Heat Wave

Wow! It is +30 degrees Fahrenheit in Anchorage. I brought my cold weather clothing, but do not need it on this trip. It is, in fact, 50 degrees warmer than some of my previous trips to Anchorage. The difference is astounding. A literal heat wave.

Last night's flight had an interesting twist... The kind of stuff I really enjoy. We leveled at our cruising altitude of 34,000 feet on schedule and, of course, with style. Immediately thereafter, a fuel pump failed in the belly tank. This is a good place for a quick and dirty fuel system review. The A320 & A319 have three main fuel tanks, one in each wing and one in the belly. All the fuel tanks have two identical fuel pumps per tank. One pump, in any tank, can provide fuel pressure to both engines. If all fuel pumps fail, then the engines have stand-by pumps that can suck fuel from the wing tanks only. Pretty cool engineering! OK, back to the event last night... The belly tank has two pumps, one of them now failed. No problem, the remaining pump picks up the load and likes it. If the remaining pump fails, which is possible, then the belly fuel is out of reach of the engines, or useless, as in dead weight. Do we need that fuel to reach Anchorage? As a teenager might say... Uh, Yeah!

Before I called Mother and reported the problem, I grabbed my manual for a quick review of the little "gotchas" of the fuel system. It is not uncommon to call Mother, get a maintenance tech on the line and make a fool of yourself over the company frequency when the tech asks you if you checked the whiz-bang fuel-o-matic oxygenator switch. Of course, there are ten company jets within range and they all hear the exchange. Five of the Captains are your buds who will never let you hear the end of it. It is important to be prepared before you talk to Mother. The safer method is to use email, but that does not allow my buds and I to insult each other on the company frequency.

My dispatcher, the maintenance tech, and I agreed that if all the fuel in the belly tank is pumped out by the remaining fuel pump before we pass Seattle, we are good to go. Major cool stuff! And, that is how it went.

The wife of my youth was unable to get on the aircraft because of spring breakers skiing in Alaska. She was pouting (she is extremely good looking when she pouts), so I reminded her of the job security aspect of her denied boarding. She was still pouting.

She watched from the terminal as we pushed back and started number one engine. I waved to her... I could tell she really, really wanted to go with me.

Oh well, maybe next time...

Connected at the Hip

Cool, sea level atmosphere and strong engines equate to large climb rates out of San Diego, one of my favorite overnights on the route structure. Behind me... 150 passengers, four flight attendants, 5200 lbs. of bags and freight, and lots of kerosene; yet the aircraft is climbing like it is empty. We soared over the beach west of the airport, then began a climbing left turn towards the east. Looking out my side window, the city of San Diego is falling away at thousands of feet per minute. Unreal! The wings of man...

My co-pilot, a 43 year old father of five, is a re-tread. That is airline lingo for a pilot that previously flew at a major airline, lost that job through bankruptcy or downsizing, but found another major airline job. Most re-treads are not happy campers, but this guy seems to be an exception. That's a good thing, because we are connected at the hip for the next three days. He was, at one time, a Captain on the A-320, so he knows what he is doing. I have always, and will continue to wonder why a pilot at airline X must, if furloughed, start over again at the bottom of airline Z. I have been to many pilot union meetings and listened to the leaders explain (much to their chagrin) why this must be, but still... This practice seems ludicrous.

The flying public has no idea of the complexities of pilot seniority lists, and it is not the purpose of this blog to soapbox labor issue, so I will cease and desist. Forgive me for straying... OK, a little more. I have been furloughed twice in my airline career, but I have never been a re-tread. I flew business jets for rich folks and waited for the airline to recall me. I have lost my Captain's seat twice in my career, i.e., I was demoted to co-pilot because of downsizing. Therefore, I can feel this co-pilot's pain. I have been told by some of my Captain buds that I am a popular Captain amongst the co-pilots... Well, if that is true, there is a good reason. From experience, I know that I could easily be that co-pilot again.

Wow, I went on a tangent...

Ball Turret Gunner

One of the many aspects of my job that I truly love is meeting folks who have lived long enough to have witnessed history that I can only read about. For example, the Invisible Woman and Invisible Man , posted in October of 2004. Last week, while securing the aircraft at the gate, then gathering my stuff for the ride to the hotel, I noticed a small, elderly man sitting in seat 1-A, apparently waiting for a wheelchair attendant. All the other passengers had deplaned and were gone. My eyes were immediately drawn to a patch on the left shoulder of his jacket (see photo) that I surmised was World War Two in origin. I was correct... I approached the little man for a closer look at the patch... It was an "8" with wings. Holy Moly!!

