twelve of your weekends and at least fifteen additional days each year. But to stay reasonably proficient in the jet, everyone put in three or four times as many days. You'd take a couple of days off from work, pair them with a weekend, and cross continents and oceans as routinely as your neighbor drove to his Warren County deer camp.
It was uncanny to me how people from such different backgrounds could join together for such a specialized and demanding taskand do it with relative harmony. The other pilot across the cockpit from you might be a stockbroker or lawyer. The flight engineers and loadmasters could be accountants, truck drivers, or students. But no matter what you did outside the gates, your heart was always sprouting wings, yearning for the smell of burnt JP-4 fuel (which you joked about) and the whine of the big turbines. Being a macho crewdog, you rarely spoke of yearnings of the heart. But they were there. Yes, it was a great jobsflying, getting paid for it, and serving your country.
By all accounts, I had enjoyed a flying career that spanned the spectrum of military aviation. I had known the thrill, the joy, and the excitement of the fighters. The heavies had matured me as a flier, had shown me the world, and had taught me the satisfaction of job accomplishment. Along the way, I found the kind of friendship and brotherhood that rarely existed in other enclaves of life. I had good reason to be content, to feel immensely blessed. Time and again, over the years I felt indebted to someone, or something.
And now, a wretched despot, empowered with the world's fourth largest army, had invaded our ally and threatened our vital interests. It didn't matter whether I was enthusiastic or not about rushing to Kuwait's aid. The account had come due. I had to settle it.
Three.
The TJ Blues
We have begun our letdown into Madrid. The flight across the Atlantic from Charleston has been typically long and abundantly dark, and we are feeling the first ripples of the soaking fatigue that will intensify and linger for months.
The Spanish controller orders us to a surprisingly low altitude across this vast city. I guess noise pollution isn't a big concern here. Now I see why. Dawn is only a couple of hours away, yet the long strings of bright little pairs of eyes inching past yellow streetlights reveal a city alive. Madrid's not up early; it hasn't gone to bed yet.
We skim across the living plasma of light and humanity, marveling at the vitality of life below and its indifference to our ephemeral passage. After the hours of dark empty ocean, we become infused with it. The amber glow permeates our souls and preps us for the rejoin with society at the place called Torrejon, five minutes ahead.
We've all seen Torrejon before in less tumultuous times. We call it TJ, which is the identifier painted on the tails of its wing of F-16 fighters. We contact the tower and are cleared for a visual approach to runway two three. After landing we are instructed to turn off onto a connecting taxi way and wait.
The vast ramp is packed with airlifters. In the dawning light, we see the gargantuan beehive of activity that TJ has become. Enormous dark hulks are parked on almost every available space, their red and green wing tip lights piercing the darkness. Here and there the stomachs of the leviathans are exposed, their huge clamshell doors swung open, the interiors bathed in light. The hulks are being serviced by hosts of vehicles with sweeping headlights, scurrying about like frightened rodents. Towering tails move back and forth above the jumble like prowling sharks, gracefully swinging and turning as they maneuver. The magnitude of the spectacle is the first indication that we are caught up in something big beyond our wildest expectations.
After what seems a long wait, we are cleared to taxi to a parking space that has just been vacated. The engines spool down, and we download our burden of bags and equipment and wait for the promised crew bus. And wait. And wait. 'The two biggest lies in the world,' Walt mutters. ''Check's in the mail' and 'crew bus is on the way.'' A frustration that we will come to know and loathe begins to set in.
Finally the bus arrives, and we are driven the two miles along the vast flight line, passing row after row of behemoth jets with blinking lights and laughably small figures of people hurrying about them. Farther still, we pass racks of inert bombs, missiles, and other sinister munitions. Fuel trucks, cargo loaders, strange tractors of several varieties, and other buses filled with flight crews jam the roadway. Rows of fighters are being pored over by mechanics under portable floodlight units, tweaking them up for their departure to the killing fields.
We are delivered, finally, to the MAC command postthe CPand wait for our turn at the debriefing window. The hallway is alive with crewdogs. Some, like us, are inbound, as we can see from their ruffled hair, stubbled faces, and fatigued eyes. The 'outbound' crews are a bit fresher, are pumping the inbounds with the latest rumors, and, with a hint of pleasure, are informing us of the ordeal ahead that is to be our 'crew rest.'
Finally the CP controller logs us in and, with a bit of a smirk, asks if we prefer eastbound or westbound on our next assignment. Of course we want to go east, or 'downrange,' as it is now dubbed. We're eager to get into the action. It could be over soon. We don't want history to pass us up. He dutifully notes our preference and sends us off to crew rest.
We arrive at the military hotel and step off the crew bus into Dodge City circa 1880. The lobby and walkways connecting the hotel with the officer's club are alive with shouting crewdogs, many toting bags, sucking San Miguel beer, and cavorting with one another, pistols strapped to their sides and shoulders. Weary pilots lean against the check-in counter, running fingers through sweaty hair. Someone has posted a large map of the Middle East regions, which is rapidly collecting graffiti and other scribbled gems of crewdog wisdom. The area is abuzz with activity. The atmosphere of crisis and the uncertainty of the coming days spawn excitement rather than foreboding. The place seems almost festive, as old acquaintances are rekindled and the stress of many hours in the air is released. But I have a hunch the festivities will be short-lived.
I look around for a familiar face but see none other than those of my own crew. We get our room assignments, two rooms for six of us with a single bath, and are told we're lucky; an hour earlier or later, and it could have been a cot in the recreation center ballroom. We drag our bags down the long hallway and up two flights of stairs, past housekeepers shouting at one another in rapid-fire Spanish, and find that the frenzied activity extends throughout the building. It seems impossible that anyone could sleep here. Crewdogs are their own worst enemy Coming in from a mission, they are often loud and boisterous, buoyed by the San Miguel and the relief that the mission is behind them.
Bones, Jeff, and I crowd into the small, two-bed, one-cot room. We don't care much for rank, privileges, and the like in the Guard, but Bones, the junior officer, insists on taking the cot, and I choose not to spoil his wishes. We strew our vast array of gear and personal bags in the only space available, and proceed to stumble over them constantly We soon discover that the air conditioning is out of commission, and we throw open the windows in a futile plea for relief. But then we reel at the roar of a C-5 engine test, the din pouring in as if the nozzle were backed up to the window, though the plane is a mile away The mechanic at the throttle powers the engine up to takeoff-rated thrust, then back to idle, again and again, as if on some mission of vengeance against us.
One of our loadmasters stops by the door and says that Tom Clayton's crew is out on the dayroom balcony Eager to see familiar faces, we proceed to the balcony and find Tom and his crew, sitting beside a cooler of San Miguel and judging the landing patterns of the arriving C-5s and C-141s.
'You weak wick!' cries Tom as a Starlizzard flies a wide downwind leg. 'What a bomber pattern. Close it up!'
As I arrive, a sergeant dressed in a pressed blue uniform steps up and informs us that alcoholic beverages are not allowed on the balcony. I sense the reluctance in his eyes and voice, as he explains that the policy is not his but that of the base services officer. I shake his hand and usher him away from the snarling crewdogs, assuring him that I will take care of the matter, that he is absolved of responsibility, though I have no intention of taking action. He probably knows it.
As the sun rises over the prominent plateau east of the base, I leave the balcony crowd and start back to the room. On the way I notice a familiar face approaching from a connecting hallway. The man has a watermelon under one arm and a leather attache case in the other hand. My heart soars: it's my old friend George Fondren. But the
