Rest for the Weary

Upon our arrival in Germany with our wounded troops from Iraq, it was disconcerting to discover that our trip from hell continued. We seemingly could not catch a break. We were tired, past our scheduled return time (SRT) to get home, and some of the crew were openly hostile toward each other. It was time to go home.

Unfortunately, there were no missions leaving Germany for our home base in the Pacific Northwest. But there were several jets available to return to their East Coast bases just waiting for a crew. Since we were past our SRT, we were set up to take the first flight out, even if it was a mission that terminated on the East Coast.

So when we landed in sunny South Carolina the next day, we were on our own. The Air Force really didn’t care about us anymore. We didn’t even count against their record for SRT busts anymore – a list seen by a general officer every day. Without a tail number to link my crew with, it was like we didn’t exist. It would be up to us to figure out how to make it the rest of the way home.

We checked into a hotel and made commercial travel arrangements to get home. Despite all the equipment and bags we had, we wanted to get home and there were no military flights available. So after a short night’s rest, we headed to the airport with a mountain of bags. We had to accept the fact that our entire day would be spent in TSA screening lines, airport terminals, cramped commuter flights, and several transfers.

We made it out of the local airport just fine, but we hit a snag in Atlanta as we waited for our next flight. It seemed that even the national airlines have some of the same maintenance problems we have in the military; our jet was broken. So we retired to a bar in the terminal and waited while they replaced a hydraulic pump on one of the engines. We fully anticipated having our flight cancelled outright, and trying to find a decent hotel near the airport for yet another night away from home.

However, the light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter; our flight was fixed and they began boarding. The end of the trip from hell was nearly at hand. Fortunately all of our trips weren’t this painful. After a few weeks at home, I’d be ready to go out again to do my part. In the meantime, I eased the seat back and rested my weary head as the airliner took off into the darkened skies above Atlanta and headed west - toward home.

Sometimes it's nice to let somebody else do the flying for a change.

The Hot Seat

The flight to Iraq proceeded normally, even our tactical approach and landing at a large American airbase there. A fleet of ambulances began to arrive as we shut down, but aeromedical evacuation missions take considerable time to load patients and takeoff, so we knew we’d never make our scheduled takeoff time several hours away. It was quite hot outside, and as our engines wound down and our APU, or auxiliary power unit, took over the air load for our air conditioning system, we knew we were in for a sweltering ground time. The APU’s insufficient air flow did nothing to hold off the steadily mounting air temperatures outside, and it was not even past ten in the morning yet.

By the time half of the patients were onboard, it was nearly 100 degrees in the cargo compartment. Upstairs in the cockpit, it was even worse; with all of the electronic flight displays and other avionics equipment, it was topping 117 degrees. We asked maintenance for an air cart to pump cooler air into the aircraft, but they had to borrow one from a fighter squadron down the ramp. But we eventually had two air carts pumping air into the aircraft through our crew entry door.

It was like trying to use an air conditioner at a backyard cookout in Houston – in August. It felt great if I was standing right in front of the duct, but if I moved a foot to the side, I was back in the furnace. Patients were still slowly arriving, and one of the recent arrivals, a civilian contractor with chronic emphysema, was having complications. They were trying to stabilize him for flight, but things were not looking good. He desperately needed better care than he could receive in Iraq, but if his condition didn’t improve enough, we’d have to leave him behind.

Since we had only planned for a short flight from Turkey to Germany, we did not bring enough food for a longer day. The crew was getting hungry, so we sent somebody to load up on food from the chow hall. Soon we had a feast of imitation scrambled eggs, greasy sausage, French toast sticks, and fruit to hold us over. The temperature was holding steady, but maintenance was unable to fix the problem. We’d have to take off in a flying furnace.

