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.

Independence Day (A Few Days Late)

Barbecue and gunfire at Jonestown today. It was a fairly light expedition this go-around, as I only took four items out of the small-arms locker. No fireworks, but lots of gunsmoke and spent brass.

There was also a fairly new shooter present, which is always fun. We ran the basic safety stuff and the general rules of operating the AK and the M-16. The 870 and the 1911 got their moments in the sun, and our hapless target was summarily dispatched.

Things to ponder:

- I need more earplugs

- I need more magazines

- I need more buckshot

- I need more targets

- Shooting stuff is fun

- Shooting with friends is better

- Milsurps and riot guns are natural enemies of plywood

Good times all around.

The Shame of the World Trade Center Memorial

(From a conversation on TFC - original discussion here: http://thefedorachronicles.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=3&t=3924)

So it appears the memorial plans have been scrapped. Go figure.

You know, the whole thing reflects extremely poorly on the mindset of the American people. As has been explained better elsewhere, it's a shining example of how indecisive we are and how short our collective attention span has become. Going on seven years and all we've got to show is a hole in the ground - come to think of it, pretty much the same thing we had September 12, 2001.

By 1944, most of the ships sunk at Pearl Harbor were either back in circulation or cannibalized for new parts. Even the Arizona lent her guns to new defenses on the island of Oahu, and she's pretty much become the symbol of the whole event. Another ship, West Virginia , boasts a particularly active war record; not only was she present (and damaged - six torpedoes and two bombs) on December 7th, she was also involved in several major engagements later in the war, to include covering landing men at Leyte, the later battle of Leyte Gulf, the Philippines, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa. At the very last she was present in Tokyo Bay for the signing of the surrender.

Of similar repute (but unfortunately less note) were the destroyers Shaw, Cassin, and Downes. Shaw is seen in the first picture underneath that fireball formerly comprised of the contents of her forward magazine. Despite the considerable damage, she was refitted and served out the rest of the war.




The second shows the remains of Cassin and Downes with the battlewagon USS Pennsylvania in the background.





As all three ships were in drydock, the damage came entirely from bombs and secondary explosions. Pennsylvania served out the rest of the war, providing fire support at Makin (1943) Kwajalein, Eniwetok, the Marianas, Tinian, and Guam, and attended the battle of Leyte Gulf along with West Virgina (1944).

Salvage work on both destroyers was considered complete by the end of 1942, with both ships returning to service a year later. Cassin went on to serve at Letye Gulf and provide fire support off Iwo Jima. Downes spent the remainder of the war running convoy duty between Eniwetok and Saipan and eventually patrolling the waters around Tinian.

But that was when Americans knew how and when to fight. Good God...if it happened with the American public of today West Virginia would still be sitting up the superstructure in saltwater while whole slew of committees wring their hands and try to build a proper meatball memorial - all the while expressing proper regret for the imperialist use of such a ship in the first place, of course.

Pathetic. No better word than that.

Heller vs. District of Columbia

From: http://www.scotusblog.com/wp/court-a-constitutional-right-to-a-gun/

Answering a 217-year old constitutional question, the Supreme Court ruled on Thursday that the Second Amendment protects an individual right to have a gun, at least in one’s home. The Court, splitting 5-4, struck down a District of Columbia ban on handgun possession. Although times have changed since 1791, Justice Antonin Scalia said for the majority, “it is not the role of this Court to pronounce the Second Amendment extinct.”

Examining the words of the Amendment, the Court concluded “we find they guarantee the individual right to possess and carry weaons in case of confrontation” — in other words, for self-defense. “The inherent right of self-defense has been central to the Second Amendment right,” it added.

The individual right interpretation, the Court said, “is strongly confirmed by the historical background of the Second Amendment,” going back to 17th Century England, as well as by gun rights laws in the states before and immediately after the Amendment was put into the U.S. Constitution.

What Congress did in drafting the Amendment, the Court said, was “to codify a pre-existing right, rather than to fashion a new one.”

