And it will do so at the worst possible time, even if you've done everything to insure it wouldn't.
This one's for you folks who pop in on weekends. Remember Fuzzybear Lioness agonizing over her Excellent Gate-Crashing Exploit? Wonder what she'd have had to say if she'd been along on this particular magic carpet ride...
Every year, every Army Aviator gets a birthday present from Fort (aka "Mother") Rucker -- his (okay, okay, or *her*) very own Flight Physical. However, just to insure that unwrapping this particular present isn't all beer and skittles, Mother also sees to it that some units don't have ready access to an Army Flight Surgeon and must make do with the services of an Air Force Flight Surgeon (and who knows where *their* hands have been).
Army Flight Surgeons habitually sit patiently in their dank lairs corner offices in the local Clinic - Wellness Center - Whatever, patiently awaiting the arrival of whomever happened to have the misfortune of being born during that particular quarter of the year. Generally speaking, they're usually accessible except, of course, on Wednesdays, when they're out on the links with every other doctor within six counties. Visiting one is relatively simple -- hop in your car, find a Fort, slow to a crawl so the gate guard can see your access decal, produce your ID card for scrutiny and you're over the major hurdle.
Air Force Flight Surgeons view their demesne from behind massive desks of exotic wood situated in the center of their I Love Me offices, situated at the hub of their brightly-lit suite of examining rooms. A reservation for an appointment is, naturally, de rigeur; but since they golf on Mondays (to avoid the crowd of lesser docs), they're pretty much Doctor-Is-In on Wednesdays. However, availing oneself of the services of an Air Force Flight Surgeon entails travelling to the ethereal realms of -- an Air Base.
Which means getting past Base Security. The guys who are firmly convinced every Army Aviator has a burning desire to steal a multiengine, starched wing, fuel-bladder-with-a-cockpit.
So, the optimum solution is to fly *over* the APs, have a ground guide direct you to nestle the helicopter 'midst the aluminum overcast, get picked up by the crew bus and deposited in the vicinity of the Flight Medicine Edifice.
Weeeeelllll, that's how it's *supposed* to go. Nip back upstream and re-read the first sentences. I'll wait...
Okay, cutting to the chase: I'd made the reservation for the appointment, gotten the reservation, confirmed the reservation, refrained from eating anything containing cholesterol for 72 hours (followed by a 12-hour water-only fast), notified my Ops I'd need a Loach, computed the weight and balance form, did the aircraft performance planning, filed the Flight Plan, obtained the PPR (it means Prior Permission Required, Barb) to land at The Air Base, notified Base Ops that I'd be shutting down and would not require fuel, that I planned to be there for at least three hours and would request a Fire Guard when I was ready to depart.
I preflighted my trusty OH-6 and launched from home station. Ten minutes out from The Air Base, I called Base Ops on UHF to notify them I was inbound and gave them my PPR number. Five minutes out, I called Tower on VHF and announced that I had the numbers; I'd been listening to ATIS (not ADIZ -- whole different ball of wax) for wind data, landing runway, altimeter setting -- gotta do *something* when you're solo in a Loach, so you might as well find out what's going on at your destination before you get there. Tower cleared me to land and taxi to the ramp, where I could expect a ground guide to park me someplace I wouldn't contaminate the F-16s.
I entered the ramp and hovered in place, then spotted two blue boxvans approaching from different areas of the Jet Farm. Converging, actually. On *me*. With extreme rapidity. Just as I thought, "Well, gee, this is really nice of 'em, but I don't *need* a ride to the -- "
*screech of brakes* Out of each van popped
a. an AP with M9 in one hand and a Motorola Brick in the other,
b. two APs with M16 magazines firmly inserted into M16A1s and
c. one AP with an M60 attached to a fifty-round belt.
Ain't a single blank adapter on nuthin'. Copper jackets twinkled from the fifty-round belts, with orange noses in the appropriate locations. "Swell," I thought. "After they ventilate me, the Flight Surgeon can fill out the paperwork for my physical at the same time he does the autopsy..."
"Put your hands up and get out of the helicopter," comes The Voice of Doom from the ninth AP, hiding behind a van with a Brick in one hand and a loudspeaker in the other.
Bear in mind that I'm still at a three-foot hover, looking down the barrels of six automatic weapons.
"Put your hands up. Get out of the helicopter. This is your last warning!"
I key the mike on UHF and ask, "Hey, Ops, Guard 267 -- do you have commo with the A-Team out here?"
"Roger that."
"Could you please tell Hannibal Smith that I've gotta *land* before I get out? This thing doesn't have a Hover Button."
"*snort!* Roger, 267. Don't rip them too much after you get out -- they were just briefed that there's an alert pending and this place is secure against all threats except helicopters..."
*sigh*
Howsomever, I *did* pass my Flight Physical, and with no sign of elevated blood pressure.
Probably because my heart didn't start beating again until a couple of hours later...
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