Aloft

Position: Seven miles above Iowa
Ground speed: 626 mph (545 kts)
Destination: Dulles International
PAX onboard: 110

It is one of those nights; all is well in Captain Dave's world. The Electric Jet ascended to 37,000 feet in 23 minutes where we will stay until we burn off enough fuel to step up to 39,000 feet. We are flying in absolutely smooth conditions, even though our little slice of atmosphere is moving east at 105 mph. Amazing! Overhead, the Milky Way is bright and clear. There are so many stars that it is, well, indescribable. There are no adjectives...

My co-pilot, though, is not having such a good night. He suffers from captainitis, the rare disease that I see no more than once a year, sometimes less. This is day number three of a four day trip and we have already had a meeting of the minds with the Pilot Operations manual as the main subject. On day number one, I caught him pressurizing the hydraulic system (on the ground) to charge the brakes without clearing the area. Doing this can lead to death and destruction because it pressurizes the flight controls, maybe the thrust reversers, and possibly the nose wheel steering. It so states in the Pilot Ops manual with large, bold print: WARNING!

I did not say anything, letting it go as a temporary brain vapor lock. I certainly suffer from this malady on a daily basis. On the second day, though, I could see his right hand hovering over his joy stick as I was preparing to land the aircraft. It was as if he were preparing to take over the controls in a last second attempt to save the aircraft. Doing this without alerting the flying pilot ahead of time can cause death and destruction because of dual inputs into Fi-Fi's flight control computers (definitely not a good thing). It so states in the Pilot Ops manual with large, bold print: WARNING!

Once we shut down at the gate, I closed the flight deck door, removed my Pilot Ops manual from my pilot bag and said, "We need to talk over a couple of things."

That was yesterday. The conversation has been only operational stuff, like checklists and required call outs, after that. Oh well, this place, aloft under the stars, should be quiet. There is too much to see to talk.

Life on the Line continues... Quietly.

Over the Fence

Position: Fifty feet over the runway threshold; KLAS (Sin City)

Passengers on board: 150

It is day number one of a four day trip. I made it to the airport without spilling a single drop of Starbucks on my clean pilot shirt. Later, (before sunrise) walking underneath the right wing of The Electric Jet, a fuel leak dripped Jet-A on my coffee-free pilot shirt. The wife of my youth will roll her eyes back when I try to explain this one. The leak was coming from a magnetic drip stick o-ring. That is not good... Maintenance shows up in force, one chief and two techs, arriving in their golf carts. The chief is looking at the dripping kerosene and shaking his head. He says,"We can't fix it here. She's goin' to the hanger. It'll take about three hours. I'll tell ops you guys need another plane." Roger that!

When I re-enter the aircraft, the lead flight attendant backs up into the corner of the forward galley, waving her hand in front of her nose. She coughs and asks, "Whew wee...What is that smell?"

Within a few minutes, I emerge from the forward lav with a new pilot shirt on, now into a one shirt deficit for the trip. I cannot wait to tell my wife that I will have to wear a shirt for two days in a row. She will say something like, "The flight attendants will think I don't love you."

0900 hrs.

We are one hour late; Fi-Fi is fifty feet over the fence as we get ready for our first landing of the day, mine. Our replacement jet is performing marvelously. She's got new engines and can bury the vertical speed indicator needle in a climb. Very few things in life compare to new jet engines. The main gear tires settle smoothly onto the runway in a cloud of rubber smoke. It is a beautiful morning in Vegas. Three minutes later we are approaching the gate; the waiting Seattle passengers are looking intently at their ride finally arriving. A few moms are leaning over and speaking to their children, pointing at Fi-Fi as I bring her to a stop... Chocks in, fuel cut-off switches to OFF.

The engines are still spooling down; no matter, the rampers are throwing bags and the fueler is moving his stand underneath the right wing. We are, uh, were supposed to push five minutes ago.

1010 hrs.

