A Small Navigation Anomaly

Position: Racing for the worm hole west of KEWR (Newark)

Altitude: 12,000 feet

Indicated Airspeed: 280 kts (320 mph)

Equipment: A320

Pax-on-Board: 150

It is the summer of electric dreams, except these dreams are very real. It has been a number of years since I have flown through a summer of this much convective activity. Thor has been and is still swinging his mighty hammer with abandon.

The departure controller stopped our climb at 12,000 feet while traffic clears overhead. We are flying a compass heading of 270 (west). The co-pilot is flying this leg. He is a 32 year old hot-shot, never married, very intelligent, and has above average airmanship skills. I have flown with him many times and have never seen him do anything out of the ordinary; that parameter covers a lot of airspace.

Tonight, we experienced a small navigation anomaly of the co-pilot's making. Luckily, we reacted quickly, so no harm/no foul. He is pretty much mortified and has apologized twice... Ahem, also using a term that Clint Eastwood made famous in a movie about a Marine gunny... Uh, we will leave it at that.

I told him that everything is cool, no problem and don't worry about it. We can talk later... At the moment we are in a high workload area.

Fifteen minutes earlier...

Both engines are turning and burning, last checklist is still waiting; we are number three for departure. The sky is electrically charged with spiderweb lightning above and in all quadrants, heavier bolts striking the ground south of the airport. Every few seconds I reach overhead and turn my wiper on for one swipe, a nervous habit more than anything else. The mad-dog 88 ahead of us is checking flight controls, rudder moving right, then left.

The co-pilot is worried about one of the flight attendants in the back. She is single, very attractive, young, and friendly. In fact, she has the right seat wrapped around the proverbial axle.

I am worried about this aluminum female and all souls behind the flight deck door. She is, also, very attractive, young (in airplane years), and friendly (if you know what you are doing). The co-pilot is rambling on about maneuvering plans concerning the flight attendant. The words are not registering... I am counting minutes until we are fuel critical.

We are now number two for the runway. Pilots are known to have compartmentalized brains, i.e., very good at multi-tasking. For example, I have moved the engine failure procedure to a frontal brain bucket and placed it beside the normal procedure bucket. This is the perfect time for that evil demon of engine failures to appear. The night is dark, wet, electric, and one pilot's mind is in the aft galley... Favorable conditions for molten engine shrapnel.

Next for take-off; pre-departure checklist finished, flight attendants warned. As I have done since I had lots of hair, none of it grey, I mentally re-check FLAPS, TRIM, FUEL. We are good to go as I roll Fi-Fi onto the centerline, all wing, fuselage, and nosegear lights ON. The radar is turned ON and the antenna elevated to look ten miles ahead and eight degrees above the horizon. It is not one of the new whiz-bang-multi-scan units, but still a good radar.

I straighten the nosewheel before handing the aircraft over to the co-pilot. In a few seconds we are moving toward the far end of the runway with extreme vigor.

Here is the drill: After take-off on this particular runway, you are expected to turn right to a heading of 060 degrees (northeasterly), fly four miles as counted by DME (distance measuring equipment; it senses distance from a selected radio transmitter), then turn left to a heading of 290 degrees (northwesterly). Flying this procedure in Fi-Fi is very straight forward. Before take-off, the nav computers build virtual waypoints with which the flight director bars will lead the pilot.

At 1,000 feet, with both engines still turning, I start to relax a bit... Until the co-pilot asks (sheepishly), "Are we suppose to fly runway heading?"

Oops! Something has happened to the nav data, i.e., it has disappeared from the computer nav display. Fi-Fi is on an unannounced tour of New Jersey. The co-pilot is wondering why the flight director bars are commanding runway ground track.

This very thing happens with alarming regularity in contemporary airliners as the interface between pilot and machine becomes more complicated. But that is for another post...

Speed of reaction is critical in these situations and it had better be the correct reaction. There is no time for looking at the charts and trying to figure out what the heck is going on... The captain can take over the controls (probably not a good idea, as it has been pretty much proven that captains have the most crashes; another post for the future), or assist the co-pilot in getting out of the mess. I usually choose the latter; actually I cannot remember ever taking the aircraft from a co-pilot. If they are newbies in the Electric Jet, I might say something like, "Can I show you something?"

On the flip side, it is time for a little bit of micro-management. The co-pilot is unsure of what is happening to the point of causing the ailerons to twitch via nervous input from his joystick.

"OK, turn auto-pilot two ON and fly a heading of zero six zero... Now."

