Creature of Habit

Creature of Habit

by Chucky

Yogi Bera said it best and the same can be said of flying. “Ninety percent of baseball is mental. The other 50% is physical. In-flight emergencies must be addressed quickly and accurately. When a pilots mind is under severe pressure preparation and practice of procedure will serve him more than thinking. There isn’t time to think, as the following  personal missive illustrates.

In 1984, my job was a  routine midnight freight flight in a twin-engine plane from Southend, England to Brussels, Belgium and back. Normally, like all flights, everything went smoothly. This winter night I would earn my pay. Some would say it is a pilot's skill that enables him or her to cuddle the grandkids.  Skill? In the cockpit, skill can be defined by practice and mental preparation for in-flight procedures.

The flight from Southend to Brussels, after checking the weather, filing a flight plan, passing emigration (I held a British ATP, but a USA passport and therefore was not a member of the European Community which had transparent borders), and preflight and liftoff from Southend was uneventful. I banked East at 500’ AGL, preferring ditching in the icy waters of the Channel in case of engine failure to negotiating a landing in the cement of the city. The weather was CAVU. (Clear and Visibility Unrestricted).  Brussels Approach expected me and after the initial radio call gave me  the altimeter setting and handed me off to the tower. After landing, I parked the aircraft in the general aviation section, set the mixtures to rich because previous experience taught me that they would be frozen in place after sitting on the ramp for the hour it took TNT to unload the freight.

The flight back is the interesting part of this story. Checking the weather I learned that the temperature-dewpoint spread was within two degrees so after takeoff from Brussels I monitored the weather continuously, and by the time I was over Manston, it had dropped to within one degree. The temperature dewpoint spread is a good indication of fog. The winds being light and variable warned me that ground fog was inevitable if the two numbers met. It wouldn’t come gradually, but would appear in the snap of a finger. I’d seen it before but not from 6000 feet.

There are a number of alternatives to the possibility of not being able to land at the intended destination. Manston, directly below me was a giant airfield with Ground controlled Radar capable of talking me down in zero-zero weather till my wheels screeched on the runway pavement. At 4 am, Manston was closed.  GCA was developed by MIT in 1942 and was installed at 3 major aerodromes at the height of WWII, and still used for emergency backdoor 0/0  weather alternatives. They were Prestwick, Scotland, Lyneham, Wiltshire and Manston, Kent. Lyneham and Manston were closed and Prestwick was beyond fuel range for the  Cessna Titan 404.

From Manston my destination, South End, on the southeast coast of England was 120 miles distant. About 45 minutes flying time. Chances are that I wasn’t going to make it if the temp dewpoint closed any further.

Visibility was clear and unrestricted. I continued listening to the weather radio and watching twinkling lights from street lights and automobiles slide by my side window.

About 15 miles north of Manston twinkles were barely visible through the white, fuzzy cloth covering the ground. I made a radio call to Terminal Control, deciding that my best bet was Heathrow. By then the view ahead to the city of Southend showed a blanket of ground level fog. Although visibility through ground fog appeared acceptable looking down through it from above, landing in it was impossible. Looking down its only 50’ thick. Looking ahead its miles thick. Essentially zero visibility.

London Approach, gulf delta alpha foxtrot sierra ten miles north of Manston, altitude 6000 request vector to Heathrow for full stop landing. Heathrow was my alternate. Every IFR flight requires an alternate and 45 minutes of fuel left in the tanks upon landing.

Foxtrot Sierra, approach Heathrow is accepting Cat II approaches only due to 0/0 visibility, came the reply. Altimeter two niner niner two.

Although ILS (Instrument Landing System) was developed in years subsequent to GCA( Ground Controlled Approach),  ILS Cat II  required highly sophisticated electronics and specially trained pilots for a 0/0 landing. GCA merely required a number of practice approaches, which I  had, but useless still if the operators were home in bed; the normal procedure which, in the face of a true emergency, such as a pilot trapped over an impenetrable cloud deck with no available alternate,  they would be called out by Terminal Services.

I asked approach for suitable alternative airports.

London Approach responded that Calais was reporting cavu.

Calais, France is on the coast, a short hop back across the Channel.

I immediately  banked east and responded that I was descending to 5000’ and proceeding across the Channel to Calais. I pulled the approach plate from my flight bag. On the way over I did a routine scan of my instruments, checking heading, altitude, and the engine while setting a course.

Even though its cool in the cockpit, my brow beaded with nervous sweat from concentration and concern whether Calais will become socked in also before my arrival. I’m trueing out at 180 kts and can see the lights of Calais from over the Channel.  I estimate 13 minutes to cover the 40-mile flight. Halfway over the Channel I spy the airport strobe and alter course slightly straight for it.

