Article Contributed on: 3/23/2006 7:39:36 PM
Flame-out! My gut tightened into a knot as my right leg pushed against air, stretching for the elusive rudder pedal which had been jammed to its full stop. Too late for a ground abort!
My first officer, was on top of the situation. The heading held steady, confirming his quick and accurate response to the sudden yaw; his left hand was already trimming off the rudder pressure.
I quickly scanned the rate-of-climb indicator. "Positive rate," I called, which meant that we were definitely climbing.
Now I could safely raise the landing gear. I reached across the cockpit, placed my right hand on the gear lever, anticipating the copilot's next command.
"Gear up," responded the first officer, with an assertive voice that quickly conveyed, "I'm in control." The left engine, unspooling, flamed out.
The powerful urge to seize the flight controls vanished. My shoulders relaxed against the seat back.
I complied, raising the gear handle feeling the aircraft respond to less drag as the gear doors closed, streamlining the sleek Boeing 737 twin-jet.
Waiting for the aircraft to accelerate, we retracted the flaps and gained more altitude to allow us time to inform the tower, crew, and passengers to prepare for an emergency landing at Stapleton International Airport in the Mile High City.
A year earlier, flying inbound to Salt Lake City, our fire-warning system had activated. Its bright red light and ringing bell required shutting down the right engine.
The same first officer, who had been flying then, was at the controls, needed too much prompting for comfort; and shortly thereafter, I insisted we go to the simulator to practice single-engine landings. He balked at the idea but I insisted.
Reluctantly, he went; but he didn't choose to fly with me again.
But now we were together. His scheduled captain had called in sick only two hours prior to departure, and Crew Scheduling quickly assigned the trip to me.
When I entered the cockpit, both he and I were surprised and just a little uncomfortable.
This time his procedures were flawless--he skillfully flew the jet to a cushion-soft landing. After clearing the runway, and taxiing past Concourse B, and we lost nose-wheel steering!
I quickly applied the mushy brakes, making an emergency stop.
Another pilot taxiing behind us reported a stream of hydraulic fluid trailing our aircraft. My eyes glanced at the system A hydraulic pressure gauge. It read zero. Not only had we lost the engine but a hydraulic leak had been depleting the system during flight. Loss of all hydraulic fluid in flight would have made a successful single-engine landing extremely difficult.
Had our landing been delayed, the results could have been tragic. My copilot's quick execution of the required procedures and proper flying techniques, plus the cooperation of the air traffic controllers, expedited our landing.
Unaware of the hydraulic leak in flight, we fortunately still had enough hydraulic fluid to maintain system pressure, allowing us to operate the speed brakes, gear, and flaps. Their normal use simplified the abnormal task of a single-engine approach and landing.
The emergency had started and ended in less then ten intense minutes of fierce concentration. No time for amateurs.
My first officer had just made the textbook single-engine approach and landing.
We sat in the cockpit of the crippled jet, that odd combination of relief and adrenaline still flowing through our veins, our eyes glued to the scenery of the snow-capped Rockies, as if in a trance. I chuckled as I thought of the definition of flying-- "hours and hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror."
Mechanics would soon arrive with a tug to tow our disabled aircraft to the gate. I thought of my wife and what my copilot and I had experienced today. Would I tell her? That seemingly simple question made my stomach fall, just like a roller coaster dropping out from under you after that first big climb. I began reliving the exciting 10 ten minutes we had just experienced.
Each action of the first officer to protect our fate was a ticket to our survival, a return ticket to God's green Earth unscathed, or-Armageddon. How many of these tickets did my copilot have to earn on this trip? Too complicated to calculate, but he had won them all. Those snow-covered Rockies never looked so good.
Now I asked myself again, "Would I tell my wife?" Definitely not! No need to worry her-or the girls. We were extremely lucky, as were the three flight attendants and 114 euphoric passengers, who applauded wildly after our emergency touchdown. As my stomach settled, I turned and looked at my first officer, extending my right hand, eager to express my approval. "Good job,
Mike!" I said.
He grabbed my outstretched hand, squeezing it firmly, never quite letting it go, finally loosening it a bit, conveying his newly found confidence and trust, finally understanding that tough, crusty captain's demand for excellence.
He turned to face me directly, revealing a familiar look I had seen so often.
"Thanks, Dad," he said proudly.