Deep End of the Pool

Position: Abeam KRNO (Reno, Nv.)

Altitude: 30,000 feet

Groundspeed: 488 mph (425 knots)

Equipment: A320 with A1 power (small engines)

Pax-on-Board: 145

Destination: KPDX (Portland)

Airborne...

An ATL flight instructor with whom I have become acquainted, via the Internet, told me that my job, as part of Wilbur and Orville's Great Aviation Adventure, is the deep end of the pool. I like that description, for it is correlative to deep water, i.e., not being able to touch bottom. It fits nicely with my veneration of the night sky... Deep, infinite, and untouchable.

My wandering mind comes back to the flight deck as I remember the initial incident report I read today in the CBMI (Crew Briefing Master Index, essentially a pre-flight book updated by the Chief Pilot's office). A British crew flying the A321 had a nocturnal visit from an electrical gremlin. It was not pretty, but they kept their heads on straight and managed to maintain control... Got to love those Brits.

The moon is exceptionally bright tonight. I can see the outer portion of the left wing, from the spoilers outward, clearly. No gremlins riding on my side... I do not dare ask the co-pilot to do a gremlin check, though. Even so, there might be one riding on the tail and we would never know until it reached into the Star Trek bay with its putrid fingers and started pulling on wire bundles.

Yikes! Shake it off captain... Too much worrying going on here. But, can you worry too much about the souls in the back?

So goes the mentation in the dark... 30,000 feet over Nevada.

PPOS (present position)...

We are in an older 320 with small engines, but with upgraded flight/nav computers. She is a good ship. I have flown her many miles over the years. As do all these older birds, her belly has a few wrinkles from hard landings and if you look close enough in the flap tracks and gear wells, you can find evidence of four, maybe five paint jobs. She has only flown at this airline, but, like me, has seen a lot of miles and management practices disappear in her six. Paint jobs seem to be the first thing to change with a new base commander.

Tonight, during the taxi to the runway, number two engine high-pressure bleed valve failed. Bleed air from the high pressure section of the engine is cooled and delivered to various user units. Not a major problem, though. We can still fly using the high pressure bleed from number one engine. There is one itty-bitty catch... We have to fly at a lower altitude in case the number one engine bleed valve fails while en route.

After getting approval from Maintenance Control and completing the incriminating paper trail, we continued the taxi and take-off.

The troposphere is smooth at 30,000 feet, night sky is clear, winds are moderate (70 knots) out of the west. Over each check point I compare fuel-in-tanks and time from the last check point with my dispatcher's flight plan. If they are within 1,000 pounds and three minutes, I am a happy captain. If not, why?

Outside, a moonlit undercast as far as the eye can see. Inside, a bright green course line generated by Fi-Fi's exotic nav computers leading to the edge of the digital world. Chris Columbus would be amazed...

Top-of-Descent...

We leave the safe embrace of altitude, aways altitude, and begin the descent for KPDX by commanding the flight management computers to follow the vertical profile. A virtual waypoint at the end of a string of waypoints is the target Fi-Fi is concentrating on... Speed, altitude, time, and distance is her game and she is good at it. We enter data and requested parameters via dual keyboards, always monitoring the reaction. The cerebral interface... If I push this button, what is going to happen?

During the old days, flying the 737-100 steamers, we would lower the altitude hold paddle, pull the thrust levers back, and push the yoke forward. The airmanship interface... Mind to muscle to flight controls, all done subconsciously while asking the Captain if he had seen the new flight attendant in the rear galley.

Glide slope intercept...

KPDX weather is atrocious; +R, 006 ovc, 3215G25 (heavy rain, 600 overcast, winds 320 degrees at 15 knots with gusts to 25 knots). That would be a 40 degree crosswind on a wet and contaminated runway. Partial flaps would facilitate an easier missed approach and go-around, but full flaps gives a better view of the runway environment in the murk.

Full flaps it is with auto-brake ARMED, medium strength. On a thirty degree intercept angle, the Electric Jet captures the radio beams that lead to the runway. Her auto-thrust is having a hard time maintaining selected airspeed in the turbulence and wind; I select it OFF and take over with captain Dave's thrust control.

Gear down and locked, flaps to FULL, check engine heat ON, turn wing heat OFF in case of a go-around (we will need the bleed air for thrust). At 2,000 feet above the airport, the precip is heavy snow. OK, this is cool, literally...

Runway in sight...

There it is, sort of... Ten o'clock. The nose is pointing into the wind to maintain the runway centerline; snowflakes have turned into heavy rain, just as advertised. It is time to turn the wipers on HIGH, auto-pilot OFF... The VASI (visual approach slope indicator) is burning through the rainfall showing two white over two red... Perfect! I turn my full attention to the VASI and the airspeed indicator, my right hand feeding or denying kerosene to the mighty V2500 engines. God, I love these babies... Atmospheric processors working hard.

100 feet... 50 feet... Start the flare and kick the crosswind out of the airframe with a lot of left rudder and right aileron. The million candlepower landing lights show the rudder application with a shift of rain drop impact angle.

