Round Chambered—Ready to Fire

My non-stop post-9-11 deployments inexorably creep west across Asia. Less than a year after the towers fall, I relinquish my stateside command, and take a deployed C-130 unit launching sorties from Jacobabad, Pakistan, and airdropping supplies to special forces at night in the rugged Afghanistan mountains. Eighteen months later, in early 2003, I command a hybrid squadron of active duty and air national guard C-130s flying out of Seeb, Oman for the initial invasion of Iraq. Now, in autumn of the same year, I command my fourth squadron in fifteen months, another hybrid unit operating from Al Udeid Air Base, Qatar.

Every new deployment moves closer to Baghdad. The longer the conflict persists, the more our armed forces’ infrastructure and bureaucracy balloon. The military machine cannot help itself—give us forty-eight hours and we’ll erect a tent city for three thousand personnel. A month and we’ll contract with Green Beans Coffee, then sign a negotiated agreement with the host nation to serve beer within our base boundaries. Contrary to the Air Force-bashing myths, I’ve never seen plans for a golf course at a deployed location, but I did command a base in Kuwait where my service had built a swimming pool.

Al Udeid—or, The Deid—is the hub of this inevitable growth. It serves as both the Central Command’s Air Force Headquarters, and as the launchpad for the largest concentration of combat aircraft in the Middle East. Fighters and bombers line the ramp. Air refueling and cargo planes use the mile-long asphalt tarmac like a giant bingo board, parking in perfect rows and columns.

A typical C-130 squadron contains 12 airplanes. My new unit flies 36 of the lumbering four-engine aircraft and includes 50 six-person aircrews. It’s the largest operational C-130 unit ever put together.

Before exiting my tent for the in-brief with the operations group commander, I pause at my ops officer’s bunk.

“What do you figure this fighter guy will think about three-hundred C-130 guys moving in to his base?” I ask Lt Col Bill Rudd

The fighter pilot mafia runs the Air Force. An F-16 three-star general leads the headquarters. Another F-16 one-star commands the wing. And the 379th Air Expeditionary Group—the unit my squadron falls under—is run by an F-15 colonel. There’s more testosterone floating around this base than the beach volleyball scene in Top Gun.

Rudd laughs. “You know better than that, Sir. Those fighter dudes don’t think about us at all.”

He’s not wrong. My new boss worries about targeting, friendly fire, downed airmen, and all the sexy kinetic action a flier expects during a prolonged air campaign. After five minutes of “welcome to Al Udeid,” Colonel Black sends me out the door with his commander’s intent: “You know what to do—so do it.”

Another commander might have been disappointed at the lack of guidance from their supervisor. I’m not. The fewer fingers he has in my business the more time for me to escape my make-shift office, either walking the ramp talking to flight crews and maintainers, or hopping onboard with an aircrew and flying missions. I stop by the schedulers desk and put myself on a mission to Baghdad later in the week.

Seventy-two hours. That’s how long my squadron manages to stay under Col Black’s radar. When I return from the late-night Baghdad mission, my ops officer greets me at the plane.

“Boss, we got an issue. Two of them, in fact. I need to brief you before you go in and see Col Black.”

“What do we got?”

“We got two planes impounded, each for a missing M9 round.”

I squint at Rudd. The M9 is the semi-automatic pistol that replaced the Smith & Wesson revolvers used by the Air Force until 1985. The M9 shoots 9mm rounds. A missing round—especially in an aircraft—is a serious problem. If a maintenance technician gets off the aircraft with fewer tools than he or she entered with, that aircraft is impounded until the tool is found, or a multi-day inspection is completed. Same procedure for a missing bullet.

But how can our crews lose an ammunition round? We store our weapons in the C-130’s locked gun box, each loaded with a full magazine and a round in the chamber. Before we takeoff, each aircrew member retrieves the 9mm from the gun box and holsters the weapon for the flight. When we land, we stow the M-9s back in the gun box. You can’t lose a round unless you fire the weapon and require a reload. And if we got guys firing weapons during our missions, I would have already heard about it.

“Two aircraft? What the fuck, Rudd?”

“I know. I can brief you on the way in.”

I ask my copilot to finish filling out the flight paperwork. Rudd gives me the details on the way back to the squadron.

