Sign There

A few minutes after I switched the fuel flows off and completed the shutdown checklist, the check airman handed me a form and pointed to the signature block at the bottom. He said, "Sign there." I quickly looked for any boxes checked Unsatisfactory. There were none. Hallelujah! I scribbled my signature, then handed the form back to the check pilot. He shook my hand, grabbed his flight case and said, "Good job, Captain. We'll see you next year."

I looked at my co-pilot and breathed a sigh of relief. We had just completed my annual line check. The last piece of the training pie, so to speak. That would be a physical, ground school, simulator training, and a line check. It feels so good when it is behind me.

Even though the line check was completed, our day was far from over. Ahead of us lay thousands of miles yet to fly.

And we are doing just that...

The Little Airline That Could...

Once upon a time in the Land of Evil Airline CEOs, there was a good man that started a little airline that could do no wrong. It was a cute little east coast airline with new airplanes staffed by happy employees that worked long, hard hours without complaining. Many unhappy pilots left the big, vile, nasty majors to go to work for the airline equivalent of Nirvana.

The Empire's media machine fawned over the new airline as if it were the answer to all the problems of air transportation. Surely, they opined, this was the way of the future.

Oops!

Winter of 2006-2007...

The Little Airline That Could Do No Wrong is the new focal point of passenger rage and media scorn. Can you imagine the terror? Why, they got stuck on a taxiway for ten hours during a huge snow storm at one of the busiest airports in the world where on a clear day, there is no extra gate space available. (I have been stuck on the very same taxiway for over five hours during summer thunderstorm season. Bingo fuel was reached after three hours but we could not return to the gate because of jet grid lock.)

I have an idea, though... Let's pass a New Law and force the Evil (and 1 good; well, now only semi-good) Airline CEOs to buy, ummm...

1. Snow Cat buses to plow through the snow drifts and rescue the stranded passengers! In the back of the Snow Cat people movers would be an automated, virtual attorney ready to take depositions relating to the horror.

-or-

(my favorite)

2. Emergency egress slides that inflate into polar shelters, complete with central heat, BBQ grills, and stores of dehydrated steaks.

-or-

3. Magic weather control machines to stop the snow and ice. I'll bet Airbus Industries could build this device... No problem.

This should raise the ticket prices only a couple hundred bucks...

Lights Out

Anchorage winter operations continue... Tonight, freezing fog. It is an amazing meteorological phenomenon; fog that freezes on everything. We pushed back on schedule with 119 passengers and prepared the aircraft for de-icing/anti-icing. The engines were not running, so the APU (little turbine engine in tail) was supplying electricity and pneumatics. The de-icing truck pulled up to the aircraft and after I spoke with the ice boss on the intercom, they prepared to spray glycol on Fi-Fi. Then, their truck died... No problem Skipper, "We'll be right back. We have another truck."

OK...

I picked up the public address handset and was about to relay this information to the passengers when the APU died; no faults, alarms, or warnings. It just quit running... Our world was plunged into darkness and silence. All the Star Trek stuff said "See ya!"

Immediately, looking at the co-pilot, I said, "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," he replied. "I didn't touch anything, it just quit!"

The Airbus is a very complex aircraft. Occasionally, it will surprise the pilots with weirdo events that cannot be explained or duplicated. I was hoping this was such an event. The co-pilot configured the aircraft for a battery re-start of the APU. I kept my fingers crossed as he pushed the start button. I watched the battery voltage being pulled down as the APU began it's start sequence. Finally, we could hear the little turbine winding up. When it reached operational rpm, it's connectors closed and flooded the electrical system with power. All the smoke and mirrors came back on line.

Thank you little APU! Welcome back...

The ice boss returned with a working truck with which he made quick work of the freezing fog residue. A few minutes later, with both engines running, we began our taxi through the snow. Before we reached the end of the runway, the visibility plunged to less than 1/4 mile. Our night just kept getting more interesting.

The tower turned the runway lights to maximum intensity as we began our take-off roll. The visuals were surrealistic as the center line lights popped out of the fog ahead of us. We could see two lights ahead of the aircraft, or not much. The thought of moose on the runway flashed through my mind. Yikes! At 170 mph (147 knots) the nose lifted off the runway and all visuals disappeared except for a dazzling reflection of the aircraft lights caused by ice crystals. A few seconds later, we flew out of the top of the fog layer into a clear, black sky peppered with stars.

Two hours and twenty-nine minutes later, we are approaching the half way point.

Fuel on board: 20,000 pounds
Fuel flow: 5,200 pounds per hour
Groundspeed: 560 mph (487 knots)

Free Pizza

Annual Groundschool; Day #2

The instructor is waving his laser pointer across the engine schematic while he verbally disassembles the FADEC (full authority digital engine control) into it's smallest components. It requires an effort to stay awake after lunch, which was provided by the airline in appreciation for our hard work. We fifty-two pilots are, of course, suspicious, but hey... Free pizza is not to be taken lightly. After the engine, comes fuel, fire protection/detection, hydraulics, and the exit test.

Before lunch we covered the electrical system, which is, more or less, the whole aircraft. One of her nicknames is the electric jet. They always cover the electrics before lunch, when we are wide awake and starving. Smart...

Training days are OK with me. This is the only time I get paid to stay in town. Tomorrow, the party is over. Back to the cloud mines I go... One day off before groundschool; none after...

Thirty Knots

Outside... Deep cold and darkness. We are feet wet over the Pacific, six miles below... Too heavy for 39,000 feet; still one hour of fuel burn away. We need to get up there, though, to reduce pounds per hour to our engines or we are going to be arriving at the nest with minimum fuel, something management says, "Shows good airmanship", but causes a geometric increase in the gray hair factor for this Captain. Usually, on this leg returning from Anchorage, we get help from the winds aloft, but not tonight... Light crosswinds less than 50 mph (43 knots).

The airspeed indicator shows a 34 mph (30 knots) envelope between the overspeed and underspeed zones. That is my personal minimum... 34 mph. A rough rule of thumb is that you lose 11 mph per thousand feet of altitude. If we climb to 39,000 feet, we would have a 12 mph envelope, or... Not enough. (For a detailed description of this phenomenon, see Aviatrix, a Canadian pilot who is, shall we say, wickedly intelligent and has written a series of good articles [coffin corner, stall speed, speed of sound] on this subject.)

The air mass is, thankfully, smooth. Number one flight attendant, Nita, told me that 124 passengers, a full load for the A319, are asleep or only semi-conscience in the back. Part of that contingent is a small group of Marine riflemen, having been on leave in Alaska, returning to their units. I spoke to them briefly in the terminal. They were looking high and tight, dressed in civvies, with positive attitudes and big grins. I asked Nita if we could stick a few of them in First Class, but, of course, it was full. So, I told her not to take their money and to give me the bill after the flight.

Inside the flight deck, it is toasty and relatively quiet. Not much radio traffic until we get closer to Vancouver. The only sounds are the rushing slipstream, a hydraulic noise every once in awhile, an occasional electrical relay opening or closing, and of course, the ever present sound of the cooling fans in the Star Trek pit, a.k.a., the E & E (electrics and electronics) bay. There is no engine noise at all; they are too far behind the flight deck.

It is the darkest part of the night...