John O'Brien - Chaos

I roll out on our new heading and the aircraft is suddenly caught in the grips of the storms. Our initial turbulence nothing compared to the beating we take now. I am barely able to hold our altitude to within a few thousand feet. I pull the throttles back and attempt a descent to a lower altitude keeping the airspeed as close to 180 knots as possible thinking I should have done this prior.

“What are you doing?” Robert asks shakily.

“Descending so a large updraft won’t launch us above our service ceiling. That would be bad.”

I hear a scream, actually a couple of small screams, through the headset as the bottom drops out from under the 130; the kind of drop that tickles the stomach for a seemingly endless period of time. The monstrous drop is followed by a bone-jarring crunch as our descent slams to a stop.

“Well, that’s one way to do it,” I say applying power and leveling off as best I can.

We have just lost 5,000 feet in a single moment. A mile drop. This plane certainly was built well , I think, thanking the engineers who designed it and amazed the wings are still attached. I am pretty sure, for one split second, that my hips and shoulders became as one; compressing my torso into the size of a dime.

“Come left 45 degrees,” Robert says, threading us around another one. “There’s a little more distance between this one and the one we’re passing.”

Rolling out, I see the NDB needle twitches are mostly off our left wing now with a few to the upper right quadrant. The turbulence, although mighty, has decreased a bit from the roller coaster ride from hell to more like being in a paint shaker. We momentarily fly into open airspace; clouds built up all around and two, very impressive monolithic towers, one to the left of us and one to our right front. These monstrosities are lit by flashes within. We gaze up at them in complete awe before we are immersed in the clouds once again.

Threading our way around three additional large, red cells and feeling like we have been bashed against the side of a cliff repeatedly, we are suddenly launched into clear weather. One moment we were enclosed in the clouds, shaking to bits, and the next, thrown out of the system, emerging on the other side. The turbulence slows and then stops altogether, the drone of the engines filling the sudden silence, the 130 shakes it off and continues its harmony with the skies as if nothing happened.

“Fuck me,” I say breathlessly, pushing the throttles up to accelerate back to cruise airspeed. We had only been in the thunderstorms for about thirty minutes but it seemed like an eternity. I am coated in sweat and am pretty sure I will need to visit a proctologist to remove the seat cushion. “Good job everyone.”

I glance out the windows to the wing on my side looking for damage. Looking back over the wing, the storm continues to flash mightily as if angered we got away. The moon is out and reflects on the cloud tops with the thunderstorm anvils reaching out towards us.

“Check the wings on your side for any damage Robert,” I say after verifying that everything looks fine on mine.

As he glances out and behind him, I look up to the pressurization gauge. It still reads 10,000 feet and steady. Good. No leaks so the fuselage looks to be intact .

“All good over here,” Robert says and I turn off the wing lights.

Once we intersect our course, I set the autopilot. “I’m going in back for a look around,” I say unbuckling from the seat.

“Dad, I have to go to the bathroom,” Bri says.

“Me too,” says Nicole.

“Okay, you two come with me.”

They unbuckle and we head into the back. I turn on the interior cargo light and inspect the inside after showing them the toilet. All appears normal with the exception that some of our supplies have been tossed loose. While Bri is in the screen-enclosed toilet, Nic and I gather the stuff we can see and put them back as best as we can.

“Dad.”

“Yeah, hon,” I say stooping over to pick up a water bottle that has rolled loose and looking up to her.

“Thanks.”

“For what, hon?” I ask standing up with said water bottle in hand.

“I was terrified and thought we were…. Well, just thanks. I am really glad you’re my dad.”

You know, I live to just hear that line. That makes my whole life justifiable to hear that and my eyes well up with tears. “Hon, I’m the lucky and fortunate one to have been able to be your dad.”

She steps over and wraps her arms around me, burying her head in my shoulder. I fold my arms around her and feel her shake as she releases the emotion of the storm passage and the events of the past few days. That is my Nic, in all of my life with her, it is a rarity to see her cry and that is usually only a silent sob and the shedding of a couple of tears. I hear the curtain swing back, “What’re you guys doing?” Bri lightly asks stepping out.

Nicole steps back and I release my arms from around her. “Nothing, babe. Just picking some of this stuff up,” I say as Nicole starts for the bathroom.

“Are you okay, Nic?” Bri asks, half turning to follow her as Nic passes by her.

“I’m fine, Bri,” responds Nic turning her head toward Bri but continuing to the toilet and pulling the curtain closed.

“Help me with the rest of this please, Bri,” I say.

She turns back toward me and starts fishing loose items off the floor with an occasional glance toward the curtains and Nic. Those two have always been close.

With Nic finished and the loose items stowed, at least as many as we could find and gather, we head back to the cockpit, settling in our seats for the final hour and a half to our stop. I attach the night vision goggles to my helmet and brief Robert on what to do if we have to resort to a night vision approach. Basically, he is to read out the airspeed and altitude on the radar altimeter. The radar altimeter gives a reading on feet above the ground when we are within 2,000 feet. The altimeters are basically worthless down low as we don’t know what the local altimeter setting is. I will be looking out front for the runway with my instrument lights turned down. Night vision goggles aren’t the best for depth perception so it is important for Robert to call out the instrument readings so I can assimilate what I see with what he tells me to better present a three dimensional picture, although my hope is to be able to just use the landing lights and the GPS.

Having called many times on the radio and only receiving the one garbled and scratchy reply, I make one more call before beginning a long descent into Brunswick NAS, hoping to raise someone there. I call on UHF guard three times but as most every time before, am only met by continued silence. Switching to VHF, I try there, “Otter 39 on VHF Guard for anyone that can read me.”

“Otter 39, this is Gulfstream Four Juliet Golf on guard. How do you read?” I stare at the radio almost disbelieving what I just heard. We all look at each other in astonishment.

“Gulfstream Four Juliet Golf, read you loud and clear. What’s your position?”

“We’re about 100 miles west of Charlotte at flight level 350. Over.”

“Where are you out of and where are you heading? Over,” I say still incredulous about talking to someone.

“We left Florida a short time ago and are heading up by Columbus, Ohio.”

“Watch out for a line of thunderstorms up that way. The line is basically over the Chicago area extending several hundred miles Northwest and Southeast from there. You might be okay in the Columbus area though.”

“Copy that. I don’t have anything on radar yet but will be looking out for them. Thanks for the tip. What’s your location?”

“Roger that Four Juliet Golf. We’re an HC-130 a little over 330 miles west of Portland, Maine at flight level 200. We plan to bunk there for the night before refueling and continuing to Kuwait in the morning.”