Let
me tell you a true pilot experience, a typical day at the office for me. I
promise I will not tell you about the terror when a passenger in 44-B sneezed,
as some popular aviation magazines do. They often publish articles discussing
events in the life of an airline pilot. Many eager readers turn the pages in
anticipation of reading a hair-curling adventure of an actual pilot’s
experience.
As
a curious pilot, naturally I wondered what kind of near-tragedy would unfold as
I read. In the first article, the pilot of a Boeing 777 preparing to depart
London for New York encountered a two-fold mishap. In London, he waited for the
airplane’s windshield to be cleaned and then (gasp!) nearing New York he almost
had to enter into a holding pattern. Huh? Where’s the rest of the story? I flipped
the page. That’s it? Well the second article should be better: an airline pilot
described how she flew into Cleveland and (here we go) a small airplane flew
by. No, not close by, it just flew by. Nothing more. I stared blankly at the
words. What did they learn about flying from that? What made me cry was the
writers of these stories received a paycheck for the submission.
I believe my story is a bit more enthralling,
and here it is, free of charge. I was assigned to operate Flight 744 from St.
Louis to Philadelphia, on to Richmond, Virginia, and return to St. Louis. The
airplane was an old workhorse, a Metroliner, long past it’s prime as a small
airliner. It was gutted of everything inside so a maximum number of boxes could
be carried. The paint was dirty and stained with oil, grease and spilled fuel. The
tires were fresh, but there was a sizeable puddle of Jet-A fuel under the
airplane from leaks in the fuel tanks. The cockpit seats were thread-bare, any
sense of comfort long departed. The smell reminded me of an airplane in the
Smithsonian Museum. Everything was the same as long ago. Cockpit panel edges
worn of paint, instrument gauges yellowed from age, glare shield held together
with bits of duct tape. The control wheel and throttles were well worn, the
hands of a thousand flyers having polished the grips smooth. If you took a deep
breath, the aroma of grease, old engine oil and Jet-A vapors wafted through the
air. Add to this human sweat from hours spent sweltering in the hot summer sun,
french fries lodged into unseen crevasses, spilled coffee, old leather, and
dirt from ages past, and you get a sense of my “office”. It smelled wonderful.
The
first half of the flight proved uneventful, just the way we like it. We staggered
up to 21,000’ into the cooler air above the summer clouds. The old engines were
well maintained. They ran smooth and powerfully, the silver propellers a blur
just a few feet behind my window. We made good time, the westerly trade wind
helping us along as the engines were tweaked at redline. Two-and-a-half hours
later, we blazed into the Philadelphia area at maximum velocity. No fancy
autopilot here, it’s all done by hand and the plane would communicate to you
through the control wheel and throttles.
Landing
at North Philadelphia, we used the entire runway as usual. The Metroliner loved
runway. We unloaded some freight, closed the airplane up, the copilot got the
clearance while I brought the 2200 horsepower Garrett engines to life.
We
departed Philadelphia into wet skies, the cool evening air causing the lights
of the vast city to shine bright and clear until jagged clouds enveloped us. It
was a short flight down the Chesapeake, and we landed in a rainy Richmond,
Virginia. I call in range and a sweet, distant voice answered through static.
As
we parked at the private terminal, the fuel truck pulled up and began refueling
the plane. I had ordered the fuel prior to landing, but made the mistake of not
confirming it with the guys doing the actual refueling. I nodded, gave them a
quick “Hey,” and headed back to unload the freight.
After
finishing, we dashed inside the nice, dry terminal. We shared jokes with the
pretty receptionist while sipping hot coffee and tried hard not to stare at her
incredibly long legs. Signing the fuel receipt, we returned to the plane
through the foggy drizzle on the ramp and started up the engines.
I
taxied away from the building to a remote part of the ramp, preferring to do my
checklists there rather than deafen everyone with our screaming Garrett engines,
possibly the loudest this side of Mars. We ran all the checklists in
preparation for departure. During these checks, I noticed fuel levels were
lower than expected, and after a quick math calculation, nope, it’s not going
to be enough to get us to St Louis. Curses!
We taxied back in and added more
fuel. Apparently, our request for 340 gallons somehow turned into 240 gallons. Sending
your voice by radio waves through rain and gloom of night to a cheap receiver in
an office sixty miles away wasn’t always the clearest way of communicating. The
additional fuel augmented the fragrance of Jet-A while humid, hot night air added
just a touch of mold inside.
In
true Richmond fashion, they had us on our way again in no time. We repeated the
checklists. Approaching runway two, we were cleared for immediate takeoff. We
squared up with the runway, released the brakes and our now empty aircraft leapt
forward as power was applied. We raced down the dark runway, lifted off, made a
steep left turn to a heading of 240, and were on our way. Climbing above the
rain clouds to 18,000 feet, we double checked our ground speed against fuel
burn and distance. All was as it should be, so we settle in for the three-hour
flight home.
We
droned and droned endlessly along. Copilot Jahrid played Solitaire on his iPad
while I filled out the flight log and checked the receipts. The autopilot can
hold heading and altitude, but nothing else. Good enough for cruising across
the Appalachians and then the flat plains of the Midwest.