ATC cleared us to climb to 19,000 feet at 1,000 feet above the ground. That deletes all the altitude restrictions leaving Vegas. Go, baby, go... The co-pilot is letting her climb like a home sick angel. I am looking back across the left wing tip at the airport falling away, already 7,000 feet beneath us and that is with 150 passengers, a few pocket dogs, 12 tons of kerosene, 3 tons of bags, and 2 tons of mail/cargo.

We cross the Red Rocks west of Vegas at 16,000 feet and switch over to Los Angeles ATC center. Nothing but blue sky ahead; in the flight deck, though, there is an odor of kerosene wafting from my overnight bag. The co-pilot asks, "What about wrapping it in a plastic bag?"

Yeah, that might work. Life on the Line continues...

Hanna

Time: 1400 hrs local
Position: Over JST (Johnstown VOR)
Altitude: 30,000 feet and descending
Groundspeed: 505 mph (439 kts)


We have penetrated the outer ring of clouds of the northwest sector of Hanna. The turbulence is annoying and the clouds are thick but not wet (wet will come in a few minutes). The forward shields are up (anti-ice systems ON) which automatically turns on the engine igniters. Seventy miles ago I told the lead flight attendant to batten down the hatches and get ready for a goat rodeo. The weather radar is on the 120 mile range and the returns are in the category of you got to be kidding me.

Before we left LAX, I decided to upload another ton of fuel which caused a ton of cargo to be unloaded. The ramp supervisor took it in stride, though, which greatly relieved me. Unfortunately, they will have to handle the same freight three times. Why does bad weather automatically correlate to heavy loads and minimum fuel? It is an aviation mystery of old. Next question: Why I am flying in this mess? This is for junior pilots. OK, I was trying to snag a good overnight in a downtown Philly hotel, but this? What was I thinking?

25,000 feet and descending...

Ice is starting to form on the windshield wipers and the outside air temperature probe. The turbulence is getting worse; I call the lead flight attendant to double check that everyone is strapped in; she confirms and says there are some worried looks in first class. No kidding...

We are leading the arrival stream into Philly at 310 knots indicated air speed, but we have to slow down... The turbulence is getting bad. It is hard to read the instruments. I select 280 knots for the engine management computers and watch the engines spool down further. The co-pilot tells ATC that we are slowing. No problem... They know it is a rough ride into Philly today. The controller starts slowing the stream down behind us by issuing instructions for "280 knots."

20,000 feet and descending...

Holy Moly! We are literally immersed in rainfall. The forward windshields are covered with a fast moving stream of water. The total air temperature (think outside air frame temperature) is too warm for the de-ice system... Forward shields OFF. Engine igniters are switched ON manually for flame out protection. Our radar shows a small, but intense cell over the next virtual waypoint a few miles ahead. The co-pilot asks for 10 degrees left... Roger that, approved. I feed the flight management computers a few left electrons which tells the auto-pilot the "boss wants 10 degrees left" and left we go. The rain is torrential here in this little quadrant of sky. Static electricity is building and discharging on the forward Plexiglas. We can see little white flashes on the other side of the rain sheet. First class food and drink carts are banging against their locks; it is loud in the flight deck. OK, one more time; why am I here today? Just for grins, I look back at the left wingtip. I can barely see it. The clouds and rain are very thick. The inertial reference system shows 80 knot winds at 17,000 feet.

15,000 feet and descending...

ATC clears us to cross the last fix at 8,000 feet and no delay, please. Roger that... Spoiler handle full aft; the wings start to rumble and shake as the lift is dumped into the rain. Here we go...

8,000 feet and level...

The center controller turns us over to Philly approach control. The approach controller breaks us off the arrival and begins to vector us for the final approach course to runway 9 right. We ask for small left and right deviations to fly through the least heavy radar returns. That is approved. It is dark enough down here that we are forced to turn up the cockpit illumination. Using the Star Trek mode, I bank The Electric Jet left and right trying to miss the heaviest rain shafts. We are getting hammered with turbulence and the engine fuel management computers are having a hard time maintaining selected airspeed. The weather broadcast is being changed every ten minutes or so as the conditions deteriorate with the approach of Hanna. The co-pilot tears off the latest weather from the mini-printer and reads it:

Winds 130 degrees at 25 gusting 35 kts. Heavy rain. Ceiling 800 overcast. Visibility 1 mile. Altimeter 29.65 and falling.

