Sounding like Robert Stack

Position: 180 nautical miles southeast of KSEA (Seattle)

Altitude: 28,000 feet

Indicated Airspeed: 300 knots

Equipment: A320; large engines

Pax-on-Board: 150 + two jumpers

Airborne...

Long red fingernails screeching on a chalkboard... That is your ATC controller saying, "Tell me when you're ready to copy holding instructions. Something is going on at Seattle. They're telling me a 747 slid off the runway."

My worn, but still functional brain immediately and subconsciously compartmentalizes... The fuel burn section kicks into overdrive.

Thanksgiving Lift 2010 is underway, and as usual I am on the tip of the spear. Every seat is full with one flight attendant and one pilot jumper. The pilot jumper is a senior Instructor Pilot going home for Thanksgiving; off-duty, but still an IP watching everything I do.

The seasonal good flying weather of October and November is over... Winter ops have arrived.

Seattle is in the grips of a snowstorm complete with ice and wind, i.e., the worst kind of winter weather for an aviator. My dispatcher and I burned a lot of iPhone battery power before take-off discussing the what-ifs... Well, guess what? A what-if has happened!

Our holding instructions are: 20,000 feet, east of the holding fix, right turns, leg length our choice. My co-pilot is the best ever, a female in my Top-Ten list who buddy bids me. That means she agrees to fly my schedule and I agree to behave. We fly together a lot and know what the other is thinking before articulation... I see she is emailing our dispatcher; also entering holding data into Fi-Fi's nav computers at approximately the same time.

I am the flying pilot and start the descent to 20,000 feet. I figure we have 45 minutes of holding fuel before we must proceed to Seattle and attempt the approach. The fuel computers estimate 60 minutes, but that is a digital wag. Missed approaches use an enormous amount of fuel, always more than forecast. The alternate airport is KPDX (Portland), a short flight from Seattle.

At 23,000 feet, with engine icing shields up, we descend into the tops of the frosty clouds. The turbulence level increases instantly to the flight-attendant ankle breaking threshold... I look at the co-pilot and nod my head toward the forward galley, saying we had better sit them down back there.

The beautiful orange and deep blue skies of dusk are replaced by darkness. I cannot see the little ice probe mounted on the forward wind screen support without a flashlight... Uh-oh! There is already one-half inch of mixed rime/clear ice on the probe. That is not good... Cloud tops typically have the worst icing.

Holding (holding means flying racetrack shaped patterns where ATC assigns; thus, the holding fix) at 220 knots (253 mph) will allow ice to build on the tail. Obviously, we need to get out of here, like now. The co-pilot asks me if I want to climb before I ask her to get higher. The ATC controller gives us 25,000 feet and says he is still trying to get news on KSEA.

After I set 25,000 feet in the altitude selector and command the auto-pilot to begin climbing, I turn the wing heat ON, wing lights ON, and quickly look back toward the left wing. Yeah, baby! Sheets of ice are losing their cold grip on the wing's leading edge and disappearing into the slip stream.

Fi-Fi breaks out into twilight conditions at 3,000 feet per minute. We reach the holding fix and begin to fly a racetrack pattern with ten mile legs. The co-pilot reports to ATC and Mother that we are officially holding.

I remove the cabin PA handset from it's cradle, clear my throat, and then use my best-ever deep and confident Captain's voice to tell the pax why we have suddenly reversed course.

After a short and well done communique to the pax, I replace the handset and ask the co-pilot, "Come on, admit it... That sounded like Robert Stack."

The co-pilot rolls her eyes back, shakes her head and says, "Oh, please..."

Respect for the left seat is slipping amongst the young and impressionable... Actually, I am surprised that she knows of Robert Stack, the coolest Hollywood airline Captain ever.

Turning circles at 25,000 feet...

The hold is sort of thought-provoking... We see the night sky rolling over us from the east and the retreating daylight in the west as we burn precious kerosene, but get nowhere. I can sense the instructor pilot fidgeting as he considers the personal ramifications of diverting to the alternate airport.

