A Fine Mess

After sitting a few days in Germany after our Purgatory in the Sandbox, we recuperated quite well. German cuisine and beer can do that for you. As can sleeping in a real bed again.

However, we were all eager to go home. We were a few days late when we were finally alerted for a westbound sortie. But it was disappointing when our crew bus pulled up to our aircraft and we unloaded our bags to find the filthiest jet we had ever seen. Dirt was caked on the pallets and a fine sheen of dust settled over everything in the aircraft – even the cockpit. It was unacceptable. Knowing that US Customs would never allow the aircraft to pass inspection, our loadmaster passed our concerns to maintenance. The aircraft and cargo needed to be cleaned.

Maintenance deferred to the aerial port, the organization responsible for loading and unloading cargo. The aerial port personnel were quick to point out that the cargo had been loaded downrange – in the Sandbox – so they weren’t responsible. True, it was loaded downrange, but it still had to be cleaned. We could not transport dirty cargo in a dirty aircraft back to the States. We repeated our concerns that the aircraft and cargo needed to be cleaned. Or downloaded. But the aircraft would still have to be cleaned even if the cargo was taken off.

The aerial port supervisor – a civilian ironically named Mr. No (not sure how he spelled it, but that was actually his name) – refused to comply. His people would not clean the aircraft and cargo, nor would they offload the cargo. We were now in a pissing match with Mr. No, who promptly called our local command and control organization, the Air Mobility Command Center (AMCC). Instead of backing us, the AMCC tried to get us to take the cargo as is. They’re supposed to know our rules and regulations as well as we do, yet the AMCC sided with Mr. No. We stood our ground.

The AMCC bumped the problem up the chain of command – to Air Mobility Command’s Tanker Airlift Command Center (TACC) near St. Louis. A full colonel there tried to assure us that Customs would clear the aircraft. But we were far from assured that he could vouch for Customs. When the rubber hit the road, it would be the aircraft commander facing a $10,000 fine and I’m pretty sure that Finance would not reimburse a Customs fine on a travel voucher. We stood our ground.

The aerial port found a local US Customs representative and asked him to come out to “pre-inspect” our cargo, basically to ask him if the cargo would be cleared if he was the inspector stateside. He took one look at the mess and shook his head. We had our first ally in our struggle.

Hours passed. Nothing was being done. We figured out that the AMCC was letting us “burn” until we reached the end of our duty day, four hours after our scheduled takeoff, at which time we’d go back to crew rest and they’d simply alert another crew on the same jet. This was technically against the rules, but so was allowing a filthy jet to head back to the States. The AMCC would probably find a young active duty crew eager to get home, who either wouldn’t know about the regulations concerning a dirty jet or could be coerced into bending the rule. Full colonels have a way of convincing junior captains into doing whatever they want.

Mr. No grew impatient. He should have waited for our four-hour rule. But he called out the big gun – the aerial port’s operations officer, a major who came out to the jet armed with the latest regulations in his hand in an attempt to get us moving. It was Mr. No’s downfall. The major had brought us the written guidance backing our position: dirty cargo could not be transported back to the States. The cargo had to be cleaned.

Within 10 minutes, we had every available airman in maintenance and in the aerial port sweeping and vacuuming the jet. There was too much grime and dirt for a thorough cleaning, but they made a definite improvement. Once we felt it was within acceptable limits, we accepted the jet for flight. It was an extremely late takeoff, but we were finally heading home.

After landing on the East Coast to download the cargo and refuel the jet for the remainder of our journey to the Pacific Northwest, Customs officials met our jet as expected. They came aboard, poked around the usual places, and checked our paperwork. It was obvious that something was bothering them.

“Kind of a messy jet, isn’t it?” one of them asked. “It’s a good thing I’m in a good mood tonight; I’ll clear you this time. Merry Christmas!”

And it was only October.