Standby for uber-long post. This may not be the worst flight ever, but it's pretty memorable for me. I've cut and pasted from a book project I've been working on - which will probably never be more than a project, but anyway here goes:
One fine winter day in Iceland we drove to work in gale force winds while snow dumped down like monsoon rains. We went through the motions of briefing a two versus two intercept ride, but in everyone’s mind the weather was going to prevent us from flying. After the briefing, we went to the ops desk to get the official word that we were going to cancel for bad weather. The operations supervisor informed us that the weather was getting better and we should expect to fly. (we needed to burn off the flying hours of course – just another example of the pea-counters running the Air Force). So, off we went to wrestle ourselves into our poopy suits and other flying gear. Back at the desk, the ops supervisor warned us to keep an ear our for a weather recall if things got bad; he also gave me a hard look since I was the youngest guy in the flight – a reminder not to do anything stupid.
The weather had gotten marginally better and it had gotten brighter out – the perpetual twilight that passed for winter daylight at those latitudes. We skidded on icy taxiways out to runway 11, received our clearance for departure and slogged onto the runway. I was number four in the formation – the last guy. Number one and two lined up five hundred feet down the runway so that number three and I could get setup at the end of the runway and be able to hold our position with a bit of thrust if the wind blast from the lead element’s takeoff started pushing us back on the ice. I watched as the burners lit for number one – our squadron commander and a legend of the community – he disappeared into the snowy mist just after rotation; number two and three likewise. I released my breaks at the appropriate twenty second interval, felt the blowers light and I was off. We were executing a radar trail departure so each person locked the guy in front of him and used the radar to follow the leader through the weather. It is easier and safer than flying close formation in the nasty weather, so it is a common procedure. After assuring my gear and flaps were retracted, I locked number three, called “4’s tied” on the aux radio and entered the complete whiteout of a snow storm. We continued our climb out to the training airspace, all the while wondering how high we’d have to get before breaking out into blue sky. The weather shop told us that the maximum tops should be around twenty thousand feet. As we passed thirty five thousand without an end in sight, I reminded myself that being a weather guy must not be too hard since they rarely got it right yet there were never any consequences. We eventually climbed out of the clouds at thirty eight thousand feet. The Eagle is comfortable above forty, but it’s no fun if you have to stay there all day. We separate and start trying to get as much training as we can, with the red air in the 40-44 block and the blue air in the 45-49. After our third intercept, Keflavic approach called us.
Knife 21 this is Keflavic approach.
Go ahead Kef.
Yes, sorry to interrupt but the weather here is getting very very bad, you might want to come home now.
Oh ****. When the locals say the weather is getting bad, you know it’s getting B A D.
Knife: fence out, tapes off, cleared radar trail, push 1 aux.
We switch our aux radio to the supervisor of flying (SOF) frequency and check in with the SOF. He tells us that he’s been trying to get in touch with us for twenty minutes and to haul ass home because Keflavic is in the middle of a blizzard and the snow removal guys say they can’t keep the runway open more than another ten to fifteen minutes; all commercial traffic has already been diverted. The winds are picking up and are constantly shifting. He recommends we land on the closest runway.
Keflavic approach advises us to take vectors to the ILS runway 11. It is the only runway that they’ve been trying to keep open with the snow removal. We’re in the radar trail formation and right back into the weather at thirty eight thousand feet. I’m really glad the boss is leading, he always makes the right call so I’m feeling pretty good about our options. We have quite a bit of gas – enough to get to our next closest divert base – Stornoway, Scotland – over one thousand miles to the southeast across the frigid north Atlantic. An ops check revealed that we had too much gas to land safely on what was sure to be a slippery and very icy runway.
“Knife, adjust gross weight to eleven thousand pounds”
Yikes, that’s cutting it pretty close – the boss just instructed us to dump gas out of our jets until we had eleven thousand pounds remaining. We are supposed to have ten thousand five hundred to make the divert profile to Stornoway. However, the general rule for a dry runway is no more than one thousand pounds of fuel for every thousand feet of runway – and this one is icy. The heavier we land, the faster we are going and the harder it is to stop. Ten thousand five hundred it is! I reach to the left and flip the dump switch, pause and then look over my right shoulder. Through the icy clouds I can make out a fog of JP8 streaming out the right wingtip. I’ve established myself comfortably at 2.2NM from number 3 and just got my approach plate out to start getting ready for the instrument approach back into Keflavic when the SOF busts through the aux radio with panic in his voice.
“Knife1, SOF. Stop dumping gas NOW!”
“Knife1, dump switch off.” Echo’s the boss We each respond as we quickly stop dumping fuel. 2….3…..4
“Knife1, SOF. I just checked the winds for the divert to Stornoway if you need it. The storm has raised the winds to over 150 knots in the face for your divert altitude. You’ll need at least twelve thousand five hundred pounds to make it there with those winds.”
“Aux, Knife1 is eleven point seven” - already over eight hundred pounds short of what we need to make it to Scotland
“2 same….3 same……” gulp “4 is eleven point three” ****, I’ve got less gas than everyone else. No freakin way am I going to make it to Scotland if I have to divert.
“SOF, Knife1. It looks like we are all landing at Kef today, I hope you have no more bad news
for us.”
The SOF didn’t have any more news, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. As we turned on our last vector to line up on final out over the bay, almost eight miles in front of me I hear lead ask approach what the winds were.
“Knife1, Kef approach, winds are variable 330 to 030; 40 gust 52. Ceiling 250’ overcast with blowing snow. Knife flight you are cleared to land runway 11. Good luck.”