Yikes! That is a huge change from 10 minutes ago. Well, we can go take a look. If it is too bad, we will bug out to Hartford. The final controller turns us on a 30 degree intercept for the radio beams that lead to the runway. The surging engines are getting on my nerves... Auto-thrust OFF. Right hand on thrust levers. The thrust management lobe behind my right ear takes over... Much better. The co-pilot calls out, "Course alive, glide slope alive." The instruments show Fi-Fi is merging with the radio beams from the runway transmitters. We can see the twin beams of the landing lights piercing through the rain. They illuminate the oncoming whirlwind of water moving toward us at 172 mph (150 kts). Unreal! Flaps and gear go out and down. Checklists are read and replied to... The flight directors lock up on the radio signals and the auto-pilot follows. Down the glide slope we go.

1,000 feet and descending... Cleared to land, runway nine right.

Flaps at 75%, gear down and locked, engines spooled and maintaining 166 mph (145 kts). We will land with 75% flaps because it makes bugging out easier in case of a missed approach in this wind. Fi-Fi is cranked 25 degrees right keeping her course against the wind. My right hand is walking the thrust levers back and forth keeping the airspeed plus or minus 10 knots. The co-pilot calls out "one thousand", a reminder that we are 1,000 feet above the river and descending. The uh-oh lobe behind my left ear is thinking, "OK, if this happens we will do this and if that happens we'll do this and if that happens..." and on it goes in a constant stream of what-ifs. This is independent of the thrust management lobe behind my right ear. There is probably not much in between to connect the two halves.

500 feet and descending...

The co-pilot calls out "500" which translates to this is getting serious. I can see a smeared row of approach lights through the rain blanket on the Plexiglas. Wipers ON. Now, I have a clear row of approach lights for about 1/2 second as the wipers pass in front of my eyes. Wipers to HIGH. The powerful electric wiper motor goes into high gear and starts slinging water into the slipstream. OK, that is better. Still, the rain fall is, well... Amazing.

The winds are starting to gust now, as advertised... Runway end lights in sight. At 300 feet, I switch OFF the smoke and mirrors and take over the flight controls manually. When the auto-pilot releases Fi-Fi, I can feel the airframe move to the left with the wind until I correct. A goat rodeo, indeed. The rain is intense. The wiper motor is loud in the flight deck. Wingtips are rocking in the wind gusts.

200 feet and descending... Lookin' good.

100 feet... Over the runway end lights. Down here, we can see the rain blowing across the runway. Easy baby...

50 feet... Start thinking about flaring and ruddering out the crosswind.

30 feet... OK, this is critical. At the same time, raise the nose a bit, walk the thrust levers back toward idle (slowly), and start working the crosswind angle out of the airframe.

10 feet... Don't even think about a smooth landing. Let her fall onto the runway and get those main tires squished onto the wet concrete.

Touchdown... It's not pretty but it will do under the circumstances. Thrust reverser vanes begin to open as I bring the thrust levers up and over the idle gate. The nose gear falls onto the runway and I push the stick forward a little to get the tires firmly planted with the runway. Wing spoilers go to full UP. The engines roar to life turning the water on the runway into mist and steam... We can see it blowing forward in the landing lights. OK, that falls under major cool. As we slow, I can feel the wind trying to weathervane the vertical stabilizer/rudder. Easy, baby... Easy.

80 knots and slowing...

Engines out of full reverse to idle reverse, wheel brakes applied and we slow rapidly 60-50-40-30-20-10. We exit the runway at the 6,000 foot marker. I turn the wipers back to LOW. Not a good idea. Too much rain; back to HIGH.

Our gate, miraculously, is open and we can see the rampers in their full rain gear, yellow slickers blowing in the wind, flash lights up. Out my left window are landing lights shining through the rain and clouds with a 30 degree wind angle. Unreal! Ducks would not fly today.

Quit day dreaming... Do not hit the gate after all that.

Life on the Line continues...