Major Jay: Air Force C130 Pilot

Jiffy arrived on a Friday, and bore witness to the ritualistic self-immolation that defines each weekend in Abilene.

As each non-descript Friday winds down, an internal clock counts down in our collective heads, and a fembot-like voice announces "Commencing self-destruction in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1."

And then it begins.

Bacardi flows, ice buckets fill, and blenders whir as the downward spiral into inebriation begins. I opt for a Bloomin' Onion at the Outback instead. Purposely keeping it low-key, I chill with Deanna, the manager, then hit up a poker game afterwards. But the cult I pledged allegiance to many moons ago will not let me go without rearing its hideous head one final time.

After midnight, I get a call from a fellow C-130 driver. He's got a few souvenirs I asked another friend to pick up, and tells me where to meet him. We arrive at the house of one of his navigators. It's him, the nav, and a mystery pilot - all of whom shall remain nameless.

I arrive to find the three of them sauntering on the front lawn, drinking Shiner Bock, and talking shop. The mystery pilot introduces himself to Jiffy as "Evel Knievel" and proudly displays a quarter-scale motorcycle, sitting static in the driveway. In the time it took me to use the bathroom and return, Evel fired up the bike, popped a baker's-dozen wheelies, and wiped out in a manner that would make the "agony of defeat" guy on ABC's "Wide World of Sports" cringe.

But tonight Lady Luck intervened on his behalf, bending the key in the starter, ensuring that the engine would not re-ignite. Evel wanted to ride the mini-bike home, and ultimately off his diving board. Despite the relentless peer pressure to move our three-man after-party to Evel's backyard, I graciously declined, citing my lack of desire to frolic at an all-male pool party.

As much as I'd like to believe that such alcohol-related buffoonery is isolated to pilots or my fellow officers, it isn't. I've seen similar incidents, and worse, occurring across the spectrum of rank. I don't think the majority of our military members enter the service with a predilection for alcohol, but are slowly lured into it by the nature of their circumstances.

As a result of this unique social experiment (alcohol plus isolation), I've seen three different factions emerge from our ranks. First is the married faction, the martial equivalent of India's Brahmins. They sit atop the social hierarchy, mingling almost exclusively amongst themselves. All behavior originates from within their clearly defined norms and any transgressions outside these parameters may result in banishment, and subsequent relegation to a lower caste.

The husbands of this group are known for their hunting, gathering, and landscaping prowess. The wives play Bunko, sip chardonnay, and steal away from the kids for the occasional cigarette. The children just jump on trampolines until they're delirious, then settle down to watch their host's Disney movie of choice. Though alcohol does play a part in their social gatherings, the prevalence of responsible dads, moms, and a plethora of family vans mitigates its potentially-ruinous side effects.

The second caste, the Kshatriya, consists of those with steady girlfriends, or hobbies. They, too, spend their time with others who have girlfriends, or similar hobbies. Members of this caste can scale the social ladder with the greatest of ease. Guys with boats usually invite out the guys with girlfriends. Guys with girlfriends usually try to fix up the dude with the boat. It's the closest thing we have to symbiosis since the crocodile met the plover. Although alcohol still plays a part in their social interactions, it isn't a mainstay, like it is with our lowest caste, the bachelor.

The lowest caste, the Sudra, is the Air Force bachelor. They're constantly reminded of their third-class status in myriad ways, both at home and deployed. While deployed, our married members receive an additional $150/month in "family separation allowance." Our bachelors, who have no wife to claim or kids they'll acknowledge, deploy side by side with the married, getting a big donut hole for their respective efforts. One can't help but cry foul at this disparity. It arbitrarily rewards, or punishes - depending on your perspective - for what amounts to nothing more than a personal choice. I'm not advocating taking it away from the married people; I'd like to see everyone who deploys qualify for it.

Back at home station, the single member's opportunity for promotion greatly diminishes as they climb the ranks. Any warm body with a college degree and less than three DUIs will automatically make it to Captain. From there, the Air Force assigns quotas in selecting who they'll promote to Major, Lieutenant Colonel, and above. When a commander can only pick three out of nine people to promote, his first pick will be his executive officer, or some other minion near and dear to his heart. His number two pick will be the brightest and sharpest of the bunch, the real number one officer. The last pick will be the person who the boss knows best. In the pool of remaining candidates, there'll be one person whose wife is particularly close to the commander's wife. Their kids have probably had a few play dates, and, on occasion, the girls might have enjoyed a ladies night out. Such interaction will have bought the third nominee the rapport he needs to climb one more rung up the military's corporate ladder.

Whether or not the system's fair is a topic for future discussion, but it puts the bachelor at a significant disadvantage. Office politics plus family alliances play as prominent a role in promotion today as they did in feudal times. If the previous paragraph reads like a page out of Machiavelli's handbook for autocrats, "The Prince," it's because the game's the same, only the names and faces have changed.

Keep on rockin' in the free world.
Jay

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"How do I say good bye to what we had? The good times that made us laugh outweigh the bad."

Though originally recited at Cochise's funeral in the movie "Cooley High," these words ring truer than ever in my ears right now. Although I'm not attending a funeral, the last two months of my life have had a sad, funereal quality to them. I recently applied for separation from the Air Force, and transitioned from Major Jay to "Mister" Jay, at midnight, August 1st.

Everyone at work asked me if I sparked the Mary Jane at 12:01 am. I don't know if I exude a Tony Montana-like quality or if it's just every coworker's wish to live vicariously through me. The truth is, I don't know.

But, before I cue the saddest music in the world, allow me to give you a little insight into the past, present and future of a certain kid from Queens.

There are many positive aspects to being in the military. One of them is being able to travel on Uncle Sam's dime. In my ten years, the Air Force has taken me many places; some exotic, some hypnotic,and some just plain neurotic. On the exotic side, Amman, Jordan, Tokyo, Japan, and Kabul, Afghanistan are cities which immediately come to mind. That's not a typo, I didn't forget to put Afghanistan in the "neurotic" category. I'm saving that for Abilene, Texas. Kabul is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful cities I've ever laid eyes on. Sitting 6,000 feet above sea level, the city is as old as it is lofty. Ringed by the Hindu Kush mountains, Kabul is a city that still looks untouched since the day Alexander strode through, and wrested its control from the Persians. In an Absolut world, Kabul will be de-mined, defused, and delirious as its tourists turn the surrounding slopes into South Asia's largest ski resort. The Indian poet, Haidar, said it best: "Dine and drink in Kabul. It is mountain, desert, city, river, and all else." So far, they're off to a good start. I don't see any Golden Arches or Starbuck's.

