Mother is Watching...

Position: Over Colorado Springs

Altitude: 35,000 feet

Groundspeed: 645 mph (561 knots)

PAX: 150 plus 3 jump seaters

Destination: KORD (Chicago)

Airborne... Our A320 is riding a fast moving wind stream northeast bound at more than ten statute miles per minute. The wind velocity is more than 150 knots, or 173 mph. You got to love these winter winds. Tomorrow, though, we will be singing the blues.

We pushed back from the gate on time, leaving at least twenty non-revs behind. Bummer! I have seen the wife-of-my-youth, many times, waving good-bye to me when she could not get a seat on one of my flights.

As we pass 18,000 feet in the climb, the co-pilot and I reset three altimeters to 29.92 inches, turn the seat belt signs OFF, and talk to the pax. At 25,000 feet, the email alert light begins to flash.

I talked to my dispatcher before we took off, via I-Phone, so, probably, it can only be one entity: Mother.

Yikes! Does she know about the sports section I surreptitiously stuffed in my flight bag? Did I have a guilty look on my face when I checked in for this trip, like I was hiding something? Probably she does not know... Not yet, anyway. The day is coming, though.

After pushing the email button, the message comes up on the miniature LCD in the center panel. Mother says we are flying too fast; slow down, now. She knows what her aircraft are doing, worldwide. It is scary... Arriving too early at the destination, tonight, is going to cause some problem downline, plus she wants lower fuel flows. Included in the message is a new cost index that she wants entered into our navigation computers. It is part of her master plan for this evening, as in the Big Picture that we do not see in our high altitude office.

Like Pavlov's dog, I enter the new figure into Fi-Fi's nav computers. The Electric Jet begins to slow as the fuel flow is reduced, slowly, to our International Aero V2500 engines. Without telling him to do so, the co-pilot automatically tells our ATC controller that we are slowing per "company request."

"Roger. No problem... Speed your discretion."

Fi-Fi considers the groundspeed, winds, top of descent, and distance remaining to arrive at the most cost efficient cruise at a slower Mach number. It is a very interesting process to watch. Finally, she settles on a Mach .71 cruise with significantly reduced fuel flow and groundspeed of 561 knots, or 645 mph.

As interesting as it is, it is painful to watch... Sort of like pushing my Japanese two wheeled street fighter to Starbucks. Some of my compadres tell me that they ignore Company requests to slow down. In my humble opinion, that is not a good idea. Mother is watching....

Life on the Line continues... Slowly.

Automation? What automation?

Position: Starbuck's Outdoor Patio

Time: Sunrise

Once again, defying common sense, I rode my litre bike, a.k.a., the Japanese Death Missile, to Starbucks on the first morning of my precious days off. With my cherry red felony machine on it's side stand, I started perusing the morning paper over my steaming hot grande coffee.

Uh-oh, there is something about Captain Sully and a book author having a disagreement. The author says automation helped Sully land in the Hudson (immediately, I thought bravo sierra), but Sully disagrees and so stated as much. Good for him...

Sully does not need my help, but I am going to get my two cents in here. I have never met nor seen (C)aptain Sullenberger and have no inside knowledge of him or his crew.

I want to re-state my original take on this incident and that is this:

Captain Sully did what very few pilots could have pulled off successfully. I have read and/or heard many opine that most airline pilots could have done this water ditching. I doubt that very much. His decision, made in the heat of an emergency, to go for the river instead of Teterboro's runway was miraculous. His airmanship skills allowed him to keep a heavy airliner under control with no thrust, very little kinetic energy, and make a survivable landing on water with two minutes and twenty-three seconds to plan it. Amazing stuff!! All pilots fantasize about doing something like Sully did, but few, including myself, could actually do it.

Automation? What automation? He had fly-by-wire controls, a modern version of fly-by-cable.

This post was done on the, uh... Fly. It might be a little bit crude...

Life Off the Line continues for three more days... Yeah!!

Linear Perspective

Position: Eight Miles above the Center of the Empire
Groundspeed: 667 mph (580 kts)
PAX on board: 79
Equipment: A320
Compass Heading: 080 degrees

Airborne...

Back in the flight deck after fifteen days family leave for an emergency surgery (not me), a wedding, and work (as in manual labor!) related issues. I actually rode a horse for a few hours working cattle and it was comical. You could read the horse's mind... Who is this dummy that wants me to herd that cow? Looking straight up from the saddle was a major Jet Airway that I fly all the time. A small aluminum cross with swept wings, twinkling in the sun, was eastbound. That put my day in linear perspective.

