Fire Island

Yesterday, a day to remember, took us to Mexico City. At one time it was the largest city on the Earth, and it still may be so... 30,000,000 plus folks living in a valley between two 12,000 foot peaks. The airport elevation is 7,600 feet above sea level; only a few hundred feet beneath the maximum take-off and landing altitude for most airliners. As we descended, very carefully, into the Mexico City area, I was struck, once again, about how massive this place really is; think about it... 30,000,000 + people living here, most in poverty. The initial approach fix is crossed at 12,000 feet above sea level at a right angle to the runway! Unreal, and that's putting it mildly. The air pollution is so bad, that you can actually taste it, smell it, and feel it on your skin. The landing visibility usually hangs around four miles, on a clear day. Crossing the runway threshold at 7,800 feet yields a higher groundspeed than, say, landing at Seattle. The air is thinner here, so the aircraft has to move faster to capture the same airspeed requirements. Hence, the runway is a 12,000 foot long piece of rough concrete. The engines and brakes work harder than normal to get the weight slowed to taxi speed. Taxiing to the gate, we were watched by hundreds of people that live on the perimeter of the airport in cardboard (literally) shanty towns, complete with laundry flapping in the yellow breeze.

The employees at the Mexico City station do an outstanding job of turning our aircraft around for the northbound flight. They truly love their jobs, as they are coveted. Hating management is not an option down here. The weight and balance is done long hand with a hand calculator. The numerical entries, via pencil, are always clear, concise and correct. Quite impressive. Fifty minutes later we were punching through the pollution layer into clean sky. Before take-off, I sucked 100% oxygen to clear any potential pollution caused stupid molecules running around in my feeble brain.

A few hours later, Redondo Beach sand was between my toes as we overnighted in LAX.

That was yesterday... Today, it's 25 degrees Fahrenheit in Anchorage with sunny skies. No pollution here, that you can see or smell, anyway. Riding in the crew van enroute to the hotel, a cow moose was blocking our path, until she slowly ambled into the trees.

We crossed the jet stream in the vicinity of Sandspit (YZP) at 32,000 feet. The wind velocity peaked at 203 m.p.h., 70 degrees left of our nose. Maintaining course required upwards of 25 degrees correction into the wind. The wind tunnel was about 30 miles in diameter and no turbulence was associated with it. Truly amazing... Imagine the nights before inertial navigation or global positioning magic; then throw in an undercast. Navigators had their hands full dealing with winds like these.

Finally, after six hours, we descended into Anchorage airspace, turned final approach over Fire Island and made a passable landing, mine. I would rate it about 80% on a scale of 1-100.

Day three of a four day...The adventure continues.

Excessive Energy

The four operational scenarios that I worry about every flight are:

1. Catastrophic engine failure at a critical moment during take-off.
2. Excessive energy (velocity) at landing leading to an overrun.
3. Severe turbulence, either expected (storms) or unexpected (clear air turbulence).
4. Fire on the ground or in-flight.

These scenarios have to be controlled at all costs, or the consequences can be ugly. Number three is the hardest to control, since we must go on our flights, no matter the weather. Yeah, we will delay a bit here and there, cancel a flight every now and then (but the next one will go), or will be snowed under in Boston, but we are going, one way or the other. Managing number three takes experience; number one, two and four can be taught, tested, and drilled over and over until it is second nature.

The problem comes with the old saying familiarity breeds contempt. Modern airliners are reliable beasts with good safety records. This leads to thinking about that good looking flight attendant in the back rather than what will I do if number one engine turns into hot shrapnel at 160 m.p.h. or where could we land right now if the rear galley catches on fire?

Last night, we got a good look at worry item #2. My co-pilot, a young and sharp kid whom I have flown with many times, was the flying pilot enroute to Connecticut. The flight eastbound was smooth and fast. Our average tailwind was over 130 m.p.h. putting us into the Hartford area forty minutes ahead of schedule. The co-pilot was doing his usual good job and I was expecting an uneventful landing.

Even so, I am always looking for little uh-ohs that might become big Uh-Ohs. I noticed we were really moving across the landscape as he was descending to intercept the radio beam that leads to the runway. I checked the inertial navigation platform digital readout; a 40 m.p.h. tail wind at 3,000 feet. Our airspeed was 200 m.p.h. and slowing but our groundspeed (also energy state) was quite a bit higher at over 240 m.p.h. The co-pilot started calling for landing gear and flaps, which I selected and checked. We were fully configured for landing at 1,000 feet with an airspeed of 160 m.p.h., but a ground speed of 200 m.p.h. Still a 40 m.p.h. tailwind pushing us toward the airport. The descent rate was way too high, because the faster the aircraft is crossing real estate, the faster it has to lose altitude in that given distance. We had a perfect scenario for a runway overrun; too much energy to lose and not enough pavement to do so. It's an insidious problem that has caused a lot of heartache... Energy increases with the square of the speed increase.