Behind door number two, in the hypnotic category, I give you Wake Island, and Honolulu, Hawaii. Wake Island is a lush coral pebble, located two-thirds of the way between Guam and Hawaii. Unfortunately, Google Earth does not give driving directions (I tried), so you'll need to bring your own outrigger canoe. Since Wake is just west of the international date line, we lost a day after we landed, although the flight was relatively short. The flip side is that we gained a day coming back, so I spent my first 29th birthday deep-sea fishing in the Pacific Ocean, only to turn around, takeoff the next day, and spend my second 29th birthday partying in Honolulu. Being up close with the beauty, solitude and seclusion of Wake Island was a unique, and almost existential experience. Traveling back in time like we did reminded me of the opening lines to the song Kashmir. "Oh let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream. I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been."

Last, but not least, we come to the neurotic: the deployed environment. In today's deployed environment, the leadership is so wound up with image and perception, that it seems they focus more on the public relations aspect of fighting a war, putting the mission second, and relegating morale to the back burner. Case in point, when I was deployed in 2006, our Group Commander was ever the PR-consious fanatic. One of his pet projects was the camp cleanup. Crews were under strict orders to show up at 8 am, on Saturday mornings, and collect trash for thirty minutes - even if we had just landed the night before. Our Director of Operations (DO) was so browbeaten by the colonel, that crews who were stepping out to fly on Friday mornings were briefed on attending the next day's cleanup. Knowing we were barely rested and having just completed another combat mission, our DO pulled Isaac Newton's third law of motion out his hip pocket: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. His sage advice to us was, show up, sign in, turn around, and go back to sleep. Well played, sir!

It wasn't really the shenanigans that got under my skin, as much as our leaders' actions, or lack thereof. In an Air Force where every officer is admonished to "lead by example" some things weren't so easy to overlook. The same image-conscious colonel who mandated garbage pick-ups was also known to be a stickler about uniforms, and especially patches. On one particular mission, we landed at home base, and took a half-time while we refueled. During the refueling, the colonel rode up with a cooler of Gatorade, and offered some to us. Knowing he saw me, and knowing that I wasn't wearing a patch on my right shoulder, I walked up to his truck anyway, deeming it senseless to abscond. I drank a cup of Gatorade, looked him directly in the eye and thanked him before leaving. Not five minutes later, as I was dozing off, my loadmaster told me the squadron commander was looking for me. I ran a quick playback of the last 24 hours, wondering what he could've dug up on me. Fairly sure I could talk my way out of whatever it was, I went outside to meet him. His first words to me were "Jay, I hear you're not wearing a patch." I checked my shoulder, and told him that one of the Army troops we just flew into Baghdad liked it, so I gave it to him as a souvenir. He then rolled his eyes in disbelief, pulled the patch off his right arm, and slapped it on my shoulder. With a "have a good flight", he turned around and left. Unfortunately, incidents like these aren't isolated to one colonel. I can write volumes on colonels acting like captains, and captains acting like colonels.

If I had to boil it down, in essence, the reason I'm leaving the Air Force is because my life is stuck in a rut. The Company's rotational cycle deploys us for four months, brings us home for four months, and repeats in a continuous loop. Because these rotations have no end-point, some of my squadron mates are now approaching their eighth, ninth, and tenth deployments since 9/11. It might all be bearable if I had somewhere worth returning when coming home. Unfortunately, I was stationed in Abilene, TX, a shantytown where only fugitives and government witnesses find solace. It's a town in the buckle of the Bible belt, where fire-and-brimstone evangelists still stand outside the local nightclubs, chastising those who've knocked a few back, warning them to repent, or face damnation. But it's not just the holier-than-thou attitude which rubs me the wrong way, it's the disconnect with reality. As much as the illusion of condemning pre-marital sex and drinking is portrayed, I've never lived in a city with such a disproportionate amount of teenage mothers, and divorcees under twenty five. When I asked a friend of mine why that was, he explained that it's considered sinful to discuss contraception at home or in school. The result is a clueless, hormone-raging teenage population knocking each other up, then divorcing after the novelty of the mandatory marriage has worn thin.

This is the same town where the 911 operator hung up on me after I got clipped by a drunk driver. Her reason for doing so was because I shouted "tell the f-ing cops to hurry" as I pursued the car that hit me. So if I sound a little jaded, forgive me. I don't have a problem being around people who aren't informed. I have a problem being around those who consciously choose a path of ignorance. I don't have a problem with those who abstain from vices. I have a problem with those who use their personal choices as license to pass judgement. I have no problem with people who are religious. I just have a problem with people who are hypocrites.

One thing I will miss dearly, though, are the many friends I've made, deploying around the world with them, and the camaraderie developed as a result. The Air Force is a conglomeration of people who hail from all 50 states, its territories, and foreign countries as well. When we're uprooted, and re-planted far from home, we tend to rely on, and fall back on one another. Most of my workdays ended with dinner, beer, and a Guitar Hero session with friends. Now that Rock Band is out, don't expect the Air Force to get much done. The friends you carouse with into the wee hours of the morn are the same people you touch down that night with in Jalalabad. They're timing your approaches, working your radios, and scanning outside for threats, while you fly. They're consummate pros, and I'm going to miss their "anytime, anywhere" mentality.

As I begin my return trip home, I've enlisted the help of a good friend, and fellow New Yorker, Jiffy Jeff. Jiffy got his name by being the most outgoing bartender in Daytona Beach. He'd tell everyone he met to find him that night at the Baja Beach Club, and he'd get them drunk "in a jiffy." Ever the model prisoner, Jiffy does his best work behind bars, so the name stuck with him. He'll fly to Abilene, and make the pilgrimage home with me. Our plan is to take a seemingly monotonous road trip and turn it into an all-American baseball tour, and add an epicurean twist. Our tour of America's heartland starts in Oklahoma City, then it's off to Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago, Cleveland, DC, and finally a straight shot up I-95. En route, we'll catch the Royals, Cubs, Indians, and Nationals in their respective ballparks. Unfortunately, the Cardinals will be away. To add another dimension of flavor to our sojourns, we're hitting all the diners, drive-ins and dives along the way. Guy Fieri hosts the show "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives" on the Food Network, and I can't get enough of it. The eateries he visits are all home cookin', deep-fryin', one-of-a-kind mom and pop joints, nestled along America's back roads and byways. I took the list of places he visited, and superimposed them over our route home. We should be hitting at least one in every state, and two in most. Luckily, there's also a Walgreen's in every state, allowing me to stock up on Immodium AD, Pepsid AC, or even Preparation-H, in case the hot sauce goes past "death by pepper" and into the "face melting" level.

