but because of the extra airspeed we've had to carry.
Immediately I throw all four engines into maximum reverse thrust. The reversers are clamshell like doors that close behind the engine's exhaust pipe and direct the jet blast at a forward angle much as a spacecraft slows by firing a rocket in its direction of travel. But then the snowball gets bigger.
Bones notices the amber warning light and yells that the number four reverser has malfunctioned. This forces me to discontinue reversing on the number one engine, to avoid running off the left side of the runway because of asymmetric reverse thrust. Now the smoke is the least of our troubles. We have a heavy bird, a wet runway, excessive speed, and half our reverse thrust.
I begin to apply hard brake pressure at about 110 knots indicated airspeed, far above the maximum 60 knots for brake application. I hope the antiskid brake system will hold up. I remember how it failed me in a similar situation a couple of years ago, but we were lucky then. If the fires blow I might not be able to control it. I pull the inboard throttles back so hard I feel like they're about to bend. Predictably, we hear the popping explosions as the compressors begin to stall, and the engines spit enormous fireballs ahead of the plane. As the runway end approaches, we begin to slow enough to turn off safely, but the snowball hasn't stopped rolling yet.
Knowing that the brakes will be white hot and in danger of catching fire or even exploding, I stop as soon as we are clear of the runway and call for a quick evacuation. We shut down, jump out, and are passed by firemen as we trot away from the jet through a cold rain. We inhale deep lungs full of freshness and dampness; it never felt better. We laugh and slap one another's backs there in the rain, like sailors delivered through a gale. We've ridden the snowball. We've 'cheated death once again,' Mike chants.
The mechanics quickly find the charred wire bundle in the AHRS circuitry. There will be no more flying for us today. The flight surgeon has grounded us temporarily because of the smoke. And before the brakes have cooled, it seems, the rumors have started about us. One crew we meet at the motel has heard that we were recalled and grounded because we were drunk. Another brings us false news that we are to be decorated. Later we learn that we have been killed.
The doc releases us a couple of days later, and they throw us into the fray again. We had a minimum crew rest at Zaragoza and are now headed back downrange.
'MAC Bravo 5518, you are cleared direct Barcelona, Upper Golf 33. Maintain Flight Level 330.'
We've reached our cruising altitude, and the Spanish controller has cleared us to proceed along route UG23 to the eastern boundary of his airspace. I look at the computer-generated flight plan for a review of our route clearance, which reads: ZZA UG25 QUV UG23 ALG UB35 CRO UA1 METRU W727 DBA B12 KATAB UA451 LXR W726 WEJ B58 KIA. It looks fairly simple. Barcelona is tuned into both our navigation radios, and we are flying directly to it. Beyond that, with the concurrence of the respective countries, we will continue along UG23 through France and Italy, switching over to Upper Amber 1 (UA1) at Crotone, which is on the toe of Italy's boot. I'm not sure why we sometimes substitute colors for standard aviation phonetics (like 'amber' for 'alpha') when referring to these international routes, but I do it because I hear other pilots doing it. I suppose it's a way to be a little rebellious in our rigidly structured world without causing too much consternation.
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