Arriving at the airport early for this trip, I was relieved to find zero messages from the Chief Pilot and only light paperwork in my mail slot. I saw some of my partners-in-crime and traded lies and braggadocios bravo sierra with them. No new deaths, divorces, or girlfriends in my circle of middle-aged, grumpy captains.

One of them did, however, point out new administrative threats in the Read File. Some things never change... Almost every check-in, you can bank on a new threat or warning from some company department or government agency. Do I really have to be told not to fall asleep in the cockpit and miss the destination? Did I not know that partying with the flight attendants five hours before departure is not recommended?

In the perfect world I would find a nice little note from the CEO of the airline:

Dear Captain Dave,

Thank you for umpteen thousand hours of incident and dent free flying. To show our appreciation I am enclosing this bonus check. I suggest that you use it for the down payment on that new Corvette. The wife of your youth said it would be OK. May the wind always be on your tail.

Daddy Warbucks

Yikes! There I go... Fantasizing again. On the other side of inch thick, heated Plexiglas is total darkness and deep cold. The winds are from the northwest at 165 mph. A few minutes ago, we were in the light of the setting sun; now we are under the canopy of the night sky. This is my perfect world, even without a bonus check from the CEO. Fi-Fi is happy at 39,000 feet with plenty of wiggle room for unexpected turbulence. The evil green eye (radar) is sweeping ahead for thunderstorms that are mostly widely scattered. My dispatcher suggested this route for weather avoidance and she was absolutely correct. In a minute I will send her an email telling her so, as if she does not already know.

My co-pilot is another young kid who was forced into The Electric Jet because of seniority issues, but he does not seem to be unhappy about the move. I have never seen or heard of him before tonight. I let him fly the first leg into San Diego which is difficult for most new Fi-Fi pilots because of the architecture of the approach. Even so, he flew the localizer 27 approach with precision and made a good landing. He has been in the right seat for (only) 90 days.

Anyone can get lucky, so I had him fly the second leg to Lost Wages. Again, very good performance. Unbelievable! It took me a year before I could do the same thing in this electrical entity. I would say he has an elevated IQ and a lifetime of exposure to video games. Thank goodness he is not cocky, as that would be insufferable... Someone who can back their mouth up with their ability. Anyway, I like this kid and will give him Captain Dave's stamp of approval.

Fi-Fi has her nose cranked into the crossing tailwind about ten degrees to maintain ground track. She is in the soft cruise mode, i.e., the altitude hold function of the auto-pilot will allow her to drift up and down a few feet to give the pax a better ride, or so the theory goes. Watching the altimeter is about all we can do... The newspaper police left a threatening note in the read file... Again.

Life on the Line continues...

Secret Handshake

Position: Over INW (Winslow) en route KEWR (Newark)
Altitude: 35,000 feet
Groundspeed: 590 mph (510 kts)
Equipment: A319
PAX on board: 120

Airborne...

We hit the deck at 0500 hrs. local (KLAX) for one leg to the east coast. After loading the passengers, bags, and freight, we pushed back for a short taxi. Engine one started OK, but engine two pneumatic start valve would not open... Back to the gate we go.

One hour later, start valve repaired and we push back for attempt number two. The tow bar fails when the tug operator begins to turn our tail toward the back of the alley. Fi-Fi is rolling backwards with no connection to the tug. Communications is lost as the headset connection rips lose. No problem... Been there, done that before. Easy on the brakes, captain... The tail can easily come into contact with the ramp in this situation. The lead ramper plugs back into Fi-Fi and tells me that we need maintenance to look at the nose gear. Roger that...

We are one hour and twenty minutes late as maintenance comes onto the flight deck and asks me if we energized the hydraulics during the push, i.e., did we screw up and break the tow bar. Negatory, I reply... OK, it must have been metal fatigue in the tow bar. The tech reports the nose gear is OK and a new tow bar is on the way... Log book signed off.

The replacement tow bar is hooked up and we continue the push for KEWR. Engine number one starts... Engine number two starts... ship's chronometer begins the five minute engine warm-up. The taxi to the end of the runway is uneventful and we are cleared for take-off immediately. Our little A319 mashes us into our seats as it accelerates down the centerline. A minute later, we are feet wet over the Pacific and raising flaps/slats. The departure controller turns us south as we climb at 287 mph (250 kts) and 3,000 fpm. As Fi-Fi banks, I am looking straight down at sail boats leaving a short, white wake in their six. I can see people on the decks but cannot tell if they are looking up as I am looking down.

