By Rob Mark
Most professional pilots told me they were “wowed” the first time they set foot in a full-motion flight simulator, such as one of those big, airplane-specific suckers perched on stilt-like legs at FlightSafety International (FSI) or CAE. I was no different. Maybe because I had nothing to compare it to, or maybe because I knew real simulator time meant I was at last being shown the big-time pilot’s ladder—even if it was just the bottom rung.
I’d been sitting right seat on a Citation II for a Part 135 charter outfit in Chicago when the boss told me my number came up to go to the FlightSafety Learning Center in Toledo for my first type rating. I’d logged less than 100 hours in a jet, although I’d already logged about 500 hours of two-pilot turboprop time from the right seat. Other than flying single-engine airplanes, most of my pilot-in-command time came via the left seat of a Navajo Chieftain and a Piper Seneca. Despite just a few hours of jet time, I knew I could handle the upgrade. OK, maybe I was a little nervous. I had to pass, of course. How could I ever show my face again if I failed my first type ride?
I signed in at the front desk and picked up my free FlightSafety crew baggage tags—maybe a bit of the cart before the horse, but I thought of them as a positive sign, perhaps a gentle nudge. I arrived thinking of simulator training as kind of a “no harm, no foul” learning experience. After all, it was all just pretend when you really got down to it, except for the type-rating checkride. Of course, I wasn’t happy when I learned my simulator sessions were scheduled for the middle of the night, after a few days of systems ground school. All-night work had never appealed to me, but our charter company wasn’t a big FSI customer, so we drew the last choice on simulator time blocks.
Before the first flight briefing, each pilot is paired up with another aviator to make a two-person crew for the simulator sessions. It wasn’t uncommon for the two to have never flown together before. I drew the short straw and took the left seat for the first two-hour block, with my new co-pilot friend Ed in the right seat. After two hours, we’d switch seats and I’d slide over to the right. Unlike me, Ed was already typed in the airplane and was in Toledo just for a recurrent session.
After a briefing about the flight profile, we climbed into the Cessna Citation simulator about 1 a.m. with me already stifling a few yawns. Session one was supposed to be easy, just general familiarization. With the nighttime visual already on, the cockpit was dark when I decided to start the engines. I grabbed the checklist and started reading out loud, calling and verifying, just like in the Navajo or the right seat of the Citation.
The first flaw in my command technique, although I didn’t recognize it at the time, emerged when I hit the start button on the left engine and watched the fan spin up. I brought the left throttle out of cutoff, called rotation, engine light, oil pressure, and then waited for the engine to stabilize. I looked over at Ed in the right seat. He just smiled back, so I repeated the exercise for the right one. With both humming nicely I said, “We’d better run the before-taxi checks.” Ed nodded. “I can handle those for you if you’d like,” he said. I nodded, and Ed read while I responded.
And so it went as we briefed for the takeoff, with me explaining how I’d handle a return after takeoff if it became necessary. “Should I handle the radios and checklists?” Ed wondered. “Oh, right, yes, please,” I responded, although I felt a bit like I’d missed something. The takeoff was uneventful with the first approach no different from what I’d flown from the right seat, as the tower/instructor cleared us to land. I keyed the microphone in acknowledgement. “I thought you wanted me to handle the radios,” Ed said as I rolled out.
On the next takeoff, the aircraft began to yaw right just after rotation. My first V1 cut wasn’t all that unexpected, but of course I’d only talked about them before. Now I had to perform. I pressed left rudder and the Citation’s nose swung almost violently the other way as I felt for the sweet spot. “Watch your airspeed,” Ed said. I shoved the nose over, too much of course. “Gently,” he coached. A few seconds later he said, “That’s the speed. We’re climbing now. We ought to get the gear up.”
“OK,” was all I could muster as the jet finally seemed to stabilize. “How high are we going?” I asked him.
“As high as you want. You’re the captain,” he said. “Two thousand ought to do it though.”
We leveled off and I called for the engine failure checklist. “Good call,” Ed replied. About then the instructor mentioned the weather had just dropped to near ILS minimums. “Hope we don’t need to go around,” I said. Ed raised his eyebrows and just smiled back. With a little more coaching, my first single-engine approach to minimums went just fine. And then the two-hour block was over.
During the break and some coffee, Ed took me aside and said, “Since this is your first type, let me offer a bit of advice. Anyone can learn to fly the airplane once you really know all you can about the systems. But taking command and making the right decision in every situation is something altogether different. One day, the guy in the right seat will look over and ask what you want to do—because they really don’t know—and you need to be ready to lead. Command is about having the knowledge and self-confidence to know what to do when, how to spread the workload around, and not try to handle everything yourself. I also think it’s important to not be so arrogant that you fail to listen to good advice when it’s offered.”
I’ve been listening and learning ever since.
Rob Mark is the publisher of JetWhine.com.