When I finally do get home, I'm going to pursue a new set of goals. They're a little less lofty than being governor, mayor, or even borough president, but more fun and down-to-earth in their pursuit. I want to grow a beard that will put the Taliban to shame. I want to wake up every day at eleven, and eat Cocoa Puffs while watching the Price is Right. I eventually want to work again...on my tan, my cardio, and my poker game. Once I've decompressed, met my Ukrainian mail-order bride, and trekked the Himalayas, it'll be time to re-enter the real world. I'm applying to grad school in 2009. I'd like to get my Master's in journalism, and, one day, secure that highly-coveted spot of staff writer at the Newsday. My plans for world domination aren't completely abandoned either. Being President, Generalissimo, or an oil company exec are all well-established means to achieving such an end. But mom always reminded me, after every playground dust up, that the pen is mightier than the sword. So I'm laying down my sword, pulling out my pen, and planning on seeing this thing all the way to fruition. Until then, I invite you to come along, ride with me, and watch my conversion back into a civilian unfold before your very eyes. It is, indeed, so hard to say goodbye to yesterday. But then I run a little Fleetwood Mac in my head, and remind myself: "Don't stop thinking about tomorrow. Yesterday's gone. Yesterday's gone!"

Keep on rockin' in the free world.

Jay

What can I say about Afghanistan that hasn't already been said about Rosie O'Donnell. The country's rough, rugged, and no place for old men. It's a mountainous country with vast expanses of nothing, dotted by the periodic intersection of villages, rivers, and valleys. The Afghans are people after my own heart. They still sleep outdoors in tents that are heated by campfires, and cook their food over open flame. It's a modern-day version of Land of the Lost - minus the occasional Pterodactyl.

Dinosaurs notwithstanding, communications are the biggest problem we face in Afghanistan. Due to the country's mountainous terrain, radio contact with ATC is hit-or-miss at best. Radio waves do not travel through the solid stone mazes that define its landscape, and the result is more useless chatter than an epsiode of "I Love New York 2."

On our first trip into Bagram, we encountered what we thought was radio failure. We tried to contact to Kabul Center, but it was to no avail. Since we could hear other aircraft talking to Kabul we now had to decide whether we lost our capability to transmit or - because the other aircraft were all flying higher than we were - was it just a lack of reception range. The best way to test your ability to transmit is to contact other aircraft. Air to air transmissions are simple due to the unimpeded line of sight between you and the other plane. We called a C-17 that was directly overhead, and asked for a radio check. When we didn't hear back from them we tried twice more and still got nothing. We then tried to contact other aircraft that we could hear, but were still given the silent treatment. In a last ditch attempt, we tried transmitting on "Guard", the emergency frequency, but received only the cold shoulder.

So there we were, high above the mountains, at night, and without enough fuel to turn around and leave. Our only option was to continue into Bagram, so I briefed the crew on how we'd conduct the approach. Our goal was not to become a conflict with any other aircraft, while announcing our presence to tower. We'd continue our approach, and descend at the last minute. On the descent, we'd maneuver around the airfield, align ourselves to fly a high final approach, and flash our lights at the tower, doing our best impression of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. In a situation like this, the controllers will dust off the light gun that sits in the tower, and shine different colored lights at our plane. After a quick review of what color means what command: red-do not land, green-cleared to land, red and green - seasons greetings, I pulled back on the throttles and began our descent.

Suddenly, a funny thing happenend on the way to Bagram, our radios came back to life. As my copilot "6-Pack" made his inbound call in the blind, the controller responded, and cleared us in. As relieved as I was to hear the controller's voice, I was equally disappointed that this story would have no Hollywood ending. But after a descent that slowed us down too early, and a momentary spotlighting of our aircraft from somewhere in Kabul, we decided Grauman's Chinese Theater could wait another day.

In case you're wondering how my copilot got his nickname "6-pack" it has something to do with a compliment a guy gave him on his abs one day at the pool. Guess that gives a whole new meaning to the term "Adult Swim.'

Keep on rockin' in the free world.

Jay

Having writer’s block sucks. It’s like being alone in a room with the hottest girl in school, and not knowing what to say. As a result, I’ve been sitting on this blog for the past month, and have no good opening line. So forgive me if this isn’t my magnum opus, but I’m trying my best to fight this hippo off my back.

Speaking of hippos (this may be is the perfect segue), let me tell you about every crew’s favorite destination - Africa. The scheduler was looking to reward someone with a 4-day/3-night trip to Uganda. I bid highest in the showcase showdown without going over, won, and was duly reminded to have my pets spayed or neutered.

Part of the pre-departure checklist is a mandatory trip to the flight surgeon to pick up doxycycline, pick up primaquine, and receive a primer on six million ways to die. We’re told not to eat any fruit because they’re washed in unreliable sources of water. Also, don’t put ice in your glass, buy food from street vendors, or play with packs of stray dogs. After leaving with more pills than a mobile meth lab, we made for the plane, and headed for where it all began.

Before touching down at Entebbe International, we spent the night prior in the country of Djibouti. Djibouti’s the quiet kid in school who you know exists only because the teacher always sends the loud kids to sit next to him. The country’s a tiny dot on the east African landscape better known for its cottage industries, mom and pop stores, and neighbors Somalia and Ethiopia.

The next day’s trip to Entebbe was a sight for sore eyes. Surrounded by a monotone environment in which one only sees the color tan and its myriad hues, the greenery of the Ugandan wilds and the gentle rains splashing down on our sand-baked plane were a welcomed sight to all.

