Beating the Devil

‘XY 666, ready for PGCA’ the right-hand seat pilot says to the Air Trafficker. We hear it over the flight deck intercom. I look around the cabin: the square of plastic with FDIC fading on it is illuminated at every position. I can see the groans of my fellow aircrew. Can’t hear them though: engine noise: the white noise through the headset. We are expecting the co-pilot to say it though. The Engineer brought the good news along with the last on-station cup of tea.

A button numbered 3 lights up: it’s Steve. Officially we’re off-station: we can talk on the rear-crew intercom. Some supervisors don’t see it like this: luckily Derrick, today’s supervisor, is filling his computer keyboard with the shredded cabbage, carrot and salad cream spilling out of his maw as he eats.
‘Happy Birthday,’ Steve says.
‘It’s tomorrow,’ I say, ‘September 3rd .’
‘Oh. Well. Happy landings.’
‘I hope so.’
’100 miles out, on centre line, above the glide path, correcting nicely…’

I turn the FDIC off; naughty. But I don’t want to listen to the Cranwell-ised Brummy accent of the Air Traffic Controller. It’s a talk-down more or less; the pilot has some control, but a ground radar has a lot of input. Starship Enterprise’s tractor beam is not so far-fetched after all. Anyway, if there’s an inflight Emergency it’ll be on override. And I’ll see the light flashing. And maybe Rabbit’ll even wake up. For the first time since we took off.

The approach is for practise: a real one would be done in poor visibility. I look out of the one of the three windows that, as a member of the ‘Mission Crew’, I’m very lucky to have. Gin Clear, miles and miles of blue sky, no cloud - and miles and miles of sand down below. The view is as dull as the missions are. After a PGCA it’ll be a roller landing or two. Pilot training. This is the reason for the groans: our aircraft was relieved on station 30 minutes early. Only 8 hours listening to nothing, if you discount the static.

I look over at positions 11 and 12. They are animated in conversation. Although I’ve been doing this for 10 years, my lip reading’s not up to much. Shame: I’ll need it in a couple of years. There’s a monitoring facility on my position. Left over from when more important people sat in it. It would cost too much money to take it out, so there it stays. I punch the button that reads 'Listen to Op'. Short for operator, even though none of us have really done much operating if we’re honest. I stab buttons 11 and 12 for good measure:
‘Wouldn’t have happened on Maritime…’ says 11
‘Too right. Training is not for operational theatres.’ 12 agrees.
I deselect them. In 10 years flying I have taken part in one exercise. Everything else has been operational: including 2 ‘conflicts', in the words of the politicians, and two wars. The ex-maritime boys wax nostalgic about their former lives at every opportunity, even though they jumped through a lot of hoops to leave them. Scotland is the end of the world for some people.

I tap the FDIC button:
‘ 70 miles out left of centre line, on glide path, correcting nicely.’ It comes out ‘noicely’: officer training hasn’t quite been able to squeeze the vowels out of him.
The engineer gives a fuel report. I deselect FDIC. The number 8 lights up: shit! Derrick what does he want? He has direct access: that means you have to listen to him, whether you press his button or not. My seat’s intercom has this too: but we’re discouraged from using it, we’re not important enough:
‘Anything for the summary?’
‘What do you think?’ I say. The light goes out. My own did long ago.

I wonder how I’m going to get around the 3-can rule for my birthday. The airmen are only allowed 3 cans a day after the latest misdemeanour committed by a bored Senior Aircraftsman on his 3rd 6-month detachment in the last 3 years. We don’t know what the terrible deed was. I hope he fucked the local chieftain’s favourite camel while whispering the M-word in its ear.

Everyone’s strapping in. It’s early: we’re still too far out. I slap on the FDIC:
’30 miles out on glidepath, on the centre…’
‘Break, break ,Tower from XY666 Bingo fuel, cancel PGCA request approach for immediate land.’
‘XY666 are you critical? You are currently number 3 in the pattern.’
‘666 fuel critical approaching for landing.’
You can hear the air trafficker’s gulp over the radio. The voice changes: female, this is one of our more enjoyable experiences normally. Of course, she doesn’t live up to our approach for landing fantasies, but I for one won’t be having any today.

Our airframe suffers from leaks. The Maritime version of the aircraft does too. We know it, the ground engineers know it, the aircraft manufacturers know it and the MOD knows it too. But it’s still flying: 666 isn’t the oldest by any means, the Maritime Squadrons have one that’s 37 years old. The leaks of course aren’t from the tanks: they’re from seals and grommets that ground engineers are frightened to remove, much less replace. Stores do not hold vast inventories any more: not cost effective. So, if SAC Bloggs finds a perished seal, the aircraft is grounded until a new one can be sourced. This usually means ‘robbing’ it. Taking it from another aircraft not on operations. Since we only have three, and one is always undergoing major service, that leaves no aircraft not on operations. Often the answer is to rob a seal from a maritime aircraft: they’ve got loads after all.

I look around the cabin. I can see to just beyond half way. If I turn my head I can see right to the galley and the toilet next to it. A full crew complement is 29. Everyone looks nervous. Greeny at rack 9a is jerking one leg up and down, like he does if ever he is actually busy on station. Since we’re not, well… Buster next to him, on an electronic surveillance rack, is picking his nose and examining the fruits of his labour. But he doesn’t eat it as he usually would. He smears it on the plasma screen of his workstation; some DNA for a possible crash investigation team to identify him with.

We’re all hoping we have enough fuel to keep us at minimum landing weight. Even if we are, it’ll be bumpy. I expect the others are thinking about the heavy locked boxes containing our pistols under the net in the galley. No-one seriously believes the net would hold it in heavy turbulence, never mind a pancake landing.

The voice goes:
‘ 10 miles out, check gear down.’
‘3 greens gear down for landing, nose wheel checked’
‘Cleared to land.’
The aircraft gives a lurch. The remains of Derrick’s salad decorate him and his plasma screen. The net at the back holds. The pilot doesn’t panic. There’s even a little flare as the aircraft seems to hover for a demi-second before the wheels touch feather-light on the tarmac.

The after-landing checks pass me by completely, and the taxi to our stand seems to last for hours, even though I know its no more than 20 minutes. I look out the window and give Shug the Crew Chief a wave. He doesn’t wave back. I wonder why. Shug plugs in :
‘Afternoon sir, ready for shut down checks.’
‘Tricky one that, Shug.’ The pilot says. ‘Almost spilled my gin and tonic.’
‘Ready for shut downs, sir.’ Says Shug. Shug is popular, just come down from Maritime, always ready for a laugh. Not today.
The engines are shut down. We pile off with all the secret computer disks and empty crisp packets and Styrofoam cups. I walk over to Shug, who’s unplugged. I slap him on the back:
‘Beat the devil again. Coming for a drink tonight? My birthday tomorrow.’
‘Some didn’t.’ he says.
‘Eh?’
‘Beat the devil: a maritime jet went down over Afghanistan today. Fire in the cabin.’
There’s nothing to say. I head for the crew-bus and know I’ll beat the three-can rule for the next two days. I also know I won’t always beat the devil, not unless I get out.