Climbing out of 10,000 feet, the co-pilot lowers the nose and The Electric Jet quickly winds the airspeed indicator up to 300 knots indicated. The controller clears us to turn toward the east coast out of 14,000 feet. Enough fuel has burned out of the wing tanks so that the center fuel tank pumps kick on and began feeding the engines and annuciates such on the engine display. I love this airplane!

Sort of...

Some of the old hands that are now retired used to call this aircraft The Dark Side because of what happens next. Fi-Fi's diagnostics think the number two engine thrust reverser has gone bad and illuminates the MASTER CAUTION amber light with an audible ding... ENG 2 thrust reverser fault. It is very much like the scene in "2001 Space Odyssey" where H.A.L. tells the crew that their comm antenna is faulting.

Again, been there/done that; after scanning the engine instruments, I tell the co-pilot we will ignore it until later. The really dangerous thrust reverser fault is UNLOCKED which can be very bad. We are low altitude in LAX airspace and the ATC communications are still rapid fire. We do not need to be messing with a fault that can wait until we are in the safety of the flight levels. I get rid of the caution light and diagnostic screen with a couple of button pushes.

OK, this is going to be one of those days... One thing after another.

Fi-Fi blasts through 18,000 feet as we re-set the altimeters to 29.92 inches of mercury. I turn the seat belt signs OFF and talk to the pax with my patented (C)aptain's voice. When I put the PA hand set back in it's cradle, the co-pilot asks for AUTO-PILOT #2.

Button pushed... Click. Fi-Fi has taken over the flying duties as we continue our rapid ascension into the cold blue.

I fire up the magic air-to-ground digital communication system and begin texting with Maintenance Control, a subsidiary of Mother, about the engine #2 thrust reverser. They want to know if I am comfortable with landing at KEWR with one thrust reverser... Of course I am. As Villa said, "We don't need no stinkin' thrust reversers." We have plenty of runway, light winds, full flaps, and powerful brakes. But before I reply, I ask the flying pilot if he is comfortable with one thrust reverser. He says, "Yeah, if you are." Smart kid.

We will have the number one thrust reverser, though. Piece of cake.

The digital paper trail is complete as my dispatcher (2,000 miles away) and I do the secret handshake. After that, I start the real paper trail in the log book, lest I forget after we land.

Ten minutes later, the paper trail is complete along with research of the on-board maintenance manuals and a quick thrust reverser systems review. Everything is in order.

The Dark Side diagnostics decide the engine #2 thrust reverser is really OK... Just kidding about the earlier caution. Everything goes back to green and the earlier caution disappears from the status displays. OK, then... Well, we will land with only one thrust reverser, just to be on the safe side.

We are cruising a few hundred feet above a cloud layer. Overhead, a contrail pointing toward the east. The wind is a quartering tailwind of 125 mph; barring anything too drastic, we will be arriving KEWR thirty minutes behind schedule.

Life on the Line continues...

Uh-Oh... Where Are We?

I was working on another post, but decided to comment on the recent ruckus caused by an A320 that apparently overflew it's destination by, allegedly, 150 miles before turning back to the airport.

Thank you Lord that I was not the captain on that aircraft. Whew! Missed another bullet. I have no idea what happened on that flight deck, nor will I postulate about it. I saw one of the pilots on a mainstream media report (BIG MISTAKE!) denying that they were sleeping or arguing, so that points to a third possibility, I guess.

To the flying or, for that matter, the non-flying public, this incident surely seems mighty strange, but it has happened many times since the beginning of air carrier operations back in the late 1920s. Airline pilots, also, have landed at the wrong airport many times, landed on taxiways instead of runways hundreds, no, thousands of times, landed on the wrong runway countless times, and the list goes on.

Any airline pilot who has been at this game long enough has lost contact with ATC numerous times. Usually dispatch contacts the crew by email, or in the days before email, by company frequency.

To this point in my career, I have not (knock on wood) landed at the wrong airport, on the wrong runway, or overflown my destination.

Unfortunately, this incident will probably lead to more regulations on top of the suffocating layers of regs we currently work under.