Outbound from the holding fix on the third turn, our ATC guy says, "They're gonna let a few of you in... Uh, braking action is reported as fair on the runway, poor on the taxiways. The runway was chemically de-iced a few hours ago. Tower visibility is a quarter-mile, RVR (runway visual range, i.e., how many horizontal feet can you see down the runway) is 2800 feet. Say intentions..."

"Tell him we are ready."

Descending into KSEA...

Engine heat/wing heat ON as we descend, one more time, into the icy clouds. We have been cleared to intercept the localizer (radio beam to the runway) outside of the outer marker. The co-pilot and I brief the approach, reminding each other of the required call-outs for an instrument approach, especially with an IP sitting behind us, on-duty or not.

I visualize how this landing is going to go and all the things that could go wrong after touchdown. We have a slick surface with a crosswind...

Over the marker with three green gear lights shining brightly, flaps FULL, engines spooled up, and landing checklist complete. Fi-Fi's nav computers are in a heightened sense of self-awareness as the runway gets closer. My right hand is on the thrust levers, left hand on the stick as I monitor her behaviour. The landing lights are OFF because of the reflection from snow flakes.

At 1,000 feet radar altitude, nothing but darkness... 500 feet radar altitude, nada... 300 feet radar altitude, approach lights burning through the cold gloom... I get a hit of adrenaline from those beautiful lights. At 200 feet radar altitude the end of the runway is in sight, a bit crooked from the crosswind. I reach overhead and illuminate our world with candlepower. The instant sensation of velocity is incredible as the radiant snow flakes rush toward us at 140 knots.

We can see the runway surface; it is patchy snow and ice, but doesn't look all that bad. I decide to add five knots to the touchdown speed for tail icing. Five knots requires 500 feet of dry runway, probably 1,000 feet of icy runway, but we have plenty of concrete in front of us.

I estimate the crosswind at 10-15 knots from the left with light to moderate turbulence as we pass over the threshold. Auto-pilot OFF, auto-thrust OFF...

Touchdown...

Removing the crosswind angle with rudder and aileron, I drop the Electric Jet onto the runway firmly, shaking both galleys a bit, I am sure. Got to get those tires on the runway and load them with weight quickly. Reverse thrust comes on strong and wing spoilers are raised with brute hydraulic force destroying the lift.

At 100 knots, I start applying the brakes evenly with ever increasing pedal pressure. They are, in reality, only electric switches, i.e., no hydraulics at the pedals. The braking computers read the strain on the pedal and send the proper stream of electrons to the wheel brakes.

I can feel the anti-skid working as the brakes are released momentarily when their assigned wheel assemblies skid on the ice. The normal reaction is to decrease pedal pressure, which is the wrong thing to do... Keep the pressure heavy and let the anti-skid work, and work it does.

There are strange multi-colored flashing lights in our ten o'clock. It is like Christmas lights in low visibility. It dawns on me... Emergency vehicles around the 747 that slid off the runway.

Our airplane is tracking the centerline as it slows to walking speed before turning onto the taxiway, which has not been de-iced. Before the turn, we can see the 747's tail... There must be 20 to 30 emergency vehicles surrounding the stricken aircraft.

There, but for the Grace of God, go I...

Cannot worry about it now, though. We transition to the taxiway covered with a couple inches of snow over an ice base. When I command the nose wheel to turn using my tiller, nothing happens. The nose gear is sliding... Well, there is more than one way to skin the proverbial cat. I bring Fi-Fi to a complete stop, then slowly increase power on number one engine to help the nose wheels turn to the right... It works very well, being something that one of the Captains-of-my-Youth showed me in the 737.

Fi-Fi continues slipping and sliding toward the gate, which is in an area of aircraft de-icing activity. The overspray has melted all the snow and ice in the gate area and we regain full traction about 100 yards from the marshaller.

Brakes set at crossed batons, engine fuel switches to OFF, and start breathing again. Outside, the snow is blowing horizontally.

The IP says, "Good job guys. And by the way, I think the captain does a good Robert Stack impersonation."

"Don't tell him that! He'll do it even more!"

Yep, I absolutely will. It's called stirring the pot.

Life on the Line continues...