We were originally supposed to be the backup aircraft to a shiny Gulfstream IV that would be carrying Sen. Russ Feingold, Steven A. Browning - the US Ambassador to Uganda, and a one-star general who was the vice commander of the Combined Joint Task Force – Horn of Africa. But like rock stars and professional athletes, the size of their entourage outweighed the capacity of their limo. And true to the game, our Distinguished Visitors (DVs) didn’t kick off the press, their roadies, or the groupies. They just piled them into a bigger limo. Enter the C-130.

With the entourage placated, and the disco ball blinging, we pumped some old school Wu-Tang over the intercom and made for the tiny northern city of Gulu. Enroute to Gulu we were joined on the flight deck by Ellen Feingold, Sen. Feingold’s daughter. Contrary to the image the average Joe may have of an Oxford-educated, Senator’s daughter, Ellen was super cool, down to earth, and lacking the silver spoon-like pretension one might assume comes with the territory. We pointed out the Nile River to her as we overflew it, and gave her a few good wing dips allowing for an opportune photo or three.

The scene at Gulu resembled something out of an Indiana Jones movie. After we deplaned, we were met by half the village’s children, goats and chickens. They had never witnessed a plane as big as ours landing at the field, and they wanted to see it up close. Being the patriotic Americans that we are, we wouldn’t have done our jobs if we didn’t try to fatten up the local population. Jolly Ranchers and M&M’s got passed around like the collection plate at church.

After the initial crowd had dispersed, a few lucky kids got whatever candy was left over, but we purposely withheld the Red Bulls - not wanting to make any mom’s day crazier than it might already be. With a few hours to kill, the engineer and I took a walk to the far end of the runway, to conduct an impromptu airfield survey. What we found blew our minds. Along both sides of the taxiway leading to the hangars were straw-roofed mud huts, similar to the ones we observed in all the tiny villages we flew by. After seeing the men in Army uniforms emerge from them, the kids playing outside, and a T-72 Soviet tank doubling up as a lawn ornament, my inner Sherlock Holmes told me that we were probably walking through base housing. We decided against moving the aircraft to this part of the ramp due to the prop blast. Huffing, puffing, and blowing someone’s house down is a job best left to the big, bad wolf.

On the return flight to Entebbe, we brought Ellen back up to the flight deck and discussed everything from what she saw to when she’s going back to Oxford. The highlight of the flight was giving her the “Before Landing Checklist” and having her read it instead of the engineer. Two days later, while preparing to leave, I overheard one State Department official commenting to another about what transpired. Apparently, the rumor mill turned faster that we anticipated. The tiny spark that was letting Ellen read the checklist was now a 3-alarm fire that had the State Department discussing how I let her land the plane back at Entebbe. Having to bite my lip and prevent myself from bursting into laughter, I kept walking, deciding this was too good a rumor to squash.

After the DVs packed up and made for their hotels, the crew and I got the privilege standing before a piece of C-130 history. Entebbe Tower and its adjacent terminal had the world’s attention for a week in 1976, when an Air France flight was hijacked and re-routed there. The captors had freed all non-Jewish and Israeli passengers, and then threatened to kill the remaining 103 people if their demands weren’t met. After unsuccessful negotiations, the Israelis flew 4 C-130s into Entebbe on July 4th, under the cover of darkness. They did so without the aid of any of the technology we take for granted today. Night Vision Goggles and Forward Looking Infra-Red were still gadgets found only in sci-fi films. In the end, the Israelis freed the hostages and killed all six hijackers and the 45 Ugandan soldiers protecting them. Israel’s only military loss of life that night was Yonatan Netanyahu, brother of future Prime Minister Benjamin.

We were lucky enough to have Carrol, the lady handling our plane, get permission for us to tour the old tower and terminal. She arranged for a van to take us to the other side of the airfield, where we could stand at the site of the raid. After cutting through a swath of red tape, and making sure six different people approved it, we finally stood at the base of the tower. As I read the plaque commemorating the event, I ran my fingers over the wall and into the bullet holes that still pockmark the façade. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity to stand where my fellow C-130 aviators showed what they can do in their finest hour.

Our trip was capped the next day with a boat ride on Lake Victoria, the source of the Nile River. From there it was back to Djibouti, back to life, back to reality. Whatever concerns I may have had about the continent were quashed by the friendliness of the people, and the breathtaking sights of its wilderness. Then again, I was traveling with my own 24-hour personal security detail, and had an airplane at my immediate disposal. But I’d go back tomorrow with nothing but a backpack and flip flops to do it all over again. Just like Toto, “I bless the rains down in Africa.”

Keep on rockin’ in the free world.

Jay

Carrying the President of Iraq was a once in a lifetime opportunity for yours truly. On the next mission, reality welcomed us back with a swift kick to the groin. Our "frag" had us scheduled for a full day of sightseeing at Al Sahra (Tikrit), Balad, and Al Taqqadum (west of Fallujah). With a new day, new plane, and new mission I couldn't help but wonder would this crew lapse into a post-Presidential hangover or bring their A-game back to the jet once again?

Everything went by the numbers until the initial takeoff. Passing three hundred feet, the fire warning light illuminated, and like an alligator in a kiddie pool, it immediately caught my attention. I'm low to the earth, climbing slower than a chain smoker on a stairmaster, and possibly on fire. So you wanna be an airlifter?

I immediately took control of the aircraft, and looked for the source of the fire. We have a fifth engine on the plane, called the APU (auxiliary power unit), which we use for engine start and electric power. The fire handle for the APU was illuminated, meaning I had a fire in the APU...or did I? There was a previous write-up in the forms, stating a crew returned three days ago because they received a similar indication after takeoff, but with no fire. Is the problem in the indication system or is there now a fire for real?

Unable to see the APU for my self, I had the loadmaster look out the window, and scan the APU. He saw no smoke, no flames, and no indication of a fire. Our C-130 aircraft manual is over 1000 pages long, and is usually read late at night as a means of combating insomnia. Knowing this, the Air Force purposely highlighted only seven sentences in the book in boldface print. We commit these seven sentences to memory, and are tested monthly on them. A stellar pilot can fail an otherwise stellar checkride, by reciting or writing down the boldface incorrectly. The APU fire is a boldface procedure and consists of two steps. The first step failed to turn off the fire indication. The second step is to discharge your extinguishing agent into the APU. It will put the fire out immediately, but the agent itself will corrode the metal and render your APU unusable.

