11-17-2009, 02:18 PM
:Old 19th April 2006, 12:43 AM #1 (permalink)
Jives
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Fuel Imbalance
Nope, it's not sci-fi...it's true-life. I have no intention of ever publishing this one, so I just thought I'd post it for you to have fun with. this is the story of the first true "emergency" I ever had as a student pilot.
Fuel Imbalance
By Jon St. Ives
I had only been soloing for a short time. Soloing consisted at that point of flying around the pattern at Vance Air Force Base in Oklahoma, doing touch and gos.
One day, my instructor informed me that I now had the proficiency to go to the next stage of training. Area solo. I was to fly out to a practice area, located over Kansas, and practice some acrobatic maneuvers, and then navigate home. I was a little scared, (much as you feel the first time you drive a car without anyone else in it on busy streets) but I knew this was a big step in my training.
So the next day I got up, dressed in my flight suit, and roared to the base in my '69 Camaro, eager to make my first step into the burning blue. At the flight briefing, I relaxed a little; I knew the route by heart having flown there many times with my instructor. All I had to do was fly due North, cross a river, then instead of going West to our alternate practice field, codenamed "Dogface", I just flew North some more and made sure not to descend below flight level 50 (5,000 feet.) My DME marks were very clear also. (Distance Measured Equivalent from the Air Base)
As long as I stayed in my area, between my altitudes, I had the whole sky to myself. I put on my parachute, pre-flighted my jet, and rolled down to the end of the runway. I taxied into position, ran the throttles all the way up to "Military Thrust" and stood on the brakes as the engines revved up to a high whine. The plane bucked and thrashed like a bronco about to be ridden as I scanned the instruments for any engine malfunctions. Everything looked good. "Well," I thought, "off we go, into the wild blue yonder." I released the brakes and shot down the strip.
What a feeling! The sky was gorgeous over Kansas that day! Stratocumulus clouds littered a bright blue sky. Those kinds of clouds look like big cotton balls, and are shot full of holes and tunnels just asking to be flown through. As I entered the area, I did my instrument checks, and made extra sure my zero-delay lanyard was connected. (A strap that connects to the seat and automatically deploys the parachute if you eject. I had a problem remembering to connect it sometimes.)
My heart was pounding wildly and I gave in to the thrill. I pushed the throttles forward and watched the IAS needle (Indicated Air Speed) run up to 220 knots. The engines roared in my ears, the vibration of the jet smoothed out and it streaked across the practice area. I cranked the stick hard to the left, the plane spun on its axis, spinning aileron roll after roll. The world spun like a carnival ride in my window.
I flattened out, then pulled straight back into a loop. I was staring straight at the sun. It seemed like I was going to fly right off the planet. At the top of the loop, I again pushed the stick left and righted myself with a near-perfect Immelman. I was now facing the opposite direction, but at a much higher altitude.
I was going over in my mind the things that my instructor had taught me concerning "energy management.” High and slow was good, because of the potential energy in the situation, but low and slow was bad. So with a quick flip of the stick, I rolled over upside down.
Now I look straight up, to see the world above my head. I pulled back on the stick and the plane fell away towards the Earth. The sound of the wind increased to a scream, the G-forces crushed me back into my seat, making it harder to breathe. The edges of my vision began to grow dark, the tunnel closing to the center. The G-suit pumps began to inflate my G-suit.
Just in time, I remembered my M1 maneuver. I squeezed my calves, then my thighs, then my stomach muscles and chest muscles. I breathed in and out shallowly and quickly, literally squeezing the blood in my body back into my head. (Try it; it makes your face turn purple!)
As I pulled out of the dive, I was flashing across Kansas. I slowed down, realizing I could quickly fly out of my practice area, smacking some crop duster or farmer in a Cessa and basically ruining both our days.
It was time for a quick systems check now. Engine EGT (exhaust gas temperature) Check. Altitude. Check. Oil pressure. Check. DME. Check. RPMs. Check. Radio frequency on Area Control. Check. Right wing tank fuel. 800 lbs. Left wing tank fuel. 600 pounds,
HUH?!!! WHAT THE...?!!!
I toggled the switch again. 800. 600. 800. 600. Yep. It was reading correctly. I realized right away what was happening. The T-37 "Tweety Bird" Twin Jet Trainer had three tanks, two in the wings and one in the fuselage. The wing tanks were supposed to feed evenly into the center tank, but it was obvious that one tank's valve was stuck shut. Not uncommon, considering the aircraft had been built in the 60's.
I tried to remain calm, although my heart was pounding wildly. "Just my luck," I thought. "Everyone else has a flawless solo, but my #$%@**& plane breaks on me." Calm down, now. Think of what to do.
