Turbulence Glasses

Position: Over BIL (Billings, Mt)

Altitude: 33,000 feet

Mach: Point seven eight (.78)

Equipment: A320 V2500-A-1

Pax-on-Board: 150

Airborne...

She's got small engines and has run out of steam until more fuel weight is burned off. I still like this old girl, though. I can remember when she was a smoking hot piece of mysterious dark metal that most of the 737 war horse Captains shunned. They would walk around her, never under her, fearing the rumored electric demons waiting to fall on their fifty-mission crush hats.

That was then and this is now... Most of those guys have flown west for the final checkride and she is still here flying east. Her days are numbered, though. Soon, the company is going to open the corral gate and shoo her on down the airway; her nav computers, engines, and software are generations behind the new, enhanced Electric Jets arriving on the flight-line flaunting their big-thrust engines, smooth bellies, glistening factory paint jobs, and super-fast computers.

Tops above 55,000...

My dispatcher, whom I have known for decades, has a funny habit of clearing her throat when she is about to tell me about big storms along the route. Only if they are above 55,000 feet, though... Less doesn't seem to make her throat itch. I talked to her via iPhone 4 at the gate for a weather briefing; when I heard the throat clearing, my first thought was uh-oh.

Dark skies ahead...

Above Montana, only bright swathes of stars in a dark sky, visibility unlimited. The seat belt sign is OFF. I told the flight attendants, one senior sky momma and two brand new, one week from the flight attendant academy, newbies to expect a goat rodeo over Nebraska and thereafter for a few hundred miles.

The co-pilot is a young male I have flown with on numerous occasions. He is OK to fly with, but is not on my top ten list. His father, a mechanic for a major airline, is my age; the kid does not let me forget it, either. He is always poking me about retirement age, radio volume too high, cockpit lights too bright, can't remember crew names, and on it goes.

It's deserved, though. Oh yes, I did the same thing to more than a few Captains of yesteryear; exactly the same. If any of those old guys are looking down from the heavens, they have got to be smiling. How does that old saying go? What goes around comes around, I believe. A lot of miles behind the tail since I was young like this kid. I hope he remembers... Me.

Electric poof...

Was that an electric poof ahead? I turn down the instrument lights and lean forward on the top of the panel... Far below, little villages of South Dakota are passing under the radome quickly at 550 knots; the winds are giving us a good push.

Yep, there it is... An electric poof. A big thunderstorm still over the horizon will say hello with a very faint flash of blue light. I slide back away from the heated Plexiglas and look at the weather radar display... Nothing yet.

As if she is reading my mind from thousands of miles away, the email alert light flashes. The mini-printer spits out a message from the dispatcher. The weather ahead is ugly... She suggests a turn to the southeast toward Wichita or northeast toward Waterloo. I look at the green digits on the fuel page and do a quick mental burn calculation... We can do either route.

From the very beginning (of my career as a pilot), I have had trouble with summer weather in the Wichita-Kansas City- St. Louis area. I was hammered in a Rockwell Twin Commander over Kansas City one dark and stormy June night... Miraculously, the tail stayed on that beautiful flying machine.

A few years later, between Kansas City and St. Louis in a Baby Nine, I was jump-seating to work when the crew inadvertently flew through a level four thunderstorm. The hail was intense and the turbulence was, uh.... Looking for a word here... Vicious will do. Yes, the turbulence was vicious. I thought we were going to auger into a Missouri wheat field.

Anything that was not tied down... Airborne in the little DC-9's cockpit; the instrument panel was unreadable... A blur of moving steam gauges. My jump-seat broke after a few seconds in the horrific pounding from Thor's Hammer. The mono-chromatic radar was like a bad dream. Out the east side of the storm line happened quickly and I specifically remember looking at the engine gauges to see if they were still turning and burning... God Bless Pratt & Whitney!

Hmmm... Let me think. Do I want to go over Wichita or Waterloo?

The co-pilot asks ATC for a left turn toward Waterloo. High in the moonless South Dakota night sky, Fi-Fi lowers the left wing and proceeds toward Waterloo.

Cool under pressure...

Our ATC controller is under pressure from seven flights that are too close to the weather. We are listening to the continuous exchange... This controller is one cool customer. He is issuing rapid fire course and altitude changes, not confusing flight numbers and handling the squealing frequency when two or more flights push the transmit button at the same time.

Those captains are asking questions about the extent of the storm line and the controller is answering, giving good information. I know why they are asking... Their green digits are not looking as good as mine.

Fuel... It's always fuel. Fuel is life itself. There is something mildly satisfying about listening to the exchange from a distance.

I should get the sector phone number, call the supervisor when we land and ask, "Who is this guy and where did he come from?" Whoever, we need more like him... An amazing display of professionalism under intense pressure.

A break in the line...

Just as advertised, a break in the storm line north of Waterloo. It is a hole about eighty miles across; north of the break, the storm line continues for another 200 plus miles. The immense storms on both sides are very active; continuous lightning illuminating the inside of the cockpit from 40 miles away.

I call the forward galley and tell the senior sky babe to batten down the hatches; the goat rodeo is about to start.

Mach .74...

Following my inputs, the Electric Jet slows to Mach .74 for turbulence; engine anti-ice is ON. Keeping a reverent profile, we slip through the break in good visual conditions and out the east side. Not a ripple of turbulence. Yeah baby! I re-engage the auto-pilot speed control and watch the fuel flows increase rapidly as the engines press us back in our seats.

Soon, the flashing storms are only illuminating the side windscreen posts from our six o'clock. Ahead, dark and storm free skies.

Captain's turbulence glasses...

I reach overhead and ring the forward galley. One of the twenty-one year old newbies answers and I tell her they can get up... Smooth sailing ahead. She asks me about the lack of turbulence and I tell her, "I have special REVO turbulence glasses. I can see bumps in the dark. The astronauts used them... You know, remember Pete Conrad?"

"Who?"

"Uh, never mind..."

Life on the Line continues...