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      Early in the morning of 18^th April, 1981, I had the pleasure of rocketing out of Jeddah in my 707 - beginning an eight hour flight to Casablanca in Morocco.  After our first five airborne hours, we planned to make a one hour stop at Tunis, Tunisia, on the north coast of Africa – then commence a three hour flight to Casablanca.  In spite of tankering fuel, our load was light so we climbed straight away to 39,000 feet - found not much in the way of headwinds - allowing us to make good time.

     Since the Kingdom possessed an abundance of oil, along with the facilities to refine it, the Saudis subsidized their fuel at the pump.  Whenever I rolled into a gas station at Jeddah, I underwent a flashback to 1958 - making me feel I was in high school again - resulting in a grand smile. 

     Why?  You may well ask, dear reader.  On account of I was only paying twenty-five cents per gallon!

      1958 High School carwash. SHELL charging 25 Cents per gallon of gas.

     Therefore, as fuel was so cheap in the Kingdom, all SAUDIA flights tankered fuel when possible.  This made us pilots extremely happy – tons of spare fuel was always welcomed in the event of bad weather or emergencies.

     At this phase of their growth, SAUDIA used the B-737 on domestic routes, the B-707 and the Airbus on the Middle Eastern routes, the TriStar on mainly European routes, while the leased B-747s were used on the Far East runs.

     Immediately after launching we cut across the Red Sea, entering a beautifully clear day.  The temperatures were still mild, requiring us to wear our winter uniforms: jackets and ties, long-sleeved white shirts, with black and gold epaulets, and gold wings.  Our wool black jackets, with gold stripes and wings, hung in the closet at the rear of the cockpit, along with our black caps bearing gold cap devices.

     Upon crossing the Egyptian Coast, we tracked across empty desert to Luxor, where we got our first glimpse of the River Nile.  There was sparse cloud cover that day, so we had an excellent view of the terrain. 

     Luxor is located at a sharp bend in the River Nile.

    

      Luxor on the Nile with its temples.

     The airway we were on happened to follow the Nile to Asyut, and I marveled at the patchwork of lush green farms, enveloping both sides of the river, which ended in a harsh line against the desert.

     The Nile for thousands of years had been the living, throbbing heart of Egypt – drawing all life to it as a magnet.  Visually, what lay before me, confirmed this.

     Upon returning to Jeddah in three days, we’d fly this same airway in the opposite direction, during that hour “darkest before the dawn.”  Even from 37,000 feet, as it was usually a clear night, I’d easily spot the Nile – outlined by all the lights on both banks of the river. 

      Regarding the movie “The Mummy Returns,” dear reader, I was blown away by the balloon sequence at night, whereby the film’s actors drifted across the Nile.  For it replicates, in CGI, exactly what I observed so many times when I made this trip in the 707.  It’s beauty staggering beyond belief.

The balloon being launched. It started out as a gas-filled dirigible; later transforming to a hot-air balloon.  

     We left the Nile behind after Asyut, again passing over empty desert.  As we approached El Daba, on Egypt’s north coast, stratus cloud formed several thousand feet below us, resembling lamb’s wool, which partially concealed the coast line. 

     Even so, upon crossing blindly over the El Daba VOR, our faithful autopilot banked left...then rolled the 707 out on a new track of 316°...entering airway “White 727” which took us out over the Mediterranean.

     Noting the time, I took out the computerized paper flight plan, on my clipboard, wrote our ATA (Actual Time of Arrival) at El Daba, then checked my INS, on the center-forward console, for the ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival) at our next waypoint, and jotted that down also.

     About right now, you’re probably saying to yourself, “Hold the phone...what in the world is INS?” In a nutshell, dear reader, it’s this: an Inertial Navigation System (INS) is a navigation aid that uses a computer, motion sensors (accelerometers) and rotation sensors (gyroscopes) to continuously calculate via dead reckoning the position, orientation, and velocity (direction and speed of movement) of a moving object without the need for external references. It is used on vehicles such as ships, aircraft, submarines, guided missiles, and spacecraft.  We had two of them onboard, one for the pilot and co-pilot, manufactured by Litton, totally self-contained, directing our autopilot where to go, while telling us pilots what the wind was doing to us, and at what times we’d reach various waypoints and our ultimate destination.

     INS Computer and Handbook.

 INS keyboard.      

                                                            INS location in the cockpit.    

     Resting the clipboard on my lap, I picked up my mic, flipped the switch on the center console, which brought the number two HF Radio to life through the speakers overhead, and adjusted the volume of the HF’s noisy static.  While cruising en route, for comfort, we’d usually dump our Telex headsets and use the cockpit speakers.

     At this point in history, dear reader, the Egyptians were in bed with the Soviets – using Russian aviation equipment.  Unfortunately, the range of the Commie VHF Radios were limited to as far as one could spit.  Hence we were required to use WWII HF Radios for ATC (Air Traffic Control) radio transmissions with the Gypos.  We also used our HF Radios for time checks and news bulletins from the BBC out of London.  All airline clocks are set to GMT (Greenwich Mean Time) – also known as Z-Time (Zulu Time) - the time at zero degrees of longitude in Greenwich, England.  It’s important all airliners, flying worldwide, are set to GMT for correct position reports.  Concerning the news bulletins - the “First Gulf War” was raging between Iraq and Iran.  If it should spill over into the Kingdom, most of us flying mercenaries intended to jump ship.  For you see, dear reader, my boss, Prince Sultan Bin Abdulaziz, was not only the Minister of Defense and Aviation, but also the Chairman of the Board of Directors for SAUDIA – making it a division of the Saudi Air Force - which technically made me a flying merc.

