I smell like jet fuel

Long day yesterday.

Why? Because yesterday was inauguration day. You know... in case you you missed the $160M sucking sound from D.C., or the nonstop coverage, or the talking heads who couldn't help gushing over the new administration (which is sort of funny because I don't recall this kind of excitement over presidents whose titles haved ended in -R). But I digress.

I work here at our local FBO which - for those of you who don't speak aviation - stands for fixed-base operator. Basically, a full-service gas station for airplanes. Working there offers such perks as sticking tanks, scraping dead bugs of the school planes, and driving 5000-gallon trucks loaded with Jet A (I learned how to drive one at night. Surrounded by parked government aircraft. On an unfamiliar part of the airport. During my second week. It was an adventure).

A few weeks ago then-President Bush came to town. We got to fuel Marine One. Afterwards, once the crew had their bird hangared and tucked in, us ramp heathens got a tour. On invitation of the pilot we got to sit in the official presidential seat. There are pictures to prove this, though we haven't gotten them from the boss yet. Either way...executive helicopter tour. Can't argue with that (we didn't try).

So yesterday...last hurrah for the El Presidente Numero 43. A fun side note here is that, traditionally, the outgoing CIC is allowed one last flight on Air Force 1. Seeing as Bush has his ranch in Crawford - and our airport is the closest field that can handle a 747 - he came through on his way home.

It was a three-ring circus.

First it was the support elements. Those are your secret service guys, local police, state troopers, marine honor guards, and the aircraft that bring in all manner of fun stuff. And Kenya, the bomb-sniffing dog. That's about the usual for a federal VIP visit. We got that. About five o'clock the plot thickened somewhat when a line of tour buses pulled up to the gate and discharged what may have been the entire population of Crawford (the marching band arrived later). While that was going on - and yours truly was stuck at the tank farm refilling one of the trucks we put into an C-17 early - two charter jets and three Blackhawks arrived. And our neighborhood-friendly government contractor on the other side of the field called for a two-truck refuel on one of their project C-130s.

Now...our FBO has five trucks. Two were set aside for later. One stays permanantly dry as our defueling truck. So...two operable trucks with a demand for twice that. Fun. Meantime, I'm standing on a truck watching the pump run at a blistering sixty gallons per minute. Five thousand gallon tank. You do the math. Eventually I moved to another tank and refilled there, by which time the other truck was empty. I got to refuel that one, too.  Lucky me.  Coworker arrived midway through and we spent the better part of an hour concocting new and fun adjectives to describe our airfield equipment (and our day-shift cohorts, who were doing things besides minding the tank farm).

Now...theoretically speaking, us ramp monkeys were supposed to run back to the office afterwards for a chow break. The plan would have worked fine had the VIP helicopters not arrived early. Of course, once they landed we went to top those off - which compounded our little adventure once our truck's over-the-wing pumping gear started cutting out. We waited fifteen minutes to bum a power cart and managed to load through the single-point (easier, since it's a form of pressure fueling). Still without food, we returned once more to the tank farm to fill the truck. (Anybody see a pattern here?)

But we got that one filled, too. And we went back to the office, at which point our mananager told us to go back to the tank farm and wait for the ramp freeze. For those of you who've never experience one, a ramp freeze is pretty much what it says on the box. The tower calls for the freeze, and everything on the airport stops dead. Including us, being stuck in the delightful regions of Outer Mongolia for the duration. The freeze went into effect late. For an hour and a half we resumed our earlier educated and cool-headed assessment of the situation. Considerable bitching and moaning ensued.

Once they finally cut us loose we fired up the two reserve trucks. By now the fun was mostly over. El Presidente had arrived, de-planed, shook hands, and been helicoptered home. We, meantime, were listening to satellite radio, complaining about the lack of chow breaks, and counting rust streaks decorating the sides of our fuel tanks. Suffice it to say we missed the fun part. But they let us leave the tank farm, which sounded like a pretty good alternative given the events (or non-events) of our previous hour.

From there we took both trucks straight across the ramp. This was our last fueling of the day. Being pretty well beat I was glad to have survived this long (and markedly less enthused at the prospect of cleaning up the office and sticking tanks). A hundred yards or so out from the plane we were stopped. The trucks were given a once-over by security, and we moved on.

For all the complaints, aches, and sore places picked up during the day, there was one major saving grace in all this. Mechnically and physically it's no different than any other 747. But standing under the wing of that monster Boeing, looking up at the Presidential seal and seeing THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA blocked along the length of the fuselage, you get a sense of awe that's difficult to put in words; this isn't just a converted airliner - this is the flying Oval Office. A piece of America that's circled the globe. It's a symbol to the world for the United States - however those nations who see it may view us. It makes you think. You think about the man who occupied the bird for the past eight years, and the man before him, and before him. You think how much soul searching or praying or private conferencing has gone on behind those lit windows. Standing beside that plane in the dark of night, glancing between the ground crew and the running meter on the truck, watching as all the bunting and bleachers are portable lights are towed away...you wonder.

You realize certain things. For us - those that have seen it come and go for the past eight years, whether as line service or idle student or curious passer-by - this is the end of an era. We won't see her again. There will be long days, but none like this. For all the hassles and inconveniences and rushed scheduling you know you'll never be this close again. It's something you don't notice in the buildup and the excitement and the growing crowds. Then it's just work.

And then the crew flashes the belly light. The ground crew signals to cut fueling. You detach the lines and ground wires and get your numbers. The line monkeys and the plane crew huddles around with flashlights. They see how much Jet A went across, and from which. We get in the trucks and drive away. It's been a long day. A few minutes later, after the slowdown, we sit in the office eating cold pizza and sucking down drinks from the vending machine.  Our first-shift counterparts have abandoned us, carrying off the souvenir packets left for us by the Secret Service.  They also at most of the pizza that was supposed to be ours. 

Always a class act, day shift. 

Then that old familiar banshee wail comes from the far end of the airport. You see the running lights tear down the runway and begin to climb. If you still have your radio on you hear the tower make the handoff to departure. Not Air Force One - just another tail number for now. Things have changed. Temporarily for her. Permanently for you.

So bon voyage and adios and good luck, 28000. And 43. It's been interesting.

And I still smell like jet fuel.