

    jimpeel Member

    Jan 2, 2003
    Kimball, NE
    Worst line in a novel: "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times."

    Second worst: "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."
  10. GSB

    GSB Member

    Jan 11, 2003
    Night fell like a fat woman off a diving board...
  11. entropy

    entropy Member

    Feb 9, 2004
    G_d's Country, WI
    He's wasting his talent flying a Herc when he should be writing all the trashy novels my wife reads!:p There's nothing like a similie! Sounds like a typical Herc pilot, trying to make a run "flying rubber dog s*** out of Hong Kong" sound exciting! (I always wanted to use that quote from the AirBoss in 'Top Gun'!:evil: )
  12. trapshooter

    trapshooter Member

    Dec 26, 2002
    Hypothetical conversation:

    BIAP -

    "When's the next flight to Kuwait?"

    "Five minutes, but it's a flyover. UXO's in the runway two days ago."

    "How about the one after that?"

    "Two hours, but it' a flyover, too, to Mosul."

    "Any planes taking off or landing here tonight?"

    "Yep. Al Udeid."

    "Where is Al Udeid?"


    "Any flights to the States out of Al Udeid?"


    Al Udeid -

    "Wnat have you got going to the States?"

    "R&R in an hour, want a seat?"

    "You bet."

    Ticket passed. New guy comes out. "R&R to BWI cancelled. Plane broke. 24 hour parts hold, plus repair time."

    "Got any thing to BIAP?"

    "Twelve hours, maybe."

    Two days RTR BIAP-Al Udeid, a 1.5 hour flight, one way.

    It is the Air (non) Mobility Command. Nothing going anywhere, anytime soon, so have a seat, and enjoy your MRE. Oh, wait, we're fresh out of MRE's.

    (This is only somewhat tongue in cheek, I have to call 'em like I see 'em).
  13. Justin

    Justin Moderator Emeritus

    Dec 29, 2002
    Writing that bad has to be deliberate. Besides, this is OT.
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