One of the most challenging aspects of writing a monthly column isn't as much the writing as it is thinking of a subject that would be of interest to the majority of readers. When flying, I'm constantly on the alert for suitable topics and experiences. Once in a rare while, however, the topic of my next column becomes dramatically and immediately obvious. This is one of those times.
Two weeks ago I was at Camarillo Airport in southern California, home of Airliners of America. There I received the ground and flight instruction needed to obtain a type rating in a Martin 404, a grand old airliner of the 1950s that is owned by Delta Air Lines pilot Jeff Whitesell, who also was my instructor. The FAA-designated examiner for my checkride was John Deakin, a Boeing 747 captain for Japan Airlines.
Prior to the flight test Deakin gave me a thorough briefing about what to expect. There would not be any surprises. He also mentioned that he would attempt to distract me at some point during the flight.
About a third of the way through the checkride, I was making a takeoff at nearby Oxnard Airport. After passing V1, the 404 began to yaw insistently to the right, signifying that Whitesell, in the first officer's seat, had simulated the failure of the number two engine. Lots of left rudder kept us reasonably close to the runway centerline. After liftoff, he slid a vision-obstruction device over the glareshield, a not-so-subtle hint for me to continue maneuvering on instruments.
Within seconds after I called "Gear up," smoke began to pour from an area left of and below my left thigh. I recall thinking at the time that Deakin (who sat in the jump seat behind and between the pilots' seats) meant what he said about creating a realistic distraction. How did he do that? I recall wondering. Did he store smoke in a balloon and pick the worst possible time to release it? But I soon knew that this was for real; it was no drill. The smoke assaulted my nose, eyes, and throat with frightening toxicity.
"There's smoke in the cockpit!" I yelled. With instinct bred of years of airline training, I turned off the primary electrical switches.
John had smelled it too, and he told me later how cool he thought it was of me to simultaneously cope with an engine cut at V1, go on instruments, and then light a cigarette. But then he recalled my telling him that I had given up smoking.
Jeff, John, and I later concluded that the emergency had been handled with a picture-perfect example of crew resource management and coordination, the result of almost 100 years of airline training under our collective belts. Each of us slipped automatically into his respective role without a word's being said. I concentrated on flying the airplane, while Jeff handled communications and troubleshooting. John was no longer an examiner. He transitioned into our third crewmember and presided over our actions to confirm that the emergency was being handled properly.
Jeff removed my "hood," and I turned sharply onto the downwind leg while he restored electrical power just long enough to adjust propeller pitch (electrically controlled), declare an emergency, and advise the tower that we would be incommunicado for the rest of our approach.
While downwind for Runway 25, we agreed that it would take only a couple of minutes longer to make a straight-in approach to nearby Camarillo Airport, where maintenance technicians were waiting for the airplane to return home. We also agreed that it was not worth the risk.
After we landed, taxied to the ramp, and set the parking brake, smoke was still being generated even though all switches had been turned off. John intuitively and correctly sensed that the battery had to be the root of the problem. He quickly exited the airplane through the rear airstairs, opened a fuselage hatch, and disconnected the battery, which solved the problem.
A wire leading from the battery to what could loosely be considered the equivalent of the master switch in a lightplane had come loose at the back of the switch. It arced like a spark plug and burned insulation on the adjoining wires.
Could this happen in a general aviation airplane? Yes, it could. Turning off the master switch is the most important step in combating electrical smoke or fire. But this might not be effective if the problem is similar to the one we had — because there is no way to turn off the electrical current that is conducted by the hot wire leading from the battery to the battery relay and then to the back of the master switch. If this wire were to break or come loose, a lightplane pilot could be confronted by the same problem that we had.
This experience made us wonder what might have been the outcome had we been operating IFR at night or when far from an airport. It gave us a momentary taste of the horror faced by the crew of the Swissair MD-11 that crashed last year near the coast of Nova Scotia as it battled an apparently catastrophic electrical problem.
More to the point, we wondered how prepared general aviation pilots are to combat an emergency. Flying alone and without benefit of simulators and mandatory recurrent training, how many regularly spend time reviewing emergency procedures to maintain preparedness? Too few, we fear.
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