They finally stabilized the patient and the medical crew was soon ready to depart. We started up and taxied out, eager to takeoff for Germany. We lined up and pushed the throttles up and began our takeoff roll. Passing 60 knots, one of our engines red-lined with an over-temperature. Reluctantly, I pulled the throttles back to idle and we taxied back to maintenance. If there was much damage to the engine, we’d be stuck, waiting for a new engine to arrive from out-of-country. It’d be days before we made it out, if we were lucky enough to have another engine nearby.

While the maintenance crews inspected the engine, we called for a third air cart, in addition to the others already being rolled back into place. Soon we had a duct snaking up the flight deck, and we enjoyed much colder air in the cockpit. For the first time in over 16 hours, it was almost perfect conditions to take a nap.

But it was not to be. Maintenance found no damage in the engine, so we readied ourselves for another takeoff attempt. We pulled out the duct work, started our engines, and taxied back out. But we had a better plan for the second attempt. We turned off all the bleed air from the engines (which provide air for the air conditioning and pressurization systems) and took our time advancing the throttles to max power. We were able to takeoff before the engine over-temped, but since we were airborne, we elected to pull the power back slightly and continue onto Germany with our mission.

It was still unbearably hot in the aircraft and it would take two hours into the flight for the temperatures to drop to a comfortable level. We’d have to write the air conditioning system up, as well as the engine, which would eventually need to be changed. But despite our problems, at least we were able to deliver our patients to the medical center in Germany.

And we wouldn’t have to spend the night in Iraq.

The Microsoft Jet

I was a little surprised when we were alerted shortly before midnight, exactly as planned, after limping a broken aircraft into Turkey with significant electrical problems. These things usually take a little longer to fix than planned, since maintenance problems sometimes require parts that aren’t readily available or the labor takes longer than expected. Perhaps the electrician had found the electrical short right away, they had the part in inventory, and they had no problems installing it. At any rate, it looked like we’d be back in Germany by morning.

Upon arrival at the command post, we learned that our mission had changed; we were now scheduled for another aeromedical evacuation flight, this time to Iraq. It made sense: our aircraft was already configured for the mission, we had a full aeromedical crew with us, and we were only a couple of hours from Iraq. We picked up our gear, out-processed through Customs, and headed out to the jet.

After arriving at the aircraft, we checked in with maintenance to see what they did while we were in crew rest. To our surprise, an electrician had never even looked at the jet. The maintainers we debriefed after we landed didn’t even pass along any of our concerns to the crew that was preparing to launch us. In between, maintenance simply rebooted the aircraft, just like a troublesome computer. The C-17 truly is the Microsoft Jet.

We had some concerns, but maintenance insisted that the problem could not be duplicated. We still suspected a short in either the comfort pallet or its controlling electrical bus, but maintenance felt we were good to go. However, during the loadmaster’s pre-flight, he was required to turn the power on for the comfort pallet…and we were amazingly plunged back into darkness. So much for the Microsoft fix.

They finally called an electrician out to the aircraft. He felt that the problem lay with the comfort pallet, not the bus, even though he did not actually look at anything. After debating back and forth among the crew about the worst case scenario – an electrical fire in flight - we felt we could proceed with the mission with the comfort pallet disconnected from the bus. If the bus was later found to be the culprit and an electrical fire began, at least we would know which bus to depower to put the fire out.

However, before we could wrap things up and takeoff, maintenance discovered yet another problem: our weather radar wasn’t working. But they did have the part in stock. So they literally popped the hood - the aircraft’s nose cone - and began repairing the radar. Since we had already out-processed through Turkish Customs, we were stuck at the jet in the interim – until we were either fixed or our duty day ended. In the event of a maintenance problem before takeoff, we are limited to four hours after our scheduled takeoff time, with an optional extension to six hours with the concurrence of the crew. Since there were wounded troops in Iraq waiting for us to arrive, we elected to wait as long as we could so we could transport them to Germany for treatment.

The sky had turned a pale shade of gray by the time we were fixed five hours after our original takeoff time. Sleep had been impossible with the number of crewmembers onboard, maintenance activity and a pitifully weak air conditioning system in the cockpit. We were tired and were only planning on a relatively short flight back to Germany, so we didn’t even have much food with us. And we couldn’t get back through Customs to get anything.

