TDYs to Saudi Arabia

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       From a young age, I yearned to see the world—all of it. I’d been to Germany and Luxembourg, and I woke up under a bridge in Belgium one time. Central Europe is just another version of the United States, though. Sure, they speak different languages and have barely noticeable differences in their culture, but I wanted to smell exotic aromas, taste bizarre flavors, experience alien customs, and observe people who didn’t look like us.

       Now I will!

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       I used to be a spitfire in my younger days. And I still can be—I just don’t have a hair trigger on my flame-thrower nowadays. But I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself. My first temporary duty assignment (TDY) with the AWACS (Airborne Warning and Control System) Wing was in the fall of 1984. Don’t ask me what the “Y” in “TDY” stands for; I never bothered to figure it out. I just went on them to various places around the world, this time to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, for thirty days.

       While stationed at Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma, I assisted in designing computer programs for the AWACS E-3A aircraft. The E-3A aircraft is a Boeing 707 with a large black and white mushroom-shaped radar dome mounted on top of the fuselage. The weapons controllers who sit at computer terminals aboard the AWACS can see the whole air war picture on their computer screens. Using their keyboard and trackball, they can assume control of a pilot’s fighter jet and maneuver it into position behind an enemy plane. At that point, the pilot squawks back on the radio with something like “I got a Judy. Thanks!” and locks a missile on his target.

       Airman Brad Williams accompanied me on my first trip to Saudi aboard a C-141 transport plane. I checked into my hotel room on the Air Force Compound in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and turned on the television. Clicking through the television channels, I stopped on the Saudi public station. I don’t remember a lot of what I saw in those few seconds before I flipped to another channel, but it loomed clearly that a man was about to have his head chopped off! I had heard that four Filipino men were going to be executed in a public square of Riyadh this afternoon for having witnessed another Filipino raping a Saudi Arabian woman a few weeks earlier. I did not want that gruesome scene in my memory banks and resolutely avoided their local station after that.

       Airman Williams and I stayed busy working twelve-hour shifts for the first week managing the magnetic tapes for the AWACS that looked much like the old reel-to-reel music tapes. We had one day off each week, and by the time that day arrived, I was spring-loaded to go wandering around Saudi Arabia.

       Raiders of the Lost Ark hit the movie theaters three years earlier, and Indiana Jones was my hero! Some people would say, “That’s just a movie.” If you’re one of those, you don’t get it. I was going to be just like him. I even wore an Indiana Jones hat. It’s called a Snap Brim Fedora. Mine was leather like Indy’s, and I had it handmade to fit me.

       I intentionally got lost venturing through the dusty, winding alleyways of Riyadh. My charmed spirit fled its commonplace confines into this faraway land of fables, embracing my childhood dreams with its mind-levering smells, magical sounds, strange food, and Bedouin-looking people. My senses sucked mysticism into my ravenous mind. Wanderlust seduced its heedful rival, blunting its cautious tips. Countless shops displayed their wares in front of their little nooks. Most memorable are the hundreds of genie lamps. I never saw any incense burning, but my nose sifted through their many wafting aromas. I have always eaten everything that I could present to my taste buds, but the spices that I tasted were unlike anything I had sampled in my life. The mysterious prayer calls echoing from the minarets sprinkled my journey with enchantment. I murmured under my breath, “I am Indiana Jones.”

       I won’t bore you with details about managing the AWACS Magnetic Tape Library or demonstrating mission replays for the brass. Let’s skip to my second day off. I signed up for a bus tour of the old city of Diriyah. Our journey traversed the Ad-Dahna Desert, nondescript except for long rows of cinder blocks dotting the pale orange sands as far as one could see. I would’ve bet heavy odds that those were property line markers delineating mineral exploration rights, specifically oil rights. But I didn’t know for sure.