Not wanting to criticize without offering a solution, I fall back on my idea of Ameriflot, an Americanized version of the old Soviet air carrier, Aeroflot. We need a PCO (political correctness officer) sitting behind the comrade captain and an RCO (regulation compliance officer) sitting in the middle jump seat helping the crew navigate the maze of rules and regulations governing every flight.

Life on the Line continues...

Why Am I Dressed this Way?

Position: KORD (O'Hare); on the ramp...
Equipment: A321
Local Time: O'dark thirty....

Where am I and why am I dressed this way?

Oh yeah, I forgot... Chicago and, tragically, Starbucks is not open yet. I volunteered to do the pre-flight if my co-pilot would start lining up ducks in the flight deck. She readily agreed as the wind is blowing 25 knots with a temperature of 43 degrees. Piece of cake... I would much rather shine my Mag-Light on this long-legged beauty, a new A321, than fight the paper mill. The airline (smartly) tattooed "A321" on her nose to help the ramp remember the extra length while they are leading us toward the gate.

There is not even a hint of twilight in the east; winter is coming on fast. This is the first trip of the season that I have lugged along my heavy leather aviator's jacket, and this morning it feels good hanging on my old bones. The wind has a moist scent, sort of like lake effect snow. It makes my skin crawl thinking about it... Maybe another three weeks before that starts around here.

Long luggage trains are zipping past only a few feet away. The fueler has finished and is walking toward me with the yellow copy whipping in the wind. He thusts it toward me and I take it... He is saying something to me but I cannot hear because of the howling APU and ear plugs, so I lean toward him... "What?" He says it louder with cupped hands, "Couple hundred extra for APU burn!"

"OK, thanks!" He grins at me as I give him a thumbs up. I walk under her belly and check for hydraulic leaks... Nothing except new paint. Back underneath her tail, I drag my light beam back and forth looking for tell-tale scratches from scraping the runway. These babies are so long that dragging the tail on take-off and landing is not difficult. No scratches, though. She is in perfect shape. Overhead, the APU is roaring... I do love this stuff.

The rampers are throwing bags onto the conveyor belts as fast as they can be stacked in the belly. I count at least five more baggage carts to go... They are going to have to hump it to make push time.

The wind is whipping through the metal framework holding the jetway stairs as I take them two at a time while holding my hat in place. At the top, I push a few buttons on the cyber lock, but miss the code and get a red light; again, four buttons and a miss... Red light. I fumble with geezer glasses and my flashlight... Aha! Four buttons and a green light! Life is good as the jetway door opens and I come face to face with passengers queued for boarding. Most look at me with indifference, which is common nowadays. Nevertheless, I greet them with a "Good mornin' folks" and a big smile. A few heads nod and I can hear several grunts. Well, that will have to do.

Back in the flight deck, my co-pilot has Fi-Fi purring like a fat cat on a sunny shelf. The flight plan is entered, winds aloft are plugged in, and she is talking on the radio to operations about too many carry-on bags for the overhead compartments. I glance at the fuel load, then pick up the flight plan paperwork and look at the fuel column... Perfect!

When she is off the radio I announce, "All the big pieces are still there." She smiles at my poor attempt at early morning humor, then asks me who is going to be flying... "You of course," I say. She is such a smooth pilot, in fact maybe the best I have ever flown with at this airline, that I always try to shove the flying to the right side of the flight deck when we work together, which is often. Yeah, I have more experience and possess a "been there, done that" gray hair factor, but she is a better stick. Her Dad was a well known and respected pilot, too. It must be genetics.

A few minutes later: "Captain, every seat is full. We have 183 passengers, 3 lap children, and one jump seater. Are you ready?"

"Roger that... Let's go!" The lead flight attendant assists the gate agent in closing the heavy, but balanced front left cabin door. My front left cabin door WARNING light extinguishes and an ARMED light illuminates. The lead flight attendant reaches in and pats me on the right shoulder saying, "All passengers are seated, overheads are locked. We are ready."

Our push is thirty minutes ahead of the big, chaotic, early morning O'Hare push of hundreds of aircraft. There are very few aircraft moving about. Ground control clears us to taxi to the runway with no restrictions. The co-pilot and I are scrambling to get number two engine started and warmed up, checklists completed, and last second briefing items briefed. We have flown together enough that we are in sync most of the time. Approaching the end of the runway, the tower tells us after take-off, heading 330 degrees, cleared for take-off runway three-two.


The stretch Fi-Fi is lined up with the center line as I remove my hands and feet from the controls. We are creeping ahead at about five mph when I tell the co-pilot, "It's your bird. I have the radios."

