To Pakistan
I was on the gigantic plane, and it was absolutely silent. No high-pitched whir of the engines, none of the rushing sound of 700 mph going by the fuselage, none of that. It was strangely disturbing, the complete absence of any kind of typical sound of airline travel. I could hear tinkling glasses from first class, and the whispers of the teenage girls three rows ahead. The lighting was subdued, as it was night outside, but the interior sounds were warm and close, and I had a feeling of contentment and safety.
The view outside the window was even more fascinating. I was looking down at what appeared to be a highlighted outline of India. We were what I guessed to be a few hundred miles south of the southern tip, so we were looking a bit north. I guessed we were traveling from east to west. We were high above the sub-continent, and I mean really high. My view was almost that of looking down on a globe, and I realized we were far above the service ceiling of any aircraft I'd ever been on. I'd thought I was in a 747, but we had to be at 100,000 feet or more, probably even higher than that, given the incredible view. I realized that the darkness outside wasn't really nighttime, but the enveloping black of space. I didn't think we were in orbit, but we were awfully close.
I looked down at the outline of India, a subtle glowing bronze-yellow, quiet ant subdued, all of the surrounding features a darkened shade of light gray. It was incredibly breathtaking, the view, looking down onto India.
But I was headed to Pakistan and bam--on the ground and time to move out.
My buddy was there, a former Marine, now working in the embassy i some capacity that wasn't quite clear to me. Also in the car was the driver and a security guard. We climbed into the surprisingly small white sedan and headed out. My buddy, Pete, told me that we had to be ready for anything, and produced a huge Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun in matte combat black. He struggled to move it around in the front seat, and then started to hand it to the security guy in the back seat, riding with me on my right. As the gun bumped and wedged as he tried to get it over the seat--with us driving on down the street, me wondering why we hadn't sorted out weapons and security arrangements before we even got into the car--the muzzle swung right in front of my nose. I was staring down the gaping black barrel of this powerful shotgun, and I could smell the gun oil, and the smell of solvent and powder. A huge rush of memory of shooting with my dad, with my friends, of spending time on the range by myself, my time in the military.
The guy in the back, a really big, strapping lad, finally got the shotgun, and set it upright, the butt on the floor and the muzzle about 2 inches from the car's ceiling. I asked aloud how he'd employ this thing quickly and competently if it were needed. I didn't get much of an answer, but remember offering the idea of something like a modified flare gun that would shoot shotgun shells. Yeah, the kick and power of the thing would be a real strain on the shooter, but it would be a handy, easily concelable and highly maneuverable weapon in a closed space. That, and you could get half a dozen inside and available in a car like the one we were in. Nice idea, but we didn't have any of that now.
So, on the way to what I guessed was the embassy or wherever I was headed, it was time to stop at the shooting range. I didn't know if this was SOP or not, but I thought it was a good idea.
We were waved into a very nice parking area, and ambled into a sort of sporting club, very much like ones I'd been to in Germany. Nice appointments, and nice furniture. I got into my bag and started to pull out a number of weapons, wondering how it was I had them on my flight. I had a couple of .45s, a new .38 revolver, a folding stock auto-pistol in 9mm, and huge amount of magazines and ammo. Lots of spare parts, too, and I wondered why my bag wasn't as heavy as it should be.
Okay, we'd go shooting in a minute or two, but now it was time for local custom. The local hires we had were calling it "daiyar," whatever that means (and a Google search has not given me any clue as to why my mind came up with this term. It apparently was a mid-afternoon snack. And out came the food. Tons of it. We were around a nicely sized table, and it was just filling with food. I was hungry, sure, but wondered how I'd be able to eat dinner if I ate this stuff now. And what about the propriety of this? Could I refuse and not offend anyone? I had no idea. It all looked great, though.
And there was Mildred, a clear amalgam of all of the overweight, maternal, graying, and gruff-but-lovable character actresses from all of your favorite sitcoms and TV shows. Apparently she'd gotten a real-world gig doing security and admin for the embassy in Pakistan--were we really on the outskirts of Islamabad, I asked myself. She showed me a report she thought was particularly funny. It was an overly long, way too formalistic report of how a car had approached an embassy building and had not provided the correct number of automobile horn taps for the proper pass code or status report. Apparently they'd set up some kind of evolving code for horn taps to communicate status and security level. I wondered how that would work in a country like Pakistan, when the horn is constantly in use. Seemed a bit overcomplicated to me.
The report outlined a requied six horn toots, and only five had been given. Lots of comical confusion had ensued, with everyone ordered out of the car. Whoo, yeah, Mildred, that was some pretty funny, totally wacky stuff there. Thanks for sharing that.