From the stand-ups that I had been made to do in the flight room (you stand up and recite the emergency procedure by heart, and God help you if you screw up.) I knew I had to reach over, open the red switch cover and switch the aircraft to "Fuel Gravity Feed." This would open all the valves and allow the fuel to drain down into the fuselage tank, evening itself out by gravity.
That was supposed to fix the vast majority of fuel problems, according to my instructor. I couldn't do any more acrobatics, because now the engines would flame-out if the were inverted, but that was OK, because all I had on my mind was getting home as quickly as possible. I suddenly felt very much alone and small in that vast blueness.
I checked my gauges again. 800. 550. I chose the best curse words I knew and yelled them into my helmet. It hadn't worked. Things were getting worse. I could feel some stick force beginning to build up now, as the aircraft began to crab a little to the left, thanks to the heavy wing.
I remembered another student who had declared an emergency for a fuel problem, and how the instructors had chortled about that for days, not considering any kind of fuel problem, other than being out of fuel, a real "emergency." Nevertheless, I was scared out of my young mind. I forced myself to be calm again. What else was there to do? Then I remembered the checklist velcroed to my thigh. It had the other emergency procedures in it!
I looked up fuel emergencies and under "If Fuel Gravity Feed Fails." It said to pop the circuit breakers on the valves manually. I reached over and pulled out the little round circuit breakers on the right side of the cockpit. I waited breathlessly for minute, and then checked the fuel again. 800. 500. Damn! That hadn't worked either! It must be a mechanical problem.
In frustration, I dipped the left wing, shook the stick and danced back and forth on the rudder pedals. The little jet snapped back and forth through the sky, shaking itself like a shaggy dog in a sprinkler. I tried the gauges again. 800. 480.
Well, that was it. I took a deep breath and prepared myself to make the radio call. "AREACON, AREACON, this is Baron 07. I am declaring a precautionary for fuel imbalance and returning to base. Over." "Roger that precautionary, Baron 07, do you have situation in hand or do you need assist? Over." "Negative, RAPCON. Situation under control. Over."
You NEVER wanted to call ground control with a precautionary or an emergency and not have a plan in mind. They would give you help, but you would never hear the end of it, and could even risk washing out of UPT. (Undergraduate Pilot Training.)
Then came the nuclear bomb. "Baron 07 this is AREACON. Be advised there is a weather recall on for Vance. You'd better hurry, over and out."
SON OF A ....!!!! Great. Just great. What that little sentence meant was that although the weather was nice over Kansas, it had deteriorated greatly over Oklahoma since I had left and a weather recall was on. That also meant that everybody and their brother was on their way back to the airbase. I would return home to a crowded pattern, bad weather, low visibility, and crosswinds....with a crippled aircraft!
"Thanks, AREACON. Baron 07 over and out." Suddenly that phrase had a darker meaning. I was beginning to wonder if I might not really be over and out.
The little jet struggled back to Oklahoma. The turbulence increased. I was jolted and thrown from side to side. The sky turned black.
Despite my trimming the plane all the way as far as the trim tabs would go, the stick force was getting incredible. I had to hold it with both hands and I was crabbing at almost a 30-degree angle to keep flying straight. The muscles in my forearms were beginning to burn with the strain. Despite the cold, sweat was running down my face and into my flight suit. I decreased the thrust from my left engine and increased the thrust of my right to try to straighten the aircraft, but it had little effect.
By the time I reached Vance, after what seemed like hours, but was only about 45 minutes, I realized I was in serious trouble. I knew there was no way for me to go around the pattern. I wasn't worried about that exactly, but I was seriously worried about landing. In order for me to flare out, the plane would have to be straight. That was something that was beginning to seem impossible.
It was time. I set my jaw, narrowed my eyes and made another radio call. "RAPCON, RAPCON this is Baron 07. I am declaring an emergency for severe fuel imbalance. Be aware I have control issues. (Control issues? I was barely flying the damned thing!) I am requesting a straight-in, please give me a vector. Over."
Requesting a straight-in during an emergency was basically like saying, "Get everybody the Hell out of my way! I am coming straight to the runway and landing come Hell or High Water!!" The Radar Approach Controller was a very sweet guy and very professional. Without commenting on the stress in my voice, and keeping his very calm and controlled, he replied. "Roger that straight-in, Baron 07. We have you on visual. Fly course 180. You are 5 DME from runway, on speed and on glide path. You are cleared to land." Then after a slight pause... "Good luck Baron 07. Over and out."
