Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

the entrance to the Egyptian side of the base. Several more guards, in khaki pants
and ragged tennis shoes, stood in the road. Recognizing me and my truck, they
waved and opened the gate. That is, they lifted the wooden pole from two badly
dented oil drums and stood aside so I could pass.
With the truck’s windows down, hot air mixed with the flies and dust as I sped
down the road. On the right, toward the runway, the very last jet was coming
around on final, gear extended and landing light glowing. With a tiny thrill, I
realized they were American F-16s. All fighters carry identifying markings that are
plain to pilots but look like ancient Hittite to anyone else. I was still too far away to
read them but the placement of these markings on the tail told me they were U.S.
fighters.
Excited now, I mashed the pedal down and drove faster. For some strange
reason, the roadside curbs were painted with alternating two-foot sections of black
and white. This made driving after a few Fuzzy Navels a surreal experience. I often
wondered how many conscripts it took, and for how long, to paint miles and miles
of concrete with these stripes.
Coming to a big, L-shaped main intersection, I turned right and headed toward
the runway. There were several big dormitories, now empty, for the pilots to stay
when they were here. Behind them were a collection of hovels for the enlisted men
and conscripts. Incidentally, conscripts weren’t allowed to leave the base on
weekends, and about fifty of them were huddled by the road, looking toward the
runway with empty faces.
I raced past the headquarters complex, recognizable because of the date palms
planted in the forecourt and the monthly fresh coat of brownish-pink paint on the
walls. Think of vomit sprayed on cinder blocks and you’ve got the picture.
The road led directly onto the flight line. Western military complexes, and
particularly American air bases, are harder to get into than a nun’s panties. Just to
pass onto the main base you need a piece of plastic containing a computer chip
with your life history, medical history, and security clearance. Flight line access
means going through layers of fences, camera surveillance, more guys with guns,
and additional identification. Without the right ID, you’ll end up facedown on the
ground with a pistol in your ear.
But here I just drove on.
The runway and taxiways opened up before me like the parking lot at Wally
World. Or the state of Oklahoma. The Soviet-built TU-16 bombers that had
originally inhabited this place needed lots of space. Called Badgers, they were three
stories tall and had a wingspan of 108 feet. They’d needed acreage just to turn