And as we finally filed out of the clubhouse toward the range, things were looking up. The weather was magnificent, the sun low in the sky signalling autumn, but the air was warm. The air was still, with dust suspended, swirling like water in the slanting yellow rays streaming down. I didn't feel under threat, but it was time to go shoot a little bit.
The view outside the window was even more fascinating. I was looking down at what appeared to be a highlighted outline of India. We were what I guessed to be a few hundred miles south of the southern tip, so we were looking a bit north. I guessed we were traveling from east to west. We were high above the sub-continent, and I mean really high. My view was almost that of looking down on a globe, and I realized we were far above the service ceiling of any aircraft I'd ever been on. I'd thought I was in a 747, but we had to be at 100,000 feet or more, probably even higher than that, given the incredible view. I realized that the darkness outside wasn't really nighttime, but the enveloping black of space. I didn't think we were in orbit, but we were awfully close.
I looked down at the outline of India, a subtle glowing bronze-yellow, quiet ant subdued, all of the surrounding features a darkened shade of light gray. It was incredibly breathtaking, the view, looking down onto India.
But I was headed to Pakistan and bam--on the ground and time to move out.
My buddy was there, a former Marine, now working in the embassy i some capacity that wasn't quite clear to me. Also in the car was the driver and a security guard. We climbed into the surprisingly small white sedan and headed out. My buddy, Pete, told me that we had to be ready for anything, and produced a huge Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun in matte combat black. He struggled to move it around in the front seat, and then started to hand it to the security guy in the back seat, riding with me on my right. As the gun bumped and wedged as he tried to get it over the seat--with us driving on down the street, me wondering why we hadn't sorted out weapons and security arrangements before we even got into the car--the muzzle swung right in front of my nose. I was staring down the gaping black barrel of this powerful shotgun, and I could smell the gun oil, and the smell of solvent and powder. A huge rush of memory of shooting with my dad, with my friends, of spending time on the range by myself, my time in the military.
The guy in the back, a really big, strapping lad, finally got the shotgun, and set it upright, the butt on the floor and the muzzle about 2 inches from the car's ceiling. I asked aloud how he'd employ this thing quickly and competently if it were needed. I didn't get much of an answer, but remember offering the idea of something like a modified flare gun that would shoot shotgun shells. Yeah, the kick and power of the thing would be a real strain on the shooter, but it would be a handy, easily concelable and highly maneuverable weapon in a closed space. That, and you could get half a dozen inside and available in a car like the one we were in. Nice idea, but we didn't have any of that now.
So, on the way to what I guessed was the embassy or wherever I was headed, it was time to stop at the shooting range. I didn't know if this was SOP or not, but I thought it was a good idea.
We were waved into a very nice parking area, and ambled into a sort of sporting club, very much like ones I'd been to in Germany. Nice appointments, and nice furniture. I got into my bag and started to pull out a number of weapons, wondering how it was I had them on my flight. I had a couple of .45s, a new .38 revolver, a folding stock auto-pistol in 9mm, and huge amount of magazines and ammo. Lots of spare parts, too, and I wondered why my bag wasn't as heavy as it should be.
Okay, we'd go shooting in a minute or two, but now it was time for local custom. The local hires we had were calling it "daiyar," whatever that means (and a Google search has not given me any clue as to why my mind came up with this term. It apparently was a mid-afternoon snack. And out came the food. Tons of it. We were around a nicely sized table, and it was just filling with food. I was hungry, sure, but wondered how I'd be able to eat dinner if I ate this stuff now. And what about the propriety of this? Could I refuse and not offend anyone? I had no idea. It all looked great, though.
And there was Mildred, a clear amalgam of all of the overweight, maternal, graying, and gruff-but-lovable character actresses from all of your favorite sitcoms and TV shows. Apparently she'd gotten a real-world gig doing security and admin for the embassy in Pakistan--were we really on the outskirts of Islamabad, I asked myself. She showed me a report she thought was particularly funny. It was an overly long, way too formalistic report of how a car had approached an embassy building and had not provided the correct number of automobile horn taps for the proper pass code or status report. Apparently they'd set up some kind of evolving code for horn taps to communicate status and security level. I wondered how that would work in a country like Pakistan, when the horn is constantly in use. Seemed a bit overcomplicated to me.
The report outlined a requied six horn toots, and only five had been given. Lots of comical confusion had ensued, with everyone ordered out of the car. Whoo, yeah, Mildred, that was some pretty funny, totally wacky stuff there. Thanks for sharing that.
And as we finally filed out of the clubhouse toward the range, things were looking up. The weather was magnificent, the sun low in the sky signalling autumn, but the air was warm. The air was still, with dust suspended, swirling like water in the slanting yellow rays streaming down. I didn't feel under threat, but it was time to go shoot a little bit.
posted by Scrumpox at 8:05 AM
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