Fi-Fi is accelerating rapidly and approaching flaps/slats up speed but the co-pilot is still caught in the confusion of the moment. He follows my instructions and the Electric Jet begins banking right toward the Manhattan skyline. I raise the flaps/slats and tell him I have done so...

He asks, "Do you remember the frequency for the four mile turn?"

"I'll tell you when to turn. Watch your altitude; twenty-five hundred is coming up fast."

One of my forever-and-ever-habits-amen is to start the timer when the engines come out of idle for take-off. I do it for fuel burn, but it works for lateral distance, too. The clock is running and my little mental time and distance calculator is building the turn point taking into account acceleration.

Four miles is about here... "OK, turn left heading two nine zero."

Fi-Fi begins banking left. I glance out my side Plexiglas and see that we are still in the departure corridor, more or less. An Instructor Pilot running the simulator and looking at the computer generated ground track would be shaking his head... Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.

The co-pilot is mentally returning from the aft galley. He says, "I am so sorry. I did that to myself. I messed with the flight plan on the runway." Mystery solved...

"We'll talk about it later."

There is blue sky toward the west and Fi-Fi is heading that way with the vertical speed needle buried at the top of the case.

One hour later...

The line of storms is in our nine o'clock as we head for Tampa. The subject of screwing with the flight plan on the runway has not come up. I have decided not to say anything about it; he knows what he did was a big no no. An Instructor Pilot would be chewing on him for 500 miles, maybe more.

I'll bet he doesn't do it again.

Life on the Line continues...

Minimum Brake Release Fuel

Position: 100 miles west of KPHL (Philly)

Altitude: 28,500 feet; climbing at 900 feet per minute

Groundspeed: 488 mph (425 kts)

Equipment: A320

Pax-on-board: 150

Destination: KSFO

One of the cranky old timers that taught me the way of large jet aircraft told me the TOC (top of climb) fuel check was probably the most important on the whole flight plan. In hind sight, I believe he is correct. The crew can get a good idea of realistic remaining range at TOC.

We are still 5,500 feet from TOC, nevertheless my mental fuel loop is in hyper-drive. The question is: Are we going to have enough fuel-in-tanks to make KSFO without diverting to re-fuel? We lined up on the runway with minimum brake release fuel, but large deviations, north and south, during the climb through a line of thunderstorms put a dent in our fuel load.

Surprisingly, the left seat cursing threshold has not been breached. After all, we have been working this problem with all available resources.

Three hours earlier...

This is the stuff of airline pilot nightmares. We are number one gazillion and three on the taxiway with brakes set, thunderstorms in all quadrants with rain, wind, and lightning; captains losing their cool on the radio frequency; airliners at bingo fuel trapped on the taxiway and unable to get back to a gate for a kerosene upload. Many of the aircraft are approaching the new DOT three hour rule, but nothing can be done about it.

Ground control and operations frequencies are a melee of colliding radio waves causing very annoying squealing in our earpieces. I am calm, though... On the beach in Cancun. Before we pushed back into this mess, the dispatcher and I decided to fill all fuel tanks to the max, and then use creative fuel planning to get us off the ground.

We are using the number one engine for cooling and electrical power instead of the APU. Why? If the APU fails on the taxiway, which is rare, but not unheard of, you are in a proverbial pickle. No APU on the taxiway equals no engine start, no electricity other than battery power, and most important, no cooling air for the pax. Simply thinking about it is enough to put another shade of gray in my hair. There is a 600 pound per hour difference in fuel burn using the engine, but I will deal with it later.

Two hours earlier...

Two orbs of light are approaching, getting brighter and larger. The roar of jet engines at maximum thrust washes over our flight deck. It is a surrealistic scene through a sheet of rain covered Plexiglas. I reach overhead and turn my wiper ON for a better look... Their flight deck is leading a moving storm of mist and hot fog from the engine thrust. The approaching candlepower is almost overwhelming and it is still two hours from sunset. Abeam our aircraft, the nose gear breaks free causing the engines to blast the rain covered runway. The fuselage is hidden inside a whirling storm of hot mist, although the main cabin windows are glowing smudges of yellow light.

And then, it is gone; the crackling thunder of jet engines at close range fading in our seven o'clock. The co-pilot says, "They're lining up another one." Yep, he is right. Two new orbs of light coming into view at the end of the runway.

The original brake release fuel is history. I pull out my number two pencil and hand calculator to begin the new and improved brake release fuel calculations, moving 700 pounds of Jet-A from the captain's uh-oh contingency fuel to the taxi burn. I set it aside for a few minutes, and then look at it again... Still looks reasonable. An email is sent to my dispatcher with the new figures so she can back me up with her number two pencil.

