Descent Into Baghdad

Its 0300 and I’m inbound for Baghdad. Finally. It’s been over 60 hours of nonstop travel, on multiple aircraft, through multiple airports and bases. From Ft. Dix, NJ by car to Baltimore-Washington International, where I boarded a transatlantic flight to Germany, then to one of the large U.S. "mega bases" in the Gulf.

The outfit I'm reporting to wants me there ASAP so immediately after landing I tried to catch a hop on anything going to Baghdad International (BIAP) and the cluster of bases surrounding it. Then hours of frustration and waiting in yet another pax terminal (milspeak for passenger terminal, which in this case is an industrial-sized, air conditioned tent). At least I caught some good "rack time" by setting up a makeshift sleep shelter under glaring neon lights. About 0230 I boarded this bird, a C-130 Hercules cargo plane.

Now, as I sit here on the canvas-webbed bench seats, I’ve got time and inclination to reflect. Strangely, the rough droning from four big turbo-prop engines on a C-130 has always had a calming effect on me. I feel that again now, even with parachutes and gear swaying next to me and bumping me in the shoulder as we climb out of Kuwait. Most everyone is catching Zs, and I scan their faces in the ethereal blue light bathing the cargo hold.

A young troop dozes, chin resting on his body armor. Next to me a sergeant from an Army reserve unit in Kansas is cradling his M-4 carbine, staring at rivets in the floor. He’s told me he’s been mobilized for 15 months and this is his first trip to Iraq. I wonder what he’s thinking. A fair-faced female soldier, decked out in Kevlar and digital cammo, rests her head on a fluffy pillow. Next to her a bearded, beefy civilian (possibly with a private security firm, judging by his kit) silently rocks out with his iPod.

Then there’s the foreign contractor directly across, probably from the Philippines or Nepal, based on facial features and sketchy English. I helped him strap in as we took off, and he looks nervous. Now the crew chief stands up in the back and signals us all to put on our helmets and individual ballistic armor (IBA), the sure sign we're entering a combat zone. We begin our descent.

In 2004, my first flight into Iraq was also at night on a C-130, and as the plane came in the crew punched off a couple of decoy flares, which I saw flash by the little porthole windows. Popping flares means there’s some kind of perceived threat, so that got my attention.

This time, we feel the aircraft bank into a few random turns and altitude changes – which means the pilot is taking basic evasive maneuvers. But there aren’t any flares, which is good. Craning my neck, I glimpse the lights of Baghdad as we set up on final approach.

I run through a mental checklist to make sure I'm ready to unload, but its a short list. I've gone over everything so many times now, there's not much more to check. I feel pretty squared away. I could be sent to any one of a dozen or so FOBs (Forward Operating Bases) across Iraq, but I've consciously decided to let that process unfold as it may, without stressing or attempting to steer it. Whatever happens, happens. I'll try to be ready for anything.

I say a little prayer as runway lights flash by underneath us, and the Herc's wheels touch down with a bump.

I'm here.