“It’s the Guard guys. One loadmaster lost a round clearing his weapon on the ramp. The other plane had a navigator lose one right next to the gun box.”

“But why–?”

“Let me finish, boss. The Guard guys don’t like our system. They’re asking how they can confirm there’s really a round in the chamber when they pull the M9 from the gun box? How do they know the weapon is good to go unless they do a function check? So they’re clearing the round, to make sure it’s there, reloading the mag and chambering the round.”

I shake my head. “Unnecessary. We’ve told them it’s got a round in the chamber. And Life Support inspects the weapons every week.” I keep my voice even, but I’m pissed. This is the type of thing that always plagues active-duty and guard unit relationships. We active duty aircrew always think the guard runs things fast and loose—just a bunch of good ol’ boys with keys to an airplane. They all think we active-duty guys got a stick up our ass, and only pull it out if we lack a pencil and need something to write a new set of rules with. “I’ll go see the boss. You put out a read file reiterating our procedure. I want the duty officer personally briefing each crew.”

“Roger.” Rudd stares at his feet.

“What?”

“They kind of got a point, boss. The guard aircraft commander told me that if he’s flying one of our active duty aircraft into a combat zone, he has the right to make sure everything works.”

“Put out the read file, Bill. Let’s fix this. I’ll go see the Colonel.”

Col Black is none too impressed. I endure a ten-minute lecture about how impounded aircraft are useless, this is a matter of attention to detail, and how it cost us two missions that soldiers in combat are relying on. Actually, we had a spare aircraft and were able to come up with another, so we haven’t lost the missions. But I keep that to myself and answer with ‘yes sirs’ at all the appropriate moments. Before my dismissal, Col Black surprises me with a declaration I’ve never heard from a boss before. “Torrens, if this shit happens again, it’s on you. I’ll have you on the first plane out of here and find someone who knows how to run your unit.”

I’ve worked for a several commanders with a temper. The issue tonight is no joking matter. But I’ve never been told this is strike two before.

“Got it, sir.” I salute.

Col Black doesn’t return it. “Go fix it.”

Rudd already has the read file printed by the time I return. The duty officer is briefing early morning crews on our procedure—and the reiterated prohibition not to clear weapons on the flightline or in the aircraft.

I grab four hours of sleep in my tent. At breakfast, I seek out the guard’s only chief master sergeant, Chief Barnes, who sits with a major I met when they first arrived. They’ve both heard about last night’s events. The chief isn’t happy about the lost objects—the rounds—but makes the same argument as Rudd. “You can’t send guys into combat without knowing whether their weapons are functional.”

“Bullshit, Chief. We do it all the time with our flare system.” The flares are what the C-130 uses as decoys when evading heat-seeking surface-to-air missiles. “We don’t launch flares out in flight to see if they work. We trust the folks who installed them.”

“Bullshit back at you, Sir. You run a systems check on the flares in the cockpit before takeoff. That’s more than you’re letting the aircrew do with their M9s.”

Chief Barnes is right—I hadn’t considered that before.

For the next two days, everything on the schedule runs smooth. The two impounded aircraft are back flying. The first was operational within four hours after maintainers found the missing round. The second was on the ground for a full day and night before the inspection cleared the aircraft to fly. The bullet was never found. Meanwhile, I’m touring other flying squadrons around the base to see how they work the weapons issue. The fighter units all have armories where they store their weapons with clearing barrels where aircrew can individually function check and load their weapons. Transit cargo and refueling aircraft use a gun box like we do, but they’ve personally checked their M9s before leaving the US at their home-station armories.

I call home to the tech sergeant running our stateside armory and ask him questions about how to set one up. It’s a hell of a lot of work—at least a three-week process if we have to order a clearing barrel from out of theater. I make a checklist of everything that needs to be done. I spend another day thinking about it.

That night we lose another round in the plane.

I try for the first word when I walk into Col Black’s office, but instead of the irate commander I encountered the first time this happened, my boss seems almost serene.

“Cam. Thanks for coming by. This isn’t working.”

“I know, Sir. I thought the guidance we put out would do it, but—”

Col Black interrupts. “I’m not talking about your guidance. I’m talking about you working for me. It’s not working out. I’m replacing you.”

