“How far is KEF from downtown?” asked Lars, without looking up from the chart he was studying.
“Oh, I’d say around thirty miles or so. It takes a while by car; I know that,” replied Charles.
“Here you go, captain,” said Lars, handing him a slip of paper with their new heading and estimated time of arrival. “I calculated our fuel numbers using twelve hundred horsepower because I figured you wanted to get there fast.”
“Very good, Lars,” said Charles as he reset the heading bug on the autopilot.
The captain waited until the airplane was well clear of their previously assigned track before initiating a gradual descent to 15,500 feet. Safety dictated that they change altitudes in order to remain at least five hundred feet above or below any aircraft that might be in close proximity. Once they’d cleared all the tracks, Charles planned to descend to twelve thousand feet.
The flight to Keflavik seemed to take forever. The winds, which had been blowing against the side of the airplane, became headwinds once they’d made the turn toward Iceland. And with the winds such as they were, their speed over the ground dropped significantly. Lars had anticipated that, but nonetheless continued checking and rechecking his numbers as the airplane plodded along toward their new destination in the icy North Atlantic.
At sixty-two degrees north latitude, John switched the number one radio over to Iceland radio. But before contacting them, he turned up his speaker volume and announced to the other cockpit crew members, “OK, fellas, I’m about to call Iceland and I’d like everyone to lend an ear. For some reason their language completely confounds me, and their accent is at times indecipherable. I’ll need everyone’s help.”
Charles smiled in agreement, knowing that he too sometimes had trouble with the Icelandic, as well as some of the Asian accents. “If that ain’t the truth,” he noted softly.
John glanced at his captain and said, “I’m glad I’m not the only one.”
“Perhaps we’ll luck out and get an American,” offered Charles.
“Really? I didn’t know there were Americans up here,” replied John. “I’ve never been to Iceland. The only time I’ve talked to these guys was when I was in their airspace.”
“At some point during World War II the Brits left Iceland. Since then, their air traffic control system has been operated by the Americans. But from what I was told, the Icelandic government wants to run things now. I suppose I understand that. I mean, after all, it is their homeland. Anyway, for the past two years they’ve been slowly training the locals to take over. You must have been drawing the communication’s short straw whenever you’ve been up here,” said Charles.
“I suppose so,” said John. Then after a few deep breaths he keyed his microphone. “Iceland radio, Iceland radio, Clipper forty-two on four three seven seven, position.”
“Clipper forty-two, Iceland, go ahead,” responded the controller with a Minnesota-sounding accent.
“Clipper forty-two, position, sixty-two degrees north, zero three zero degrees west at zero three one zero Zulu; flight level one-two zero, estimating coast in point, Dromi, at four-four, landing Keflavik, over,” said John.
“Clipper forty-two, copy position; report Dromi,” advised the controller.
“Wilco, Clipper forty-two,” said John. The moment he un-keyed his microphone, the surprised copilot looked at Charles with a smile and said, “Jeepers, that was too easy.”
“Yes, even I understood him,” joked Charles. “Of course, he wasn’t Icelandic.”
When the Clipper Seven Seas was about fifty miles off the southwest coast of Iceland, the overwater controller switched the flight over to the radar controller who was sitting in a small dark room beneath the control tower. At roughly the same time, Charles initiated a descent in preparation for landing.
“Forty-two, stand by for da current observation,” stated the controller.
“Go ahead,” said John.
“Da wedder es niner hundret overcast end two kilometers en snow. Da wind es tree five-zero at four-zero knots end gusting to seven-five knots. Temperature es zero end da dewpoint es negative tree-tree. Altimeter es zero niner eight zero millibars,” stated the radar controller with a better than average Icelandic accent. “Descend at pilot’s discretion to four towsand feet. The transition level es seven towsand. Expect ILS runway zero two.”
“Four thousand feet. Copy the weather and expecting runway zero two,” said John.
The lower the DC6 sank toward the ground, the rougher the turbulence became. The autopilot was unable to correct for the wild gyrations fast enough, forcing Charles to hand-fly the unruly monster. It was a full time job, requiring both hands and both feet to keep the airplane under control.
Though the airplane was a handful and the ride nearly impossible to control, on some level deep inside Charles was actually enjoying himself. He, nor any pilot for that matter, would ever admit to such a thing out loud, but it’s the challenge that keeps them all coming back for more.
However, after battling the turbulence for longer than he wanted, Charles began to despise having to work so hard. More than once during the battle Captain Pratt cursed Mother Nature just loud enough to be heard, while beaming about his pilot acumen on the inside. The rougher the ride became and the harder the winds blew, the more Charles was persuaded that the gauntlet was being placed at his feet. It was indeed a contest. If he momentarily lost control, he was being challenged to get it back. It is this thing that aviators feed on. It is what sets them apart from the rest.
John watched Charles struggle with the airplane for a while before finally saying, “I’m sure glad you’re flying, Charles.” Even though inwardly he was wishing that it was he confronting Mother Nature’s challenge.