The control tower guys were reporting a crosswind of 10 m.p.h. on the surface, quite a change in only 1,000 feet vertical distance, but in no way uncommon. At 800 feet above the ground, the co-pilot turned the whizbang stuff "off" and selected emergency flight controls (stick and rudder) to make the landing. At 500 feet, the wind still at 40 m.p.h. on the tail, began to abate and rotate off the tail. Too late, though... Our groundspeed was too high. The co-pilot was watching the situation and said' "This isn't looking good skipper."

I agreed with him and suggested a go-around for another runway with favorable winds. The co-pilot raised the nose to intiate a climb, at the same time pushing the thrust levers forward to maximum go-around power. Holy Moly! We were shoved back into our seats as the engines transitioned from idle thrust to maximum go-around thrust. The fuel flows went from 800 lbs. to north of 10,000 lbs. Might as well cut a six inch hole in the bottom of each wing tank. The co-pilot called for "landing gear up, flaps to 18 degrees."

The control tower cleared us to land on a more wind friendly runway. In my best Captain's voice, I assured the folks that everything was OK and gave them the short version of why we did not land on the first attempt. A few minutes later, the co-pilot pulled the reverse thrust levers up and over to open the cascade vanes; the aircraft's nose lowered significantly as it morphed from an agile flying machine to an ungainly ground vehicle, via reverse thrust, wing spoilers, and wheel brakes.

The go-around took 12 minutes and 2,000 lbs. of fuel... A small price for a safe landing, though.

Day number two of a four day is done. Tomorrow night; Anchorage. Life is good!

Flying Low and Fast

It was a perfect day; the day before back to the cloud mines. The wife of my youth left for work at 6:20 A.M. At 6:21 A.M. I was pre-flighting my single seat Japanese death missile for a run deep into the deserts of Arizona. Pre-flight completed at 6:25 A.M.; run the before start checklist, and then battery switch ON. The annuciator panel comes to life, testing itself as the fuel pump primes the injectors with a whine. Press the start button and the 147 horsepower, four cylinder, liquid cooled engine instantly comes to life and settles into a rough, staccato thrumming as it warms to it's happy operating temperature of 176 degrees. Even after 30 years on two wheels and seeing first hand, as an air ambulance pilot (during an airline furlough), the carnage and death possible from this type of motorcycle, I still love these beasts. It must be a pilot thing...

Leaving my favorite station with a full load of 91 octane gasoline, I merged onto the interstate westbound, quickly up-shifting through the smooth gearbox. I reached zero speed differential with the traffic at 85 m.p.h. The Arizona sky was becoming a cold blue as the sun rose behind me, with calm surface winds; outside air temperature was 50 degrees Fahrenheit, i.e., perfect weather for the mission. Between my Joe Rocket covered legs, the engine was loafing at 5,500 r.p.m.; still another 6,500 before the 12,000 redline... Yikes! Rude and crazy drivers, as always, were reduced to a simple calculus problem of changing velocities and vectors, solved by brutal acceleration and razor sharp handling.

Forty miles behind me, then a sharp right bank off the interstate onto a little known two lane road through some of the most beautiful desert country in the southwest. The road was empty except for a middle-aged airline pilot on a contemporary Nipponese two wheeled version of the A6M Zero. The bike's excellent engine has two very different personalities; below 6,000 r.p.m. it is docile and easily handled by almost any reasonably competent biker. However, above 6,000 r.p.m. is Demon seed country... Danger Will Robinson!! The curving, undulating road was easy prey for the wailing super bike and before I knew it... The first refueling stop was twelve o'clock and less than a mile. I really love to refuel, because I can push the start button, after I finish, and listen to the engine come back to life. Oh, yes, it is so sweet!

After a hot coffee and more 91 octane fuel, the little station vanished in my six. Thirty miles later, I stopped for breakfast at my favorite small town cafe. Another opportunity to push the start button... Oh, Baby! Leaving the little town was an exercise in caution... 45 m.p.h. maximum. Back on the open road, I settled into a cruise profile where the only sound was the force of the slipstream... All other sounds carried away by the wind.

Ninety minutes later, the super bike was ticking as it cooled in the garage.

Out of the blue, rolling thunder filled the streets of my neighborhood. What the heck is going on? Overhead, flying low and fast, a pair of blue and yellow F-18 fighter jets. I could read Navy on the fuselage. It was the Blue Angels!!! I forgot... They were practicing for an airshow tomorrow. I could feel the crackling thunder in my chest. Could my day possibly get any better?