In a few minutes, the email alert light flashes and the mini-printer spits out a new fuel burn column amending the flight plan.

Another roaring cloud of mist goes past our aircraft. We are slowly moving toward the end of the runway.

One hour earlier...

The new and improved brake release fuel is history. It was such a good plan, too.

OK, we have 30 minutes of holding fuel. I can move 700 pounds to taxi burn, instead of robbing more contingency fuel. Holding fuel is not legally required, but it is a really good idea to keep some in your back pocket for precious minutes to get an alternate plan cobbled together when things start going south. We will have about 25 minutes of hold fuel.

Another email leaves Fi-Fi's belly en route to dispatch with the newest and best brake release fuel figures.

Thirty minutes earlier...

We are next for take-off as we complete the last checklist and warn the flight attendants. The newest and best brake release fuel is at hand. Fi-Fi moves onto the rain covered runway, finally, after two and a half hours on the taxiway. We are now the two orbs of light at the end of the runway. Put that thought aside until later...

Radar ON and looking eight degrees above the horizon. The co-pilot asks for twenty degrees left after take-off to miss a cell at the edge of the airport. Cloud-to-cloud lightning flashes illuminate our dark world every few seconds.

I tell the co-pilot, "Here we go," moving the thrust levers forward a bit to bring the engines out of idle and preparing them to receive large amounts of fuel.

Thrust levers forward and watch the fuel burn digits blur into an upward counting frenzy, going from three digits, four digits, settling into five digits as the feeling of raw power pushes us back in our seats. The engine temperatures are wonderfully cool in the rain. I reach overhead and turn my wiper ON high until we get airborne. We are blowing through the eighty knot call in a few heartbeats... 100, 120, 140, 150... "Vee-One"... 160... "Rotate."

Fi-Fi does not roll more than a hundred feet on her main gear tires before the runway is falling away, rapidly. She is happy to be out of this place.

After the landing gear has slammed into their respective up-locks, and gear doors closed, we fly into a gray, electrically charged netherworld of fast moving rain drops in the million candlepower light spears. Carefully, I bank left to miss the approaching cell at the edge of the airport. Airspeed is increasing, even though I have nailed 18 degrees pitch angle. Jet engines love cool conditions. The vertical speed is passing 3,500 feet per minute when we reach 1,000 feet... Whoa baby! Airspeed is approaching flaps/slats UP speed. Flaps up!

Top of climb...

The Electric Jet levels at 34,000 feet 118 miles west of KPHL. I bring her five fuel tanks onto the lower display and scribble each tank amount on the flight plan. Ahead, the sun is going down behind a strange looking towering cumulus cloud that wanted to be a thunderstorm, but never made it past the development stage. Poor little thing... I think I will take a picture of it.

After a few minutes of time, distance and wind calculations, I am comfortable with the remaining fuel load. Comparing my numbers to Fi-Fi's nav computers shows a 500 pound difference. That is within fuel sensor error margins.

We are three hours late. Fortunately, there are no connecting pax. I call the lead flight attendant in the forward galley and ask about the mood of the pax. She says that most are glad to be airborne and heading for SFO. There are two pax asking about refunds from the new D.O.T. regulations. Since we were airborne before the three hour clock ran out, I don't think that will fly. Anyway, that is above my pay grade.

Life on the Line continues...

Independence Day Over Pensacola

Position: Over Pensacola

Altitude: 30,000 feet

Groundspeed: 552 mph (480 kts)

Equipment: 321 stretch Fi-Fi

Pax-on-Board: 183 + 4 jumpers

July 4, 0800 hrs

Oh Lord, what a beautiful day. Ahead, dark blue morning skies and light headwinds. Below us, the home of Naval Aviation. In my opinion, one of the finest places to be over on this fourth day of July.

The Disney World airlift is underway. Yesterday, we flew 183 kids and parents to Orlando. This morning, we are taking 183 back home. As the pax were boarding, several kids asked the lead flight attendant if they could see the flight deck. As is my practice, burned into my very being by a long gone Connie Captain, I sat them in my seat, showed them how to work the electric seat controls and a few buttons to push causing Fi-Fi to squawk. The thing they really notice is the side stick controller (joystick) and most had a look of understanding in their eyes. They get it... Children of the digital age.

