The XO called
304’s wingman on the aux freq and told him to escort the crippled jet back
to the ship. After a few terse words of advice, “Throttle idle on the bad
motor – if it keeps chugging, for God’s sake shut it down. If he
can’t maintain altitude on the one motor, don’t let him forget to
jettison his stores someplace safe. Join us if you can after getting him aboard
the ship – we’re not waiting though.” Man, what a
mess. "Hammer's, switch Sabre on prime. Liberty, the Hammer package is going
feet dry, minus two."
In 304’s cockpit the temperature seems
suddenly to have risen almost to a boiling point. The pilot squirms and shifts
in his ejection seat as the text warning messages stack up on his left digital
data indicator, accompanied by the warning tone sounding its
“deedle-deedle” shrieks repeatedly in his headset with each new
malfunction. His eyes scan the list in growing alarm as he struggles to maintain
aircraft control – any one of these would be a serious problem, and now
they are coming at him one after another in staccato succession: FLAPS SCHED,
ENG R, FLT CONTR, ADC, STALL R.
The
thought of how this came to pass, this dramatic chaos from perfect order just a
few moments before, brings a screaming brown buzz of incipient panic in the back
of the pilot’s head: “Can’t happen! Why! My fault!
Idiot!” as well as half-formed curses which he struggles to stuff down
into the box where useless things must go at times like these when you’re
very, very busy. Later on perhaps there will be time for self-recrimination, but
just now he can’t afford to be distracted by thoughts of his own mortality
or the professional consequences. The voices recede into the background noise,
but don't quite disappear - they're waiting for another chance to pull at him,
tug at his arms, drag him down into the whirlpool of despair. Throwing her hat
in the ring to add to the confusion, “Bitchin’ Betty,” the
female voice warning system, speaks to the pilot in maddeningly repetitive and
urgent tones to inform him of major malfunctions – she emphasizes in her
eerie not-quite-mechanical voice that she thinks he really ought to pay
attention to: “Flight controls! Flight controls!” and “Engine
right! Engine right!” He hears the squadron XO’s guidance to his
wingman on the aux frequency, but can’t process it over sounds of the
warning system alerts and the continuous BANG! BANG! sounds coming from behind
and below him as his right engine comes apart. This massive device, itself
costing more money than he would make in a twenty-year career, is in the process
of noisily devouring itself at 33,000 RPM, having first ingested an evidently
indigestible high tensile steel angle of attack probe. That probe in turn ought
to be supplying inputs to the air data computer and flight control computers
from its position on the forward fuselage, and would be still, if only he had
calmed down behind the tanker and gotten the job done. It's all happening too
fast and the voices sense their moment and start shrieking at him again about
how screwed he is and how it's all his fault and how do we get away from this?
(Maybe we can hide - how can we
hide?)
Stop it! You’re trained
for this! Calm down! Go
away!
Priorities: Maintain aircraft
control. Analyze situation. Take corrective
action.
Got it. Well, she’s
still flying, but I’ve got to make the bleeding stop before that engine
catches fire. “I’m shutting down the right motor,” he passes
to his wingman. I hate this, he
thinks.
“Roger, confirm right
engine and you might want to get the wheels down while you’ve still got
hydraulics,” replies his
wingman.
“Good call,
thanks” he says, and checking in his head’s up display to verify
that he is below gear speed, he reaches over by his left knee to lower the gear
handle even as he pulls the right motor (double check
right
throttle – screwed if you shut the wrong motor off) to the fuel cut-off
position. The right engine powers the landing gear hyd circuits, and although
there are accumulators in case of emergency, the main system tends to be more
reliable. He’s still on the memorized portion of the emergency procedure
checklists, and presses the right fire light as well (double check
right
firelight) in order to cut off fuel flow upstream of the throttle's fuel
shut-off valve.
The wind stream noise
rises significantly in the cockpit and he feels a sudden deceleration as the as
the landing gear fall into the breeze. He breathes a sigh of relief as the gear
indicator lights turn green, one by one: Nose. Left. Right. Good.
“Deedle-deedle” shrieks the warning tone again, and “Engine
right! Engine right!” Betty redundantly adds, as additional warnings add
themselves to the stack on his left display: “R AMAD,” “OIL PR
R” “R BOOST LO”. Well, he thinks, gritting his teeth, those at
least are all to be expected. That's what you get for shutting down a motor in
flight: The engine turns the accessory gearbox, which in turn provides oil and
fuel boost pressure. This feels like the simulator training he's received, and
although it's been a while since he's been in the sim, he feels himself starting
to gain control of the situation. Still flying, and nothing’s getting
worse now. Got fuel for a while. Got time now to break out the checklists and
work through this one thing at a time. He calls his wingman on the aux radio,
“Two, call back to the ship and see what you can do about getting me a
ready deck. Tell the squadron rep that I’m single engine with the right
motor off but three green on landing gear. Tell him that I’ve got a bunch
of flight control cautions but that the handling qualities are
OK.”
He pulses the stick a
little as if to confirm his last sentence: Hmm. A little squirrelly in pitch,
and we’re starting to get a little slow – flaps half, maybe. Yeah,
half flaps.
Again he reaches by his
left knee and selects the flap handle to half – no more than half flaps in
single engine flight, or he won’t have enough excess thrust to maintain
altitude. The flaps indicator flickers amber for a moment, and the pilot is
momentarily concerned that the switching valves which route left engine hyd
fluid to right engine control surfaces are sticking - if the flaps don't come
down, there's no way he's landing back aboard ship. He feels the customary
bobble as the flaps finally deploy into position, the green “Half”
light comes on. Still getting slow. Maybe bring the left throttle up. More.
More. Uh-oh: It’s on the firewall and I’m still decelerating. Little
bit of afterburner – WHOA! He fights a sudden, uncommanded lift of the
nose, like a boat rising to meet a wave, a nervous, drifting yaw to the right,
the screaming "WHEEEEE" of the stall warning tone. He bunts the stick forward,
hard - no gentle caress this, but a panic pulse, a video game move. In the
sudden switch to almost 0 g, he floats in the seat straps while he reaches out
with his left leg to stab with fear-augmented strength on the left rudder. She
lifts again, hesitates, settles - the stall tone goes from a constant scream to
abbreviated bursts. These slow, they stop. Almost lost her there, dummy! Got to
be careful when you’re slow and single engine – asymmetric thrust in
burner can put you out of limits. And you’re still high, so there’s
less lift. Trade altitude for airspeed. Lower the nose; let’s pick up some
knots.
“Two, be advised: I
can’t maintain altitude. I'm going
down.”
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones
"Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra"
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche
