"Could the weather cause it?"
"I suppose so, with all the electrical activity."
For hours we'd paralleled massive thunderstorms 30 or 40 miles to the south - lines of pulsating clouds doing battle against an utterly black sky. So intense was the lightning that our faces flickered more with light than with dark. Then we'd entered a stratus layer. Despite our distance from the storms the cockpit flashed alarmingly, seemingly from with-in our own cloud.
"Hopefully the lightning itself can't travel this far," said Pete, his face ghoulishly illuminated by a particularly bright flash.
"Maybe we could climb on top," I said. "Shall I ask?" It was Pete's leg to fly, and I was working the radios.
"Sure," he replied, turning up the instrument lights.
I waited for a break in conversation, given all the aircraft requesting vectors around the weather, then keyed the mic. "Kansas City Center, Seven-Niner-Charlie with a request, over." Another aircraft broke in before anyone could reply.
"Can't get a word in," I said to Pete. "I'll keep trying."
"No rush," he replied. "I need the instrument practice, anyway."
The ride was smooth, so even with the light show we quickly acquired that sense of peace that comes with night flight. Even the radio chatter smoothed into an unobtrusive rhythm below our levels of consciousness. ATC was clearly busy, and there seemed no urgency in contacting them for the climb.
"That buzzing seems to be getting louder," said Pete, after a pause. "Hard to tell if it's the radios, or something else."
"Had any trouble with them recently?" I asked.
"No, but you know how finicky radios can be in bad weather." Again the windshield illuminated, as if to punctuate his remark.
"Ever seen St. Elmo's fire?" I asked, referring to the mysterious electrical phenomenon sometimes found around thunderstorms.
"No," said Pete, "I thought that only occurred in ships. Have you?"
"Yes, but only twice. Once, when flying a twin-engine Piper Navajo in similar weather, I glanced up to find the windshield glowing electric green."
"Any danger associated with it?"
"Not that I could tell - everything continued to work fine. Fortunately I knew what it was, or it might have scared the heck out of me."
"I understand that on sailing ships St. Elmo's fire sometimes coated the rigging," said Pete. "A very bad omen."
"There are stories of it covering whole airplanes," I said, "but I've never seen that myself. My other experience was in another 210 like this one - halos shrouded the antennas and ringed the propeller."
I tried Center again, but with all the background noise we could no longer be sure if anyone was answering or not. "Gotta have these radios looked at in Lawrence," said Pete. "Let's try another frequency."
Seeking the next chart, we noticed a bright light glowing from the map pocket near Pete's knee.
"What the heck?" he said, reaching in.
"Is it a flashlight?" I asked.
"No," he said, directing the beam at me. "It's the cable for my remote antenna!"
"What do you mean?"
"My handheld transceiver connects to an external antenna using this cable. The connector is glowing!" He touched the illuminated end. "Youch!" he shrieked, throwing it to the floor.
"Are you OK?" I yelled, alarmed.
"Heck of an electric shock...." As if on cue, the buzzing in our headsets now multiplied into swarms of angry bees. Louder and louder the noise became, with no moderation as we frantically changed radios, set new frequencies, and wiggled headphone and microphone jacks. We tried everything - cycling the alternator, pulling circuit breakers - all to no avail. Soon the din became so painful that we tore off our headsets.
"We've got to get out of here!" yelled Pete.
"Let's descend, now!" I replied.
"Without asking anybody?"
"There's no choice. We might lose the whole electrical system - fry the radios and short out the flaps and landing gear. And climbing could mean getting stuck on top without electrical power. Let's start down!"
Without further convincing, Pete trimmed nose-down. Over flat country, we could safely descend many thousands of feet, provided no one else was in our path. Fighting panic, we came down at a conservative 500 feet per minute.
"Any idea where the cloud bases are?"
"Last I heard, ceilings were well above ground, except near thunderstorms. Hopefully, we're still well north of those."
Now silent, we descended lower and lower. Remembering the tall broadcast antennas in this part of the country, I studied my sectional chart, just in case. Long minutes later, we broke into the clear at 6,000 feet. Ground lights beamed from a hundred miles distant, and although the lightning was more intense than ever, the cells had retreated farther south.
Gingerly, we retrieved our headsets - they were now dead quiet - and cautiously turned up the volume. The voices had returned.
"Kansas City Center," I transmitted, "Seven-Niner-Charlie here. Do you read me?"
"Loud and clear," said the controller.
"We've changed altitude," I told him, suppressing the quiver in my voice, "lost radio communications due to the electrical activity."
"No harm done," he said, "the nearest traffic is 40 miles away. Contact approach control, and have a good night." With relief and renewed energy, we set about preparing to land.
St. Elmo having departed for bigger adventures, there was just time for Pete to coil the antenna cable back into its pocket. "Remember that business about the bad omen?" he said, nursing his finger. "Well, I'm not touching that thing again before tomorrow."
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit his Web site ( www.gregbrownflyingcarpet.com ).
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