But we were finally fixed and there were a dozen or so wounded troops waiting for us in Iraq. It was finally time to go to work. It was time to fly.

Lights Out

After landing in Germany following our trans-Atlantic flight from Maine, we were given the bare minimum time off – 16 hours to our next takeoff – for a mission heading downrange to the Sandbox. It was an aeromedical evacuation flight to Afghanistan, a scheduled run to pick up troops returning to Germany for treatment they could not receive downrange. I have always liked flying medical flights; it is much more rewarding for me to transport our wounded warriors than moving boxes and crates containing who knows what.

The only drawback to these flights is managing the chaos; trying to get all the people and agencies responsible for an on-time takeoff is somewhat like herding cats. The medical crews arrived with their equipment and supplies, the aerial port had installed a comfort pallet onboard – containing two additional lavatories and a large galley with additional refrigerators and ovens, maintenance was working a last minute problem, and not enough fuel had been loaded. Yet it all came together and we managed to take off late, but before the airfield closed for the night.

I was in the seat for the flight for several hours as we crossed Eastern Europe and coasted out over the Black Sea. After reviewing our routing into Afghanistan, I climbed out of the seat to heat up my dinner. Just as I put my food in the comfort pallet oven, most of the lights inside the aircraft went out, plunging us into near darkness.

I practically vaulted up the stairs to the flight deck as alarms were alerting us to a major electrical failure. We pulled out our technical guidance and determined that we had lost two electrical buses controlling all of our exterior lighting and much of the inside lighting. In addition, we lost part of our flight controls (we have redundant systems, so it was a negligible loss). It was also impossible to fix during flight. It didn't seem wise to continue to Afghanistan with an aircraft with electrical problems. If we couldn’t fix it on the ground there, we’d be stuck. So we elected to divert to Turkey.

We coordinated for a 180-degree turn over the Caspian Sea and pulled out our charts to figure out the best routing to the American airbase in Turkey. Since the war in Iraq in 2003, the Turks have only allowed a certain number of cargo aircraft supporting the war to transit that base on a regular basis. We knew they’d have issues with us diverting there, so when Ankara air traffic control started asking why we were diverting, we declared an emergency. They immediately gave us the green light and direct routing to the airbase, which we happily took. Had we neglected to declare an emergency, it was likely that we would have been denied entry.

I could see the airbase fire trucks waiting for us while we were still 10 miles out on final approach. As we crossed the runway threshold, they started rolling and met us as we taxied clear of the runway. After determining that we were in no danger, they terminated the emergency and we taxied to parking, where we gave the jet to maintenance. We had previously chased down wiring schematics in our technical data, leading us to believe that either the comfort pallet installed in our cargo hold was to blame or there was a short in the electrical bus that controlled power to the comfort pallet.

At any rate, our day was done. It would take electricians too much time to determine where the electrical short was, so we headed off to crew rest. By the time we checked in our equipment, cleared the notoriously slow Turkish Customs, and found billeting rooms for the medical crew and my flight crew, the sun was already up. We were set up to takeoff in 16 hours – the bare minimum – if we were fixed. Another aircraft had been tasked to pick up our mission, so we’d return to Germany and wait for another mission downrange. Some of the crew was eager to hit the local off-base market to shop, but it had already been a long and tiring day. I was quickly off to sleep, despite the daylight streaming through my broken window blinds, dreaming of Turkish delights.

The Plot Thickens

Day two of the trip from hell started out normally, with a planned flight from Andrews AFB to a nearby Army base for a cargo upload and an aerial refueling en route to Germany. However, the plan quickly changed; our tanker cancelled, leaving us with a fuel stop in eastern Canada. Since weather was a factor at our usual Canadian airfields, we would stop in Halifax, the largest city in Canada's Atlantic provinces. It would be a long day, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Our takeoff from the DC area went smoothly, but we soon ran into thunderstorms as we headed south. A line of storms faltered just offshore in Virginia and across the Carolinas, threatening our approach and landing at our destination. However, we easily made it in without any of the previous night’s headaches and proceeded to upload our cargo.