Now I had to concentrate. I could see the runway lights in the darkness. Rain was pelting my window, but at least I had that. By sheer luck, I had come into the pattern pretty much lined up for landing. I went over in my mind what I needed to do to get down. My plan was to sideslip down the glide path to the end of the runway. Then, when I hit the ground effect layer (the air that is within 8 feet of the ground and a little thicker) I would mash on the left rudder, straighten out for a few seconds, kill the engines, and hopefully let the plane drop quickly to the runway.
I slipped down to the ground, the runway getting bigger and bigger in my window. I checked my pitch picture; I was looking good, except for the fact that I was almost sideways to the runway. As I felt the ground effect layer suddenly "float" the jet, I cranked on the left rudder. The nose snapped perfectly straight down the runway! I killed the throttles, even though I was still a good 6 feet off the ground. The jet dropped to the ground with a sickening jar that rattled my fillings.
I was DOWN!! In that second, however, a slight crosswind lifted the nose just slightly, and because of the overbalanced wing, the nose swung back to the right. Then it came down again. At 180 mph the jet began to skip sideways down the runway. I knew in seconds the wingtip would catch the strip, turning me into a "six million dollar man" (in reference to the terrible crash displayed at the beginning of that TV show) I, and the metal of the aircraft, would then become one very messy object.
The plane was no longer going fast enough to fly, so the stick was useless in my hand, although I still gripped it as hard as I could. Now I had to control the craft with the nose gear steering button and the rudder pedals. I quickly depressed the button on the stick and stepped on the left pedal.
Too much! The plane shot back to the left side of the runway like an overcorrected car on an icy freeway! I tapped the right pedal. The jet shot back to the other side! I could see the grass under my right wing! I knew if I went into the grass, the ground would sheer off my gear, the plane would cartwheel, and I'd end up a "smoking crater.”
Dancing back and forth with tiny quick movements on the pedals, I forced the plane bit-by-bit, inch-by-inch back to the center of the runway. Whew! Then I took a sharp breath! The runway markers! I was over 700 feet down a 1500-foot runway and I hadn't even begun to start braking!
No time now! I locked up both brakes, putting all my leg strength into the tops of the rudder pedals. Who gave a damn about the tires now! My airspeed began to slow, but I knew in a flash that it wasn't enough, I was going to have to max aerobrake!
I smiled right about then. A grim, teeth-gritted, sardonic-ironic smile. There was a method to the instructor's madness after all, I thought to myself. We had just covered max aerobraking that week. It was still fresh in my head. No doubt because situations like this had happened in the past!
Since I had slowed down, the craft would no longer fly, but I could still "pop a wheelie" in it with the stick. I threw down the flap control to "100% flaps.” This gave me a bigger wing surface. I dropped the speed brake. A panel under the nose dropped straight down and grabbed the air. Then I pulled hard back on the stick. The nose jumped into the air. I was dragging the air with both wings, trying desperately to use the drag to slow me down.
It was working! My airspeed indicator dropped through 150! 140! 125! 100! The nose dropped back down now, since there wasn't even enough speed to keep that up. I could see the striped lines that indicated the end of the runway coming towards me fast! How far away were they 200 feet? 100?! I couldn't overshoot!
It was all up to the brakes now. God please don't let the brakes explode! 80! 70! 60! 50! 30! 20! I was rolling to a stop!
I had done it! I was alive!! I hit the canopy release and shut down the plane. I listened to the engines wind down and sat back as I opened my visor. The cold rain hit my face, it was freezing, but it felt wonderful. I took a deep, deep lungful of cold air.
Then I heard the sirens. I remembered that magnesium brakes can continue to build up heat, even after the plane stops, and that I was supposed to egress right now. I quickly climbed down the side of the plane and walked over to the grass. I sat down on it as the fire trucks came screeching up to the plane.
One group of men immediately began to pour foam onto my smoking brakes. Another medic rushed over to me. 'Are you all right, sir?" I looked at him; he was checking my pulse and eyes with a little flashlight. "Sierra Hotel!" I told him. (Fighter slang for "s**t hot" which meant just about anything you wanted it to, depending on the situation.)
"Can you give me a ride back to the flight deck?" I asked him. "Sorry sir," he replied, "I have to stay with my group. If you were injured, you'd be transported by the ambulance, but as it is, you'll have to walk back."
Crap! I looked at the lights of the flight debriefing building. They had to be close to a half-mile away and it was raining! I wanted to debrief quickly because there were about 12 beers in the touch-and-go lounge that were screaming my name.
Suddenly, I laughed. A great big, sidesplitting, deep-down-in-the guts laugh. The airman looked at me quizzically. I told him through teary eyes...
"You know...after that, suddenly the idea of walking just doesn't seem so bad!!"
Jives is offline Reply With Quote
I would stop eating chocolate.. but I'm not a quitter!
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