Listening to the radio for weather on the Continent, the unemotional drone from the radio announces  dewpoint spread is closing.

I set up for a visual approach to 06 after crossing the runway and turning downwind, pull off some power for the decent and run through a mental checklist:  Brakes tapped, gear handle down, flaps set, power check, radios set, altimeter set, auxiliary fuel pumps on, mixtures rich, props, icing check.

I did a double check of my checklist in anticipation of turning final.  No greens! Three greens for the landing gear down are not lit. My mind races. I didn’t hear the gear noise. All three lights can’t be out.

The gear is still in its well. Three lights can’t be out by coincidence and they were lit before takeoff from Southend earlier.  No chance of abandoning the approach and troubleshooting it further for fear of the closing dewpoint temp spread. I turn final approach, the runway lights looming larger as I close on the threshold  I  decided to use emergency procedures and blow the gear down, but first, one more try and I once again cycled the gear. Nothing. No sound or vibration. I placed the gear handle in the down position. Nothing, waiting for the three greens: nothing. Right! Very little time left. The fingers on my left hand count the circuit breakers on the panel by my left elbow as practiced many times previously in anticipation of the situation in a dark cockpit. Three over and four back. Without looking, I pull the circuit breaker for the landing gear motor and Immediately reached for the red handle connecting a cable attached to a compressed air bottle in the nose if the aircraft.

 The compressed air from this bottle will blow the gear down. There is only one bottle. Double check: gear handle down and breaker pulled.

“Its now or never.” I am whispering to myself.

 Either way I am landing at Calais as my mind races by habit to the pilots creed: the most important two questions good pilots keep asking themselves: What if and what’s next?

So what if the bottle blows and still no three greens? With the strong possibility of ground fog and not wanting to take a chance I committed to landing, gear or no gear.

I will at least save the engines and shut them down and feather the props before touchdown. I will also shut off the fuel feed having already shutdown the engines by pulling the mixtures back to full lean. By this time, I’m no longer whispering.

I ran through the checklist items mentally, power off, feather props, mixtures lean, fuel valve off, magnetos off after close enough to make the runway, fly the airplane. The adrenalin is pumping as three green lights appear and crossing the runway threshold, ease the craft down to a smooth and uneventful landing. The buildings are dark so I taxi to a nearby ramp where other small aircraft are parked and secure the aircraft.

I find a phone and call a taxi, which drives me to a hotel. I will phone the office in the morning. Another flight where the end result was never in doubt. Whew!

Oh. Burst hydraulic line.

Carrier Pilots

By Chucky
1989
A recent invitation to fly the S-3 simulator at NAS North Island provided a long awaited opportunity to answer a number of questions that had formulated since flying as an S-2 Aircrewman for three years culminating in l966 and the subsequent ten years experience as a crop-duster and twin engine charter pilot.

Having experienced over 100 cat shots and carrier landings as an Navy aircrewman, but from the back seat, I had no idea really what challenges were involved in landing an aircraft aboard a carrier. As my experience as a charter pilot expanded I began to regret never having had the opportunity to land aboard a carrier as a pilot, and still, even though I had accumulated nearly 4000 hours of flying time, had not the slightest idea of a typical approach or the physical and technical loads required for such an operation.

After discharge from the Navy I hung around San Diego long enough to graduate from State, get married, divorced and generally make a mess of my life before deciding to start over by leaving town. Eventually I found flying and then dropped back into maintenance, but that's another tale. Beech Aircraft assigned me to their site at North Island, and thats where I was when I met an S-3 pilot who was leaving the Navy and got temporarily assigned to our unit as a KingAir jock. We began swapping flying stories and when he invited me to a session in the S-3 Viking simulator I jumped at it.

The S-3 simulator at North Island, is an exact copy of the cockpit of the aircraft and it is mounted on a three axis, full motion platform. It was so realistic that, after the first few minutes I felt that I was flying the real thing. Not surprisingly it was light years ahead of the old S-2 sim I had flown in as a Radar/Sonar operator at the exact location 20 years before. We began by my getting acquainted with the instrument layout, and the picture out of the window. The computer is programed with a variety of local IFR approaches in addition to presenting a believable local area night VFR picture through the cockpit glass. After doing a few touch and goes at North Island and taking the scenic tour, which included flying under the Coronado Bay Bridge my lieutenant friend hit a button and lined the aircraft up on final approach of a carrier deck. The S-3 aircraft is equipped with auto-throttles. In the auto-throttle mode airspeed is controlled with power and altitude with pitch. I began the first approach in this mode toward the deck by watching the angle of attack doughnut and keeping eyes out the cockpit. On the first approach the deck began rising so fast that I experienced a ground rush and eased back on the stick. Zoom! Right by. He set me up for another approach. Ready for the effects of ground rush and determined not to let it cheat me out of a deck landing I approached, and at his signal, hit a button on the stick to deploy the spoilers. Still too late. Hit the deck, but didn't catch a wire. The aircraft became airborne again. I half expected it to dribble off the end of the deck, but it didn't, thanks to the auto-throttles I suppose. It certainly wasn't the result of an action on my part. He didn't hit a button to line me up again and instructed me to actually fly the aircraft around for the third approach. After some solid IFR the deck lights became visible once again in the distance.