     Bringing the mic up to my lips, I transmitted, “Cairo...Cairo...Cairo, this is SAUDIA one two eight. Over...”

     FYI, dear reader:  All airline radio transmissions, worldwide, are made in English, which superseded French as the international language.  Thank God.

     While I listened to the static - waiting for Cairo Control’s response - I gazed at Captain Faisal Al-Sindi in the Left Seat.  He was a handsome, 42-year-old Saudi male, with curly dark hair, thick mustache and goatee, of average height and build – who possessed a U.K. education.  For a moment my eyes locked on Capt. Faisal’s large, liquid-brown orbs.  He gave me a questioning look, as if to say, “Why the hell doesn’t Cairo Control respond?”

     In answer to his facial expression, I said, in English, “He’s probably on a ‘goat-break’.”  

     Capt. Faisal laughed – exposing white, even teeth.

     Flight Engineer Hussein Mahdi - Saudi male, 36, heavy-set, dark, full mustache and hair - swiveled round in his F/E chair situated between, and behind, the captain and myself.  He asked Capt. Faisal, in Arabic, “Excuse, please...what did he say?”

     To which Capt. Faisal replied, in Arabic, “The Cairo Controller is in the back garden fucking a goat.”

     F/E Hussein laughed so hard, for an instant, I thought he’d cough up a lung!

B-707 cockpit. Note seat positions for Captain (CAPT), First Officer (FO), and Flight Engineer (FE).

     I glanced over my shoulder and grinned at F/E Hussein, as I once again transmitted: “Cairo...Cairo...Cairo, this is SAUDIA one two eight. Over...”

     After another long pause, Cairo Control finally answered, in an Arabic accent, “SAUDIA one two eight...this is Cairo...this is Cairo...go ahead.”

     I then transmitted in response, “Cairo...SAUDIA one two eight checked El Daba at one four...flight level three niner zero.  ETA Kanar at three three.  Metru next.  Over...”

     Cairo Control responded, “Roger...roger...roger, SAUDIA one two eight. Report Kanar.”

     I then repeated his instruction, “SAUDIA one two eight...will report Kanar.”

     After which, I cut out the annoying HF Radio static, hung up my mic, and stowed my flight plan.  Glancing over at Capt. Faisal, I began the following conversation in a combination of Arabic and English:

     Here’s the kicker, dear reader.  You’ll notice that whenever I speak over a radio, or in a foreign language, I don’t stutter.  Conclusion:  Something has definitely scrambled the wiring in my brain!  

     “Pardon me, Faisal,” I begin in Arabic.  “Let me see if I understand you correctly.  In order for me to get the vacation dates I want...I have to give my Equipment Manager 400 Riyals to be donated to the PLO.”

     Capt. Faisal smiled wisely, and said, “That is correct, my friend.”

     This confused me further, so I asked, “But aren’t they a terrorist organization?”

     “Yes...they are,” Capt. Faisal confirmed.

     PLO (Palestinian Liberation Organization) terrorists.

     Still in the dark, I continued, “I’ve often read in the news media where the Saudi Government has said they are against terrorism.  Is this true?”

     Unfazed, Capt. Faisal answered, “That is also correct.”

     I seemed to be in a holding pattern, wandering uselessly in a racetrack manner, so I said, “Please forgive me, Faisal, for being such a donkey...this absolutely baffles me.”

     Capt. Faisal laughed good-naturedly - then elaborated, “We Arabs make a big issue over lying...which in itself is a lie. In reality we think the sin is not in the lie...it is being caught in the lie.  We are taught this from childhood.”

     Capt. Faisal took a sip of water, and then stated in a relaxed manner, “Saudi Arabia tells the world it is against terrorism, and that it is a friend of the West.  While it finances terrorist groups in all of our neighboring countries...keeping them weak and in chaos.  How else can we prevent our neighbors from invading us?” 

     He paused - studying my reaction - then made up his mind and proceeded, “As for the West...we hate the Great Satan. Because we need the West for protection, which makes us lose face and feel inferior.  To counteract this, we embrace Islam...making us superior to the Great Satan.”

     Capt. Faisal was then interrupted by a knock at the cockpit door.  Reaching overhead – he pressed the switch that released the cockpit door’s lock.

     The door swung open and an attractive Stewardess - 21, Moroccan – entered, bearing an etched-silver tray with Arabic coffee and dates on first class crockery.  She set the tray on the center console.

     As we all dug in, the Stewardess quietly left – closing and locking the cockpit door behind her.   

     I took a sip of green Arabic coffee from a porcelain demitasse - then bit a date in half - savoring the unique taste of date-flavored cardamon spice. 

     Holding up the demitasse, I looked at Capt. Faisal, and said in Arabic, “You know...when I first tried this about a year ago, I thought it tasted like turpentine.  Now, I can’t get enough of this green coffee...I’m thoroughly addicted.”

     Capt. Faisal laughed, and then asked in Arabic, “Is that the truth?”

     Giving him my best, wide-eyed, innocent look with my baby-blues, I likewise replied in Arabic, “But of course, my dear Captain.  Would I ever lie to you?”

     Tickled pink, grinning broadly, Capt. Faisal observed in Arabic, “At last, my darling, you are thinking as an Arab.”

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