Flight Level 390

Range = ground speed/average fuel flow x fuel in tanks





I have figured the touchdown fuel a dozen times and keep coming up with the same result. Not enough! The winds aloft are much stronger than forecast and show no signs of abating. At the last fuel checkpoint, we were down 1,800 pounds. I asked my co-pilot, a young Navy P-3 pilot, to back me up on the math. His estimate: Anchorage fuel... Marginal, at best.



I can feel it coming... An unscheduled fuel stop in the Empire's northwest corner. Outside, under the God of War, Mars, the winds are unbelievably strong; more than 200 m.p.h. The forecast called for 130 m.p.h. Instead of being frustrated, I am thankful that I am able to witness such power. If an explosive decompression happened at this altitude, we would have about 10 seconds to put the oxygen masks on before unconsciousness, yet even in this hostile world of ultra-thin atmosphere, the winds are Jovian-like. I am reminded, once again, that such things are above my pay-grade.

After several email exchanges with Mother, I have decided to land in Portland for re-fueling. Not so fast, Captain... Look at the gross weight. We are above landing weight at Portland. Too much fuel, yet not enough. OK, we will hold for 15 minutes and burn down to landing weight. Could we land at Vancouver and not hold? Yep, but the weather is better at Portland.

We have another problem... My co-pilot is tight on duty time. Crew scheduling pulled him from another cockpit for this flight. Another thing that is above my pay grade, i.e., the workings of crew scheduling. The diversion is going to be time critical. If we have a glitch during re-fueling, we will be stuck, along with 124 passengers, in Portland. I ask the co-pilot to take over flying and communication duties, i.e., single pilot operation, while I talk to Portland operations. I know these guys personally and get along well with the station manager, who, much to my delight, is working tonight. He understands the gravity of the situation... The possibility of dealing with 124 stressed out passengers for the night. Yikes!

Portland is low IFR ( bad weather), of course, which calls for a Boise alternate. The co-pilot and I carefully review the approach procedure during the fuel burn down hold. It is critical that we be on speed and altitude at the outer marker. A missed approach translates to dealing with stranded passengers. Finally, approach control clears us for the ILS approach to runway 10 Right; call the tower on final, please. The outside air temperature is well below freezing as we descend into the murky world surrounding Portland. Wing heat and engine heat are "ON". The co-pilot calls out "localizer and glide slope alive." I ask for the landing gear and flaps nearing the final approach fix. We are in a snow tunnel created by the landing lights. The flakes are rushing past us at 160 m.p.h. There are no other visual references.

The runway environment comes into view at 400 feet above the ground. The snow has changed to rain. Wipers on high... Ahead, the rabbit (lead in strobe lights) is flashing toward the runway's end. It is a nasty night... Wet, windy and cold. Fi-Fi enunciates "200; 100; 50; 20; (thrust levers back to idle/kick out the crosswind) 10; 5... Touchdown on a wet runway; reverser triggers up and over the thrust levers. Fi-Fi gets with the stopping program...

A few minutes later, as we approach the gate, we can see six rampers in yellow rain gear scrambling for our arrival. The fuel truck is waiting with amber lights flashing. This might work. The outside air temperature is 38 degrees with light rain. If we are lucky, we will not have to de-ice. The lead ramper crosses the batons; I bring Fi-Fi to a stop and set the parking brake/fuel flows "OFF."

I tell the co-pilot,"Get on your cell phone and get a wheels up time from crew scheduling. I will do the pre-flight and get the paperwork. Start loading the nav with your best guess of the route to Anchorage; we can clean it up later." The jetway stairs are wet and slippery as I descend them to the ramp. My flashlight is a light saber spearing the rain drops... Fi-Fi is dripping water on me as I check her beautiful, long legs and large, uh, engine cowlings. The brakes are steaming... This is my world.

The station manager walks up to me with the flight paperwork, which is quickly becoming wet. His face is deep inside the yellow rain hood, yet his upper lip is dripping water. We trade insulting banter back and forth about each others abilities; especially, my ability to figure fuel burn to Anchorage. I would not expect anything less...

After I am satisfied that there is no ice on Fi-Fi, I climb the jetway stairs to a dryer environment. The passengers are looking at me with a was this really necessary expression on their faces. My flight attendants are three hardened veterans of the not so friendly skies and have the situation under control in the cabin. In the jetway, two station personnel are biting their fingernails in dread. We are just minutes away from bingo duty time for the co-pilot. The co-pilot has the flight deck ready... We are waiting for the fueler now.

A few minutes later, with fuel slip in hand. I tell the lead flight attendant to close the cabin door. The jetway is pulled back and the tug starts pushing on Fi-Fi. We have been at the gate for twenty minutes... Not bad.

Both engines are idling and the checklists are done. We have seven minutes to go before the co-pilot's must take-off time, i.e., he turns into a pumpkin grounded in Portland. The visibility is about one mile with low ceilings and rain; air temperature still holding at 38 degrees. Portland tower clears us for take-off... The co-pilot is the flying pilot to Anchorage and advances the thrust levers slowly to stabilize the engines, then shoves them to the forward stops. Both of us switch our wipers on high for the take-off roll. Fi-Fi, loving the cool conditions, accelerates viciously toward the end of the wet runway. It feels like she is skimming above the concrete. The engines are 100 degrees cooler than a normal summertime take-off. It does not get any better than this... By the time I think about the engine temperatures we are blowing through the take-off speed. I call out "Vee-one... Rotate." In a few seconds, the dark, wet clouds swallow us.