Proficient Pilot: Big Bang theory

With deference to Belgian cosmologist Georges Lemaître, I have my own version of the Big Bang theory, and it states that big bangs occur in clusters of three. My basis for this is that I had three big bangs during my airline career, and I am grateful not to have had more.

My first occurred when our Lockheed L–1011 was halfway between Los Angeles and Honolulu on Track Delta in clear, glassy air. My first officer, flight engineer, and I were enjoying crew meals at FL350 while marveling at a magnificent subtropical sunset. Life doesn’t get much better, I recall thinking.

The tranquility was shattered by a truly loud bang. The airplane shook once, but hard, as if a cosmic fist had given it a body blow—but it was over almost as quickly as it had begun. My crew and I exchanged startled, quizzical glances, wondering what had happened. It was similar to flying through the wake of a crossing aircraft, but this, we agreed, was like no wake encounter that any of us had ever experienced. We checked cabin pressure and then the other gauges and systems. Everything was normal, as though nothing had happened. The only lingering effect was our elevated pulse rates. I quickly explained to our passengers over the PA that we had flown through the wake turbulence of another aircraft, even though I knew better. What else could I say—that we had entered the Twilight Zone?

Twenty minutes later, we made a routine position report on HF and reported what we had experienced earlier. The ARINC operator said nonchalantly, “Oh, you must’ve been hit by a supersonic shock wave. A British Airways Concorde passed over you about 20 minutes ago.” A warning about this would have been nice.

My second big bang occurred shortly after takeoff from Newark, also in an L–1011.

Although the captain advances the thrust levers for takeoff, it was the flight engineer’s job to trim the throttles, to fine-tune them to precise power settings. As we lifted off, I noticed the engineer slowly and gingerly pulling back the Number Two throttle. He kept pulling until it was completely closed, yet the center engine continued to develop in excess of takeoff power.

“Hey, Barry,” he said. “We’ve lost control of Number Two,” demonstrating this by moving the thrust lever fully fore and aft without any change in power.

“Well, we can’t continue this way,” I said. “Landing with an engine developing full power would be way too exciting. We’ll have to shut it down and land.” Shutting down a large turbofan engine in flight is ordinarily no big deal, but this was the first time any of us had done so while it was producing so much power.

Turning off the fuel switch produced such a loud bang in the tail that it aroused major anxiety (in the cabin and the cockpit). The passengers were so relieved to hear that this had not been a tragic explosion that few of them were upset about what would be a serious interruption of their travel plans.

My third big bang was the most dramatic.

We were at 16,000 feet dodging cells at night in a Boeing 727, trying to find a safe approach into Kansas City. We were on instruments in lumpy, wet cumulus. Saint Elmo’s fire first appeared not atypically as spider webs of electricity dancing on the windshields. Soon, though, the static electricity began to extend forward from the nose of our airplane. It continued to grow and eventually was as long and as thick as a telephone pole, electricity swirling crazily around it. It was a riveting, mesmerizing display. At the same time, it caused our weather radar to fail—not a good thing when trying to steer clear of thunderstorms.

The “telephone pole” suddenly burst with a sound like someone firing a gun in the cockpit. The electrical fireworks were then gone and, thankfully, our radar had begun to function again.

Then there was a series of insistent chimes, meaning that we were being called on the intercom by a flight attendant in the cabin. “What was that?” she shouted. “What do you mean?” I asked, not realizing that anyone in the cabin had seen or heard that stunning display of Saint Elmo’s fire.

“I’ll tell you what I mean,” she blurted. “A ball of fire about six feet across came out of your cockpit, rolled its way down the aisle, disappeared in the tail, and scared the heck out of everyone back here.”

I authorized her request for complimentary beverages to be distributed to the passengers but could not tell her if TWA would pay the laundry bills.

Barry Schiff has flown 351 different types of aircraft, most recently a four-place Yakovlev Yak–18T.

Web: www.barryschiff.com