Aerial Shaves

The two following stories are things that happened to me during my flight career. They comprise about one hour of reading, which is a big commitment these days, so you may want to pass on these.

Most folks that fly have a pretty level head on their shoulders, for good reason. There is an oft-quoted rule in aviation that states flyers are no smarter than ship-riders; however, any weaknesses they have are highlighted quickly and in much more dramatic ways. That's the polite version, anyway.

When a flyer finds himself or herself at that point, there are lots of mental things going on. Ego disappears in a flash, and its reduced to what your options are, and how much time you have left to carry them out. Several airline pilots, knowing they were doomed, have made comments on the flight recorders that illustrate just how clearly they understood their fate, and the lack of options.

The one phrase that I think all flyers hate the most, is "Uh-oh!". It has been the traditional last words for generations of pilots, from the First World War, up to the Space Shuttle Challenger's pilot. There is often little time to record something dramatic, like PSA Flt 182's doomed pilots' request to, "tell mom I love her". So, the last thoughts and words tend to be reduced to just those two syllables. Let me tell you, flightcrews HATE to hear a pilot mumble, "Uh-oh".

The day comes, usually without any forecasts of dread or doom. Flyers tend to love to fly, so they approach their birds with anticipation and a light heart. Only rarely does the aircraft give any prior indication that today might be its last.

Probably the closest I came to checking out in an aircraft was during a flight from Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, to an Embassy in Moqadishu, Somalia. The extreme distance involved means that every flight includes a fully-loaded aircraft, often straining under the weight of extra fuel, passengers, and essential cargo. Sitting on the end of Diego's runway, we were literally overloaded, but we didn't know it yet...

The big ORION Patrol Bomber ran up her four engines to maximum takeoff power, and the four turbo-props roared loudly in anticipation. The fifteen crew and passengers strapped in tight, all eager at the thought of a trip into Africa, and the pilot let go of the brakes.

Diego Garcia is a tiny coral atoll just below the belt of the equator, straight South from India. It is tropical and hot, making takeoffs into a very loooong run down the airstrip. Lots of aircraft struggle to clear the trees, but no-one had ever hit them.

The P-3 ORION slowly, painfully, picked up speed, getting closer and closer to airborne. Several of us noticed the apparent slow pace, but we were getting closer to "rotation" - the speed required to lift into flight.

At some point, the pilot eased the nose of the over-burdened bomber into the sky, and reluctantly, the bird obeyed.

Out the window, those familiar trees went by, not under us, but even with us. WHAT THE HELL....?

I jerked my head to look out the window, just as the pilot dragged our right wing up to clear the palm trees waiting to kill us. All fifteen of us made some sort of squeal or protest as the bomber THWAPPED through the palm fronds and wallowed even lower into the sky. We were airborne, but not by much.

The end of the runway points out to sea, so the pilot unconsciously continued our un-graceful turn toward the lagoon, only seconds away to our left. My mind's eye could clearly see the aircraft cart-wheeling across the shallow bay, ending all of our lives. We were at no more than 30 feet off the water, in a left hand turn that would shortly get us wet.

The Number 3 Engine (left wing - engine closest to the fuselage) had had enough abuse. With a loud, teeth-rattling explosion, the huge turboprop engine began to come apart, almost coming completely off the wing.

Both pilots let out a terse, "UH-OH!" and began their final exam. In the back, we watched, fascinated as the water came a wee bit closer. The bay of Diego Garcia is an anchorage for dozens of large ocean vessels, and we must have given the crews of those ships quite a show. At wave-top height, we bounded through the palm trees and out over the bay, streaming a thick trail of greasy black smoke.

To lighten us, or just to try anything at all, the co-pilot hit the handle that jettisons the cargo in the bomb-bay, and also grabbed the handle that dumps the gas, in just this kind of emergency. The unfortunate thing about that second action is that the Fuel Dump is located on the left wing, behind the Number 3 engine - in effect, all of our gas was being dumped into the sparks and smoke from the disintegrating engine.

In a second, the vaporizing fuel was lit on fire. The bomber raced out over the bay, between the ships, dragging a long trail that now included festive sheets of flame. Lots and lots of folks were saying "uh-oh" at this point.

I could see pretty well from my window observation window, and it was a magnificent fire, but the engine was just a blurry vibration.

I took a couple of pictures, stuffed my camera and my logbook into a waterproof sack, and hung on for the ride. We were a Roman candle on the Fourth of July, just heading for our spot on the ocean floor.

With a heavy shudder, the bomb bay released its cargo. Tons upon tons of liquor - hundreds of bottles of every conceivable distilled spirits, from Champagne to 3-2 Beer -tumbled from the belly of the aircraft and into the water of the bay, only a few yards below us. I stared at the fuel coming out of our wing and igniting, wondering how much longer this was going to take...

We crossed the five miles of bay in a minute, without losing any more altitude. Mostly, because there wasn't any altitude left to lose! The pilots held our ORION straight and level as we passed the last ship and headed out over the Indian Ocean.