"Sir", I asked, "Were you in the Eighth Air Force?"

He looked at me, cracked a smile, and said, "Yeah, I was in the Mighty Eighth. I was a ball turret gunner on a B-17."

Without thinking, I blurted out, "Sir, you are lucky to be alive." Darn it, why did I say that? If my indiscretion bothered him, he did not show it. He told me his aircraft was shot up twice with fatalities on both occasions. He is, and was, a little guy which automatically insured his position in the ball turret, whether he liked it or not. The ball turret was a small, spherical, hydraulically powered metal ball hanging from the bottom of the B-17. The gunner was shoe horned between two .50 caliber machine guns. Cold and deadly in the slipstream at 25,000 feet.

Today, it is hard to comprehend the number of casualties the Eighth took over Europe... 26,000 airmen killed. Not good odds, especially for a ball turret gunner.

Sixty-three years later, this little warrior is sitting on my airplane, alone, waiting for a wheelchair.

Unbelievable...

Pushed through the Sky

Day 3 of a 4 day trip

Position: N 39 14/ W 097 07
Altitude: 37,000 feet
Groundspeed: 645 m.p.h.


We are abeam Topeka, Kansas, enroute to the eastern edge of the Empire with 105 passengers. Our aircraft, a new bird, has less than 60 hours on the airframe and engines. She is beautiful with no fluid leaks, wrinkles from hard landings, chips in the paint, grease on the belly, or coffee stains on the carpet. Leaving Lost Wages tonight, climb performance was so great that loose objects in the cockpit were moving toward the tail. Her engines are amazingly powerful.

The sound of the wind rushing past the fuselage is the only sound we can hear in the flight deck, except for the radio. I remember a quote by a World War 2 fighter ace concerning his first flight in a jet powered aircraft. He said, "It is like being pushed through the sky by angels." I can understand that statement at this moment. Only the sound of rushing wind...

We are going to be arriving 30 minutes early, thanks to a strong tailwind, and with a bit of luck... Asleep in bed before sunrise.

Warp Core

I am off duty and in Lost Wages with the wife of my youth. This was an unscheduled, unexpected, last second trip fitting in the category of "Honey, can we go to Las Vegas for a couple of days?" Some of her siblings flew into Las Vegas today. I cannot say no when she gives me The Look... It's supernatural.

A few hours later, I am in Quark's enjoying a Romulan Ale. In front of me, twelve inches away, is a port hole with a view into the warp core.

If only...

Headwinds

Day #2 of a 4 day trip

As I stepped from the back door of the downtown hotel in Sacramento, the cool California atmosphere washed over me in a downpour of sweet relief. My Marine co-pilot and I just finished 30 minutes on the treadmill, 100 sit-ups, and 100 push-ups; then we agreed to meet at the mall for a late lunch. I took a quick shower, put on my civies and headed toward the mall. I am starving! This trip has been, so far, a quintessential example of life on the line.

Last night in Pittsburgh, the hotel put 20 to 25 teenagers ( band trip) on our floor, a direct violation of the contract with the airline. The hotel is required to provide us with quiet rooms so we can sleep. These kids were naturally excited to be away from home and they were whooping it up big time. I called the front desk and asked for a new room which they provided. So, lucky me, I was able to practice my hotel room nest building one more time.

This morning at the Pittsburgh airport, we arrived at our aircraft and found it covered with ice. I asked the ops agent why they did not de-ice the aircraft as per standard procedure and he said, "Well, we didn't know." Reminded me of a teenager who borrows Dad's car and wrecks it. "Ok", I said, "we'll do it on the way to the runway."

A few minutes later, as we were preparing the aircraft for boarding, the ops agent brings a guy down to the flight deck who shows me his badge and says, "Hi, I'm from the Federal Aviation Administration and I'm here to help." This person was a pilot inspector giving us a random line check. The day just kept getting better.

The FAA inspector, politely, asked me if we could talk about line operations during the flight, since he was learning about our airline and it's idiosyncrasies. Hmmm... What should I say to a government pilot inspector? I put my happy face on and said, "No problem!" We pushed back on schedule with 150 passengers for Lost Wages. After an exercise in de-icing the aircraft on the taxiway, we blasted off.

