Pilot to Co-Pilot.....

Discussion in 'Nonsense Anything Boards' started by MikeyLikesIt, Feb 20, 2007.

  1. MikeyLikesIt
    Offline

    short, interesting read.......This is from a colorful writer from the 3rd Marine Air Wing based at MCAS Miramar :




    Subject: Pilot to Co___




    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 2006, 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 Herc 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 shitting on a sheet of ice. Looking
    further back at the navigator, and even through the Nags, 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 aim-point and
    airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there are 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, 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 how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines
    Checklist."

    God, I love this job

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