Midnight Meditations

Position: Over KMCI (Kansas City)
Altitude: 33,000 feet
Mach: Seven-seven-five
Equipment: A321
Pax-on-Board: 183 + 3 jumpers

Airborne...

Holiday heavy with fuel, pax, bags, and cargo over the vast Midwest this morning. We have one pilot jumper stretched out full length on the cockpit floor in front of the circuit breaker panels; he is fast asleep covered with a light weight windbreaker. It is freezing on that floor, as well as noisy from the cooling fans in the Star Trek Bay underneath, but he is exhausted from flying a rigorous schedule today, make that yesterday.

My co-pilot, a thirty something whiz-kid, is reading a much used paperback he picked up in the pilot locker room. All is quiet at 0010 hrs local time. The radio frequency is quiet, too. There is no convective weather to deal with until arrival at the east coast. Fi-Fi's long fuselage will flex and twist a tiny bit from the very light turbulence we encounter at this altitude. Overall, a good ride.

Midnight meditations... I have had many emails generated from this blog requesting a read on the initial AF447 four page letter that the BEA released. Some of the comments from a few Wikipedia Warriors and Internet Oracles are unbelievable. I would pay good money to see these folks take a simulator ride re-creating the conditions of AF447.

It is not yet clear what those conditions were and will not be until the final accident report comes out in 2012. However, it appears that two young co-pilots lost control while the captain was resting. By the time the captain got back to the cockpit, they were probably doomed. It would take a substantial amount of altitude to recover a fully stalled A330 with a high angle of attack, a 15 degree pitch attitude, and 10,000 fpm descent rate.

Thinking about that gives me the creepy-crawlies.

What could possibly happen to cause such parameters? I am not buying into the theory that the two co-pilots did not know what they were doing. Air France pilots are some of the best on the planet. Obviously, they were presented with very confusing and conflicting data. And that is probably an understatement.

The aircraft gave up the protection of Normal Flight Laws and fell into Alternate Flight Laws which is a different ball game. The co-pilots did recognize that event. They were aware of conflicting data from the ADC (air data computers). But why did the two young bucks (quoting one of my retired Captain buds) start increasing pitch angle? Why didn't they ignore the bogus data and fall back on pitch and power? Why, why, why... ?

For one, I am intensely interested in the minuscule details of this event and will read the 200 plus page accident report when it is published.

This post written on the fly, so to speak. I am in the middle of a four day transcon trip. Fly all night and sleep all day... The vampire sched.

Life on the Line continues... Remember, when all else fails... Pitch and power.

Unintended Consequences... Glory

That rushing sound, is it the crowd at Le Bourget,
Swarming past the barriers and lights
To scavenge my Spirit; to lift me up
Into the air that only heroes breathe?
Or is it the age-old sigh of sea on stones,
Known to those who pace the shingle
And the swirled black sands that wrap
These impossible islands in a shawl of waves?

excerpt from "At Lindbergh's Grave"
-Gerard Van der Leun



Lindbergh was into motorcycles and surely had his favorite coffee shops, pre-Starbucks, where he read the newspaper and shook his head at the blundering folly of humanity while his two-cylinder, air-cooled, nine horsepower machine ticked and clicked as it cooled in the hard scrabble parking lot.

When his eye caught the one column article on the Orteig Prize his life changed forever, although he did not know it at the time.

Think about that for a moment... A 24 year old, no-name, flat broke air mail pilot is reading the newspaper in a coffee shop after surviving another all-nighter hauling the U.S. Mail in a fabric covered bi-plane. The Orteig Prize... What the heck is this all about?

May 20, 1927... 0750 local

"Switches ON!"

"Clear prop!"

One of Lindy's ground crew, a pre-airline ramper, grabbed two handfuls of ham-stan (Hamilton-Standard) polished propeller and pulled it as hard as he could...

Cylinder number seven fired with a cough and a thick puff of blue smoke, followed by cylinder two, then five, then one-three-six-eight-nine-four... All nine Wright-Whirlwind cylinders fired in a rumbling staccato of blue smoke and an occasional backfire of yellow flame whirled away in the prop wash.

The Spirit's airframe was heavy with fuel... A lot of fuel. The moment of truth for the 25 year old air mail pilot; life or death in the next few seconds... A muddy runway and trees at the far end.

There had to be some Oh Lord, what have I done at that incredibly sweet moment of time so long ago.

Thirty-three hours later...

