BAGHDAD INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT -- It's Lanny White's 15th flight
into Iraq, and he expects another smooth ride.
A flight engineer, White glances around the dimly lit cockpit of the
C-130 looking for a piece of wood to knock on. Finding none, White bangs
his knuckles in the air.
The plane has just taken off from Kuwait International Airport and
glides above a blue-gray haze smothering southern Iraq. In about one
hour, White and his five-person crew from the Minnesota Air National
Guard must land this hulking aircraft on a runway in Baghdad, by putting
the plane into a steep dive that yanks at even the most senior crew
member's stomach.
"We're getting used to it," said Cindy Hibbits, the plane's navigator.
Over the past few months, numerous airplanes have been fired on while
approaching the Iraqi capital. None has been hit so far.
At night, most airplanes land and take off from the U.S.-occupied
airport in darkness, using combat maneuvers. The Minnesota crew has been
briefed before this evening's flight that a C-130 had possibly been
engaged earlier in the day, White said.
In all of these incidents, officials suspect surface-to-air missiles or
rocket-propelled grenades or possibly just an Iraqi radar locked onto
the plane as it descends. The threat requires some fancy flying and
makes for a harrowing ride for the hundreds of troops flying in and out
of the Iraqi capital every day. The troops sit in the windowless cargo
hold, unable to see outside, but able to feel every maneuver.
The Minnesota flight crew glows with a cool confidence. Before takeoff,
pilot Dan Kenefleck, a pilot for Northwest Airlines back home, talks
with the passengers about the latest bombing in Baghdad and about the
brawl at Fenway Park the night before. In the cockpit, Kenefleck charts
his course, while copilot Nate Kazak reviews a briefing of "high-speed
penetration" techniques into Baghdad.
Their route takes the plane out of Kuwait, over the Persian Gulf, north
toward Basra, and then into the capital. The entry into Baghdad would be
"random," White said.
The sky over Iraq changes from blue to gray to black. A soft golden ray
of sun rims the horizon. Orange fires of oil refineries flicker in the
darkness below. Toward the east, the lights of Iran flicker like a giant
switchboard in the desert.
Based in Minneapolis-St. Paul, the Air Guard crew has been deployed for
much of the past two years, running routes between Kuwait, Afghanistan,
Qatar and now Iraq. The crew heard they were going home at the end of
this month, White said. But like many units, they have come to expect
extensions.
White turned 40 recently, sitting in the engineer's seat of a C-130
somewhere over the Middle East. As the plane approaches an Iraqi city,
off to the west, the crew shuts off the cabin lights to reduce
detection. The four-person cockpit crew scans the area with their
night-vision binoculars. They are looking for any sudden flashes --
anything that could signal a missile launch.
Kenefleck looks down from the pilot's seat, White scans ahead of him and
Kazak monitors his side. The plane's four propellers hum in the
background. The air-traffic transmission crackles in their headsets.
The pilot calls out the combat-entry checklist: "Survival kit. Defensive
system . . . " The navigator announces 10 minutes to combat entry.
"Could you pass me my flak vest, please," Kenefleck asks the navigator.
The copilot pulls on his own vest.
As the plane descends slightly, White considers whether to depressurize
the aircraft and eliminate another heat source. He said the
surface-to-air missiles are seeking heat. Many aircraft come equipped
with flares, which are decoys for the missiles.
The cabin goes dark again. Ahead is the Iraqi capital. From the air,
Baghdad looks like Los Angeles -- white lights stretching for miles,
only dimmer.
"Baghdad Airport, this is Glide 77, looking for scooby," the navigator
says.
The crew's Minnesota accents are met by an Australian one, broadcasting
from the Baghdad control tower. He relays weather information and
landing directions to the crew. The pilot and copilot put on their
Kevlar helmets, fixing their night-vision scopes on top.
The pilot points out four lines of dim lights -- the marking of two
separate runways. To the northwest of the airport is central Baghdad.
Without warning, the plane banks sharply to the left and its nose drops.
The sudden loss of altitude pops eardrums and yanks stomachs.
Kenefleck continues banking sharply and dropping fast in a corkscrew
maneuver -- designed to lower the hefty cargo plane quickly and
evasively to avoid enemy fire, launched from outside the airport
property.
Within seconds, the plane has made a complete 360-degree downward spiral
and straightens out its wings just before its back wheels softly touch
the runway and the front wheel eases to the ground. Outside the window,
there's a flash of light.
The flares -- designed to act as decoys if the plane detects a radar
lock on it or a missile -- have gone off. The crew confirms the
discharge.
They sound puzzled, as the plane taxis toward safety, following the lead
of a pickup truck with its hazard lights blinking. White thinks it could
have been accidental. The flares are not designed to fire when the plane
is already on the ground.
Two military intelligence officers board the plane to investigate.
Outside, a group of soldiers, carrying dusty rucksacks under a cluster
of floodlights, wait for the next flight.