I was now faced with a dilemma. Do I discharge the agent in case there is a fire or do I let it be and save the APU, hoping it's just an erroneous fire indication? I decided against firing the agent, because the light went out after the engineer closed the bleed air switches. Instead, the copilot declared an emergency, and I pulled a 180 into a closed pattern.

Five minutes after receiving the indication, we landed safely and taxied off the runway. I commanded the emergency ground egress, and thirty seconds later all forty five people on board spilled out and watched from the sidelines as fire fighters stormed the plane. An hour later maintenance discovered that one of the valves in our APU's bleed air system was not shut tight enough. As a result, hot air was leaking into our fire detection system, and giving us an erroneous fire indication. Most normal people would call it a day at this point, and not press their luck, knowing they just dodged a huge whammy. But we are not normal people, and combat airlift is not a normal occupation, so, dancing to the beat of a different drum, we took a different aircraft and pressed ahead. Six hours after our initial alert, we were handed a run to Al Sahra and back, for what was left of our duty day. Departing six hours late, dealing with an inflight emergency, and reloading the passengers and cargo was the easy part. Now, the landing at Al Sahra would have to be on night vision goggles, and in the throes of a dust storm. This is where normality departs stage right.

We knew, once we entered the box, that the approach wouldn't exactly place us between the devil and the deep blue sea, but it would be venturous nonetheless. Looking down on Iraq, all we saw were dust clouds blanketing the desert, and the lights from the cities below eerily reflecting off them. The descent was one of my more memorable ones, which in the flying game, is never a good thing. The dust was thick and swirling. Al Sahra, an airfield that normally comes into view ten miles out, was nowhere to be found. Nine miles to go.

Through the grainy sky, the glow from a random streetlight or household presents itself. Eight miles out and approaching terra firma. Seven miles to go and there's no paved surface in sight. The pulverous sky refuses to part but does the job of giving me an instrument flying refresher course. All navigation aids point to where the airfield should be, all heads are turned in that general direction, but only more dirt lays between our faces and the field. Six miles out and a few faint lights come into view. Some are in the direction of the airfield, others lay helter-skelter, but there's no inkling of a landing environment anywhere.

In times like these, you default to Airmanship 101. "Trust your instruments" is the Yoda-like advice that all instructor pilots tell their day one students. I fall back on my government-allotted share of the force, and fly to where the instruments tell me. My X-wing is ready, the runway is there. Wait for it to come into view. Five miles, become four, four miles become three. We're a thousand feet above the ground, and slowing. We drop the flaps and landing gear, waiting for the runway to reveal itself. Two miles to go, and we finally start to make out the airfield. We slowly distinguish the boundary lights, from the airfield lights, and eventually the runway lights. I establish myself on centerline, touch it down smoothly, and have R2D2 contact Command Post.

With man, machine, and nature being as unpredictable as they are, it would surprise no one to learn that we chose to cancel the line. To most, it would even seem prudent, and not out of the ordinary. But as Mena Suvari said in American Beauty, "I don't think there's anything worse than being ordinary."

Keep on rockin' in the free world.

Jay

Did you ever wake up one morning, and think you had a chance to shape world events that day? Unless you're reading this blog from the Oval Office, your chair in Parliament, or Paris Hilton's passenger seat, probably not. Then came yesterday's mission. Being in the right place at the right time turned Groundhog's Day into my chance at writing two minutes of world history...or at least its fine print.

Our day began as monotonous and routine as ever. Wake up, shave stubble, try not to make eye contact with naked men in showers. Once we got the alert call, we piled in the crew van, and made our way up to see Big Brother, and find out what he had in store for us. Our mission yesterday was no different than most of my peers' missions. We had five stops, including three in "the box" followed by a gas-n-go at Kuwait.

After the usual mission planning - how do we get in, how do we get out, and what's the in-flight movie, we headed for Baghdad with 30+ passengers and their accompanying baggage. The approach into Baghdad was surprisingly docile. Usually we wage a war on two-fronts every time we head there. One battle will be in the skies with the insurgents who have their eyes on you, licking their chops, and ready to pounce like a wolf on Little Red Riding Hood. The other battle will be over the radios with the air traffic controllers who want to descend you way too early, way too low, and to an altitude that would allow David to hit our plane with his slingshot. Amazingly we got the exact step-down fixes and altitudes we requested. The approach went fine, and the touchdown was smooth. The mission gods were smiling on my plane, our goat and virgin sacrifices did not go unheeded, and soon the crew would be rewarded for our lifelong devotion.

After landing at Baghdad, we deplaned the passengers who were destined to get off there, and prepared to shut the hatches to make our way south. Then, an aerial porter told us we had been "re-fragged" and that we'd be unloading everybody at Baghdad. They would find a different plane to take the rest of our passengers south.

That was strange, but it got even stranger when we found out that we'd now be uploading just one person, and taking him to a remote airfield by the Iranian border. Suddenly, my Spidey sense started tingling like a Shabba Ranks song. You don't turn over a 30-million dollar aircraft, that burns costly jet fuel at 5000 lbs/hr to just one guy, unless he's a heavyweight. It dawned on me that transporting thirty-something troops is just a minor league affair in our taskmaster's eyes. This was now my call up to the majors, and when I found out what we'd really be doing, it felt like Joe Torre just penciled me in as the starter on opening day.

Speaking with "the One" on our plane, I had the remaining pieces of the puzzle filled in for me. We'd be flying north into the heart of Kurdistan, to a bucolic little city named As Sulaymaniyah. From there, we'd pick up the Iraqi President, Jalal Talabani, and transport him to Al Asad Air Base, where a meeting with President Bush awaited. The timeline was tight. President Bush couldn't stick around forever, therefore President Talabani had to takeoff from "Suly" in two hours.

We still had to refuel, get out of Baghdad's airspace, and fly one hour north. In case I couldn't feel the vice begining to tighten, Big Brother fragged another C-130 to follow us 15 minutes in trail, and pick up the President in case my crew or plane couldn't come through. But as I mentioned in my previous blog, these are the moments I live for. I see the Bronx burning, check the number 44 on my back, and proclaim that I am the straw that stirs the drink. This is my playoff season, and it's time to hit 'em out the park.