The questions started coming after we leveled off at 34,000 feet. It was sort of like a enroute oral exam. Although, I did tell him prior to take off it was OK. I guess he took it seriously. My jar head co-pilot was trying to be as small as possible over there in the right seat. Don't worry kid, I'll take care of you. One hour later, the first flight attendant called me for a bladder check. I told her, quietly, to fix the FAA inspector something to eat... Please. She whipped up pancakes, blueberries, and whip cream from First Class cuisine and brought it to the flight deck. The questions stopped for about 30 minutes. Thank you, Joan!

The winds aloft forecast was, shall we say, lacking... On the nose at 120 m.p.h., but forecast at 80 m.p.h. Our fuel situation was going from good to fair. I e-mailed my dispatcher and asked her, "What's up with the winds?" She e-mailed me back and said ,"I don't know." That made me laugh... I like this girl. OK, let's go to plan B. I told the co-pilot, who was flying the aircraft, to climb higher and slow down. As he leveled at 36,000 feet, the headwinds were 100 m.p.h. on the nose, but enough of a reduction to make Plan B workable. I heard the FAA guy finish his breakfast and put the tray on the floor. OK, I thought, here we go again.

Thirty minutes later, the questions were few and far between. The FAA inspector had a full tummy, the cabin altitude was 7,200 feet, and the morning sun was streaming in the flight deck left side windows. He was getting sleepy. Amazing what pancakes will do at 36,000 feet.

The e-mail alert light flashed indicating incoming from Mother. I ripped it out of the mini-printer and held it in the sunlight to read it. I can still read in bright light without geezer glasses. Mother warned us about turbulence over Pueblo, Colorado Springs, Denver, and Cheyenne at our altitude. OK, time for plan C. I told the co-pilot to climb higher and slow down further to turbulence penetration speed. He leveled at 38,000 feet as I dutifully instructed the flight attendants to prepare the cabin for moderate turbulence. I then talked to the passengers about the need to stay in their seats under all circumstances because of turbulence ahead. Anti-lawsuit boxes checked.

Of course, we did not encounter a single bump, not even a ripple. It was smoother than a freshly waxed fender on my motorcycle. It was not quite as smooth as the skin on my wife's tiny hiney, but almost. The flight attendants asked me, "What happened to the turbulence?" I told them we had used the turbulence avoidance scope to fly around it. They did not believe me. Respect for the left seat is slipping in this industry.

The approach and landing into Lost Wages went well; the FAA inspector told us we did a good job, then gathered his stuff and looked for another crew to inspect. The co-pilot and I did a bag drag to another gate, pre-flighted another aircraft, met another flight attendant crew, and blasted off for California with 106 folks.

Life on the line continues...

Maximum Altitude

Day #1 of a 4 day trip...

The party is over, at least for a few weeks. No Anchorage flights for awhile. Last week, I took my wife to the infamous freight dog hangout in Anchorage and introduced her to some of my buds. The looks on their faces when she walked into that smoke filled den of night pilots was priceless. My wife is one of those women who keep their beauty intact through genetics, exercise, and luck. She is still a head turner. We had a great time!

It is back to the real world of line operations, as in mega airports of the Empire. On the other side of the flight deck's thick and heated plexiglas windows, the temperature is -60 degrees C. The sun disappeared behind our tail an hour ago... Now there is only the pitch black of a moonless night. Overhead, a cloud of stars, known as the Milky Way.

We are flying a heavy chevy tonight (pilot/dispatcher talk for a big load) and we have reached our maximum altitude of 35,000 feet. That is all the old girl will do at this weight. In one more hour, after burning off fuel weight, I will coax her up to 37,000 feet. The weather in the east is lousy with freezing rain, low visibility and snow showers. My dispatcher passed on some grim news before departure... Icy conditions from 7,000 feet down to the surface at the Pittsburgh airport, our destination. I get paid to fly this beast in all weather conditions, but an icy airport surface makes my face twitch.

My co-pilot is a young guy who was a C-130 Hercules navigator in the Marine Corps. His haircut is high and tight, uniform pressed with sharp edges, and shoes are shined. He kept calling me Sir until I told him my name was Dave, not Sir. He is sitting over there with his E6-B (plastic navigation slide rule) double checking our inertial navigation system. I like this kid.

Six hundred miles to go...