A Long Way To Go For Chicken Shawarma Takeout - Brief Article

Our carrier and air wing had received orders to make an emergency deployment to the Persian Gulf. We were reacting to Saddam Hussein's flouting of UN demands that he disclose and allow inspection of sites developing nuclear and biological weapons. In the rush to gather all our trash and get underway within the allotted seven days--not to mention knocking out a quick round of FCLPs and CQ--the atmosphere was chaotic and tense. During the transit, we had barely settled down and grown comfortable with the idea of an extended deployment in a combat zone when we found ourselves perched off the coast of Oman. We were preparing to fly a couple of days of warm-up sorties before entering the Gulf and taking on the responsibilities of staring down the Iraqi menace.

During our two-week transit, we conducted day after endless day of training. We covered all the highlights: rules of engagement, tactics, smart weapons, desert survival, the use of AKAC code cards, and search and rescue. And somewhere in the schedule, crammed in between "The Bedouin: Our Mysterious Desert Friends," and "I Survived A Rabid Camel Attack: True Stories Of Desert Survival," was the brief on divert fields. Yeah, sure, Oman, whatever. If I had realized I would soon become intimately familiar with one of these little sand-whipped desert oases, I might not have dozed through that particular brief.

After joining up with my lead on the second day of cyclic ops, we proceeded on our mission, after which we returned to low holding at 2,000 feet for the last Case I recovery of the day. The launch took longer than expected as cat 4 went down, and by the time we broke the deck, gas was beginning to become an issue for me.

The deck was fouled after my lead landed. That was strike one. Another lap around the pattern behind four other Hornets, and--strike two--a bolter. My third pass was "trick or treat." You can see where this was going. Another foul-deck waveoff for strike three.

With the signal to bingo, I accelerated to get on my numbers and headed toward--where?--Seeb International Airfield in Oman. Accompanied by a new wingman, a Hornet behind me in the pattern, we stepped through the countless frequencies as we flew the profile. It soon became apparent that the Seeb controllers hadn't been told of their selection as my primary divert field and were none too happy about our imminent arrival. They ordered us repeatedly and unequivocally to proceed south to Masirah, the secondary divert field, another 80 miles away.

For the third time, I declared, "Chippy Four Oh Four is on an emergency divert for low fuel and will be proceeding west for Seeb International." The controllers finally capitulated and began giving us vectors. To make things just a bit sportier, it was now dark.

Eventually, the lights of Seeb came into sight, and we completed an uneventful landing and taxi. Uneventful, that is, up until the point where we shut down. Out of the darkness, 20 soldiers appeared, some with weapons at the ready. Once we got over our initial alarm at this unexpected sight, however, it became apparent that they were mostly motivated by honest curiosity and just wanted to see an FA-18. No one spoke English, however, and we were resigned to sleeping in the ducts all night before trying to refuel in the morning.

Just then, a Toyota 4Runner came screeching into view and skidded to a halt on the ramp next to our jets. An American got out, and we soon learned that he was the U.S. attache to Oman. He had arranged for fuel trucks and for security in the form of U.S. Marines standing guard overnight. We were quite happy to learn that we would also have beds to sleep in, a far more appealing prospect than the Hornet's intake ducts. As it turned out, our divert had political ramifications far beyond what we realized. The U.S. Embassy became involved when the Sultan of Oman, wary of the political consequences of appearing to lend direct support to the U.S. against Saddam Hussein, learned that two Navy fighters were about to land on his airfield. Thus, the reason for our controllers' considerable reluctance to help us during the divert.

The rest of our stay in scenic Seeb was unremarkable, and the next morning we flew back to the ship. The entire affair did teach me a few lessons. The most obvious is, of course, that you should always know your divert airfields cold, and have the necessary information where you can get to it quickly. Doing so would have saved me some fumbling while trying to get on my bingo numbers and find my way to a foreign airfield.

Second, just because you have done all your homework and know the divert cold, including runway layout, frequencies, arresting gear and lighting, doesn't mean they will be expecting or even welcoming you.

Finally, be prepared for anything when going into a foreign, unfamiliar airfield. Any number of political considerations or other circumstances may complicate the entire procedure and make a nightmare out of what might otherwise have been a golden opportunity to pick up some chicken-shawarma(*) takeout for the guys.

Despite this, once you've made the decision to go, you can't let the controllers run you out of gas; if the divert has been briefed by CVIC, and there aren't any other alternatives, then let the big boys sort out the politics later.

Lt. Picco flies with VFA-195.

(*) For the uninitiated, shawarma is usually made from grilled, sliced lamb, served with vegetables, sometimes rice, often in pita bread, kind of like the popular gyro. (All part of the service here at the Naval Safety Center)--Ed.

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