Touchdown comes at 140 knots on a wet runway. The airborne conveyance changes into a fast moving, ungainly ground vehicle with the application of spoilers, brakes, and reverse thrust... The stopping program is underway at KPDX.

At the gate and underneath the dripping Electric Jet, the co-pilot and I do a post-flight inspection, mostly looking at tire condition. Tread can come off the tires during take-off or landing and damage the underside of the wing and fuselage. No damage tonight, though; all tires look good.

A few minutes later, all five of us are waiting for the crew van in near freezing temperatures. I call the hotel and tell them a crew of five is waiting for pick-up. The woman at the hotel tells me the van should be there in five minutes.

It is always five minutes even if the van is sitting at the hotel twenty miles away. I guess it is like the airlines telling passengers at the gate the plane will be arriving in twenty minutes, always twenty minutes, even if the plane is still over Ohio. Yeah, it is the same...

Life on the Line continues...

Bonus Bucks

Position: Outside the Box

Altitude: 0

Indicated Airspeed: 0

Groundspeed: 2 knots

Equipment: 319

Pax-on-Board: 103

On the taxiway...

The narrow taxiways are bad enough, our engines hanging over the edges, but when we turn the corner, what do we see? A general aviation ramp covered with Cessnas, Pipers, four or five new GA aircraft that I am not familiar with, at least three older Lears that are probably night freighters, and a few mid-size biz jets. No terminal building, no jetways, no airliners... A familiar FBO (fix based operator) building is on the north end of the ramp.

Pressure is increasing on the cursing sear with the little devil on my left shoulder taunting me to just go ahead and let it out... You'll feel better.

The tiny angel that reports to the wife-of-my-youth, sitting on my right shoulder, is calming me with relax... Have fun. This is easy money.

Don't get me wrong, I love general aviation. There is nothing finer than a Cessna 185, or a Cessna 206, or the Holiest of Holies, a Beech P-Baron.

On the other hand, a 319 on a general aviation ramp is marginal, yet here I am...

Last night...

The wife-of-my-youth hands me the phone whispering, "It sounds like Billy."

No, please no... Not tonight. He is one of my running buddies, for better or worse, mostly worse.

Me: "Hey Bill, what's going on?"

Bill: "Dave, I've got a charter tomorrow... It's my wife's birthday and I friggin' forgot. I promised her weeks ago we could spend the day together. Can you fly my charter? Please, please, please..."

Me: "Not no, but heck no! I don't do charters... You know that."

Bill: "Oh, come on! It's a two legger... You'll be back by sunset."

Me: "No way, sorry..."

Bill: "I'll give you an extra hundred."

Me: "Forget it!"

Bill: "Two hundred..."

Me: "Not gonna happen..."

Bill: "Three hundred..."

Me: "There isn't enough money... I don't do charters. Period!"

Bill: "I am in big trouble here. You gotta help me... Everyone else is flying."

Everyone else is flying; he has me in a corner. Wild Bill and I are members of an alliance of captains that help each other with scheduling problems, among other things (mostly other things). If I do not take this charter... Trouble.

Me: "Tell you what... I'll take your charter, but you owe me big time and I want three C-notes in my mail slot tomorrow, before I leave."

Bill: "Deal! Thanks Dave... You the man!"

On the taxiway...

That would be the man way outside the box of Line operations, close to the edges of a narrow taxiway of marginal load bearing ability... With a professional sports team in the back.

Thankfully, the co-pilot is one of my favorites. He is the guy that flew the MU-2 in night freight service and survived. I cannot think of anyone I would rather have with me on this trip.

I ask him, "We got room to park this beast?"

"Yeah, kind of looks like they have cleared a place for us... In front of those buses."

There are three full-size luxury buses waiting, and between the buses and the FBO building are two media vans with their microwave antennas fully extended, news crews scrambling to get ready for our arrival.

Just what we need...A high def TV camera to document a 319 dropping a main gear off the edge of a narrow taxiway, or a V2500 engine blowing a Cessna 172 over the fence. I can see the headlines:

Middle-aged airline pilot damages Girl Scouts Cessna with blast of carbon polluted air from jet engine. Reportedly, he was laughing at the time and said "Girls shouldn't be flying anyway." Authorities are investigating.

The taxiway finally transitions to the ramp with a single employee from the FBO waving us in without wands or helpers on the wing tips.

"How you lookin' over there?"

"We are good... Got about fifty feet." The co-pilot's neck is cranked hard right.

My neck is cranked hard left briefly, "Yeah, I got about fifty on my side." There are lots of people standing behind the lone ramper with hands clamped tightly to their ears. The noise must be incredible.

My dispatcher informed me the FBO would have an external power cart standing by, but I do not see one.

"We better start the APU."

The ramper crosses his arms... After we stop, I set the parking brake and shut down number two engine. The APU is spooling up, but not yet on line; 50-60-70-80-90-100% and now ready to carry the electric load.

Number one engine fuel cut-off to OFF. Number one generator falls off-line causing loud electric relay clacking as the APU generator picks up the load.

