C.R. terror

Mobility Forum, Jan/Feb 2002

The predawn stillness was shattered by the obnoxious electronic tone emitting from the telephone. "Gear down, before landing checklist," mumbled the World's Greatest Airlifter, still mostly asleep. A hand, almost as wide as it was long, reached for the receiver shaped in the form of a C-- 7 Caribou. "Major Terror here," muttered the Able Aeronaut.

"Yes, Sir, this is Lieutenant Ev Aredy, the squadron scheduler, and you're alerted."

"Alerted for what?" bellowed the Great Gripper of Go Levers.

"Sir, the schedule has you on the 663 mission this morning."

"I'm not sure I'm legal for alert; it hasn't been 12 hours since my last aerobics class," complained C. R

"But..."stammered the confused young lieutenant.

"Tut, tut, m'lad. Turn off your number 3 pumps, I'm only joking. I'll be there faster than you can spell Fort Huachuca," chuckled C.R.

The silver-tongued Sultan of Starlifters took an AMC shower, put the deodorant can into his hand-tooled baby-blue bag, and jumped into his custom-tailored flight suit. "I'm going to have to start washing these myself. It appears the cleaners are shrinking my flight suits," muttered C.R., as he threw his helmet bag into the right seat of his E-- type Jag and headed for the base.

"Good morning, Sammy m'boy," C.R. said to his trusted copilot as he entered the squadron ops area. "Looks like we get to earn our money this week in the big humanitarian airlift to Farawayland. What are we hauling, people or things?"

"I don't know. I asked the duty officer but he has his head buried in a dictionary looking up Ft. Huachuca, and he's still going through the Ws. You ever been to Farawayland, boss?" asked Captain 'Long-Suffering' Sam.

"No Sammy, but I live for the opportunity to get another pin in my map and pick up a few trinkets for Tassels. You know, lad, one can never have too many of either. After I breeze through the pre-mission briefing, why don't you go see what the dispenser of weather wisdom has to say, file the flight plan, and assure the command post folks that we're serious about getting out of Dodge this morning. I'll meet you out at the 'air sheen.' Right now I suppose I should get my Jag out of the boss' parking spot."

After an uneventful start, taxi, and takeoff, the giant bifurcated, bugsucking, four-engine, all-- jet aluminum monoplane was winging its way toward its remote destination as part of a largescale multi-nation relief effort.

"Boss, boss, wake up!"

"Are we there already?" grumbled the Clever Clutcher of Control Columns, looking at his Rolex Oyster Perpetual Chronometer.

"No sir," replied the ever-patient Sammy. "We just got a weather update, and the front the weather folks showed me this morning has stalled out and is sitting on top of our destination. Looks like we won't be able to land there for another 12 to 14 hours."

"How much gas do we have, Max?" asked the Emperor of Endurance, turning to his flight engineer.

"Forty-two thousand, sir and all in the mains," replied Master Sergeant Torque.

"Looks like we've got enough gas and time to consider several options." C.R. reached into his helmet bag and pulled out a small, worn, black notebook and began leafing through it.

"How about I get a phone patch with the TACC and see what they have to say?" asked the curious copilot.

"Nonsense, Sammy m lad. Just give me a minute to check the per them rates in this part of the world and I'll tell you where we'll be spending the night. Besides, remember when we went to Quality training and Colonel Fabeetz, the Ops group commander told us that we were empowered? Well let's see if he really meant it. I say that if we're really empowered we don't have to call anybody. Crank up the VOLMET on Marconi's magic machine, see which way the wind is blowing at Emerald City air patch, and stand by for the crew rest experience of your career."

"One hundred above...minimums...runway in site at two-o'clock. Can we make it boss? We're pretty high," asked Sammy doubtfully.

"Certainly, m'lad," responded the Master of the Non-Precise, Non-Precision Approach. "Sure am glad I brought an old copy of these Jeppesens along. Looks like the runway may have shifted about 20 degrees to the east since they printed these jewels."

"Most everything is still attached in the back," advised the loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Tye Downs, after a touchdown that, no doubt, registered somewhere on the Richter scale.

"Balderbash," replied the Field Grade Flare Forgetter. "First two thousand feet on centerline works every time."

"Just look at all these airplanes," Sam exclaimed. "I don't think I've ever seen an airport this small with this many aircraft on the ramp."

"They must have heard we were coming, Sammy. Good news travels fast in this part of the world."

"Reach 663 hold your position. We do not have a flight plan or any diplomatic clearance for you and there are no available parking spots. Say departure point, original destination, and reason for your arrival here," inquired the Tower.

"Emerald City Tower, Reach 663 departed Homeplate AFB, destination Forlorn City, Farawayland, and diverted here due to weather at Forlorn."