The takeoff out of Baghdad was painless, with the scenery continually improving from the featureless dustbowl that is central Iraq into the hilly and mountainous terrain of the north, sitting right at the foothills of the Zagros mountains. Suly was a new destination for us all, and since none of our crew had been there we'd have to be extra-vigilant going in due to not only threats from the ground, but the threat of the ground itself rising up to touch us. With a little help from our "bullseye" "rendezvous" and "Falcon View" backing up our God-given eyeball, we found Suly with relative ease, thanks in part to the clear skies and million miles of visibility.

After shutting down, and walking inside, I was blown away by what I saw.
In an environment where it can be so dusty that it actually rains mud drops, the terminal at Suly was cleaner than at any airfield I've ever seen. I'd be more inclined to eat off their floor, than off the plates at certain dining facilities. There was not a speck of dust on their windows, walls, or even x-ray machine. Add to it that one of the attendants handed me a glass of Kurdish tea, and a coffee for my flight engineer, and I vote to move operations permanently to Suly. The cup of coffee in my engineer's hand almost created an international incident, but we managed to avert it. My engineer was a prior C-5 flight engineer, and has been to almost every country on earth as a result of flying that plane. While sipping the coffee at Suly, he mentioned how it tasted just like the coffee he had in Turkey. I played deaf, and ignored that remark on purpose. Thinking I hadn't heard him, he repeated it, and now a few other Kurds started to trickle into our confines. I approached him and whispered "I wouldn't use the "T" word in this part of town." It suddenly dawned on him that like BoSox hats at Yankee games, the "T" word can bring you unwanted attention in Kurdistan. We laughed about it on the way home because I know he's good peoples, and never meant any disrespect. It was an awkward moment for that split second, but definitely funny after the fact.

The President's lead security man gave me the word that he was 3 minutes out, and the crew took their stations, ready to start after the President boarded. We had already loaded all the king's horses, and all the king's men including members of the Peshmerga, the internal Kurdish militiamen who defended the north from Saddam's armies after the 1991 uprising. While waiting to greet the President, "the One" told me that he's not referred to as Mr. Talabani, but as Ma-Jalal. It is a Kurdish term of affection meaning "Uncle Jalal." He slowly made his way to the aircraft, approached me and extended his hand. I wished him a "good afternoon Ma-Jalal," and led him to the crew entrance door. I boarded shortly after he did, and we started engines immediately. Once again the mission gods smiled down upon us. Our #3 engine was slow to start in Baghdad, and we needed two attempts to light it off. This time, with another C-130 sitting 50 feet away, it lit off as predicted, and guided us to a smooth taxi, takeoff, and departure.

The trip to Al Asad was uneventful, but the taxi to parking was quite memorable. As we rolled to our spot, we saw Air Force One off in the distance, and everyone stopped to stare. I even caught the copilot drooling. It's not every day we see this plane sitting on a ramp, let alone in the middle of Iraq. After shutdown, President Talabani was greeted by a Marine General and a State Department official, then promptly whisked away in an awaiting convoy. No sooner was he gone, than so were we. We taxied right back to the runway, took off, and pointed our nose home.

Ultimately, this was one of the most rewarding missions I've ever flown in my Air Force career. It's not every day we carry a head of state, bring him to meet our President, and nearly fracture an alliance over of a cup of coffee. But airlift, like love, is a razor and we walk the line on that silver blade daily. But ask any airlifter, and they'll tell you it's just another Iraqi tale.

Keep on rockin' in the free world.

Jay

Pictured above: Major Jay and "Uncle Jalal"

Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends. After a longer than normal hiatus, the new and somewhat improved Jay is back in the Middle East for another dose of sun n' fun.

I should've been back here last October, but an extended medical grounding due to a diagnosis of Crohn's Disease, while at Aircraft Commander school, kept me down, but not out, just a little longer than anticipated.

During my downtime, I was promoted to my Squadron's Chief of Safety, made a Security Manager, and assisted with Flight Commander duties as required. Non-flying pilots instantly become jacks of all trades. As most pilots can attest to, you're not sick until you're bleeding out of your eyeballs. Lesson learned for the next time I feel a sniffle coming on. Nonetheless, I was put on medication, got the flare-ups under control, and went back to Little Rock to clean up what few rides I had remaining from my first go. Six rides later, I was anointed a C-130 Aircraft Commander, deemed worthy of a promotion to Major, and bid highest in the showcase showdown (without going over) winning a free trip back to Babylon!

Pilot training is such an information overload, that the analogy we always use to describe it is "like trying to drink from a fire hose." I don't think they ever turn the spigot off, they only change the water pressure accordingly. My past 48 hours in country have been spent on the receiving end of that hose once again.

I've been briefed on, read, and reread our rules, regulations, tips, tricks, techniques, tactics, and procedures for everything from three-engine operations to how to correctly lick an ice cream cone (place cone in left hand, extend elbow out 90 degrees, lick counter clockwise). With all the different books written concerning each aspect of our mission - airspace operations, ground operations, intel, tactics, command and control, mid-air collision avoidance, etc..., one can build a library to rival that of ancient Alexandria's.

Finally feeling like I have a handle on things, I remember that what applies to Iraq doesn't necessarily apply to Afghanistan, or the Horn of Africa. There's a whole different set of procedures for those. Suddenly I feel a gurgling sensation in my mouth, and start spewing water out of my nose. Who just turned up the pressure? But like Blain from Predator "I ain't got time to bleed." It's back to the books, back to the grind, and when it all seems overwhelming, you just go back to basics.

The most challenging and rewarding aspect of being here is that the responsibility now falls squarely on my shoulders. Copilots have the luxury of a more experienced pilot backing them up, now I'm that guy. I don't get the luxury of letting my guard down, or bringing less than my A game to the plate. Ultimately, I'll be one to reap the rewards of a job well done, or or take it full force to the chest. Pilots get Distinguished Flying Crosses, their copilots don't. On the flip side, pilots get grounded when they screw up, copilots just get a new pilot. I love walking the line that carrying this double edged sword brings. It's do or die, all or nothing, and I peek at my hole cards one more time, then enthusiastically push all in.