G.R. moved to the lower bunk and sat next to Asa. The two did their best to hang on as the ride got rougher and rougher.
Lars sat between the two pilots on his fold out seat, gripping his panel with his right hand while using his left hand to help with the throttles. He knew Charles would be watching his every move after his earlier transgression, so he was careful to use a gentle touch.
Ed, having seen it all, sat reclined in his chair with his feet up. After finding their alternate airport without much ado, he was pleased with himself. He smiled, knowing that when they departed Iceland later that evening, he’d have to be a complete moron to miss Great Britain.
*
Sitting with his seat belt cinched as tightly as it would go, Mark Small was panic stricken. He was so frightened his mind refused to relax. As much as he tried to force it, his brain seemed incapable of thinking about automobile engines. He gripped the seat back in front of him with all his might, hoping he wasn’t experiencing the last few minutes of his life.
He closed his eyes for only a moment, but was horrified by an image of the wing breaking away and fluttering off into the ocean below. He reopened his eyes, hoping the next time he closed them the terrifying vision would be gone.
*
Dirk Myers was mildly concerned about the turbulence, but he was more worried about his wife, Marie. He wondered if she was sick or, even worse, if she’d already lost interest in their marriage. He feared she might no longer love him. He tried to cuddle with her and do some more kissing, but she seemed distant, uninterested. She sat with her head back, staring at the ceiling and glaring into nothing.
“Are you all right, honey?” he asked. “Don’t be frightened.”
But Marie just sat, unresponsive, stiff.
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
Marie didn’t make a sound. On the outside, she appeared almost as dead as the man she’d just killed, but on the inside her mind raced. Marie wondered how in the world she was going to get herself out of the fix she’d created. Half of her brain was tied up with building lies and excuses, while much of the other half wanted to simply slip off into a complete morass and forget about everything. There was also a small but rapidly growing piece inside of her that hoped th
e plane would crash and end her misery.
*
The three flight attendants were not amused. None of them were the least bit frightened, but they were all fully aware of the mess that was going to have to be cleaned up shortly after landing. Kelly and the others knew they could handle mopping up the vomit, but dreaded the thought of entering the lavs. The stews had learned from experience that if it got rough enough, the small tanks beneath the floor of the lavs might regurgitate their contents onto the walls. It was something each of them had seen before and hoped to never witness again.
*
“Charles, I’m seeing some ice buildup on our windshield wiper,” stated John.
“Lars, activate the wing and prop heat,” ordered Charles.
“Already done, sir,” said Lars.
“Very good.”
“Looks like the ice is starting to build rapidly,” observed John.
“OK, John, I’ll increase my speed by five knots for the wife and kids,” said Charles, with levity in his voice.
The ice was indeed building rapidly on every exposed surface of the airplane that was not heated. The wings of the DC6 were warmed by hot engine air, whereas the propellers were equipped with electric heaters. With both Lars and Charles constantly adding and removing power while attempting to control their airspeed, the heat provided by the engines had dropped off considerably and allowed ice to build on the wings at an alarming rate. Ice was accruing so fast, it could have easily been measured in inches.
“Lars, props full forward. And make sure you’re running the fuel heaters. I’ll work the throttles from here on,” ordered Charles, as he struggled with an airplane that was getting heavier and heavier with each passing minute.
It became obvious to Charles that the airplane’s controls were becoming less and less responsive. Each time he made a control input, it seemed as though he had to push or pull a little harder in order to obtain the desired result. He could feel the control column buzzing in his hands, telling him that the gaps between the fixed part of the wing and the ailerons were filling with ice. If it kept up, eventually the tiny spaces would freeze solid and render his ailerons useless, making it nearly impossible to bank the aircraft to the left or right.
“Clipper forty-two, cleared for de ILS zero two. Contact de tower on final approach,” said the radar controller.
“Roger, wilco,” said John. “Lots of ice and turbulence out here tonight.”
The controller responded, but his words and accent made his transmission unintelligible.
“John, I’m going straight in; no procedure turn. This thing is getting mighty sluggish. I don’t think she’ll fly in this ice much longer,” said Charles. “And I’m adding another ten knots to our approach speed.”
“Just tell me if you need anything,” advised John. “I’m here.”
Two very turbulent minutes passed, during which time the cockpit was nearly silent. Those who could see the windshield wiper, watched intently as the ice continued to build.
“Heads-up, Charles, the localizer is alive,” announced John; informing his captain that a needle on one of the gauges, used for lateral guidance to the runway, had begun to move.
Due to the slight crosswind, Charles had the nose of the DC6 pointed to the left of the runway centerline. But since they were in the clouds, he was forced to scan his instruments to keep the airplane on course.
They all knew the turbulence and ice were a dangerous combination. The ice altered the shape of the wing, resulting in a much higher, yet unknown, stall speed. The rapidly shifting wind also affected the aircraft’s margin above stall. The best Charles could do was to fly the airplane as fast as possible in hopes that he could keep it in the air until they were over the runway.
“Approach checklist, Lars,” ordered Charles.
