decide I will allow no more than fifteen minutes in the holding pattern. If they won't let us down after that, we will break out and head hell-bent to England. Findley appears relieved.
No sooner have we hit the NDB and turned outbound than the fine gentleman at the radar console clears us direct to the Frankfurt VOR. We breathe sighs of relief. Fuel, apparently, will not be a problem for us now. We descend lower. It gets darker. We cross overhead the huge airport, but the swing of our VOR needles is the only evidence that we have done so. Then we are radar-vectored to an intercept heading to the final approach course. We make final preparations. I dial in the localizer course while Steve tunes and identifies the frequency.
I would rather do the CAT II the airline way, letting the copilot fly the approach while I look for the runway. This procedure allows me to make the final decision and then take over the controls for the actual landing. But we will do it the Air Force way. I will take it all the way down, while Steve watches for the ground.
Rolling out on final, we lower the flaps to the approach setting, but here at Frankfurt we must not lower the landing gear until we have passed over the outer marker. Doing so would require more engine power, which would trip the noise sensors planted down there among the suburbs. The Air Force pays the city of Frankfurt a big fine if we trip one, and I get to go to the kick-butt room. Like most noise abatement procedures, this one preempts good safety practice. It complicates our approach by forcing abrupt pitch and airspeed changes later on and lower than we would prefer in such weather.
Soon we hear the tone in our headsets that signifies the passage of the marker, and I order the gear down. It falls into the slipstream with a roar and clunks heavily into place. We set the flaps to the landing position and stabilize our airspeed. As the needle on the radar altimeter steadily unwinds toward zero, I fight to suppress the urge to glance out the windscreen. My eyes zip like a busy hummingbird from one instrument to another. Altitude, descent rate, airspeed, fuel flow, heading, course deflection, glide slope deflection, AWLS fault panelall are brief stops along the hurried course of my concentration. My eyes move so quickly that if one instrument reads amiss, I may not realize it until I'm one or two more stops along the scan.
'Approaching decision height.'
Steve's call alerts me that we are at 200 feet, almost the length of the airplane, above the earth. I steal a glance, but see only murk. Back to the panel.
'LAND!'
This is one of only two things he is permitted to say at this point. The other is 'go around.'
I look up. We are already well over the runway. I can't even see the edges, only the centerline stripes and the twin rows of lights embedded in the runway, unscrolling toward me from the gloom. Hundreds of black tire marks directly in front of me seem to explode in the windscreen. Where has my depth perception gone? No time to judge height. No time to check and roll. No time, no time. God, I'm tired.
With a jolt we hit. We roll. Steve pulls up the spoiler lever. I pull the throttles into reverse. The little lights embedded in the runway thump underneath our tires as we slow. A crackling voice in our headsets tells us to turn left at the next available turnoff and contact Mil Ramp.
We taxi past the rows of airlifters sitting on the wet ramp under dreary veils of fog and turn into our assigned parking spot. The marshaler crosses his wands, and I break to a stop, flip the fuel shutoff switches, and collapse back into the seat. The crew door down below is shoved open and the spooling down of the engines again floods the flight deck, tranquilizing us. Another Atlantic crossing ends.
Desert Storm is ending as well, to the cheers of thousands, like Lindbergh's arrival in Paris. And rightly so. But I suspect the Persian Gulf airlift will conclude with lethargic sighs and muffled moans, like those coming from my crewmates.
As fliers, we are conditioned to think ahead, but we have learned lately not to reckon beyond the engine shutdown checklist. God only knows where we'll be headed tomorrow, if anywhere, and He ain't saying just now. So we've stopped guessing about the future. That takes too much energy. But just maybe, as Steve predicts, we are on our last mission.
He could be right. Lately, optimism has started to flourish. Desert Storm was a resounding victory. Celebrations and parades are being planned back home, and the mother of all parties will soon commence.
It has taken the courage and sacrifice of one generation of warriors to exonerate another. Those who fought in Viet Nam deserve a share of the Desert Storm victory. Their legacy, perverted by an inept government and an uncaring populace, has been redeemed and at last laid to rest. This one was for them.
The past year has taught us much about ourselves. We have developed the patience, endurance, and perseverance of blue-water sailors, and the Starlifter has become our square-rigger. We stow the stores, batten the hatches, set the throttles, and run before the wind. We consign our spirits to the song of the slipstream and dwell in the contentment of the moment, waiting, waiting, for that blessed roar of the landing gear to signal our final deliveryour delivery home.
But even now, I sense the pull, the call, the longing. Even while home is yet a distant gleam in the windscreen, I feel itas I knew I would. I'll be back this way. Back to this skyscape. Back to this sanctuary. Back to gaze at them again, to behold the billowing topgallants. Back to leave trails of glory among them.
Epilogue
The 727 slips along with a whisper under the long expanse of burning blue stretching ahead toward the Rockies. There's a knock at the flight deck door, and a pretty lass named Michelle comes up, passes us coffee and soft drinks, and sits down in the forward observer's seat. She crosses her legs and, with a strong sigh, pushes a fallen strand of golden hair back to its place.
'Are the natives restless?' the captain asks with a chuckle.
'Very,' she responds. 'There's this one guy back there who, like' she pauses, in the peculiar way of her generation, to relate with mimicry instead of language 'you know, stares at me.'
'I can't imagine why,' I retort, winking at the captain.
'Oh, he gives me the creeps.' She shudders.
She promises to bring up our meals as soon as she takes care of first class, then departs with a cheery smile, making our day complete before it even ends.
This, my first airline trip after the Storm, is replete with contrasts. Michelle is one. She compels me to reflect on guys with names like Wormy, Mad Dog, Killer, and Bucky. Not because they look like herdear God, nobut because, like her, they're indispensable to the other end of the jet.
The notion keeps hitting me time and again. Was the last year a dream? And if so, was it a good one or a nightmare? It passed so slowly, yet now it seems fleeting. The tribulations we suffered don't seem all that distressing now. I don't regret it. My military flying career began as one war ended, and spanned twenty years to the close of another one. I'll be content to let it end there.
I know I'll miss the camaraderie; there's not much of that in this job. To fly with someone is to share, but to fly and serve with someone is to bond with them.
I'm glad to be back to these 'friendly skies.' Yet I'll always be glancing backward, always checking six. But for memories, not bandits. And when I do, I'll see not places, nor planes, but faces. More important than flight itself are the faces of flight. And they reside in me in abundance.
Glossary
A
AC Aircraft commander.
AFB Air Force base.
AHARS An emergency backup system for attitude and heading.
AIM-9 Heat-seeking air-to-air missile.
Aircraft commander The pilot responsible for the plane, its crew, and its mission. Same as 'captain' in the
