My crew and I are currently deployed, ferrying troops and supplies in and out of the Afghan theater. The flying is beautiful--these lands that we see daily are majestic, vibrant and ancient. I won't get into the threats in detail, but visibility in this area can drop dramatically from the blowing sand. Our base has seen massive sandstorms, that tower thousands of feet and block out the sun. I remember getting here, standing on the tarmac in 114 degree heat and realizing that we had found the heat equivalent of a Siberian winter...
I wrote this after returning from one of our combat sorties... Visibility that day had been around 1 mile.
"The sands of time"
You turn south out of Afghanistan and switch controllers, leaving the static and dust of the Kandahar plains, its dry oceans of sand
drifting and surging in a heat of existence that speaks of time lost.
You punch in Karachi's frequency, hear his clipped quick speech, and listen as though it's a late summer's eve, on your neighbor's porch listening to the game. There's more traffic now, and you keep an eye
outside, watching as snow capped mountains fade to soft green, delicate and blurred like the fringe of the putting course.
Twilight now, rays reaching out and scaring away the shadows, black
evolving to gray, then to dirty white. Overhead the last few stars blink
slowly, fading to their places of rest to recharge and return when darkness
again wins. Someone speaks your call sign, and you strain over the
complaints of your shoulder straps to see the jumbo jet streak by, its
red semaphore blinking like a man in a dust storm.
Over the water now, cleared to climb to cruising altitude, cleared to
switch by the sleepy voice on a ship you'll never see, but whose job
it is to listen to a plane they'll in turn never see. Hard right
turn, not too hard or you'll enter Iran and turn a normal, anonymous
day into the shitstorm that ended Obama. Small nation states slide by
on the left, tiny potentates that ceased their potential centuries
ago, though no one's told them.
Bright blue, muted red, angry white, the colors shifting and fading,
beach giving way to land to flats and water. A new voice now, time to
start down. Copilot's approach, eye on him, eye on the mileage
readout, eye yet reserved for the colors.... the colors of time. The
readout continues its quick march lower and lower, strain to find an
airfield. Closer now, briefings complete, eye on the readout.
Cleared the approach, full procedure, contact tower at 8 miles.
Outside is a roar of sand, great billowing clouds that look like dusty
men o'war, disgorged and irritable. Turning final now, slowing to
approach speed, landing gear down. Field not in sight.
Closer and closer, through the timeless sands...
Readout says five; controller says land.
Readout says three. Controller says naught.
Readout says two. one point nine. one point eight.
Nothing ahead. one point six.
Sands begin to part, giving way to thin porcelain crack shapes.
Field in sight, deep breath, double check earlier work. Auto pilot
clicks off. one point four.
Hands at the ready. one point one. one.
Winds are high, watch your aimpoint. point eight. Little more
speedbrake. point six.
Watch your aimpoint... dump the nose. point four...
Showing you long, what do you see. point three.
point two. Pilot's aircraft. point one. point zero.
Metallic voice says fifty, power up, contract complete... soft chirp from the mains.
Welcome to Kuwait.
Taxi to park...
(Undisclosed location, Kuwait. July 2011)
I wrote this after returning from one of our combat sorties... Visibility that day had been around 1 mile.
"The sands of time"
drifting and surging in a heat of existence that speaks of time lost.
You punch in Karachi's frequency, hear his clipped quick speech, and listen as though it's a late summer's eve, on your neighbor's porch listening to the game. There's more traffic now, and you keep an eye
outside, watching as snow capped mountains fade to soft green, delicate and blurred like the fringe of the putting course.
Twilight now, rays reaching out and scaring away the shadows, black
evolving to gray, then to dirty white. Overhead the last few stars blink
slowly, fading to their places of rest to recharge and return when darkness
again wins. Someone speaks your call sign, and you strain over the
complaints of your shoulder straps to see the jumbo jet streak by, its
red semaphore blinking like a man in a dust storm.
Over the water now, cleared to climb to cruising altitude, cleared to
switch by the sleepy voice on a ship you'll never see, but whose job
it is to listen to a plane they'll in turn never see. Hard right
turn, not too hard or you'll enter Iran and turn a normal, anonymous
day into the shitstorm that ended Obama. Small nation states slide by
on the left, tiny potentates that ceased their potential centuries
ago, though no one's told them.
Bright blue, muted red, angry white, the colors shifting and fading,
beach giving way to land to flats and water. A new voice now, time to
start down. Copilot's approach, eye on him, eye on the mileage
readout, eye yet reserved for the colors.... the colors of time. The
readout continues its quick march lower and lower, strain to find an
airfield. Closer now, briefings complete, eye on the readout.
Cleared the approach, full procedure, contact tower at 8 miles.
Outside is a roar of sand, great billowing clouds that look like dusty
men o'war, disgorged and irritable. Turning final now, slowing to
approach speed, landing gear down. Field not in sight.
Closer and closer, through the timeless sands...
Readout says five; controller says land.
Readout says three. Controller says naught.
Readout says two. one point nine. one point eight.
Nothing ahead. one point six.
Sands begin to part, giving way to thin porcelain crack shapes.
Field in sight, deep breath, double check earlier work. Auto pilot
clicks off. one point four.
Hands at the ready. one point one. one.
Winds are high, watch your aimpoint. point eight. Little more
speedbrake. point six.
Watch your aimpoint... dump the nose. point four...
Showing you long, what do you see. point three.
point two. Pilot's aircraft. point one. point zero.
Metallic voice says fifty, power up, contract complete... soft chirp from the mains.
Welcome to Kuwait.
Taxi to park...
(Undisclosed location, Kuwait. July 2011)
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