heavily accented English. “Recommend Nahla enhanced arrival procedure three, the base is at Force Protection Condition Bravo, cleared for enhanced arrival procedure three, acknowledge.”
“Negative, Nahla, Scion One-Seven wants clearance for the visual to two-niner.”
The supervisor was unaccustomed to anyone not following his instructions to the letter, and he stabbed at his mike button and shot back: “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, a visual approach is not authorized in FPCON Bravo conditions.” FPCON, or Force Protection Condition (formerly called “Threat Condition” or THREATCON), Bravo was the third highest level, indicating that actionable intelligence had been received that an attack was possible. “You will execute procedure three. Do you understand? Acknowledge.”
A phone rang in the background, and the deputy tower controller picked it up. A moment later he handed the receiver to the supervisor: “Sir? The deputy base commander for you.”
The supervisor, further annoyed by being interrupted while he was working an inbound flight, snatched the receiver away from his deputy. “Captain Saad. I’ve got an arriving flight, sir, can I call you back?”
“Captain, let that inbound flight do the visual pattern,” he heard the familiar voice of the American colonel say. The deputy base commander was obviously listening in on the tower frequency awaiting this flight. “It’s his funeral.”
“Yes, Colonel.” Why an American special mission aircraft would risk getting shot at by not performing the high-performance arrival procedure was unclear, but orders were orders. He gave his deputy the receiver, sighed, and touched the mike button again: “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, you are cleared for the visual approach and overhead pattern to runway two-niner, winds two-seven zero at twenty-five knots gusting to forty, RVR four thousand, FPCON Bravo in effect, cleared to land.”
“Scion One-Seven, cleared for the visual and overhead to two-niner, cleared to land.”
The supervisor picked up the crash phone: “Station One, this is the tower,” he said in Arabic. “I have a flight on final approach to land, and I’ve cleared him for a visual approach and pattern.”
“Say again?” the dispatcher at the airport fire station queried. “But we’re at FPCON Bravo.”
“The American colonel’s orders. I wanted to put you guys on notice.”
“Thanks for the call. The captain will probably move us out to our ‘hot spots’ on taxiway Delta.”
“You’re cleared to preposition on Delta.” The supervisor hung up the phone. He then made a similar call to base security and to the hospital. If there was going to be an attack—and this was the perfect opportunity for one—the more alerts he could issue, the better.
Through his binoculars, the tower supervisor searched for the aircraft. He could see it on his tower radar display, but not yet visually. It was about six miles out, coming straight in but offset to the west, appearing to line up for the downwind leg for Runway 29—and he was ridiculously slow , as if configured for landing while still several minutes from touchdown. Did this guy have some sort of death wish? He relayed the aircraft position to security and crash responders so they could move to a better position…
…or get out of the way of the wreckage, in case the worst happened.
Finally, at three miles he saw it—or rather, saw part of it. It had a broad, bulbous fuselage, but he could not make out the wings or tail.It had no visible passenger windows and a weird paint color—sort of a medium bluish gray, but the shading seemed to change depending on background clouds and lighting levels. It was unusually hard to maintain a visual on it.
He checked the BRITE tower radar display, a repeater of Mosul Approach Control’s local radar, and sure enough the plane was flying only ninety-eight knots—about fifty knots slower than normal approach speed! Not only was the pilot
“Negative, Nahla, Scion One-Seven wants clearance for the visual to two-niner.”
The supervisor was unaccustomed to anyone not following his instructions to the letter, and he stabbed at his mike button and shot back: “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, a visual approach is not authorized in FPCON Bravo conditions.” FPCON, or Force Protection Condition (formerly called “Threat Condition” or THREATCON), Bravo was the third highest level, indicating that actionable intelligence had been received that an attack was possible. “You will execute procedure three. Do you understand? Acknowledge.”
A phone rang in the background, and the deputy tower controller picked it up. A moment later he handed the receiver to the supervisor: “Sir? The deputy base commander for you.”
The supervisor, further annoyed by being interrupted while he was working an inbound flight, snatched the receiver away from his deputy. “Captain Saad. I’ve got an arriving flight, sir, can I call you back?”
“Captain, let that inbound flight do the visual pattern,” he heard the familiar voice of the American colonel say. The deputy base commander was obviously listening in on the tower frequency awaiting this flight. “It’s his funeral.”
“Yes, Colonel.” Why an American special mission aircraft would risk getting shot at by not performing the high-performance arrival procedure was unclear, but orders were orders. He gave his deputy the receiver, sighed, and touched the mike button again: “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, you are cleared for the visual approach and overhead pattern to runway two-niner, winds two-seven zero at twenty-five knots gusting to forty, RVR four thousand, FPCON Bravo in effect, cleared to land.”
“Scion One-Seven, cleared for the visual and overhead to two-niner, cleared to land.”
The supervisor picked up the crash phone: “Station One, this is the tower,” he said in Arabic. “I have a flight on final approach to land, and I’ve cleared him for a visual approach and pattern.”
“Say again?” the dispatcher at the airport fire station queried. “But we’re at FPCON Bravo.”
“The American colonel’s orders. I wanted to put you guys on notice.”
“Thanks for the call. The captain will probably move us out to our ‘hot spots’ on taxiway Delta.”
“You’re cleared to preposition on Delta.” The supervisor hung up the phone. He then made a similar call to base security and to the hospital. If there was going to be an attack—and this was the perfect opportunity for one—the more alerts he could issue, the better.
Through his binoculars, the tower supervisor searched for the aircraft. He could see it on his tower radar display, but not yet visually. It was about six miles out, coming straight in but offset to the west, appearing to line up for the downwind leg for Runway 29—and he was ridiculously slow , as if configured for landing while still several minutes from touchdown. Did this guy have some sort of death wish? He relayed the aircraft position to security and crash responders so they could move to a better position…
…or get out of the way of the wreckage, in case the worst happened.
Finally, at three miles he saw it—or rather, saw part of it. It had a broad, bulbous fuselage, but he could not make out the wings or tail.It had no visible passenger windows and a weird paint color—sort of a medium bluish gray, but the shading seemed to change depending on background clouds and lighting levels. It was unusually hard to maintain a visual on it.
He checked the BRITE tower radar display, a repeater of Mosul Approach Control’s local radar, and sure enough the plane was flying only ninety-eight knots—about fifty knots slower than normal approach speed! Not only was the pilot
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