While Lars and John completed the checklist, Charles felt the control column moving forward and backward on its own. He knew it was a signal that their tail was coated with far too much ice. It was a sure sign that if they didn’t land soon, they weren’t going to make it!
“We’ll hold off on the gear, John. Lars, give me flaps ten, full carburetor heat and go ahead and run the final descent checklist,” said Charles, with the stressful burden of command evident in his voice.
Suddenly, the airplane began to rock to the left and right on its own. A very light buffet could also be felt by all those on board.
Charles, knowing his airplane was nipping at the edge of a stall, pushed all four throttles to the forward stop. But the airplane, laden with a ton of ice, did not accelerate; it continued to languish and shudder.
“Lars, give me full blowers!” ordered the Captain.
“Captain, we’re too low for full blowers; we might over-boost the engines,” said Lars.
G.R. flew from the bunk and quickly threw the switches on the overhead panel that would activate the blowers. “To hell with that, Lars! The captain gave you an order! Aren’t you paying attention to what’s going on here?” yelled G.R.
“Sorry,” replied the junior engineer with regret evident in his voice.
The sudden turbo-boost to all four engines instantly became apparent. The blast of acceleration and increase in engine noise helped relieve some of the built up tension in the cockpit.
Lars noticed right away that the horsepower needles were pegged at the top of the gauge, but refrained from acting or speaking.
G.R. returned to his seat on the bunk, but not before performing a quick scan of the engineer’s panel to make sure his underling had everything set properly.
“Have you finished the final descent checklist yet?” asked Charles.
“Yes, sir. I’m standing-by on the gear,” said Lars. Then, using a voice that was just above a whisper, he ran through a mental checklist to make sure he hadn’t missed anything: “Fuel selectors…on mains, Fuel cross-feed valves…closed, Carb heat…full, Hydraulic bypass valve…on, Hydraulic and air brake pressure…check, Wing flaps…ten, Props…twenty-four hundred RPM; holding on the gear.”
The added power from the turbochargers continued to help the overweight DC6 out of its travails. The additional power forced the airspeed to increase, albeit not as fast as Charles wanted, and gradually improved their margin above stall.
Aware of the potential for an over-boost, Charles said, “John, keep an eye on the horsepower and back it off as you see fit.”
“OK, Charles,” said John.
The cockpit crew could still feel the airplane trembling beneath their feet. The additional thrust helped, but as long as the ice continued to accrue unabated the flight remained in peril.
Charles was amazed at how much power was required to keep the airplane from descending. Though the turbulence subsided somewhat as the airplane got closer to the ground, the pilots’ workload had not.
“Glideslope is alive,” announced John; informing Charles that the needle used to provide vertical guidance to the runway had come to life.
The airplane slowly descended toward the runway through the dark, bumpy clouds. With a complete lack of ground lights, the pilots had to trust what their instruments were telling them.
Charles hoped the worst of the turbulence was behind them, but the moment that thought registered in his brain the airplane rolled hard to the right and pitched up sharply. Almost immediately, the airplane shuddered violently in protest. Charles fought the airplane with all his might. He’d grown weary of battling the wind and wanted only to get his DC6 on the ground in one piece, but he feared the weather gods had other ideas.
“Watch your altitude, Charles,” announced John. “We’re above the glideslope and our speed is ten knots too slow.”
“Flaps twenty,” ordered Charles.
“Flaps twenty,” Lars repeated as he moved the lever located near his right knee.
When the altimeters indicated that the airplane was passing through one thousand feet, John announced, “I have ground contact straight down, but no forward visibility in the snow.”
<
br /> The captain heard John’s words, but was still grappling with his stubborn airplane. The fight was physically exhausting and nearly consumed him, but still he held on. He dreaded what would happen if he took even an instant’s respite from his labor.
*
Shortly after the airplane cleared the cloud bases, ice began flying against the side of the fuselage. In fact, the prop deicers had been shooing the ice away all along, but due to the rapid power changes and high engine RPM it wasn’t easily detectable by the passengers’ ears.
Moments after the captain reduced the engine power to descend on the glideslope, the rock-hard ice slamming against the fuselage sounded, at least to Mark Small, as if the fuselage was about to split wide open. In his mind, he could see faceless men and woman being sucked out and then plummeting through the frigid air to their deaths. The frightful image caused Mark to cry out uncontrollably, “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God!”
*
“Keflavik tower, Clipper forty-two is on final,” said John.
“Clipper forty-two es cleared to land. De wind es tree zero-zero et four-four,” responded the controller.
“Gear down,” ordered Charles.
“Gear down,” John repeated.
With each bit of altitude loss, Charles could feel the airplane getting lighter and lighter as ice flew from the airplane. Though the temperature on the ground was still quite cold, the residual heat inside the leading edge of the wing, in conjunction with the friction caused by the wing moving through the air, created just enough heat to melt some of the ice away.
“Five hundred feet,” announced John.
Lars quickly cross checked both pilot’s altimeters as well as the one behind him on the engineer’s panel. He remained silent, detecting no variations.
Sojourners of the Sky Page 12
