Busted!
We were making an engine-out instrument approach to landing after an engine fire, and with the burden of our lives added to the heat of the moment, our Boeing 737 cockpit steamed like a pressure cooker. Only seconds earlier my first officer, Shane, had reported the fire out in Number 2 engine, but this was of limited reassurance. We had exhausted both built-in fire bottles before dousing the warning light, and with our extinguishers now empty who knew if the flames would return? Then there was the possibility of structural damage. The obstinate fire might have weakened our wing.
"Five hundred above decision height."
I remembered reading of an old DC-8 accident. The aircraft had sustained a wheel-well fire resulting from the heat of taking off with low tire pressure. The crew noticed during takeoff that the airplane wasn't tracking properly, but they didn't realize the magnitude of their problem until the fire warning light illuminated after takeoff. The hapless pilots had activated their extinguishing systems and turned immediately back toward the airport. But already the fire was so hot that the wing had separated from the airliner hundreds of feet above the ground, plunging the aircraft and its occupants to oblivion.
"Two hundred above decision height."
"Call the runway in sight," I croaked. Shane peered grimly out the windshield into blackness for a glimpse of approach lights.
"Greenway Two-Zero-Three, go around!" interrupted the tower controller, his voice two registers above normal. "Aircraft on the runway!"
"Max power, flaps 10," I directed Shane. With our aircraft below circling minimums the only option was to attempt a missed approach. The scenario could hardly be worse: an engine-out instrument approach into deteriorating conditions following a fire, and now a single-engine go-around at maximum landing weight. To top it off, Denver's high airport elevation would further degrade the aircraft's performance.
"What the--!" Without warning, the airliner floundered.
"Max power!" I shouted.
"It's firewalled!" Shane yelled.
The airplane rolled right, then left, then right again, teetering just inches above the runway. Praying that my meager muscles might tip the balance, I pumped the control wheel and danced on the rudder pedals, struggling to increase our airspeed without surrendering altitude or control. Eternal seconds passed, but as if tied to the inexorable march of perspiration down my arms, 10 knots slowly accumulated over best engine-out rate-of-climb speed. Just as my hands turned clammy with moisture, the airplane again became mine.
"We're there!" I shouted to Shane. "Engine-out after-takeoff checklist." Before he could respond, everything went dead.
"You blew it, Brown," the FAA inspector snapped as he crouched too closely behind us in the cramped simulator cockpit.
"Man, that airplane was squirrelly," I ventured. "What happened?"
"Check your fuel loads," replied the inspector. Sure enough, the left and right main tank fuel quantity needles were grossly mismatched.
"Damn!" The word belched of its own accord from my mouth. "I'm sure I called for balancing fuel on the engine-out checklist."
"You did," Shane responded sheepishly, "but I got busy and forgot to open the crossfeed valve."
"Well, Brown," said the inspector with undisguised irritation, "you did call for balancing the fuel, and the first officer should have done it. But as captain you're supposed to know what's happening at all times. You're done for tonight." He scrawled out a pink slip signifying failure.
"Sorry," said Shane as we stumbled from the simulator after two exhausting hours. "I'm afraid I really screwed you up."
"That's OK," I replied, dejected. "The point was well made; I should have monitored the fuel gauges. Did the inspector put you up to that?"
"Nope," said Shane. "I just plain forgot. You were doing great until I messed up."
Fortunately I was too spent to feel much disappointment. I wobbled out the door and reveled in the chill of my evaporating sweat. There are benefits to training in the middle of the night. At 2 a.m. few things seem worth stressing about. And the May desert air of Phoenix was cooling at this late hour, though by June it would be hot all night long.
I'd now busted a checkride, the dread of every aviator. At the time I was a regional airline pilot, and this type rating was to be my ticket to the majors. Might this pink smudge of failure taint my plans? I tried to focus on the bright side. Additional sim training would cost hundreds of dollars per hour, but the high price of admission still seemed reasonable enough, given the pay and perks of my hoped-for career. Just a few hours of remedial simulator training, a checkride in the airplane and, if all went well, I'd be a jet pilot. I pictured the glorious letters on my certificate: "B-737."
I trudged wearily through the parking lot, mentally calculating the investment per character to be added to my pilot certificate: one additional letter, a dash, and three numbers, each for a cost approaching $2,500. Several rows ahead, my car glowed under a streetlight as if selected for holy redemption. By now it would be cooling off. To dodge the stigma of failure for the last few steps, I attempted another computation--that of the effective cost per pound of ink to be added to my pilot certificate. But my tired mind refused to comply.
As for my airline plans, life took a different turn, but not because of the pink slip--15 years later no one has ever asked me about it. Pilot interviewers know that most pilots fail a checkride sooner or later, and although humbled by the experience, we're always wiser for it. It's the surrounding fiery events of that dark and sweltering cockpit that burn indelibly in my memory. I'm just glad they weren't as real as they seemed.
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, Job Hunting for Pilots, and You Can Fly! Visit his Web site.
