And there's more still to think about with an EWP takeoff. You're so heavy, it takes the square root of forever to get enough speed to fly. Runway length becomes critical, and the crew's margin for error narrows if something goes wrong. This will be a dreaded 'split marker' takeoff. Larry and Dave both calculate the takeoff performance criteria with their Hewlett Packard calculators, comparing results. Rob and I do the same with the computer terminal on our center console, known as the Fuel Savings and Advisory System, or FSAS. Rob sets his airspeed indicator marker at 122 knots. This will be our 'go' speed. If a problem develops before we reach this speed, we should be able to stop the jet before we run out of runway
We poll the crew to ensure that all are ready, and point our nose westward down the runway, which lies in a misty valley between parallel rows of hills. This is a place of death, where three Italian Air Force pilots and many spectators died last year in a tragic air show accident. More recently, some of our own died at the end of this runway. We hold the brakes and advance the throttles to TRT. Five sets of vigilant eyes carefully scan the white tapes on the vertical display engine instruments as the jet trembles and strains at the brakes. We check the exhaust pressure ratios, N1 and N2 rpms, the enormous fuel flow readings, and the exhaust gas temperatures; all are as they should be. We're conscious of the extraordinarily loud twang of the engines, noticeably higher at TRT than at normal takeoff thrust. They seem to be appealing to us to get on with itto get this done and over with before it's too late. We swallow hard and release the brakes.
The 343,000-pound beast begins to shed its static inertia and ever so slowly picks up foward momentum. The heavy weight causes every crack and bump in the runway to be amplified by the nose gear strut. As we wait for the lethargic airspeed indicator to awaken, the distance-remaining markers begin to pass by:
7,000.
The bumps increase in frequency and intensity as we gather precious speed. We're driving the engines like wicked taskmasters, pushing them to their pain threshold. They scream in protest.
6,000.
Noticeably faster now, the airspeed indicator is showing signs of life.
5,000.
We begin a gentle sway as the wings start to fly, but they are capable of lifting only their own weight.
4,000.
Finally, the first marker passes under the airspeed indexer. Our senses are pegged. We've become nervous creatures: shifty-eyed, anticipators of calamity. Now we can't stop this runaway beast if something catastrophic happens. We're committed to flying, no matter what.
3,000.
The staccato sound of the bumpsas much felt as heardis like rapid cannon fire.
2,000.
The end of the runway approaches in the windscreen. The tall conifers of the dense black German forest loom ahead. I'm able, now, to read the numbers on the last distance-remaining marker.
1,000.
Our rotate speed of 140 knots is coming down to the indexer, still too slow to suit us. The airspeed seems to hesitate slightly at 135, or is it my imagination? If something went badly wrong now in a fighter, I'd brace and pull the ejection handle. But we have to see this ride through.
Finally, the requisite 140 knots appears, and we lift into the air as the red lights at the end of the runway flash underneath our belly. We lumber across the forest cover, gathering precious speed and glance down at the wicked gash in the trees where a C-5 crew gave it all for the liberation of Kuwait. A thrust reverser, which is used to slow a large jet during landing, had inadvertently deployed while the other engines were at maximum power. The resultant asymmetric thrust had caused them to careen to the left and roll into the malfunctioning engine. There were only seconds to analyze the problem. No time to discuss solutions. No ejection handles to reach for.
The broken tree trunks down there and the crater in the earth are silent reminders that it can happen to me, to any of us. When I was a fighter pilot, I had heard all the jokes about the 'heavy drivers' and had listened to the condescending remarks and the unflattering stories about those who propped up their feet and drank coffee while they flew. I'm older now and less inclined to confrontation, but the gash in the trees makes me spring-loaded these days, waiting for some swashbuckling fighter driver to pop off about his superiority. Brave airmen died down there, died just as valiantly as the top guns who were catching the missiles and flak over Baghdad.
But the scars are forgotten as quickly as they pass, and we relax a little as our thunderlizzard picks up more of the life-preserving airspeed. We climb out over southern France as the sunlight fades and join our old companion the moon for the long trip across the Mediterranean. The run down across the Med is pretty routine, except that we are spending more time studying the SPINS than we usually do. We don't know what to expect tonight, but we'd rather not have events take us by surprise. Rob and I decide to break out our chemical gear to take with us to the flight-planning office, but not the entire suit. The masks and hoods alone should do. I'm surprised at the effort and time it takes to untie the rubber sack and dig the stuff out.
After a restless respite in the bunk I return to the flight deck as we approach the Red Sea and call Red Crown. I can sense the tension among the crew begin to build as we listen to Navy strike forces checking in and out with the carrier. I can't understand half of what they say. Even their radio terminology is hopelessly mired in traditional buzz phrases and slang. The SPINS ought to contain information to let us decode Navy vernacular. As they've done for years, they are also garbaging up the 'Guard' channel.
Guard is frequency 243.0, which is supposed to be monitored by all military flights and held in reserve for emergency transmissions. But the way the Navy frivolously blabs on Guard has always been a sore point with Air Force and Army pilots, who often refer to it as 'Navy Common' and religiously protect it from such abuse. More than once I've heard an angry voice, in response to Navy chatter, shout out on the frequency, 'GET OFF GUARD, DAMMIT!'
Entering Saudi airspace, we're cleared along a more southerly route than we're used to and proceed without the assistance of air traffic control or ground navigation aids. The stations have been shut down so as not to invite attack. But we have no problem navigating with our two inertial navigation units, as we do over the high seas. Approaching the gulf, we search through the secret air strike frequencies, hoping to monitor the air battle up north, but I guess we're out of radio range. We do, however, hear plenty of activity on the AWACS frequencies, which we're required to monitor. AWACS is the airborne warning and control system, a Boeing 707 with a big rotating radar dish atop. AWACS is busy working with the strike aircraft entering and leaving the target areas and the refueling tracks.
My headset spews the electronic hiss and crackle of the voices of war, and I feel the absurd longing that I knew would come. I'm not satisfied to be on the periphery of this thing; I want to be in it. I want to rip off a stick of Mark-82's over an Iraqi truck park; to squeeze off an AIM-9 and watch it home on a MiG like a lion closing on a weaving gazelle. I ought to be up there.
Years ago I attacked a column of infantry at Fort Carson, Colorado. The Army was throwing a big war game party and had invited the Air Force to show up as the bad guys. I was in a flight of four A-7s approaching the war zone low and fast up through the foothills to avoid detection. We'd planned to split up into two elements of two ships and attack separate targets. As the leader and number two broke off to the north, I popped up behind my element leader and rolled hard to the south toward a large meadow. As I rolled out, with my nose pointing at the meadow in a 500 mph dive, I realized that we had caught the soldiers in a complete surprise.
It was an astonishing sight. Dozens of large vehicles were scattering in all directions, kicking up swirling dust clouds, while hundreds of running figures scurried for cover. It was a 'target-rich environment,' as the tacticians like to say. We had them cold and had won the game. I was exhilarated. But what if it had been real? How would I carry the baggage of so many deaths? And why the exhilaration? I've always been bothered by it. Yet the same kind of slaughter was being discharged in earnest just over the horizon.
We are approaching Dhahran; strangely, the sky is not as busy as I had anticipated. But I know a few miles northward the air is as frenzied as a shark feed. I hope it stays up there, because the possibility of a midair collision is now our biggest threat. I listen as the pool pilot in the jump seat calls the ALCE and passes on our load information. They brief us that the airfield is under condition yellow, which signifies an advanced state of chemical
