On the runway

It's a cloudy day and surprisingly cool as we get off the bus in a group outside the C-130. We stand on the runway with our od green duffel bags until the crew has us board.  I note the name of the plane emblazoned boldly with white water rapids on the tail. We are flying on the Niagara.

The NCOs help me with my four bags.  They are heavy,  and one of them makes a face, "Sir, What did you pack! ".

Once we climb inside we sit down on the canvas seats. It is dark inside,  like a cylindrical cave lit by dim small lights overhead.  I'm by the open door so I could feel the propwash, it feels good in my face and ruffles my hair. The crew chief makes his final checks outside. His flight suit is open, and his dog tags dangle free over his sweat stained shirt. 

Our small group sits on bright red webbed seats. I smell that aviation smell of oil and fuel, hear the roaring hum of the propellers and the slight whine of the hydraulic systems inside. We all sit side by side and across from each other. 

I squeeze the little foam ear plugs, roll them into cylinders. They slowly expand in my ears,  muting out the racket into a faint and modulated roar. The crew chief slams the hatch, wipes his red face and the wind goes away. 

We sway as we taxi down the runway going over the cracks between the runaway slabs. The engines thunder, increase pitch. Vibration doubles as they build power.  A jolt makes disrupts our inertia for a moment when they release the brakes, and we bolt forward with a burst of speed. The aircraft bumps and sways as we barrel forward.  I grab good hold of the webbing behind my head.

Suddenly, the ground falls away and we are pressed into our seats. From the relative darkness of the plane, the tan Kuwaiti landscape glistens brightly through the small round windows, briefly lighting up the interior of the C-130.  There is a brief moment of weightlessness and then we are airborne, on our way to Qatar.