The Electric Jet is heavy this morning, fat with fuel, baggage, and mail. The flight management computers want to cruise at 30,000 feet, even though we have performance for 32,000 feet and are, in fact, flight planned by Mother's main frame at 32,000 feet. The outside air temperature and wind component are causing the difference. If I plug 32,000 feet into the fuel computers, they actually show an increase in burn. This is one of those little things that falls into the major cool category. Admittedly, we are talking about measuring with a micrometer and cutting with an axe, but Mother is hounding her captains about every pound of Jet-A, so I guess we will cruise at 30,000 feet for awhile.

This morning is easy money compared to yesterday afternoon.

July 3, 1730 hrs (5:30 PM)

The Orlando vicinity forecast is 100% accurate today; thunderstorms and heavy rain. Our plan is to land between storms in moderate rain. Jacksonville ATC Center is doing a marvelous job of vectoring us around the heaviest weather. Before we started down into this mess, I told the lead flight attendant to prepare the cabin for a rough ride... Strap those kids in extra tight.

The 321 fuselage is twisting, flexing and emitting little thumping noises in the turbulence. Her digital, multi-scan radar is showing a hi-def return of the weather ahead. It is, without a doubt, the finest radar I have ever seen or used in my career. It brings me to tears just thinking about the difference between this radar and the early, mono-chromatic, non-stabilized units of my youth... Excuse me while I wipe my eyes.

Two hundred miles prior to this point, I memorized the first two nav fixes to the alternate airport, KJAX. Also, the co-pilot and I reviewed the likely ILS approaches and the engine failure procedure for each of them. It is good policy to move all the big things to the front of your mind in bad weather, i.e., hope for the best but expect the worst. Then, if you have to get out of Dodge in a hurry, the transition will be much smoother.

Sixty miles to the airport... It is looking dark, wet, and rough ahead. The co-pilot is asking for small vectors left and right around the heaviest stuff. There is a 737 behind us with an ATC assigned 300 kts speed limit; we have a 300 kts or greater ATC speed assignment.

Forty miles to the airport... We are in it now, heavy rain and moderate turbulence. This is lightning strike territory, but we are descending rapidly and will be out of the critical temperature band in a moment. Thick clouds are darkening the flight deck. JAX center hands us off to Orlando approach control who advises ILS to runway 18 Right, low level wind shear advisories are in effect. The co-pilot sets us up for a partial flap approach. It makes the escape maneuver more effective, i.e., more energy (speed) to deal with wind shear.

Twenty miles to the airport... Flaps and slats are coming out. We are approaching the radio beam to the runway at a 45 degree angle and are still above the glideslope. I have taken the radar out of Fi-Fi's network and am using raw microwave returns to peek at the weather around the runway. Actually, not looking too bad... Sort of a typical afternoon summertime arrival in Florida.

Ten miles to the airport... Merging with the localizer radio beam, still above glideslope. I ask for the landing gear DOWN and the remainder of the flaps to be lowered. The increased drag allows me to push the nose over slightly without an increase in airspeed. The final approach controller hands us off to the tower five miles from the outer marker. The tower clears us to land, visibility two miles and moderate rain; no wind shear reported.

Over the marker... On glideslope, speed, and configured for the approach.

Six hundred feet above the ground... Runway environment in sight. The rain is moderate to heavy... Wipers on HIGH. The runway's lead in lights are bright, beautiful, and welcoming.

Over the fence... Remember, it is a 321. The tail is way back there... Seven degrees max pitch. Fight the illusion of being high; wet Plexiglas tricks the human eye. Fi-Fi helps with radar altimeter digital voice call outs... "50-40-30-20-10-5."

Touchdown... On a wet runway at the 1,000 foot marker, wipers furiously slinging water, all spoilers forced to full extension, reverse thrust triggers pulled up and over... This is the time to be very careful. There is a micro-thin layer of water between the tires and the grooved concrete. With peripheral vision, I am watching for both green REV annunciations on the engine instrument display... ENG 1- REV/ENG 2- REV.

Yeah baby, we've got reverser vanes open for business. My right hand pulls both thrust levers and reverse triggers to the rear stops. Deceleration is awesome, but, unfortunately, not much noise. The 321 engines are too far behind the flight deck. Except for the nose and the top of the tail, an observer would see the aircraft disappear in a cloud of mist from the reverse thrust.

As far as the children in the back are concerned, we have arrived in paradise.

Thirty minutes later...

The crew van is rolling as iPhones and Droids come out of pockets and purses to call loved ones. It is raining hard outside. We landed in the proverbial nick.

I figure we have enough time for twenty minutes on the treadmill, a light dinner, and one episode of American Pickers before hitting the rack for an o'dark thirty get-up.

Life on the Line continues...