According to my Navy Pilot tutor, the approach profile for ultimate touchdown on an aircraft carrier is identical for every type of Navy aircraft.
Initially the approach is started at 5 nm, checklist complete. Descent is begun from 1200 feet at three miles at a rate of between 400 to 500 fpm. Approach airspeed for the S-3 is around 120 kts.

The aircraft on final is flown using an angle of attack indicator, positioned on the cockpit combing and backed up with a gauge on the instrument panel. The correct AOA is about 15 degrees, which is indicated by a white arc on the panel instrument and a doughnut shaped light with red and green arrows on the combing; a red light indicating nose low and the green denoting nose high. Additionally there is a ball stationed on the stern of the carrier's port side. (the meatball) The meatball should be held in the center, indicating that the aircraft is on the center of the glide path. In the old days this job was handled by a brave fellow called the Landing Signal Officer. The LSOs job was to guide the aircraft on to the carriers deck, or to signal a wave off if it appeared that the chances of a successful landing were becoming remote. I remember a net slightly outboard he could jump into in case the approach got over interesting in a hurry.

During instrument conditions the aircraft can be landed by an extremely accurate system called a CLS or Carrier Landing System. Much like an ILS--two radio beams transmitted from the carrier are translated into cross hairs on the pilots attitude indicator.

There is no landing flair. The aircraft is flown at flying speed right on to the deck. In case of a bolt (missed wire) the aircraft already has takeoff airspeed. Thus precluding end of deck dribbling off of.

The ride answered quite a few of my questions that I had nostalgically pondered from time to time through the years. I became acquainted with the flight parameters of the aircraft, but more importantly I learned a bit about the stress that a carrier plot is required to endure. My ride in the simulator was under ideal conditions. No cross winds, no weather, and no fatigue due to the vagaries of a possibly difficult mission. I made the deck and caught a wire on the third try, albeit with a lot of coaching from my tutor, and felt very proud of that, but came to realize why carrier piloting is a young man's game. My eyes really gave out after the third approach. The strain was too much after two hours of night flying for the precision required for carrier deck landings. I can imagine how it could have been trying to land under difficult weather conditions after a real mission.
I suppose that answers another question that I have had for a number of years: Why the top brass fliers let the young guys have all the fun? Maybe it is because that by age 40 plus, not only have they usually been promoted to additional decision-making responsibilities, but the simple fact is that, except for the occasional flight to keep their finger in, they probably have physically fallen below what is required to do this type of flying on a regular basis. Unlike airline flying, where a senior captain at age 60 is able to function effectively, a carrier pilot has physical and emotional stress handling demands that are simply not needed in the cockpit of a 747. That is my opinion anyway. Additionally, I wonder if complacency doesn't become an inhibiting factor after thousands of hours of successful operations. It pays to be just a little scared. A little anxiety is a good thing in flying. It keeps the senses at attention and concentration sharp. Young pilots have sharp edges; at least the one's that remain alive do.

I spoke to a Navy fighter pilot recently who quit flying because of his complacency. It had almost killed him on a practice bombing mission. He realized the problem and corrected it by grounding himself. He had too much experience. It had actually become too routine for him. Good pilot, and a live one. He had recognized his limitations and took corrective action. During British ATP training at London Polytechnical Institute in England some years prior I had the opportunity to speak at length with a British fighter pilot. He made the point that a fighter pilot, carrier or otherwise, begins to lose his effectiveness after about age 25; by that time he has typically married and begun a family and questions start materializing in his mind as he is hugging the terrain, screaming toward the horizon with a load of ordinance at 750 knots--questions without solutions, such as "What are my wife and kids going to do if I'm killed"? So he eases back on the stick and gives himself another 10 feet and he eases back on the power and initiates a gradual and inchoate deviation from killer to survivor. The result is a loss in combat effectiveness. To be sure, this is predictable and inevitably built into the military's computer model for combat pilots. It is certainly a young man's game. Young men with ample portions of brains and nerve, probably a little more of the latter than the former.