Painfully, the Lockheed P-3 began to feel the wind under its' stubby wings, and we felt the pressure slowly raise us, a few feet at a time under the reduced weight. What wasn't possible with four engines was gradually becoming possible with only three. Even crippled, the ORION wanted to live.

Which was alright with us. Fifteen guys all gave some kind of "YeeeeHaa!", and the big bird came up with a gentle swoop, making its smoky way around a big circle to face that long runway again. In that moment, we all knew it was going to work out ok.

The aircraft continued to rise, and swing its nose around until the island was again slipping under us. The airfield was only a mile or two away, and the landing gear was dropped at the last second, to keep from robbing us of any airspeed. It was a warm day, so we were all sweating.

The aviation term for our landing is called "greasing it in". We landed very fast and shallow and hard. I guess the emphasis would be fast. We blasted back over the runway and smacked down, and the final problem of the day began when our brakes caught fire trying to stop us in time.

With a long, grinding groan of protest, the large bomber skidded to a slewing halt right in front of the main hangar. I thought it was a reasonably good ending, considering.

The fifteen of us clammered down the boarding ladder and walked into the hangar, while the crash trucks took care of the smoking ORION.

I took the rest of the day off, and we took a different aircraft to Somalia the next day.

***

Of course, there are other kinds of defining moments. My second "Uh-oh!" story was a few thousand miles from the first, and it occurred in my favorite little helicopter.

The Soviet Pacific Fleet was arrayed in front of us, stretching for miles. It was eleven Soviet Naval ships and just the one of us. It was tense times during the Cold War, and this was the first time that the Red Navy had sent a Battle Group toward Hawaii, then all the way back to Arctic Seas.

Our helicopter collected information about the Soviet aircraft carrier and all of the aircraft and ships that sailed with it. All day, and most nights, we trailed the Red Fleet, learning everything we could about how they conducted training for war. It seemed strange that we used a 20 year old ship and a 30 year old helicopter to chase the newest ships the Soviet Union could build.

Sometimes, helicopters that old can fail. Things break.

The USS KIRK was following the NOVOROSIISK, just a bit to the left of the larger ship's wake. The rest of the Soviet Fleet sailed in a fan-shaped formation around the squat, massive aircraft carrier.

To launch our helicopter, the KIRK pulled away to give us clear air. By the time we got airborne, the KIRK was now some ten miles from the Bad Guys. As soon as we had left them, they began a high-speed run in the other direction.

We took off after them, and flew in a fast, sweeping arc around them to the East. Low and fast, we roared over the wavetops, painting the Fleet with our RADAR. The Soviets mutely steamed like mindless juggernauts, doing their chessboard moves.

Well, this seemed like as good a time as any for one of those failures, so BA-A-AM! -- the helicopter rears over to one side, and every CAUTION light on the instrument panel came on. There are a couple of Warning Lights that are extremely critical in a helicopter and they were all lit.

The temperature of the water at this time was about 32 degrees, the amount of control of the aircraft lessened each time we slowed, and warnings indicated our main gearbox (the contraption that makes the rotor blades spin) was preparing to seize. In a helicopter, this is fatal.

The three of us on the crew went through our checklists and got all the required things done, preparing for a crash at sea. The vibration in the rotor head began to increase each second. Finally, the heavy vibration began to wreck different pieces of electronics gear, so I took one last reading on where our home ship (the KIRK) was, right before the RADAR went out.

We were not even close, and the whole Soviet Fleet was between us and the KIRK's tiny helo pad. The pilots and I were trying to figure out if we should just splash it right in, or try to get closer, or consider trying to crash or land near a Soviet Navy ship. They would surely be equipped to rescue us, and it appeared we would shortly need rescuing.

Well, that's bullshit. While the two guys up front started discussing landing ON a Russian ship I told them that my vote would be to crash our son-of-a-bitch helicopter into the BRIDGE of that aircraft carrier, so we would at least do some good! They turned around to look at me, shocked, and I said, "It's as good a plan as GIVING them a helicopter! THEY ARE THE BAD GUYS!"

I was furious. I know, now; it seems ludicrous. But at the time, the thought of providing a MOSTLY functional aircraft, along with my only body, in the hands of the Russians was not an acceptable thought!

Anyway, as we "discussed" this issue, the KIRK realized we had dropped off RADAR, and was coming at full speed, closing the 12 miles between us.

With a grinding, rock-tumbler sound, SEASNAKE TWO ZERO brought us back aboard. We made the fastest landing of my life - the pilot roared around the back of the ship and slammed us down on the deck of the landing pad. CLICK - all switches off; GET THE HELL OUT!

Later in the Wardroom, the pilot's discussed the options and still, none of them agreed with my option. Party poopers.

Back to: Seasnake

Copyright © 2003 Gordon Permann and Coastal Computers, Inc.

Last Modified: Wednesday October 26, 2005