Le Bourget aerodrome is in sight, sort of... Lindbergh is so tired he cannot understand what is happening. There is a mass of humanity, estimated at 150,000 to 250,000 people, waiting in the dark for the Lone Eagle, as the newspapers were already calling him.

The Spirit, after crossing the North Atlantic, touched down on the grass runway with enough fuel to fly another two hours... Amazing!

The French police could not hold back the surging wave of admirers... Lucky for the first few that Lindy had the presence of mind to kill the fuel flow to the whirling ham-stan scythe. The mob ripped the young American air mail pilot out of the cockpit and carried him above their heads for twenty minutes before he was rescued... Unintended consequences.

Glory, sweet glory from a world wrapped in the arms of financial depression.

Who was this young American and who built this beautiful aircraft? Was this the light at the end of the dark tunnel?

Glory... Millions would see this handsome air mail pilot in the next few months. In the United States alone, one third of the population would see Lindbergh as he toured the country in the Spirit...

Glory... And fame for the rest of his life.

Glory... A newspaper, a motorcycle, and a cup of coffee.

Unintended consequences... Glory.

Seven Years Against the Wind... New Metal

Position: On "short" final approach; KSAN (San Diego)
Altitude: 400 feet, descending 700 feet p/min
Indicated Air Speed: 145 knots (167 mph)
Equipment: A321... New metal
Pax-on-board: 183 plus 3 jumpers



Airborne... Seven years against the wind writing this blog about life on the Line.



Who would have thought?

Once again, there is the infamous parking garage at eleven o'clock... We are cranked ten degrees for the crosswind. Fi-Fi's virtual glide slope indicator matches the ground-based visual glide path precisely. I have switched OFF all the whiz-bang smoke and mirrors and am hand flying a spanking brand new A321 in the Piper Cub mode.

I have not flown a "stretch" Fi-Fi for over two months, so being assigned a factory fresh A321 super enhanced model makes the experience even sweeter. In the aircraft world, she is the Angelina Jolie of airframes... A smoking hot aluminum babe.

Over in the right seat sits a friend of mine just back from a three year leave of absence. He got in trouble with a flight attendant, lost his wife in the ensuing disaster and then decided to go native on us when the Company offered leaves-of-absence a few years ago. He flew round motors (radial engines from Pratt & Whitney) in Alaska while he was gone. It is good to have him back on the Line... In no small part to strengthen the numbers in my circle of Chuck Yeager wannabe-types.

Retirements, loss of medicals, and the Grim Check Airman are thinning our ranks of low-life, middle-aged problem children. Yes, very good to see him back. He just completed a short re-qual on the Electric Jet and is voluntarily sitting in the right seat for 60 days before going back to the left seat. A smart move in my opinion...

The 321 is long enough that a tail strike is a possibility, so I am showing him my technique for landing with 75% flaps and no more than five degrees pitch on the nose. Naturally, I told him this technique is something for advanced left-seat aviators, and certainly nothing the "right seat" should ever try.

The bravo sierra is thick tonight on the first leg of a four day trip. The only time I have ever done a dual carpet dance in the Chief Pilot's office was with this guy. Yes, we have history...

We were junior captains, bottom feeders on the seniority list back during the days when F-4 Phantom-types were the shining Aviation Gods walking amongst us mere mortals, running the flight department and training. Esprit de corps was high... Both of us made it through Electric Jet training on the first attempt; that being an amazing accomplishment back in those days for a couple of common Line-trash types.

I see someone trying to unlock their car as we approach the parking garage on short final. They have an uh-oh it's about to get very loud look on their face. That person slips underneath the radome and out of sight as the engine/airframe noise footprint rolls over their world. In my world, it would be one of those "yeah-baby" moments... A beautiful jet aircraft with landing gear down, flaps extended and engines spooled a few feet above my head moving at 145 knots.

Ten of us, two complete A320 crews, were in a favorite KSFO establishment... A well known and mostly infamous crew hang-out. Also present, a navy crew from KATL and a cowboy crew from KDAL. In hind sight, that should have been the first warning sign.

There is a strong tendency to dip below the glideslope after the parking garage is cleared. Stay on the visual glide-slope with a squirt of thrust, no more than one-quarter inch of thrust lever movement... We pass over a waiting 737 holding short of the runway to our right. The 1,000 foot aim point is illuminated by our landing lights and it appears the main landing gear will contact the last part of the painted hash marks. Looking good...

