TO SAVE A PRINCE

Flight Journal, Oct 2004 by Gabella, W F "Bill"

On letdown, a dozen GCDA patrol cars had their "bubble-gum" lights going at full blast. They were massed in an L-shape at the fort's northwest corner.

I did two low and slow passes and eyeballed what appeared to be a parade ground parallel to the west wall. And, wouldn't you know, there was an unlit microwave tower in the southwest corner!

The local GCDA were wild with excitement. The patient had not yet arrived from the hospital. It was now that Woody and I learned that the patient was none other than the governor of the Southern Province: Prince Mohammed al Ghibreen! He had been tossed from a jeep in rough terrain and suffered a broken back and internal injuries.

While waiting for the patient, Woody and I ate a picnic "lunch" with plenty of ice-cold Pepsis to wash it down. We learned that jet fuel was not available locally. We were the first copter into the fort.

At last, an ambulance came to the copter's side. Many willing hands gently lifted the prince, trussed to a Stryker frame, and secured him to the forward port cabin wall. An IV was inserted into a shunt on the patient. We "bumped" one of the rescue trainees to make more room in the forward cabin for a doctor and two nurses.

After a confined-area takeoff over the 20-foot-high walls, we climbed into 20- to 30-knot winds, which forecast a slow haul north.

No sooner had we gone five statute miles, when-POW! POW!-the main fuel tanks' warning lights came on. I asked Woody to estimate how much fuel we had in the big aux. I wondered whether the warm air affected the consumption. The outside air temperature was more than 100 degrees F-at well past midnight!

Woody reported, he thought we had somewhere between 300 to 500 gallons. I told him my "plan A" was to fly up the North/South Highway toward Al Kharj as far as we could. If we flamed out, I'd shoot a running autorotation landing on the highway, where we could be reached for transfer of the patient and/or maybe even get fuel.

Woody took a long look at me and turned away. I knew he was thinking "blood feud" (our codeword: "It"). If for some reason the prince died under our care, his clan could demand retribution on the aircrew, individually.

Plan A

The rough plan A took palpable form in my mind. I cranked in Riyadh's discrete frequency and called: "Any aircraft, this is Rescue Two; do you read?"

Much to my surprise, a voice speaking English with a French accent chimed in. "Rog-aire, Rescue Two; this is Yemeni Airlines flight en route."

After a brief exchange, it became apparent that the Frenchman's limited English ruled him out. I tried to call Riyadh ATC directly instead.

After half a dozen fruitless calls, I heard: "Rescue Two; this is Saudi Airlines Flight 346. May we give you a hand?"

It was a perfectly good American voice!

"Roger, Saudi. Please ask ATC to call my operations office. They know how. Tell them to get a flight captain and crew out of bed (the SM lived in Riyadh) and have him stand by for messages from me, Rescue Two. We have a fuel problem, and we have a critical patient who is a VIP. We're low on fuel and flying up the highway trying to make Al Kharj."