She replies with, "My aircraft." Next, I poke the chronograph RUN button.

Over to the east, still no twilight visible. The co-pilot pushes the thrust levers forward about two inches and watches the engine guages spool up until they are indicating stable at 40% thrust. We are rolling faster now. All parameters are in the green.

Both engines are ready for serious fuel flow, which the co-pilot gives them. The sound of power, the feeling of thrust, and velocity are both increasing rapidly. My goodness, these engines are powerful! They are new and the air is cool. We blow through 80 knots quickly... By the time I call "Eighty knots" we are going through 100 knots. The smile switch is tripped at 120 knots with an under my breath whoa, baby. Runway vibration is shaking the instrument in quick little jolts. In a few more seconds , as we punch through lift off speed, I call, "Vee one, rotate!" The co-pilot lifts the nose carefully, being very aware of the tail way back there in her six. When she is sure the tail is clear, she hauls the nose up to the 18 degree hash mark on her Primary Flight Display (a really fancy artificial horizon) and calls for the landing gear to be raised.

Chicago departure control gives us a westerly heading toward our first nav fix several hundred miles away. The night sky still covers us as we bank toward the west. This is the start of a long day.

Life on the Line continues...

Into the Light...

Position: 200 miles north of KSLC (Salt Lake City)
Altitude: 38,000 feet
Compass Heading: 185 degrees
PAX on board: 137
Winds Aloft: 310/95 (From the northwest at 110 mph)
Fuel Flow: 5500 pph (pounds per hour)

So far, it has been an unsettling trip. When I checked in for this airborne odyssey, one of my partners in political incorrectness, looking kind of sick, was getting off the elevator and said, "You aren't gonna believe whose picture is on the wall."

The Wall... It is where the Chief Pilot's office puts photographs of pilots who have flown west for the last checkride (died). New photos are there often and it is usually, "Hey, looky there. I used to pull gear for him way back when," or (tragically) "I don't remember him," or similar verbiage. I have never seen a female pilot on the Wall, hence no her.

When the elevator door opened, I could see six or seven pilots crowded around the Wall looking at the latest photo. My eyes locked on and tried to make out the little 2 inch square airline I.D. photo copied onto an 8 x 11 sheet of paper with about ten lines of writing below the grainy photo, always starting with "We regret to announce...", but it is to far away. As I walked toward the group of pilots and the tiny photo, the smile came into focus. Oh God, please don't let it be...

Gut check time... It was him. I could not believe it. What the heck happened? None of the gathering knew anything. The Chief Pilot's office was still closed at that hour of the morning. I read the words under his smiling face; a boilerplate death announcement.

We started at this airline together in the same basic indoc class; he was senior by one number. He had just retired from the Air Force, which made him older than the average new co-pilot, and, frankly, smarter. I liked him from the first second I saw him; he was one of those guys with a magnetic personality that attracts other people like moths to a flame. Very unassuming and he loved to act not so bright. He always told me that he was an imposter, i.e., not really a pilot and had been very lucky to have not been caught yet. He grinned like a Cheshire cat and if he was in the pilot locker room before you, it was wise to stand to one side when you opened your locker door. He was well known for booby trapping the lockers of his running mates, me being one of them.

His second retirement party was at one of the biggest sports bar in town and the whole motley crew showed up for the potentially incriminating event. He maintained, to the end, that he had never had a pilot's license and had fooled the USAF and a major airline for over 39 years. Good Lord, I will miss him...

Last night, in Edmonton, I worked up the nerve to call his home. One of our captains, serving as the family spokesperson, answered the phone. I asked, "What happened?"

After a run on a treadmill... Heart attack and lights out. He had run on a treadmill four or five days a week for decades.

My co-pilot is a young guy and has never heard of him. How is that possible? He was famous, or possibly, infamous. Oh, well... A different generation.

We lifted off the runway in Edmonton, flaps at 18% and reduced thrust, well before sunrise. The cool Canadian air helped Fi-Fi climb to altitude like a home sick angel. When we leveled at 38,000 feet, twilight was forming in the east. The orange sunrise washed the stars away, until finally, white sunlight is burning through my side Plexiglas illuminating the top of our instrument panel.

Into the Light we fly, just like my Friend and fellow (C)aptain. I can only hope my airmanship skills will someday amount to a pimple on his butt. He would like that, but would remind me that, "At least you have a pilot's license."

For some of us, Life on the Line continues...