       The bus arrived at the ancient ruins of Diriyah whose mud huts starkly attested to the peasant lifestyle in which typical Saudi Arabians lived before the discovery of oil. Narrow dirt pathways separated the adobe ruins. If it weren’t for oil, they might still be living in these mud huts. The guide explained that when the California Arabian Standard Oil Company struck oil, the residents of this old city practically abandoned it overnight as hundreds of millions of dollars gushed into the Saudi Arabian economy.

       The tour group and I went separate directions. Scouting the ancient packed-dirt roadways, I somehow felt as though I was trespassing through time. The pervading breeze conjured the whispers of children hiding from me as I wandered through the maze of their ghostly homes. And yes, the tour group had to send out a search party to find me when it was time to leave.

       Next on our tour was the gold souk of Riyadh. I’m talking acres of shops that are like one-car garages having flimsy pull-down aluminum doors, each one filled with vast treasures. This trove of idols forsook the realm of jewelry stores and settled firmly in garish, gold adornment emporiums. There were veritable tons of gold breastplates! A mind-boggling hour of gazing upon that spectacularly excessive sparkle and glitter hurt my eyes.

       Not wanting anyone to misconstrue my actions, I kept my hands deep in my pockets except when I paid for a trinket. Do you know what the penalty for theft is in Saudi Arabia—even petty theft? The executioner will expeditiously chop off your right hand with a sword.

       I recalled having read a full-page advertisement in the military Stars and Stripes newspaper where King Fahd welcomed American military contractors to the Royal Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. He promoted, saying something like: “Bring your families, too. There’s no need to worry about their safety—we have no crime rate. There’s not enough lawlessness to measure it.” It’s no wonder!

       I don’t know what got into me on my third day off, but inviting Airman Williams to drink with me in the Army Officers’ Club courted colossal disaster. I was toying with my self-destruct button.

       Brad and I took the military shuttle bus from the Air Force Compound over to the U.S. Army facility. “Brad,” I stressed, “you will avoid talking to any of the officers here at the Club because if they find out that you are not an officer, we will both be in a lot of trouble. Our limit is three beers each.”

       We swilled at least six beers each while we shot pool. Our foolhardy dabble into self-destruction unfolded without a wrinkle until we left to catch the military shuttle bus. We were five minutes late for the last bus, which meant we would have to take a Saudi Arabian bus.

       Drinking alcohol in Saudi Arabia is severely frowned upon, but I didn’t know how heavy-handed they dealt with it until I later learned about Sharia Law. Had I known what the penalty was, we would’ve stayed at that Army base and taken the shuttle bus the next day, even though that would’ve meant being AWOL (absent without leave). Not only did Brad and I chance a court-martial that day, but we were also courting a severe lashing and a lengthy prison term! Not to mention the resulting dishonorable discharge that would have precipitated. We made it a point not to breathe on anyone and not to talk to anyone, any more than necessity dictated. We were on high alert for the religious police. Brad and I expelled huge sighs of relief as we scampered through the Air Force Compound gates.

       Looking back today at my many adventures/misadventures, I can only conclude that the Lord has been my offensive and defensive guard faithfully. Thank you, Lord!

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       The evening after I arrived back in Oklahoma, my boss, Captain Bob Binford, telephoned me at my home in Midwest City. He told me that a personal problem had come up which necessitated his taking emergency leave for a few days, and I would be taking over his command of the AWACS Software Integration and Testing Branch. Bob briefed me on the current status of software projects and highlighted the pressing issues. “Lastly,” he said, “I want to give you heads up that Colonels Champion and Davis have decreed that Brad will not be allowed to re-enlist when his current enlistment ends.”

       “Why?” I questioned.

       “Brad has buried himself in trouble. They didn’t tell me all the details.”

       “What in the world did he do? It has to be pretty serious to stop him from re-enlisting.”

       “Between you and me, Scott...”

       “Okay, tell me.”

       “Three things—first off, he was apparently involved in a potential international incident while in Saudi Arabia.”

