The Spocula, Jimmy Lynch and I are tired as shit. We’ve just completed another bag-drag, delivering hundreds of thousands of pounds of leftover luggage to Islamabad. After eight hours of flying, and three hours on the ground waiting for the Packies to unload the crap, we’ve just landed in Jeddah.
The Saudi’s, always the perfect hosts, want the Hajji’s leftover luggage out of Jeddah. “Just take it anywhere” the Saudia Ops man orders, “Take it to Islamabad!” O.K.
This leftover luggage is actually mostly personal effects, bundled up into prayer rugs or cheap straw bags, and tied up with twine. When the Hajji’s are herded through the Hajj terminal and onto airplanes for their return to Allah-Knows-Where, their luggage either makes it onto the plane, or doesn’t, inshallah!
A mountain of these leftovers has been growing out on the tarmac, adjacent to the Hajj terminal, as the waves of faithful finish their pilgrimage, and return home.
The only cargo we now have on board is Royal Dalton China, ordered by one of the Saudi Royals, some Saudi Prince.
Now, taxiing to the gate area, it becomes apparent that we have some kind of “Royal Priority.” Someone must have tipped off the tower and ground controllers as to our cargo and its destination. Suddenly all traffic at Abdul Azziz airport is stopping, giving way to us.
We are instructed by ground to proceed to Hajj Terminal, Gate A-1. Approaching the ramp area we are overwhelmed by the looming Everest of bags, rugs and suitcases. Rising from the ground, up higher than the roof of the terminal building, a vast pyramid of personal flotsam now occupies an area the size of a soccer field, on the concrete apron.
Another 747 had just pushed back from the gate we were to occupy. It was just starting to move forward to taxi towards the active runway, as we entered the ramp and turned towards our now vacant gate.
The Saudi ground controller orders the other aircraft to give way to us, that we have priority, because of one fucking box of dishes, for one fucking Saudi Prince, who eats with his fucking fingers. We all realize that there is not enough room for us to taxi past the other aircraft. Spocula says “Tell that ground guy to allow the other plane out, that we’ll wait for him. We can’t fit through that space.”
“Jeddah ground,” I say, “Saudia 806 requests you allow for Saudia 800 to continue its taxi-out first, so that we may, Inshallah, have room to enter gate A-1, shuckran, “
Bubba’s voice, obviously the captain on Saudia 800, says, “Thanks Keshy.”
The ground control, insisting that we “have royal priority,” orders Bubba’s plane to make a right 360 degree turn to get out of our way, and come up behind us.
A loaded B-747 can weigh up to 830,000 pounds. The amount of power needed to get it rolling straight ahead is pretty impressive. The power needed to ‘unstick’ the same airplane, allowing it to make a tight 360 degree turn, is much greater. Not wanting to damage any ground equipment or vehicles, Bubba tries again:
“Saudia Ground Control, Saudia 800 request taxi straight ahead to runway 36L. We will be out of the way of Saudia 806 in a minute.”
“NO! Saudia 800, immediately make a right 360 degree turn. Allow Saudia 806 to enter gate!” The manager of the ground control staff is now screaming on the radio. He will show us infidels who is in charge of this airport…indeed in charge of this Kingdom!
“Rabbi, do you know how much thrust these Pratt JT9D’s deliver?” Spock asks me.
Of course Spocula knows that we all know the answer to that one, he’s just starting the verbal drum-roll for what we all know is about to happen.
Playing along, I respond, “Well, Captain, I believe each of these four engines is capable of delivering about 45,000 pounds of thrust, about 90,000 horsepower, …a grand total of 180,000 pounds of thrust, or 360,000 horsepower.”
“That’s correct!” agrees Jimmy Lynch, now pushing his face between ours against the windscreen, preparing to see the show.
We all watch as Bubba sets his parking brake on Aircraft 800. We listen as he powers up to near take-off thrust. Our plane is shaking and throbbing in syncopation with the now deafening blast. We all smile, as Bubba releases his brakes. Saudia 800 makes a tight, sweeping, right 360’. As it does, 180,000 pounds of thrust blast into the Himalayan pile of luggage on the ramp. We blink, the mountain of luggage is gone and the apron is spotless.
“Now you see it, now you don’t,” drawls Bubba over ground frequency.
For miles around, hanging from buildings, airplanes, roofs and trucks, bits and pieces of laundry, straw and rugs litter the landscape.
Not one word is heard on the radio from Jeddah ground or Tower control as we taxi into our gate.
“The Mountain has come to Mohammed” announces Spock, as we climb out of the cockpit.