Justice Scalia’s opinion stressed that the Court was not casting doubt on long-standing bans on carrying a concealed gun or on gun possession by felons or the mentally retarded, on laws barring guns from schools or government buildings, and laws putting conditions on gun sales.

The Court took no position on whether the Second Amendment right restricts only federal government powers, or also curbs the power of states to regulate guns. In a footnote, Scalia said that the issue of “incorporating” the Second into the Fourteenth Amendment, thus applying it to the states, was “a question not presented by this case.” But the footnote said decisions in 1886 and 1894 had reaffirmed that the Amendment “applies only to the Federal Government.” Whether the Court will reopen that issue thus will depend upon future cases.

The Court in essence demolished the most recent precedent on the Second Amendment — the ruling in U.S. v. Miller in 1939, relied upon heavily by advocates of gun control (and by the dissenting Justices on Thursday). The opinion tartly remarked: “It is particularly wrongheaded to read Miller for more than what it said, because the case did not even purport to be a thorough examination of the Second Amendment.”

In District of Columbia v. Heller (07-290), the Court nullified two provisions of the city of Washington’s strict 1976 gun control law: a flat ban on possessing a gun in one’s home, and a requirement that any gun — except one kept at a business — must be unloaded and disassembled or have a trigger lock in place. The Court said it was not passing on a part of the law requiring that guns be licensed. It said that issuing a license to a handgun owner, so the weapon can be used at home, would be a sufficient remedy for the Second Amendment violation of denying any access to a handgun.

While the declaration of the individual right was clear-cut, as was the decision’s nullification of key parts of the Washington, D.C., law, the Court did not lay down a standard for judging the constitutionality of any other federal laws — an omission that the dissenters attacked strongly. Even so, the opinion made it clear that, whatever ultimate test emerge, it probably would be a tough one to meet, at least when self-defense is at issue. As Justice Scalia put it, whatever remains for “future evaluation” about the strength of the right, “it surely elevates above all other interests the right of law-abiding responsible citizens to use arms in defense of hearth and home.”

Justice Scalia’s recitation from the bench of the majority’s reasoning continued for 16 minutes. Justice John Paul Stevens followed, for seven minutes, summarizing the reasons for two dissenting opinions — his and one written by Justice Stephen G. Breyer.

The decision was the final one of the Term and, after issuing it, the Court recessed for the summer, to return on Monday, Oct. 6. Chief Justice John G. Roberts, Jr., said that concluding orders on pending cases will be released by the Court Clerk at 10 a.m. Friday.

So in sum, the right to own a gun is now recognized by the Feds as referring to the indivual man, as opposed to the collective masses. Took long enough, but I guess even they get one right once in a while.

Two hundred and seventeen years to figure out something that was there from the beginning.

Scary.

Greetings and Salutations

Dillo: Shorthand of the Spanish armadillo ('little armored thing') Texan for 'speedbump'; also the official roadkill for the state of Texas. Secondary use as a form of delicacy in parts of Arkansas and Louisiana (see also ditch cuisine).

Quixote: Taken from Don Quixote, the crowning work of Spanish author Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra; generally accepted to mean impractical, overtly romantic in nature, unrealistic; sometimes impulsive or rash (see quixotic).

To those who know me, welcome to my newest waste of time - it's good to see you around again. To those who don't, an introduction.

I come from the southernmost reaches of hell. Perhaps some of you know it as Texas in the summer months. Alas, our is not a dry heat. I am possessed of one college career, several hobbies, one instance of gainful employment (I work at a gun store - it's not near as awesome as it sounds) and a home resembling a large overturned aluminum can with wheels. If you aren't at least a little afraid by now, it's entirely possible you're as big a redneck as I am. Praying would be wise, as modern medical science has yet found no cure. Many condolences.

Until then, crack open something cold and pull your lawnchair up to the bug zapper. Bring stuff to grill. Bring your dog (not to grill). Bring your truck. Bring your gun, though I do ask that you unload it before you start rooting in the cooler.

Welcome to Dillo-land.