With
paperwork complete, Jahrid took over the flying duties while I cracked open a
book "Submarines at War” a perfect ‘in-flight’ read. I glanced up every so
often, scanned the gauges, looked out at the sky which was still clear, with a
bright full moon over my left shoulder, then returned to reading. The cockpit
lights were dim, but my reading light, old and yellowed, was sufficient for its
purpose.
Jahrid
and I talked about the usual stuff: food, airplanes, women, airplanes, and
food. Approaching St Louis, I fiddled with the ATIS, a frequency where the
current weather at your airport is broadcast. Through the static, I barely heard
our destination's weather: sky obscured, visibility less than 1/4 mile. Ahhh, shoot.
I
checked Cahokia Field, an airport not far away on the Illinois side of the
river. Three miles with 400' overcast. That’s good. I called St Louis approach
on the second radio, tell him I'm still with Kansas City Center, but what's the
visibility at Lambert? He said it's ¼ mile, but Spirit was saying the RVR
(runway visual range) was 3000 feet, and people were getting in. Hot damn, home-base
it was.
I
finished my thermos of now cold coffee. The caffeine taste, now rich from ten
hours of aging, hits like a cold slap in the face, perfect for this late hour. I
pulled out the approach diagram and review it with Jahrid. We would fly the
precision approach into Spirit Airport, and if we missed, we’d hop over to
Cahokia and call the wife for a ride home. I knew she’d be thrilled to get out
of bed at midnight, and drive an hour to pick up her loving husband and his
co-pilot. It’s a flawless plan.
I
took over control of the airplane (we’d been trading on and off over the last
three hours) and got my seat situated just right, becoming one with the
airplane. Speak to me, girl. How are you
doing? We got vectored past East St Louis, across the Mississippi River,
past the slumbering neighborhoods of Crestwood, Kirkwood and Manchester. One
last turn onto the approach behind two corporate jets with their high-tech
avionics and fancy autopilots.
Our
airplane was entirely old school in its technology. The autopilot had no
navigation capability at all, so this approach and must be hand flown. The
insides of the clouds raced by the window, illuminated by our landing lights. I
nursed the power back, called for approach flaps and reduce to 175 mph.
I
was focusing hard on the gauges, holding the control column in my left hand,
the throttles in my right hand. Sometimes I used both hands on the control
column because the airplane flew like a truck. The manufacturer made the plane
bigger and heavier but didn’t increase the size of the controls, so they’re quite
heavy to move.
Inbound
course was 079 degrees. I held it steady on the course. Five degrees right. Now
seven. Back to five.
"Glideslope
alive," Jahrid called, then "One dot below."
"Gear
down, flaps half, landing checklist," I said and he got it all
accomplished.
"Three
green".
"Three
green indicated."
"Flaps
half."
"Flaps
half."
"Lights?"
"All
on, strobes off."
"Complete
to full flaps."
Down
we went, the clouds and fog around us illuminated by the landing lights,
rushing past at 150 mph now.
Jahrid
called out, "Thousand above, on course, on glideslope, speed 150."
Five
right, two right, easy on the pitch, hold her steady. We were coming down the
ILS at over 800 feet per minute, traveling forward at 220' per second. This
could be a bit unnerving, considering you can only see ten feet in front of you
despite the bright glare of the big landing lights on the wings. You're working
hard to keep it on the electronic glideslope and approach course. The closer
you get, the more sensitive it becomes and therefore the harder it is.
For
the average person, this is insanity and no place for rational people to be.
For pilots like us, we wouldn't want to be anywhere else. That's what people
don't know or understand about pilots. We love the calculated risk. It was a
source of pride in our work.
"Five
hundred above, on course, slightly low, 152," Jahrid said.
The
approach gets very sensitive. One right, on course, two right, back to course.
Easy.
"One
hundred above, on glide path."
I
held it steady.
"Minimums,
approach lights 12 o'clock," Jahrid announced.
I
glanced up and saw the fog flashing and nothing more.
"Green
lights! Runway in sight," Jahrid called.
“Got
it! Full flaps!” I called, easing a little power off. We were over the runway
now, so I started to flare, eased the power back more, held the centerline, and
with a squeal of rubber we're on. Lowered the nose, then into reverse, we started
to slow as I worked the rudder to keep her on the centerline.
"Ninety knots," Jahrid called.
We
brought the propellers to low rpm and rolled to taxiway A3. Tower asked us to
report when clear. They couldn't see us for all the fog. We exited, called
clear and taxied back down the taxiway. Hooting and hollering, we were grinning
with excitement at having successfully pulled that off.
"Man,
that was close!" I stated the obvious.
"I
didn't think we'd ever see that runway!" Jahrid laughed.
"When
you called the approach lights in sight, I couldn't see anything but
fog!" I said.
"I
had 'em, then I lost ‘em, then I had ‘em again!"
We
parked, shut down, collected our things, called dispatch, sent a report to
maintenance, put the paperwork in the tray, and headed to our cars.
The
night ended with our usual wave, "See ya tomorrow," and another
day at work was in the logbook.