My stomach feels like it’s dropped through the floor of the forty-foot trailer in which we sit. I’m unsure why I’m surprised. Col Black told me there wouldn’t be another chance. I know he doesn’t have time for this shit. This very serious shit. But I’ve never been fired before.

“Sir, I have a plan.”

“I do, too. I’ll be working the phones tomorrow sourcing your replacement. You’re in command until they get here. Don’t fuck things up in the meantime or I’ll send you home with paperwork as well. That is all.”

I give myself a single minute on the walk back to my unit for a pity party. A couple of “fucks” muttered under my breath. A brief glance at the sky with an accompanying “why?” But by the time I walk through the door I have a plan. We’re building an armory. I’ve got two major goals—build a system that works, so our bumbling bullet issue goes away. And finish it before my replacement arrives.

I don’t know who Col Black has told about my impending loss of command, but I’m not telling my unit until the door hits me in the ass on the way out. They all know something is up, though, because I’m full-court-pressing this armory issue every waking hour. I know my home-station troops are wondering what’s gotten into their normally even-keeled commander. The guard members aren’t surprised at my honed focus—they just think that stick in my ass somehow got wedged tighter.

The deputy ops group commander stops by life support. He finds me personally supervising construction while encouraging the civil engineering airmen voluntarily helping us out. Pulling me aside, the deputy asks questions about this new armory and what processes we’ll use. Before he leaves, he tells me my replacement hasn’t left the states yet.

On the third night, life support personnel transfer the weapons from the C-130s to the new armory. We have the required clearing barrel on order, but our maintenance metals team was able to fashion a temporary one out of a 55-gallon drum. Fortunately, we’ve had no more lost bullets while we were building our solution. The next morning, we’re operational.

Col Black pops in two days later.

“Show me this armory,” he says.

I walk him through what we’ve built and explain our processes. He nods at all the right spots. We both know building and using an armory isn’t rocket science. He’s probably wondering why it took a genius like himself to make these “we’ve always used the gun box”C-130 guys start doing things the fighter way. I just wonder if he’ll reconsider firing me.

“Your replacement is delayed for an issue at his home-station squadron. I need you to run things until he gets it squared away. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Yes, Sir.” There’s no way I’m letting on how relieved I am at the delay. But I am. Now that we’ve solved the problem, I’m even less excited about telling my subordinates I’m fired. So I don’t.

Three weeks later, Col Black stops me in the chow hall. “Looks like that armory’s working out OK. Any issues?”

“Working great, Sir. No issues.”

“Guess you guys fixed the problem.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m calling off your replacement. But you’re still on probation. Anything else and you’re gone. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Another commander might suspect Col Black has been toying with me. Using empty threats to get me to move faster.

I don’t.

My unit created a problem for him. I’m responsible for that unit. He decided to fire me. Now he’s changed his mind. I don’t care if he’s an asshole. I don’t want to be fired. I take my second chance and run with it.

Our aircrews thrive for the remaining three months of the deployment. When an earthquake nails Bam, Iran, we make headlines flying the first US military aircraft into Iran since the botched hostage rescue of 1980. Col Black starts smiling at me. My shattered confidence slowly returns to fighting form. The relationship between the guard and my unit is strong—the guard crews might have been frustrated at our rules and procedures, but they like our team. My active-duty guys feel the same way—they respect their guard counterparts. I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished.

When we pack up to fly stateside, we exchange goodbyes on the tarmac. Chief Barnes slaps me on the back.

“You made it, Sir.”

The only person I’ve shared my “almost-fired” story with is my ops officer, Bill Rudd.

“Yep.” I still don’t plan on sharing the experience with anyone else.

Chief Barnes grins. “Come on, boss. We all knew. No one wanted you to get fired. The guys think you’re OK.”

I’m surprised but try not to show it. “Well, I appreciate them falling in line with the armory. Saved us from losing more bullets.”

“Hmmm.”

“What?”

“It helped, I agree. But some of our guys are gun guys. They just can’t help themselves with those end-of-the-ramp function checks.”

“They were still doing it?” I gape at the Chief. I can’t believe it.

“One or two.”

“Thank God they didn’t lose any more ammo.”

Chief Barnes slaps me on the back. “No, Sir. You should thank God they brought extra bullets for when they did!”