Turning the power on, I check the batteries assuring they are still fine, and turn on the radios once the checks are complete.
“Lajes ground, Otter 39 starting engines.”
“Otter 39, ground, roger.”
We start up the engines and get ready to taxi. “Lajes ground, Otter 39 taxi.”
“Otter 39, ground, taxi to runway 15, altimeter three zero one four.”
“Otter 39, three zero one four.”
We taxi along parallel to the runway and, once we arrive at the runway, contact the tower for takeoff.
“Otter 39, Lajes tower, you are cleared for takeoff. Maintain runway heading and contact departure on xxx.xx passing three thousand.”
Pushing the throttles up, the engines respond with their deep, throaty roar and we accelerate down the runway lifting off into a blue sky dotted here and there with high, white clouds. Cleaning up the aircraft and passing through three thousand feet, we contact departure and are cleared to flight level 250 and direct. “See you on our return, Lajes,” I say in reply.
“Good luck to you, Otter 39.”
We are about 150 miles out when the radio comes alive again. “Otter 39, Lajes departure, over.”
I look at the radio suspiciously wondering whether to answer. I look over at Robert and he is looking at me out from under his helmet. He merely shrugs. I press the talk button, “Lajes departure, Otter 39, over.”
“Otter 39, you are instructed to return to Lajes.” I knew I shouldn’t have answered.
“Lajes, you are coming in broken and garbled, over,” I say responding to their ‘request.’
A pause ensues.
“Captain Walker, this is General Collins and I am ordering you to return to Lajes.”
“General, I apologize but I am unable to comply as I have standing orders to complete my mission.”
“Captain! Dammit, I am countermanding those orders and you will turn that god-damned airplane around!” Note to self, do NOT answer the radio once we are away from any air field that is still under control. I am already calculating a different route home.
I look around the cockpit; four sets of eyes are alternating between the radio and me. “General, sir, I have a direct order from General Billings and your orders are contrary to the completion of my mission.” I am thinking it is fortunate there are not any pilots remaining there or we would soon have the pleasant company of a flight of F-15’s or F-18’s parked alongside of us.
There is another pause. “Captain Walker. I am then ordering you to return here for refueling once your pickup is complete.”
“Yes, sir. I anticipate a return in approximately 48 hours. And general, sir, good luck to you.”
A much longer pause. “Good luck to you as well, Captain. I hope you get those soldiers out. Lajes out!”
A dark line appears off the nose on the horizon where the blue sky meets the blue of the Atlantic; the coast of Portugal. Our route will take us over central Spain and out over the Mediterranean Sea, skirting the toe of Italy. I would rather have just flown up the central Med and avoid country overflights but our distance and range dictate as direct a route as possible. I expect to be intercepted if there is any military capable of flight left on this side of the ocean. I continue making calls on guard but hear nothing but the continued silence as we make our way through the daylight and into night as the sun sets behind us in a fiery display.
On into the night we fly, taking turns napping and monitoring the flight. Our external tanks long ago emptied, we are on our last few hours of flight with the fuel remaining onboard. About 200 miles out from Kuwait, I start a gradual descent with the bright stars and quarter moon lighting our way. The ground below us is dark with the exception of a few fires in the distance at various points, some just showing an orange glow as the smoke conceals the extent of the fire below. It has been this way since the sun descended, darkening the world above and below as it wends its way around to get ready for its rise and another day.
I feel wary about transiting through this area. I mean, after all, this is a war zone. If there are any fighters still around and capable, odds dictate this is the place they would most likely be. However, there is no reply to my calls on guard or lights suddenly showing up on our wingtips. Nor do we suddenly blow up. About fifty miles out, I see a very faint glow on the horizon ahead of us. I am unsure whether it is just a glow from another fire or actual lights. Continuing my descent, running through my checks, and setting up the nav, I make a call on guard, “This is Otter 39 on UHF guard. Anyone read?”
Playing in the Sandbox
Sergeant First Class Lynn Connell hangs up the phone attached to her computer ever so thankful to have it. That and the Internet service provided here in Kuwait allows her to maintain contact with her boyfriend back in the states; their twice daily calls and contact eases the deployment to a large degree. During the times the Internet was down, time seemed to drag on for an eternity when she was off work. It’s not like she could just waltz down for some beer and darts so it was reading and the Internet. God a beer would go down good, she thinks shutting off her laptop and getting ready for yet another day in the desert.
Today just has the feel of one of those days, well, every day here is one of those days but this one just feels different. Packing up, she opens the steel barracks door and steps out into the blazing morning sun, the temperature already beginning its climb to another scorching day. Sand! I hate sand! She thinks adjusting her polarized sunglasses, her digital camo uniform instantly warm from the sun. Not much longer to go.
Looking over the top of the barracks building as she starts walking over for breakfast, she sees an aircraft descending into the small field located on the camp, silhouetted against the light blue sky. As the aircraft descends below the tan building, she ponders her day. I have to get my shot today, she thinks to herself, the sand stirring up beneath her boots with each step. Perhaps after lunch or after work on my way to the gym. Most of the personnel in her office received them yesterday and, with military personnel having only 48 hours to get one, this is the last day to get it.
Arriving at the dining facility after walking down the sand-covered avenues between the various buildings; Sergeant Connell removes her cap and steps through the wooden door and into the cooler interior. The first thing she notices is the distinct emptiness. Groovy, she thinks heading to the chow line. No lines. It sure seems a lot bigger in here without the usual crowd. Not caring why it is mostly empty, she grabs her usual omelet and notices the usual cook who makes her big omelets is not here.
“Where’s Private Sampson?” She asks as an omelet is placed on her plate and tray.
“Sick call,” the soldier behind the counter and clear plastic separator answers.
Gathering her food, Lynn glances out over the expanse and selects one of the many empty tables after grabbing a paper to read. Hacking away at the omelet with her plastic Spork, she catches up on the headlines. The first few pages note the numerous sicknesses and escalating death rate from the Cape Town flu. Another article reminds military personnel to get their vaccination by the end of the deadline. There are articles detailing the enlisted, NCO, and officer of the month along with an inside view of the tactical operations center she is associated with. The Master Sergeant list is also published and her name is listed along with the other promotees.