Well, yes, but I would have to wait until she returned home.

Expect Further Clearance

Kennedy operations is coming in weak; like they are yelling through a sandstorm. I cannot understand which gate they are assigning to our flight. I will try again in 50 miles... The co-pilot is writing furiously on the clipboard, which is, usually, not a good sign. I can feel it coming; the dreaded EFC, or pilot talk for expect further clearance. That means we have been given a navigation fix which we cannot go past until our assigned time, or EFC.

"I'm back. What's goin' on?"

"Hey, Boss, they want us to hold at JENNO and our EFC is 53." (53 minutes after the hour)

I glance at the ship's clock. It says 10 after the hour... A four letter word starts to form in my brain and is on the way to my mouth, when I remember the wife of my youth always tells me that profanity is a sign of a small vocabulary, so I change it to "Uh-oh." Forty-three minute hold and no holding fuel onboard. Something or somebody is not cooperating this morning. Why? The night flight out to the east coast was beautiful. We flew under the heavens in a perfectly smooth airmass, with tailwinds giving us a groundspeed in excess of 700 m.p.h. for over 1,000 miles.

"Well, we can't hold more than 15 minutes. Looks like it's Plan B."

I compose and send an email to my dispatcher:

JFK not taking arrivals. Our efc over jenno is 53. Unable hold more than
15 minutes. Am considering PHL or EWR.

The weather forecast is OK for Philly and Newark, so we have choices for re-fueling. There must be a runway problem at Kennedy. In less than three minutes, the email alert light is flashing with a message from my dispatcher:

Agree on PHL. Kennedy approach radar down. If unable to land JFK 8.0 fob proceed PHL. Good luck. (translates to 8000 lbs. minimum fuel at Kennedy, or go to Philly)

I am reminded of a mad dog crew (MD-80) that made the national media about 20 years ago when they were faced with a similar circumstance. They had two choices for landing and re-fueling, so the Captain decided to poll the passengers and the winner would be the airport with the most votes. Of course, the next day, several newspapers reported that the Captain was confused and lost, yet was humble enough to ask for help and advice from the passengers to select an airport. I have never forgotten that incident and as always, learn from the mistakes of others.

The co-pilot slowed to best holding speed and descended to our assigned altitude of 23,000 feet. We entered the hold, along with other airliners above and below. All the Captains looking at the fuel situation every few seconds as if shear will power will add fuel to the tanks. After two turns over JENNO the airliner above us declared bingo fuel and left for Philly. Shortly thereafter, an airliner in the stack beneath gave up and departed for Philly.

Obviously, Philly is the place to go this morning. So, after talking it over with the co-pilot, I requested clearance to Philly. We might as well get this over with... More miles to go before we sleep.

Sierras

High altitude turbulence is prevalent today, so I decided, along with my dispatcher, to fly at 20,000 feet enroute to San Fran. The decision was sound; the air mass is glassy smooth down here. The fuel flows are massive, but that's another story. We can see every detail of the Sierras as we clear the peaks by 6,000 feet, plus or minus a few hundred.

San Francisco is one of my favorite cities. Unfortunately, we will be there only 41 minutes, as our destiny lies toward the east.

Day number three continues...

Under the Clouds

No Cal (aviation short hand for Northern California approach control) just pointed out a general aviation twin engine in our one o'clock position and five miles; unable lower altitude until we clear that aircraft. Roger that, but we are close to the Sacramento airport at 16,000 feet and we need to get down, and soon. The co-pilot throws the anchor out (spoiler panels up)and we start slowing rapidly; he is preparing for a high dive into Sacramento airspace.

Below us is a solid undercast covering the beauty of the Sacramento area. The sun, about twenty degrees above the left wingtip, is shining bright and white on my side of the flightdeck, effectively washing out the video display of my whizbang, new age flight instruments. I raise the solar shields, remove my sunglasses, and then can barely see the video display. This is a big problem with cathode ray instruments... That is one of several reasons the manufacturers install old fashion steam gauges next to the Star Trek stuff.

Finally, ATC clears us to descend to 3,000 feet and to contact Sacramento final approach controller. The co-pilot disconnects the auto-pilot in favor of emergency flight controls (stick and rudder), pushes the stick forward, and then raises the spoiler panels to max extension. In a few seconds we are shaking off lift and altitude like a dog shaking off water. The jet regains all the speed which the co-pilot shed before the descent clearance, a little trick that will radically increase descent rates. Down into the clouds we go...

Under the clouds, morning sunlight is diffused through nature's soft focus filter. The fields are still wet from last night's rainfall. Meandering toward the airport is the Sacramento River, back in it's banks from the spring floods. Ahead, is the first runway of the day.

We are just getting started...