But at the end of the day, I just want to do it right; for my buddy Big Al, who never lived to see me pin my wings on, but is the reason I'm wearing them; for my Uncle Tony, who's had my back since day one; and for my mom - a perpetual optimist who can find a silver lining in any situation. My goal is simply to be the best pilot I can be, and to stay out of trouble. They may not be the loftiest goals, but in this environment, we save the accolades and speeches for our dead. Tomorrow's schedule drops in one hour, and although I'm raring to go, the gravity of the situation does not escape me. I don't feel as lax or as carefree as I once did, but maybe that's just called maturity. Maybe that's just me growing up. After 32 years of trying to avoid it, it's a feeling I'll just have to get used to.

Keep on rockin' in the free world.

Jay

A desert rotation, like all good things (Clint Eastwood movie marathons, chinese buffets, and Swedish massages) must come to an end. Mine ended on the 22nd of June and by the 24th, we were back in the US of A. But before I wax poetic about how great it is to be back, allow me to say a few goodbyes.

Good bye Fashion Channel. In an environment so hostile to a healthy libido, the Fashion Channel is always a welcome sight for sore eyes. It's a channel of 24/7 models and fashion shows backdropped with just the right mix of trance, techno and house. The best part of all... NO MALE MODELS! You'll have to watch Zoolander if that's your thing.

Good bye Juan, a.k.a. "The Guatemalan Warlord." My old roommate Juanito, from my initial training days at Little Rock, was out there flying the line with our sister squadron. Unfortunately he got kicked in the nuts for trying to inject a laugh into an environment proudly devoid of a sense of humor.

Allow me to explain. An email was sent out by a flight engineer notifying both squadrons that some of his gear was missing from the equipment room.

Rather than asking if anyone had seen it or if someone borrowed it and forgot to return it, he proceeded to call us all thieves and ordered the so-called perp, via email, to immediately return it. Seeing this, Juan did what any good airlifter would do: he tried to diffuse the situation with humor and loosen the wedgie caught between this man's cheeks.

Juan replied with a message, emphasizing the importance of honor. He reminded us:
"If you are honor, stay honor. If you fall off her (momentary lapse of integrity), get back honor."

The group commander didn't take kindly to Juan's sense of levity, and saw to it that an official reprimand be placed in his military records. Juan was born in the remote vastness of the Guatemalan rain forest. His first toy was a machete, and his first pet was a black panther. I don't think paperwork can stop this natural born killer. Keep fighting the good fight, Juan. We miss you.

Goodbye easy living. Despite one's perception on combat aviation, most of the time life in the desert is routine and predictable, not counting the occasional missile flying into your windscreen. For the most part, we fly, eat, sleep, and fly again. Out there, we're nothing more than creatures of habit. Over here, we're given additional duties and other responsibilities.

Now I'm an assistant flight commander in my squadron, tasked with writing officer performance reports, promotion recommendation forms, and bailing the occasional rookie out of jail for being drunk and disorderly. On the 25th of this month, I'll be out the door again for another four months. This time I'm going back to Little Rock for upgrade training from copilot to aircraft commander.

Upgrade training at Little Rock is a four-month party interrupted by flying activities. My last time there, a dude asked me to buy him a beer because I was closer to the bar than he was, then he handed me 50 cents, and requested a Pabst Blue Ribbon tallboy. Yee-haw, that's how they roll at "the Rock"(no pun intended).

NYC was great to see again. I got my arroz con pollo fix at 94th street in Jackson Heights, and the boys at Ben's Best slice up the best pastrami in Queens. The ladies at the Radisson hotel deserve a shout out for treating me like a rock star when I arrived, and I hooked up with my old friends, Puneet and Avi, who had been MIA for the past 10 years.

But the truth is this... you're only a hero for a day. Then you're just plain Jay again.  You're still the Jay all your friends knew from elementary school, not Captain Jay. You're still "Yohanson," the guy who little sister likes to poke fun at, not some battle-hardened aviator. You're still "Gizmo," who has to help mom with the dishes after dinner, not the recipient of three combat Air Medals.

So thank you New York. Thank you for making me your hero for one day. It's been an honor and a pleasure to serve you, and as always...

Keep on rockin' in the free world!

Jay

Have you ever had a day that just wouldn’t end?  Ours went a little something like this:  We were alerted at 4 in the morning.  The mission was supposed to be a double shuttle.  We'd take off from home station, hit the border, and follow the Tigris river to Tikrit. From Tikrit we'd stop in Kuwait, refuel, reload, down a quick MRE (Army boxed lunch), and make our way up to Tal Afar. 

When I checked the weather before our alert, I wasn't too thrilled. Our "Weather For Dummies" forecast comes in three different colors. If the field's weather is printed against a green background, it means you'll see it from outer space. If it's printed against a yellow background, consider flying an instrument approach. If the weather has a red background, bring a seeing eye dog wearing infra-red goggles -- you're gonna need him.

Both Tikrit and Tal Afar were painted in more red than a Christmas pageant. There were dust storms forecasted for the entire time we were supposed to be there with visibility down to 800 meters (1/2 mile). Do you really think that's going to stop us? Not yet. 

The takeoff and entry into Iraq were uneventful. The visibility was better than I've ever seen it in my life. For once, I actually enjoyed the aerial tour of ancient Mesopotamia. We overflew Nasiriyah, Najaf, Karbala, Baghdad and Samarra on the way to our destination. It's amazing what you can see from 20,000 feet. The canals and tributaries spilling off the Tigris blend into the same landscape as the Iranian mountain ranges to the east, and everything in between seems beautiful for a frozen moment in time.

Then air traffic controllers shouting barely legible instructions over static-filled radios bring you back to life. They want us to descend, we want to stay where we are, and no one at Balad center can hear us transmit. As a result we're vectored off course by a controller who comes up on an emergency frequency to tell us to stop ignoring him. Some things never change.

Eventually we get cleared into Al Sahra airfield, and the subsequent approach and landing go, I wouldn't say as planned, but as required. Takeoff was uneventful, and we were headed out for a halftime interlude, or so we thought. Racing out the same way we came in, I looked down and saw the once-clear landscape covered by rolling dust clouds as far as the eye can see. This was our first indicator that the landing might be a problem. Crossing over the border we were stepped down lower by Kuwaiti controllers and given clearance to proceed with the approach.

The approach at the air base requires us to fly an arc around the field, until we're in a position to align ourselves with the runway. We descended to 5000 feet but just as we began the arc, we were given instructions to hold. The aircraft in front of us was also kicked off the approach and told to hold. The visibility at the field had dropped below minimums, and now it was the pilot's choice on what to do next. We elected to follow "company traffic" (that's Air Force for one of our own planes) into Kuwait City International.