It was night by the time we took off and flew northward along the eastern seaboard sleeping beneath us. Much of the East Coast was socked in by a layer of thick clouds, but the glow of the major cities illuminated the clouds from below. After we leveled off, we checked the weather for Halifax, the only destination in Canada’s eastern provinces that was forecast to be VFR.

However, once we began our descent, the weather began to change for the worse. It was still clear – with nearly unrestricted visibility – but a ground fog quickly formed that reduced visibility at the airport to Category III ILS conditions – zero ceiling and zero visibility - flown with an autoland capability. The C-17 is capable of flying an ILS to Cat II conditions – down to approximately 100’ ceiling and 400 meters visibility – but does not have the ability to autoland as required by a Cat III approach. We were out of luck.

We established a holding pattern several thousand feet over the airport while we checked on viable alternates. As we circled, we could see the sparkling city lights of Halifax and the resplendent suspension bridge spanning the glittering nighttime harbor. We could even see the runway lights burning brightly through the ground fog. It was so close, yet so far away. Even if we had tried to fly the approach to land, we’d see the runway until maybe a hundred feet above it, but then we’d be flying blind precariously close to terra firma.

Our planned alternate was another Canadian airport far to the north, but we found a closer airport back the way we’d already flown – Bangor, Maine – a short 45 minutes away. So we climbed up to altitude and flew back to the US. A short approach and landing later, we were on the ground and watched the sky turn pink as we refueled the aircraft. Our already long duty day had just turned a little bit longer.

It still wasn’t the trip from hell, but it was already a more challenging mission than most, given two days of weather woes. As we set out again over the Atlantic Ocean, our spirits were still high, but we could not imagine the immense challenges that awaited us over the next ten days.

The Trip From Hell

I had to pay dearly for my ‘vacation’ in paradise; for every good deal you get in this business, a bad deal is not far behind. But my next trip started innocuously enough – it even looked like another good deal. It was a Stage mission to the Middle East – surprise! – but it began with a flight south of the border, a trip to Guadalajara, Mexico to pick up President Obama’s Secret Service contingent and their vehicles. It came on the heels of his summit with Prime Minister Harper of Canada and President Calderon of Mexico and would end with an overnight stay for us at Andrews AFB, outside of Washington DC, where I have a brother living nearby.

We arrived in Guadalajara easily enough, where the airport ramp was sporting more firepower than a gun show in Texas. The President had already departed on Air Force One, but we had to wait for the Secret Service and their vehicles to arrive. After loading the vehicles, we were soon airborne. We dodged a few thunderstorm cells over northern Mexico and soon crossed into Texas. It was smooth sailing all the way to the East Coast, except for a line of storms directly over Washington DC. One storm cell was nearly on top of our airfield. We considered diverting to our alternate, but the same line of storms threatening DC would hit our alternate airfield before we could arrive there as well.

We called the control tower at Andrews for the latest weather observation. The storm had not yet hit, but it was blocking our path to the runway. However, there was only a light tailwind from the opposite direction, well within our limits for a tailwind landing (normally we land into the wind). So we cautiously probed around the monster thunderstorm and came in from the south. The aircraft isn’t quite as stable while making an approach and landing with a tailwind, but we made it in with no problems before the rain began. We taxied clear and planned for an evening in DC.

The trip didn’t have the markings of the trip from hell yet, but the writing was on the wall. Weather would be a significant factor during each of our subsequent legs, and other challenges would make this mission one for the books, and not it a good way.

As it turned out, our first day would be our best day during the entire trip.

