Chapter 40

As the big three engine passenger/cargo jet taxied out to the end of runway, the flight engineer came back and leaned over the seat back and said to Colonel Gilliam, “Sir, we may have to delay eighteen hours, with the temperature rising and our fuel load we may not have enough runway...”

Colonel Gilliam dismissed the flight officer with a wave of his hand. “Use the overruns, both ends if you have to.” And that was that.

The warmer the temperature gets, the less dense the air becomes, and an airplane’s wings are not able to generate as much lift. Cannon AFB has a very short runway, 4,295 feet and has traditionally supported fighters and C/AC/MC-130 aircraft which do not need a long runway, but a DC-10 needs a lot of concrete ahead of it to take off, even in December it can be too warm for a loaded DC-10 to take off, especially with a belly full of fuel.

The flight officer returned to the cockpit with Col. Gilliam following. The pilot was reviewing his revised flight plan. “What the fuck is this crap, Ramstein? Who authorized this mess?”

“I did,” said Colonel Gilliam, and quietly he explained he was transporting Lanh and an investigative team to Ramstein Air Base. Colonel Gilliam had several men who were gravely injured, and he wanted to nail someone’s hide to the wall. “Any questions?”

“Not one,” said the pilot, a retired USAF B-52 driver. He turned to his co-pilot, a recently retired Navy P-8 Poseidon flier. “Let’s get that lady to Germany.”

“Aye, aye skipper,” and soon the big plane pulled onto the runway and turned to face into the west, ready to take off. The engines revved, their pitch growing higher, the scream getting louder, the engines started roaring, and the plane rolled backwards.

The pilot had engaged the reverse thrusters and began backing the plane onto the soft overrun as far back as he dared, while the Control Tower counted the distance to the edge of the runway’s overrun.

“Ten feet ... five feet ... two feet ... that’ll do.” There the giant plane stopped, its tail hanging out over the desert and inches from striking the approach lights.

Again, the engines began roaring. The passengers, all flight savvy technicians and air crews, looked at each other in excitement. They knew they were on the overrun; this was unbelievable! The engines revved up until the plane was shaking roughly, the roar of the engines was tremendous and occasionally a shout of excitement could be heard from the passengers, then with a jerk, the plane lurched forward and began its takeoff roll.

Every bump and expansion joint on the ancient runway could be felt and heard as the DC-10 rumbled along, going faster and faster, gaining speed and momentum. The pilots that sat around Lanh knew this runway intimately, so they knew every bump and thump of their progress, and each one of them knew in their soul that they weren’t carrying enough speed to get airborne. But 4,350 feet later, the big old bird clawed its way into the air and struggled upward, finally holding a steady altitude of 300 feet. There, with the landing gear retracted and a little bit of downward angle, it gained speed. Engines continuing to shriek, the big jet began a wide sweeping turn toward the north, howling as it now began showing her power and muscled her way into the sky. It proudly gained altitude, moving faster and faster. It lifted her nose and left New Mexico in her wake.

When finally, at long last, the seatbelt light went off, Lanh’s angel popped her head over the seat and said, “You have to go potty.”

“Ok,” Lanh said aloud and unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Pardon?” asked Colonel Gilliam, thinking she was talking to him.

“I have to use the bathroom,” she said and stood up. The colonel let her out, and she walked forward to the toilet. In there she simply reveled in her privacy, completely alone for five minutes, then she was surprised to find out she really had to go. She’s been so sick with worry over Don she ignored her bodily clues. She washed her hands, splashed some water on her face, and walked out to bump into Jenny Dolan.

Jenny was a bouncy, cheerful southern belle, a supply specialist senior airman. She was married to a Staff Sergeant in the squadron orderly room. Jenny indirectly works with Don, he’s constantly running to her supply section picking up the bits and pieces they need to work on the aircraft, and she’s also a member of the Enlisted Wives Club, and she was shocked to see Lanh step out of the bathroom. “Miss Lanh? You can’t be on this airplane! Somebody might see you!” She honestly thought that Lanh was a stowaway.

“Oh Jenny,” Lanh cried and wrapped her arms around the startled airman.

At the same time, Lieutenant Colonel Dawson got on the intercom. “Men and women of the five twenty third, this is Colonel Dawson. Several hours ago, nearly a dozen men and women were seriously injured in a jet blast incident at King Abdul Aziz airbase. Most were enlisted maintenance folks; others were civilian contractors, all were American. Many of the details are still coming in, there’s a lot we don’t know, but what we do know is that the aircraft was not from our unit, but three of the injured are from the 523rd Fighter Squadron.”

He paused for angry murmuring, but the airplane remained silent. Three of their own were down. Jet blast incidents, also known to the ground troops as “getting rolled” and being “Rag Dolled” are generally single item or single person incidents almost always caused by a maintenance person’s inattention to a taxiing aircraft. The fact there were multiple people from multiple organizations told the stunned airmen that this was bad, people don’t just line up behind an airplane, this had to be the fault of an inattentive pilot. At King Abdul Aziz, there were units from many USAF squadrons flying out of there, as were British, French, German, and Saudi Arabian units. There were occasionally “Black” planes which were not actually black, but they carried no markings which distinctly smelled like CIA.

Now Lanh started crying on Jenny’s shoulder as Lieutenant Colonel Dawson continued. “What we do know is that the incident was not due to the actions or inactions of any of the injured personnel and that the injured are now being medevacked to Wiesbaden Medical Center in Ramstein Germany.”

Now the men and women of the 523rd knew their first suspicions were right, some airplane driver fucked up bad.

“Aww, honey,” gasped Jenny, “it was Don, wasn’t it?” All Lanh could do was nod as she tried to choke back her tears. “Come on, we’ll sit down right here,” then Jenny glared at a lieutenant that was sitting where she wanted Lanh to sit. “Outta the way, dumbass.” The lieutenant scrambled to get out of the way. He knew the golden rule: if you want a plane to fly, you don’t mess with supply. Jenny and Lanh took two seats next to a window and another captain, call sign Zoomer had watched where Lanh’s carryon was placed. He opened the overhead bin and pulled out a hand stitched quilt that Lanh had carried onboard with her. It was a quilt that Don’s mother made for him before she succumbed to cancer. She brought it to comfort Don, and if needed, to be buried with him.

As Jenny covered herself and Lanh with the quilt, Lieutenant Colonel Dawson continued. “We will not be stopping at Shannon Ireland our traditional fueling stop. Before takeoff we took on extra fuel so we could fly to Ramstein, I will be getting off there as will the family of the injured. Our wing commander, Colonel Gilliam is with us and will be flying to Saudi Arabia to lead the investigation.” Lieutenant Colonel Dawson handed the microphone to Colonel Gilliam.