OK, we have arrived... So far, so good.

Outside, an ancient set of jet-stairs mounted on an old truck is pulling up to the front-left cabin door. Lord, I hope they know what they are doing. They are attacking a $50,000,000 aircraft with a 63 Dodge pick-up.

We watch the cabin door escape slides being dis-armed on our instrumentation, and then hear the front left cabin door being opened from the inside, probably by the charter coordinator. The cabin doors are supposed to be opened from the outside to prevent accidental escape slide deployments.

I am going to forget I saw that...

After the athletes, coaches, and other members of the airborne entourage are off the aircraft, the co-pilot and I walk down to the ramp. Underneath Fi-Fi, bags are being tossed out of the belly into the beds of pick-up trucks. Not a belt loader in sight.

I tell the co-pilot I will take the left side of the aircraft for post/pre-flight, if he will do the right side. The air conditioning/pressurization packs and APU are howling. Yeah, this is kind of cool.

Inside the FBO...

The co-pilot and I are getting a few stares from student pilots and flight instructors as we wait for the young woman behind the counter to pull our flight plan out of the fax machine. Probably not many fully uniformed air carrier pilots visit here, I would guess... Certainly not with their airliner out on the ramp.

A young man in coveralls with the FBO name across his back approaches me with a clipboard. He addresses me as sir and then asks do you need fuel?

I tell him that we brought our return fuel with us, but thanks anyway. He looks relieved... Probably does not re-fuel many 319s. Then, with a nervous smile, he volunteers that he is working on his instrument rating. I ask a few questions about his training and then offer to show him some Fi-Fi sorcery.

"Some what?"

On the ramp...

The co-pilot is showing the kid some Fi-Fi black magic in the flight deck... I am underneath the belly looking at the ramp and proposed taxi route back to the runway. We need to turn 90 degrees right, hard right, taxi a few hundred and then a second 90 degree turn to the right to return to the taxi way leaving this ramp.

The first 90 degree turn is a problem. The engines will be blowing into a covey of aluminum birds during that turn. No problem, Herr Captain, we'll get a tow to point the engines in a safe direction before start.

Just to make sure I am not overreacting, I climb the stairs and ask the co-pilot to take a look at the light aircraft situation and the first turn out of here. Also, I ask the FBO kid if they can tow us, if we need it... He thinks "maybe" they can, but he will check.

Just like me, the co-pilot is nervous about the first turn on the ramp. Even at idle thrust, the V2500 engines would be dangerous to light aircraft. A few minutes later the FBO kid returns with bad news... Their tug is broken. But, he adds, the guys across the field might be able to help.

There is a small pax terminal on the other side of the airport that gets a single Mad Dog 88 and a few regional jets per day. The kid gives me the ops number over there and my iPhone does its thing.

Their station manager answers the phone... I explain what is going on and ask for a small favor.

SM: "Uh, well captain, we can't really do that. I mean, we could get in trouble if anything happens."

Me: "Yeah, I understand that, but we are going out of here empty, just the crew. I only need to point the nose away from the light aircraft."

SM: "Ya know, I think we'll pass on that. Sorry..."

Me: "Look, we gotta get outta here. I'll give you a hundred bucks to pull me 100 feet."

After a minute of ramp negotiating, the final agreed upon amount ended up to be, of course, $300. The station manager figured he could pull us 100 feet for $3 p/foot. Wild Bill's bonus bucks stayed in my pocket for a couple of hours. I should have known...

The station manager came over by himself in a large tug complete with tow bar. I helped him hook the tow bar to Fi-Fi's nose gear, handed him the $300 in the white envelope, and thanked him.

"No problem Cap, and thank you!"

I patted the FBO kid on the back and gave him a few words of encouragement on his flight training, and then asked him to please be careful backing away from The Electric Jet with the truck stairs.

End of the runway...

I'll bet that was the easiest $300 that station manager ever made in his airline career. To me, it was worth it to get out of here.

Fi-Fi is empty with enough Jet-A to get home plus 45 minute reserve and 10 minutes of hold fuel. When the co-pilot advances the thrust levers, the acceleration is vicious. It feels like the tires are sliding instead of rolling... At 119 knots indicated airspeed, the co-pilot hauls The Electric Jet off the runway and buries the vertical speed needle. The little airfield falls away in our six.

We level off at 39,000 feet in short order. The flight attendants told us before take-off that there was a lot of left over food, and it is the best that money can buy. Million dollar athletes do not eat crew meals.

Soon, we are eating broiled rib-eyes and fresh salad. Well, this isn't too bad.

On the $300 that I took from Wild Bill... It was on the edge of being bad karma to take his money, but... I dislike charters because they are outside the box and there is little if any protection from the Chief Pilot's office in today's New Age world of air carrier flying.

In the old days, the Chief Pilot would deflect any problems that might arise and no one would be the wiser. Today, the captain is an Enemy of the State if he/she makes a mistake.

Anyway, the $300 went for a worthy cause; a ninety degree, 100 foot tow. We are on the way home in style.

Life outside the Box, continues....