Down Under

Once upon a time, my squadron flew a wide variety of worldwide missions, from destinations across the Pacific to South America, Africa, Europe, and the Middle East. However, since the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, we have found ourselves flying almost exclusively to Europe and the Middle East, month after month. It is uplifting when we are offered a destination anywhere else, anything out of the ordinary. So when I saw a Down Under mission to Australia on the scheduling board early last summer, I eagerly signed up as visions of tropical beaches danced in my mind.

The scheduler warned me not to get too attached; it was a low priority mission liable to be cancelled not only for a higher priority mission, but also if maintenance simply could not provide an aircraft to support the mission. I fully expected the mission to go away, but as I was flight planning a day or so prior to the scheduled takeoff, I was told that the mission would go, even if it was listed as a lower priority flight. Apparently we were supposed to move cargo that had people in some very high places watching, even if the priority did not reflect it.

I departed with a crew of four pilots, three loadmasters, and a flying crew chief. After a stop to pick up cargo in California, we headed out on the Pineapple Tracks, the aerial routing from the mainland to Hawaii, where we had a scheduled 28-hour ground time. Several of the crew was worried that we’d be billeted at Hickam AFB in 1970s-era quarters notorious for mold and air conditioners that barely work. A bigger concern, however, was the fact that staying on base meant that we wouldn’t be staying at one of the posh resorts in Waikiki, a mere volleyball’s throw from the beach. I felt confident that if we called ahead of time, the base would ensure there would be room for us there instead of downtown. If we didn’t tell them we were coming, perhaps there would be no room at the inn for us, at least on base.

Fortunately, my gamble paid off. Within an hour of landing, we were heading downtown to the Outrigger Reef. We made the usual rounds: the oceanfront bar at the Hale Koa for Mai Tais, dinner and beer at the Yardhouse, and listening to live music at an Irish pub before getting a good night’s rest in a cool room free of mold. We even had time the next day for lunch at a noodle shop before being alerted for our flight to the South Pacific.

We are normally scheduled for a fuel stop in American Samoa on the way to Australia, unless we are flying a C-17 with extended-range fuel tanks. But there is usually mail or passengers for Pago Pago, so we were required to make a stop at the American territory. But the airport snack bar makes great fish and chips, so we usually don’t mind too much.

It was early afternoon the next day by the time we made it to Australia, where we saw a great view of downtown Sydney under cloudy winter skies. But winter isn’t too cold Down Under, and after we landed at a nearby RAAF base, it was a chilly 60 degrees. We had to wait in the jet with the doors closed for Australian Customs to clear us; after displaying the bug spray cans from the pilot’s side window, they gave us a thumbs-up to open the door. Swine flu was in the news and everyone from America was suspect; the Aussies were hoping to keep it from reaching their shores. They asked questions about our health, checked our documents, and finally cleared us to depart the aircraft.

We had about 20-hours off before an out-and-back mission the next day, so we were lodged at an older, but well-maintained, hotel in a nearby town. A couple of the crew had never been to Sydney, so they caught a train for the two hour ride into the city, while the rest of us opted to enjoy the evening at a pub in town. As it turned out, they only had a couple of hours before they’d have to return before the trains stopped running for the evening.

The next day, we departed for our short out-and-back to a remote airfield in the Outback. We made good time and made it back early enough for a second evening on the town, this time with the entire crew. We enjoyed another 18 or so hours off before our return flight to Pago Pago and Hawaii, where we enjoyed yet another 24-hours off before flying back home. We were even fortunate enough to score rooms at the Reef again.

It is trips like the Down Under that revitalize crews beaten down by the monotony of flying the Stage in Europe and the Middle East. While I enjoy the flying we do in support of our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan, I do not miss the inadequate billeting, transportation, and dining options that is so common in the theater of operations. Staying at four star hotels, sipping a Mai Tai on the beach, and drinking a Toohey’s Ale at a pub Down Under helps us forget about the sacrifices we make for our country, such as inadequate sleep and missed meals. Waikiki is a long way from the dusty tents and bad chow halls we frequent on a regular basis. I can almost forget that there’s a war still going on, at least for a little while.