Safety Spotlight: Shifting sands

The situation for our arrival would be a casino crapshoot. Perhaps we’d land amid just strong gusts and reduced visibility in blowing sand; or perhaps we’d arrive in a desert haboob, a type of dust storm, blasted by severe winds that would drop visibility to near zero.

The day had begun pleasantly enough, with our eight-airplane formation returning from a weekend airshow on the East Coast. Sometimes, weather, aircraft, personnel, or tanker issues conspired to make leading eight airplanes across the continent mentally demanding. Other times, when all the elements aligned, the transits were peaceful, pleasant. The F–16 cockpit provided welcome isolation, especially after a long weekend of intense flying sandwiched between a dense social calendar, scheduled to the minute. Wind and engine rumbles transformed the cockpit into a soothing aeolian chamber surrounded by expansive views that fortified mental stillness, replenished the soul, and revived me for the demanding work of running the 125-person squadron. This had seemed like just such a restorative flight, but we’d re-learn a lesson flying teaches again and again. You may need your best skills when you least expect it.

We departed in formation, climbed out of the crowded East Coast airspace, and leveled off above Flight Level 400. We settled in a loose travel formation, cruising nine miles a minute, and listened to Deuce jape our acts of buffoonery from the weekend. Between the demanding flying and us roughneck pilots navigating polished social settings, he never lacked for material.

We descended to the mid-20s and flew our second air-to-air rendezvous of the day to intercept a KC–135 (modified Boeing 707) for refueing. I called for reduced fuel off-load based on en route winds and good destination weather, so we sipped just enough gas to get home. We formed up for some pictures for the tanker crew, then departed the refueling truck, climbed back up to altitude, and resumed our humdrum cruise. Deuce’s alarming weather report altered our comfortable posture.

Approaching Las Vegas from the east, we steadied ourselves for a tempestuous descent into the eerie brown cloud engulfing the valley. I dragged the wing pilots into trail formation for the approach. We penetrated at prebriefed airspeeds, and slowed at predetermined fixes to keep a mile-and-a-half spacing. My job as lead was to fly a steady, precise approach on speed to set the platform. Wing pilots flew the approach and monitored their airborne radar to keep precise spacing on the aircraft in front. We flew amid the turbulent, confusing mass with visibility gradually eroding to a disorienting brown hue.

We declared McCarran International Airport our alternate. Its multiple runways would give us options. Not ideal, since it was in the same general weather pattern, but since I’d pulled us off the tanker early, we didn’t have fuel to go elsewhere. I was thankful that each pilot behind me was an exceptionally skilled and proficient instructor. They would need their best under pressure.

On the approach, the F–16 jostled like a pickup truck on a dirt road. The velocity vector bobbed wildly, and pinned to the side of my head-up display, indicating crosswinds greater than 25 knots. I flew to an intentional go-around at approach minimums to enter radar vectors. If any of my wing pilots couldn’t get into Nellis, I wanted to divert with them to McCarran. On the go, I reported my observations to the team. I didn’t see the runway, but conditions could vary for each of us and we might get in with a good approach. I advised them to be ready to go missed and get vectors directly to McCarran.

Deuce landed first on a runway camouflaged by the surrounding desert sand. He reported flying to minimums and seeing a faint white runway centerline near the edge of his HUD because of the excessive crosswind crab. He coached us against any aerobrake because of the severe crosswinds and gusts. We all followed, eventually landing uneventfully. Winds on the surface exceeded limits for opening the canopy, so we sat for a long time, buffeted by the winds as our ground crew battled the stinging sand to tug us into the hangar one by one.

What started as a routine flight ended with one of the most demanding approaches I’d ever flown. If you fly enough, you’re likely to need your peak skills unexpectedly. The only way to be prepared is flying to exacting standards, working to improve every time we fly, as if our success depended on it. One day it likely will.

Go fly.

Email [email protected]