The visibility into Kuwait City was slightly better, allowing us to legally begin the approach. We landed uneventfully, taxied into parking, and shut down next to the C-130 we followed in. It turns out the copilot on the other plane was my old roommate, John "the Guatemalan warlord," from my initial training class at Little Rock. All we could do now was play the waiting game, but the dust storms only grew worse, and our boredom level grew exponentially. We landed at 10:55 a.m. and had until 11:00 p.m. to take off and still be able to legally land at our original destination. The next twelve hours of our life were spent touring a Kuwaiti Air Force museum and seeing all three planes, mingling with a Korean general and his staff, and watching the Matrix Reloaded.

Finally at 10:30 that night, Matt, the pilot, gets a call that the visibility is better, and we can come on in. We scramble to the plane like someone sounded an air raid siren and get ready to launch. But when we call ground control for clearance to start, the controller hasn't received word that the weather conditions have improved at our base. We also have to contend with the fact that we've been up for over 20 hours straight, are boxed in by vehicles loading an aircraft in front of us, and only have 15 minutes left to start, taxi, and takeoff.

Not wanting to become statistics or make the news, we decide to cancel start clearance, unload our stuff, and call for a bus to drive us to base. A replacement crew was called in to go to Kuwait and fly the plane out of there. As I closed my eyes on the drive back, the lyrics to Bananarama's "Cruel Summer" played in my head and, strangely, it all seemed to make sense now.

Keep on rockin' in the free world.

Jay

The DV is a strange and precarious creature. Like a cheetah in the wild, everyone wants to glimpse one, get next to one, and walk away with a story they'll embellish repeatedly. I got to be a part of the festivities yesterday and witness three live DVs being moved and handled.

For those not familiar, a DV is a "Distinguished Visitor" in Air Force parlance. DVs are given their own priority order, with the lowest going to colonels and 1-star generals, and the highest going to the President, then his cabinet, and state governors. On my last rotation, I carried Undersecretary of State Robert Joseph from Amman, Jordan, to Ashakbat, Turkmenistan.

This time around, I got to hang with the 3-M governors (Massachusetts, Missouri, and Montana). Mitt Romney, the governor of Massachusetts, Matt Blunt, the governor of Missouri, and Brian Schweitzer, the governor of Montana, rode shotgun with us on a day trip to Baghdad. Our mission was to get them on target, on time, and in relative comfort (although When your 10-year old Jeep Wrangler has a better air conditioner than the 43-year-old airplane you fly, comfort is definitely a relative term).

We were originally slated to carry South Carolina's governor, too, but due to his state's impasse on a budget bill, he got to stick around and enjoy the Palmetto state a little longer. Romney was on the flight deck with us for the takeoff, and not knowing Mitt Romney from Knute Rockne I asked him who he was. When he told me he was Massachusett's governor, I politely asked him to leave the flight deck, declaring the cockpit off limits to all Red Sox fans. He laughed and made a few cracks my way, regarding the Yanks, and we hit it off pretty well. I asked him if he was at Fenway when the Sox finally won the World Series, and with a huge boyish grin he replied, "Yes I was."

I was a little thrown off with the lack of media coverage surrounding the three governors.  There were only a few close aides forming the entourage, so I asked Governor Romney where all his local press was. He informed me that the press was told he was at the beach and for security reasons, he could only tell them where he really was when he returned. I asked him about his itinerary to see what a day in the life of a DV consists of.

When we flew Undersecretary of State Joseph to Ashkabat, he told me that the previous night he had had dinner with the Israeli Prime Minister, and that he would be dining with the President of Turkmenistan after landing, and if we wanted to spend the night, he'd ask the President if we could stay. Unfortunately, we had to fly to Kyrgzstan after dropping him off, but I still wish the plane would have broken there (it eventually did break as we arrived over Kyrgzstan, but I digress).

Romney didn't know what his itinerary consisted of. He was only going to spend one day in Iraq before flying off to Afghanistan for two days. I asked him what could he possibly do in just one day, and even he admitted it was too short a stay. I told him to look for Tarnak Farms flying into Kandahar, Afghanistan. It sits southwest of the airport, and used to be Bin Laden's personal compound. It's now an Army artillery range, but a piece of history, nonetheless.

The next governor to come on deck was Matt Blunt of Missouri. If I were a bartender and he walked in, I would ask him for not one, but three pieces of ID, and a note from his mom. The guy's only 35, but looks 16. Our pilot Matt's parents are from Missouri and he and Blunt started discussing the Cardinals, and the governor told him they had a great team, a great new ballpark, and Matt should catch a game when he comes home. Blunt is either extremely busy or extremely acrophobic (fear of heights)  because he spent only about five minutes on the flight deck with us, and then went back downstairs.

The third governor we put on headset was Montana's Brian Schweitzer. I asked him what his cover story was, and he told me the press thought he was away on a fishing trip. He was fascinated by the canals and waterways he saw over southern Iraq. He told us that he studied farming for eight years in Saudi Arabia. Peering out into the Iraqi desert, he said his biggest goal was to develop Montana's coal industry so the U.S. could wean itself off foreign oil. When he mentioned that he'd like to process coal to be converted to jet fuel, and let the Iraqis keep their oil, he proceeded to win six future presidential votes, should he decide to run. He graciously declined, telling us Romney would be running in '08 instead.

As we approached Baghdad, we explained to the governors how we would conduct the approach, and that they were welcome to sit on the flight deck and watch it themselves. We discussed missiles, RPGs, and the occasional blue-on-blue (friendly) threat. With that we descended, and made for the capital. Descent and approach were normal, with the highlight being Matt setting the aircraft down as gently as laying a baby in its cradle. We taxied off, pulled into parking, and unloaded the governors. Two helicopters waited fifty feet from our plane for them, but before anyone could whisk them away, the governors promised us a few photos, and were gracious enough to oblige. Romney even handed me his personal coin, and told me "You're not a bad guy... for a Yankees fan." I wished him "Good Luck in '08," and we went our separate ways.

The truth is that besides having three governors on board, the flight was relaxed, laid back, even a little boring. But that's the way you want it. In the DV world, no news is good news. 

Keep on rockin' in the free world.

Jay