I cannot remember who actually started down the path of who or which airline had the best crews, the most professional aviators, and other such bombastic talk that used to be common back in those days, but someone pried the lid off that can of worms. And then it got rude...

At fifty feet, increase pitch to five degrees and hold that until twenty feet. Thrust levers back to idle, remove the crosswind angle, and push forward on the stick a tiny bit... Maybe one degree reduction. All this has to be done simultaneously; hold "that" until touchdown. Using this technique on the 321 gives plenty of tail clearance.

A letter in my mail slot from the Chief Pilot... It says to report to his office ASAP. Yikes!! What did I do? My mind is racing thinking of any regs that I might have inadvertently broken.

The main gear Aero-Michelins roll onto the runway smoothly, spoilers rise, reverse thrust triggers up-and-over, wheel brakes activated and the stopping program is underway. It is a beautiful thing... I look over at my buddy and say, "That's how it's done." He says, "Blind luck..."

I see my buddy sitting in the outer office with hat in hand and a worried look on his face. The Chief Pilot's office manager looks at me with a smirk and asks me if I was a bad boy, too. What the heck is she talking about? The outer office is large with white walls and expensive models of our fleet types on almost every flat surface. I look at my buddy as I sit down and ask quietly what is this about? He shrugs his shoulders... I look at my shoes and remember that I shined them this morning. I got a haircut yesterday and my uniform is pressed and clean. I should be OK in that department.

The 321 requires oversteering (passing the normal point at which the nose steering would begin turning a shorter fuselage) when making turns on the ramp. I slowly oversteer a 90 degree left turn into the ramp area keeping the yellow line underneath the imaginary yaw axis in the center of the fuselage. We pass between two parked airliners, eyeballs looking hard left and right at our moving wing tips, before we are in the clear and looking at the rampers holding lighted wands high over their heads. Taxiing is the most nerve racking part of this job. Just the thought of nicking the paint on this $70,000,000 beauty makes my skin crawl.

The phone rings; she picks it up... OK boys, he is ready for you. Inside the office with the door closed, we stand in front of the Chief's desk... He is signing form letters. He is about forty-five years old, salt and pepper hair, looks to be in perfect shape. I have never seen this man before... Only heard about him from other F-4 types. On the wall behind him, a large black and white photo of him and his back-seater standing in front of a Phantom... He looks to be about 25 in the photo. The Phantom is wearing camo-paint; it looks combat battered. Next to that photo, a framed Air Force Academy graduation diploma. Next to the diploma, something about a Wing Commander, but I can't quite make it out. Whoa! This guy is the real thing.

He tells us to sit, pointing at two metal chairs with straight hard backs. When he does not offer to shake our hands I start getting really worried. This must be serious or he would not be wasting his time with Line scum.

Parking brake set and look at the hydraulic indicator to be sure it really is SET. Yep, two needles at about a 50 degree angle. Number two engine fuel cut-off to OFF and watch the engine gauges... The engine is too far back to actually hear spooling down. You must use the gauges... Yep, the fuel flow is OFF and the engine EGT is decreasing rapidly. Overhead, the GREEN ON light illuminates for the ground electrical power... I push that button and the electrical relays behind us click and clack as the ship goes on external power. Number one engine fuel cut-off to OFF and watch the gauges... And it starts spooling down... We have arrived ten minutes ahead of sched.

The ex-wing commander picks a letter out of a pile and rattles it in front of us... I recognize the corporate logo. It is the crew hang-out in SFO. I am sure my eyes widened to golf ball size. Oh, no...

"The manager of that damned place in SFO says four of my pilots were involved in a ruckus on March seventeen... You two guys know anything about it?"

I look at the photo of the Phantom again with two young Americans standing in front of the huge left air intake... I notice both of them had longer than regulation sideburns. Good Lord! Real life Gods of Thunder. My buddy is fidgeting in his chair. I decide to fess up before he denies it.

"Yes sir, we were there, but we did not start it."

"I already know you were there... Crew scheduling said you two were the only captains in the area. Tell me what happened and it better be good."

I related the incident to him in detail. The captain of the cowboys was looking for trouble and he found it when he poked the navy boys with the squid label one too many times. The defecation hit the rotary oscillator shortly after that... Amazingly, my buddy and I had the presence of mind to vacate the premise with our crews in tow.

"That is exactly what happened?"

"Yes, sir. Precisely."


The ocean air smells wonderful as I walk underneath Fi-Fi tonight. We have to turn this baby around quickly; 366 pax, 1,000 plus pieces of luggage, tons of mail, and cargo. Not a problem as the KSAN rampers are fanatically efficient... We will probably push two minutes early.


