It sounds good to me - Air Force emergency protocol

Approach, Nov, 2002 by Charles E. Garrett

For the past eight months, our squadron had been preparing to support Operation Southern Watch. We trained to the OSW special instructions (SPINS) and the tactics we expected to use. As a cruise-experienced JO, and our combat search and rescue subject-matter expert, I gave many lectures on CSAR, SERE, and divert procedures.

Before we arrived on station, the events of Sept. 11 changed everything. We scrambled for information on our new area of operations until a comprehensive set of SPINS for Afghanistan were published. All of our initial SPINS questions had been answered when we began strikes into Afghanistan. However, all divert airfields were listed as "last resort only," most likely because no one had proved them feasible.

In our fifth week of sustained combat operations, I was scheduled as Dash 2 for a section night strike, deep into northeast Afghanistan. The weather was great, and we had KC-10 tanker support for the six-hour mission. The only thing missing was a full moon. On start-up, I had a repeat INS-alignment problem that we solved by reconnecting a SINS cable a few times. At our rendezvous, my lead was plagued with a short in his mask and was intermittently NORDO. We decided to continue the mission, because this problem only was intermittent (it sounded good to me).

After pre-mission tanking, we checked in with the on station AWACS, but our controller instructed us to return to the tanker and await further instructions. My lead had problems answering the call and passed me the lead. I took the flight to the tanker. After we got gas, it was my lead's turn to tank.

The next thing I saw was a little too much closure, a little but not enough take-up reel, a lot of fuel spray, then silence. I asked, "Do you still have a probe?" Silence followed.

"How are your engines? What's your state?" The silence continued.

"Do you still have a probe?"

Finally, he answered, "No, I don't. Let's divert. My state is 7.5."

We pointed toward our divert of Jacobabad, Pakistan.

I knew the name of our divert, and I had its coordinates in my system, but that's all I knew. Since I'd heard planes had been shot at on their approach to Jacobabad, it made no sense sending a good plane into a place like that. I did not know how long my lead would be on deck.

My plan was to divert as a section, escort my probeless lead to a safe landing, return to our tanker, refuel, and return for the next recovery (it sounded good to me). As the controller processed my request, my wingman jiggled his cords and finally blurted out, "What about my NORDO? I think you should come with me."

I thought time was critical, and I made an instant decision. Somewhere in my helmet bag was the divert number, TACAN frequency, tower frequency, runaways and lengths. After some digging, and a few radio calls, I finally had all the info. We switched to tower, and, quite unexpectedly, an American voice answered, telling us to report "five miles out."

My plan was to remain high, with our lights off, to avoid small-arms fire. We would take separation on final, using our night-vision goggles, maintain sight of each other; and find the unlit runway. I briefed we'd remove our goggles in close and use our taxi light only if needed. We agreed.

Chalk it up to good training, but I at least remembered to call for feet-dry checks and to see if our anti-skid was on. Our plan worked great, right up until I took off the goggles. Apparently, there were no runway lights because I saw nothing without goggles. I did see the VASI and decided I could land beyond it. I floated a little, and I saw concrete immediately before touchdown.

The feeling of "Cool, I didn't get shot down" was interrupted by a flashing light in the gear handle and the landing gear warning-tone indications of a planing-link failure.

The aircraft tracked straight ahead, so I continued the rollout. My aircraft veered toward the right edge of the runway as I passed 100 knots. I knew I was in trouble when I hit the stops on the left rudder and still couldn't stop my right drift. I yelled something on the radio--I'll never know exactly what I said, but it made my wingman waveoff behind me. I went through the immediate-action items for loss of directional control on ground, while feeling like I was sliding or hydroplaning, instead of rolling. My hand twice wandered toward the ejection handle because it appeared the aircraft might veer sideways enough to roll. I came to rest 8,500 feet down the runway and far enough right for my wingman to land behind me.

I now was a stranger in a strange land. I told tower I was shutting down and getting out. The first person I met was a member of the Air Force on a four-wheeler wearing NVGs and carrying a sniper rifle. He gave me a cigarette and told me a green flare meant the airfield was under attack. He also said I should run toward the command post yelling "Betty Grable." He then drove away, leaving me in the dark.

I tried to calm down as Air Force personnel decided how to de-arm my aircraft (did I mention that my aircraft was loaded with three GBU-12s?) and how to clear my aircraft from the runway. I then watched--stunned--as my wingman, now refueled (and the only reason I was here in the first place), left me and flewback to the ship to enjoy pizza night. As he taxied by, my flightsuit dropped to my knees, and, for him at least, the moon rose over Pakistan.