Anchorage Daily News
December 22
 Above: Senior Master Sgt. Carl Brooks, a pararescueman and tandem master with the Alaska Air National Guard's 210th Rescue Squadron, tandem-jumped with Staff Sgt. Leovan Claunan, an HC-130 crew chief in Karshi-Khanabad, Uzbekistan, as part of a deployment in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. (Photo by Christopher Robertson / Alaska Air National Guard)  Tandem Master Sergeant John Loomis, right, prepared his tandem partner for departure from the rear ramp on a C-130 over Uzbekistan. They jumped immediately after the solo jumpers in front of them. (Photo by Christopher Robertson / Alaska Air National Guard)  Senior Master Sgt. Carl Brooks helps untangle Maj. Michael Griesbaum, a National Guard C-130 pilot, from their parachute canopy lines. The pair did a tandem jump from 18,000 feet that required oxygen masks. (Photo by Christopher Robertson / Alaska Air National Guard) Click on photo to enlarge |
First, he was turning 40.
Second, as an avionics supervisor for the Alaska Air National Guard's 210th Rescue Squadron, Youngblood had known since last summer that he'd be marking the occasion deployed in Uzbekistan.
What he didn't know until he arrived in the former Soviet state was that rather than spend his birthday fixing the 210th's hulking HC-130 tankers, he would jump out of one as a passenger in a unique parachute training program the unit's rescue jump teams set up on the remote Uzbek base.
"I got over here and heard you could sign up to jump," said Youngblood, who returned home a little over a month ago. "I was like: 'What? Why would you want to do that?' ''
But then, how often do you turn 40? In Uzbekistan?
"It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing," Youngblood said. "I would never pay to do it at home, so this was my one chance."
Roughly three times a week during the 210th's just-completed six months in Uzbekistan, two of the unit's pararescuemen -- "PJs" for short -- practiced tandem jumps, an advanced parachuting tactic in which an expert jumper straps himself and a passenger, usually a jumping novice, into an oversized parachute harness and flies them both to earth.
"For most people, this is like getting a ride in an F-16," said PJ Senior Master Sgt. Carl Brooks, the tandem master who flew Youngblood from 9,000 feet to the ground. "We can offer them a ride in a C-130, which is kind of cool, or the chance to jump out of one, which makes people say 'Wow!' "
Though all of the Air Force's 400-odd PJs are qualified in free-fall parachuting, a pair of Alaska PJs -- Brooks and Master Sgt. John Loomis -- are among only three tandem masters in any of the Air Force's rescue units. The special operations wings of the Marine Corps, Navy and Army all have small tandem programs, but they aren't in the practice of jumping hometown passengers.
"We started out jumping only people from the 210th," Loomis said. "But it caused an uproar on the base, so we had to start a waiting list."
That list quickly filled up with 70 names from every part of the military spectrum. Loomis jumped one of the base's commanders, who requested the jump to inspire his son, who wants to be a PJ. Brooks, who returned to Anchorage in October, jumped passengers ranging from a young senior airman as a reward for re-enlisting to an Air Force three-star general, one of the war's senior commanders.
But Loomis and Brooks tried to jump as many fellow Alaskans as they could, including Julie Mills, a technical sergeant from Eagle River.
"I figured I'd get nervous when they opened the door," Mills said. "But I didn't really until we walked up to the edge of the ramp. Then I thought: 'What the hell am I doing? Well, I guess its too late now.' ''
"It's something I thought I would never do," she said. "I'm scared of heights."
"They all say they're scared of heights," said Brooks, who jumped Mills. "Heck, I'm scared of heights. But the ground is so far away up there, you don't think about it."
Brooks, sympathetic to his passengers' fears, kept his jumps businesslike. Loomis, one of the 210th's leading pranksters, did not.
"I tease people," he said. "In the plane, on the ramp, the whole time, I'm messing with them."
Loomis greeted one passenger with a ripped uniform and a stern warning: "This is what happened when I had to cut the last guy loose. They can be so grabby," he deadpanned, clawing the air. "If I have to drop you, don't grab me, OK?"
Long pause. Finally, his passenger caught on and laughed. A little.
"I tell them up front I'm going to mess with them," he said. "Because I want them to relax and enjoy the jump."
Another Alaskan who took the plunge, Senior Airman Leo Claunan, wanted to jump for reasons beyond a one-shot thrill. An HC-130 mechanic with the 210th, Claunan, 23, is awaiting permission to begin the two-year training regimen to become a PJ.
"I was more excited than nervous," Claunan said. "I've been attracted to the job by the aspect of saving lives and the excitement."
Claunan stayed nearly stone-faced for his jump.
"There was no way he was going to show me any fear," Brooks said, laughing.
While the Afghan war was not fought particularly near the 210th's Uzbek base, it was always the first order of business. The unit's HC-130s -- which can jump PJs but primarily refuel the 210th's rescue helicopters -- were on 24-hour, seven-day alert. Still, neither the PJs nor their commanders saw the tandem program as a distraction. After all, the PJs were in Uzbekistan in case the need arose for a rapid rescue jump to a remote spot of Afghanistan.
In an extreme case, Brooks or Loomis could even tandem in a doctor or supplies to a crash site or a critically ill patient. In that sense, the passenger jumps were ideal training.
After two hours of passenger ground training, most tandem jumps started 9,000 feet above the Uzbek desert. Once the HC-130 was over the drop zone, the tandem pair inched toward the ramp as the rest of the 210th's PJs jumped out as a group.
"I thought I would be able to watch (the PJs) fall," Youngblood said. "But it was so fast it was like they got sucked out. Just hop, and they were gone."
At the ramp's edge, the PJ would tell his passenger to go limp in the harness, cross his arms and lift his feet, and then walk calmly off the edge.
After 30 seconds in free fall, the PJ would activate the rig's mammoth parachute at 4,500 feet. After several minutes of slowly descending toward the target, the pair would lift their legs, together pull down on the chute's brakes and softly land on all four feet.
At least that's the theory.
"I crashed," Youngblood said with a laugh. "I couldn't get my feet up, and I got dragged."
Matt White is an Alaska Air National Guard pararescueman with the 210th Rescue Squadron. He deployed with that unit to Uzbekistan in support of U.S. war efforts in Afghanistan. His has also written for the Los Angeles Times, the Philadelphia Inquirer and several regional newspapers and magazines.