       “What?! He was with me during most of the last thirty days! What could he have done?!” I took a deep breath and briefly reflected on our imprudent alcohol-tinged adventure out into Saudi Arabian society.

       “As I said, I don’t know the details. That’s all I know about that.”

       “You said there were three things.”

       “Again, I don’t know the particulars, but they said Brad is responsible for a security breach. When you guys were leaving, Brad was assigned to escort a pallet of secret classified magnetic tapes onto the C-141 transport. They said he didn’t transfer his charge over those tapes to anyone with appropriate clearance. They said he abandoned them.”

       “I don’t believe it. And the third thing?”

       “They said he has a bad attitude.”

       “You know, and I know that Brad is a hard worker. Sure, he says ‘That sucks’ altogether too much, but you can always count on him, and he’s always the first to volunteer.”

       “It’s in concrete, Scott. Their minds are made up.”

       “Without a chance to defend himself?!”

       “Yep.”

       “Mind if I dig into this tomorrow?”

       “You’ll be the boss tomorrow. Do what you feel is right.”

       “Thanks, Bob.”

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       I’ve been told more than once that my assertive, cocky strut is unmistakable. When my flame-thrower is engaged, my strut becomes even more distinctive—somewhat of a cross between a Steven Seagal stride and an offensive lineman’s charge. It’s not an intentional behavior; it’s just the way I am.

       I strutted into the office 45 minutes early that Tuesday morning. Sergeant Shepard, Brad’s immediate supervisor, was already hard at work at his desk. I went directly to him. “We have a serious problem, Sergeant Shepard.”

       “What’s happening, sir?”

       I lowered my voice so no one could overhear our conversation. “What do you know about Colonels Champion and Davis having decided to stop Airman Williams from re-enlisting?”

       “Nothing! Nobody told me anything like that.”

       “Really?”

       “Yes, sir.”

       I huffed.

       “How do you know, sir?”

       “I’m taking over for Captain Binford while he’s on leave. He briefed me on the Colonels’ decision about Brad. Three things…”

       Sergeant Shepard’s increasing glower was undisguised.

       “The Colonels claim that Brad left a pallet of classified mag tapes unattended.”

       “No way! I trained him personally on the handover of classified material. He would not have done that.”

       “That’s what I said.” I gulped. “And they told Captain Binford that Brad was involved in a potential international incident.”

       “What did he do?!”

       “That’s all he knew about those two. They also said Brad has a bad attitude. His knack for spouting ‘That sucks!’ may be the foundation of the whole shebang. As soon as Brad gets here, let’s take him into the conference room and get this show on the road. What do you say?”

       “I can put a stopper on the security breach question right now.” Sergeant Shepard marched out the door and returned a few minutes later heralding a copy of a classified document conveyance form in his upheld fist. “Lieutenant Masters signed for that pallet of tapes, Lieutenant Zachary. I can tell you right now that he’s going to have a rotten-to-the-core day today.”

       I breathed a partial sigh of relief, knowing that I had a wildcard to play. Brad walked into the office a moment later, and we steered him directly into the conference room.

       “What’s going on, sir?”

       “What can you tell me about a potential international incident that you might have been involved in while we were TDY?”

       I detected a glimmer of realization in Brad’s eyes, followed by, “You know me better than that. You were with me most of the time, sir.”

       “That’s what I thought. You didn’t splash any tall tales around the Wing about wild things you didn’t do, did you?”

       Sergeant Shepard cocked his head in response to my odd question.

       “I wouldn’t do that, sir,” replied Brad.

       “For now, you don’t know anything about a potential international incident, understood?”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “We’re going to see if our boss, Mr. Crabb, would like to join us in a showdown with his boss, Lt Col Champion. Let’s go,” I directed.

       The three of us walked into Ron Crabb’s office, our Civil Service supervisor, and I gave him the scoop in a nutshell. The four of us marched down the warpath to Colonel Champion’s office. I knocked.

Click here to read the conclusion of “TDYs to Saudi Arabia”