This is officially ****ty. Controllers never say “good luck”. The winds are now ninety degrees off where we want them which means we’ll be flying nearly sideways on final to the runway. This has quickly become a very serious emergency type situation. Passing four thousand feet I momentarily break out of the weather and I can see all the way to the ocean surface below me. It looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Even though I was still over twenty miles off shore, the seas were so agitated they looked about three feet deep. There were huge waves crashing into each other from opposite directions sending spray and foam skyward. I saw several ice chunks – (icebergs?) – bobbing in the pale green water.
I immediately became aware of how much I had been freaking out. Seeing that chaos below me in the ocean actually calmed me down. I reached down with my left hand and moved the ejection seat arming handle to SAFE. There was no way I was getting out of this jet unless I was back in the chocks at Keflavic, if something happened and I couldn’t land I wasn’t punching – I was going to die warm not in that sub-zero water trying to clamber my big ass into the tiny one-man raft attached to my seat kit. That took all the guesswork out of it, just fly this ILS until you see the runway and land. How hard was that? I’ve done that a thousand times.
The radios were completely quiet as we all intercepted the localizer, applied the appropriate heading corrections to track it inbound and waited for our turn to get the gear down and start the approach. Somewhere in there as I was studying the approach plate, making my corrections and assuring my radar was still locked to number three I went back into the weather. No more angry seas staring up at me, just white out conditions. I did notice a small amount of ice starting to develop on the front of the canopy and leading edges of the wings. Not much I can do about that, I’ll be on the runway or in a smoking hole by the time that ice is a factor.
“Knife1, final approach fix, gear down, full stop”
Here we go! The seconds stretch into hours as we await some news about the approach conditions. If he never finds the field, we’ll hear him transmit that he is “missed approach” and then… well ****, I have no idea what will happen then. I hope I won’t have to find out.
“Knife2, final approach fix, gear down, full stop.”
Still nothing from lead. My nerves are starting to perk up as I wonder what’s going on up there. I’m five miles from the final approach fix – time to configure for landing. I throw the gear handle down and reach around the throttle quadrant to flip the tiny flap switch to the down position. Feeling the gear lock into place, I verify my hydraulic pressure is good and both the gear and flaps indicate down and locked.
“Aux, Knife1 is on the deck. It’s sporty boys, but you can make it in. Runway will be WAY right on the canopy when you break out.”
Ok, finally some good news, the boss says we can do it. He knows I’m back here as the young wingman and if he says I can do it, it must not be that bad. Number two reports he’s down and broke out around three hundred feet, number three calls gear down; all too soon it’s my turn.
“Knife4, final approach fix, gear down, full stop.”
The yellow steering needles on the ADI seem to dance all over the place as I start down the glidepath for runway 11. I can feel the wind gusts pick up; rocking the jet and pushing my heading off the mark. Constant corrections are required now in all three axes as I pass through fifteen hundred feet. I’ve never used this much heading correction to track an inbound course before, my mind keeps telling me I should be aligned with the inbound heading but my training is keeping me on track. It is freezing in the cockpit but sweat is pouring down my face.
“Aux, Knife3 is on the deck. 4, skulls up it’s getting really slippery, take the cable if you need it.”
Great, slippery runway, heinous crosswinds, heavyweight jet, blowing snow, icing up canopy and wings, 100 hour wingman – what could go wrong? The needles get more sensitive as I approach decision height, passing five hundred feet I hazard a glance up at the HUD. I see more ice on the canopy and nothing but white out – back to the round dials! Every few milliseconds I glace up hoping to see runway, nothing but ice and cloud; back to the needles, check my airspeed, confirm the gear is down one last time, back to the needles, check the airspeed – over and over. Every second cycle I look up for the runway – nothing passing three hundred feet. I’ve got only seconds to make a decision if I do break out here, I’ve never been this low and still in the weather. At two hundred and fifty feet I look up and barely see something through the clouds. My peripheral vision catches a flashing light to my right, just then I’m out of the weather but there’s just rocks and snow in front of the HUD… I look to the right – almost behind the canopy bow to find the runway. I only have time to rip the power to IDLE, slam a full boot of right rudder in and correct with left and aft stick as I abruptly arrive on terra firma. I am now careening down this runway-cum-ice rink at 160 knots in a thirty seven thousand pound tricycle with very little braking action.
“Aux, Knife4 is down, CABLE CABLE CABLE!!!!”
I reach up to flip the hook switch down but I can’t find the switch and I can’t take my eyes off the runway. I’m spending every ounce of concentration on reigning in my jet to settle down and find some braking action. At mid field I wrangle it down enough to relax the death grip I’ve had on both stick and seat cushion for the last thirty minutes. I skid to a stop on the runway; the snow is dumping in buckets and I can only see two Eagles from where I sit, I assume number one is somewhere beyond them and stopped at the end of the runway. Keflavic tower announced on guard that the airfield is closed to all traffic and the snow continued. I slumped back in the ejection seat and immediately knew I was going to get HAMMERED that night.
It took the snow plow guys over an hour to get the four of us back in the chocks. The snow didn’t stop for three days. By the end there were drifts over twenty feet high next to our dorms. During that storm, we rehashed that recovery a thousand times. We all make mistakes; the boss was kicking himself for not putting me – the youngest wingman – out front to ensure I could get down before he landed so I couldn’t get stuck airborne alone. I should’ve monitored my gas a bit more in relation to how far I was from the field. The more we talked about it, the more it scared me to realize the position I had been in. That was the first time it dawned on me that flying jets is fun and exciting but also could kill anyone, any day; even me.
If that was your worst flight, you have a charmed life lol. In over 2500 hrs now, I've had a functional autopilot for about 25, and many of my flights have been coast to coast.