Her landing gear is still as white and clean as the day it rolled off the assembly line, belly skin tight and smooth, paint scheme mirrored and smelling new... The tail section is a long ways from where I am standing. This thing is long! When I walk underneath the tail, I look for any scrape marks; none, and we are going to keep it that way.


The Chief Pilot taps the desk with his pen as he thinks about what to do with the two idiots in his office.


"Ok, here's the deal. I'll take care of this for you two, but this is the only time. Don't ever set foot in that place again... Ever. And I never want to see you two in here again unless it is for Pilot-of-the-Year and I don't think that will ever happen. Any questions? No? OK, that's it then."


That man earned my total loyalty in three minutes. He has been gone a long time, but I still defend him against his detractors to this day and I have never, nor will I ever set foot in "that place" again.


While I am still under the tail, the auxiliary power unit air-intake flap begins to open; my partner-in-crime is starting the APU. A quick look at my watch confirms it... We are wheels-in-the-well fifteen minutes from now. Over my head, the small turbine begins to spool-up.


Still a long night ahead of us... All the way to the east coast, arriving at sunrise.


Life on the Line continues...

Curves

Position: Arizona-Utah border
Equipment: BMW 1200 LT
Pax-on-Board: 1


The last night on the road...

Where does the time go? Ten days ago the wife-of-my-youth and I packed our big German motorcycle with two days worth of clothes and departed for parts unknown. We decided to totally wing it; no plans and no destination.

An hour after push-back from the driveway, we were out of the traffic and running northbound with a light quartering tailwind. The certitude that we had made the correct decision was now readily apparent. The heavy Bavarian road machine is built to do one thing... Miles in its six. It does that very well, too.

It carves curves like a road razor with bank angles that are insane for a large motorcycle. My wife loves riding behind me on this beast. Two summers ago, we rode it to Alaska... Ten thousand miles of decompression.

Sunset finds us climbing out of the windy desert into high terrain with cold temperatures and twisty mountain roads. The engine's fuel management computer is handling the altitude and temperature changes with ease.

I have slowed considerably because of the failing light and bright yellow signs warning of large furry animals on the road. The Beamer has anti-skid braking power that has to be experienced to comprehend, but I would rather not demonstrate it to my wife.

Climbing through 7,000 feet lowers the temperature to 38 F. which trips the ice warning on the instrument panel, a flashing snow flake. The roads are dry and clear, but the LT is nervous about the temperature. It is almost dark... The inn is about fifteen more miles. And we are only assuming they have a room.

Instrument lights are ON; the integrated GPS NAV system switches automatically from daylight to night setting. I reach back and switch the seat heat to ON under my wife's little hiney and ask her if she is warm enough via the helmet-to-helmet COMM. She is wearing a heated liner underneath her Joe Rocket jacket drawing power from the bike's electrical system. She says she is toasty and very happy that we ran away from home. We both laugh about that... There is something about a powerful motorcycle and the horizon.

Hairpin curves come one after another as we climb ever higher into the mountainous terrain. The potent engine, emitting a low growling sound of pent-up energy, is loafing as we take the dark curves slow and easy, always watching ahead for eyeballs in a 90 degree arc. A glance at the GPS shows five more miles.

Punching through 8,000 feet; OAT is 30 F. I give up and switch my electric jacket liner ON. The slipstream is getting frosty. I can feel radiated engine heat on my legs. Does it get any better than this? No, I think not...

The INN at the top of the world...

Ahead, leaking through the dark forest, light from the Inn. Yes! Easy does it... remember the gravel parking lot.

A few seconds later we are stopped in a large parking lot with two other vehicles, ATV type. In the summer, this place will be packed.

After my wife dismounts, I activate the electro-hydraulic centerstand raising the rear wheel clear of the ground. Think of landing gear... It is one of the top ten coolest things I have ever seen.

Through the door and into warmth... Yes, they have rooms. Actually, we can have any room we want. I notice my iPhone has no signal... Good.

"Do you guys have Internet?"

"No, sir. I'm sorry."

"No, no. That's good."

Outside in the dark, I open the right cargo compartment and remove our two days worth of clothes. The big bike is ticking in the cold air as the engine and exhaust cool. It smells good... Metal, fuel, horsepower, Metzler 880 rubber... German engineering of the highest degree.

Inside our little room, my wife is making the nest.

Where will tomorrow take us? Who cares?