Dual turbo failure

April 5, 2024, started like any other, a hug for my wife and kids, a quick “I love you,” and a routine flight plan: Billings, Montana, to Missoula, Montana, picking up colleagues, then on to Spokane, Washington, for a day of meetings before retracing my steps home. Five hours in the air, five hours on the construction site, and a forecast calling for ice, snow, and rain, and some blue skies. What I didn’t know was just how much this day would test me, and how grateful I’d be to set foot on solid ground by the end of it.

After our meetings in Spokane, it was time to drop the guys in Missoula before heading home solo back to Billings. The afternoon forecast mirrored the morning’s, with ice, snow, and rain, but there was nothing unexpected. Climbing through the clouds, I encountered some ice before finding an open layer at 13,000 feet, making for an uneventful flight. I shot the RNAV-D into Missoula, met the forecast precipitation, and burned through plenty of TKS anti-ice fluid. I topped off both the tanks and the anti-ice system before departing for Billings.

By then, the forecast for the final leg had deteriorated, but there was still a navigable route. After reviewing the weather brief, I had solid options. My first choice was to file direct at 15,000 feet, where temperatures around minus 20 degrees Celsius would help mitigate icing. On departure, it became clear this leg would be rougher. Heavy, wet snow hit at 9,000 feet, with moderate rime icing at 13,000 feet. Climbing through 15,000 feet, I requested a reroute north to Great Falls and up to 17,000 feet.

ATC cleared me direct to Great Falls at my requested altitude. The Cirrus SR22T climbed strong, over 1,000 fpm, but the ice was stacking up fast. I could hear it hitting the airplane. I cranked the TKS system to its max, requested 19,000 feet, and got ready to switch from my cannula to an oxygen mask. At 17,000 feet, with the outside temperature at minus 18 degrees Celsius, I knew I’d be in better shape when I reached air that was just a little colder.

I was focused but calm, and it seemed the worst was behind me. Then it hit—a boom followed by a thunk. Not just sounds—a jolt I felt deep in the floorboards. The kind of shudder that makes your stomach drop before your brain catches up.

I quickly scanned the instruments, and at first glance everything was fine. The airspeed, climb rate, mixture, cylinder head temperatures, and oil pressure were all good. The turbine inlet temperatures were climbing, but there was no crew alerting system message. At that moment, I watched the manifold pressure drop to 20 inches, and the sound of the engine went flat. I cycled the throttle with no change and adjusted the mixture up and back. The cyan line was gone, and power showed 50 percent. I was rapidly losing airspeed as I nosed the airplane over. I didn’t want to go back through the ice, but I had no choice.

I notified ATC that I needed an immediate descent to the nearest airport and that I had lost engine power and manifold pressure. Initially their plan was for me to continue on to Great Falls, but that wasn’t an option at the descent rate that I needed to keep the airplane flying as the ice continued to build.

I kept thinking the airplane would fly as if it were naturally aspirated if it lost its turbochargers. The engine kept wanting to die, so my right hand worked the throttle like you would on a carbureted small-block Chevy on a cold winter morning. It worked.

ATC changed my route to a tiny airport in Ronan where they thought I could get in. They had said the weather was likely near minimums, but it would be my best bet. I took the vectors and pointed the Cirrus toward Ronan.

The ice was overrunning the anti-ice system at this point, and I remember thinking, Well, I might find out how well this parachute works if things don’t get better quickly. I told myself, “You still have a flyable airplane. Keep it together, just fly the airplane.”

Communicating with ATC was messy on the descent. There was intense static screaming in my headset, but I was able to make out what they were saying for the most part, and it seemed that they were hearing me. Coming through 13,000 feet, the ice finally began to come off, and I could see big chunks of ice rolling back off the wings. As I got to almost 12,000 feet, the airplane started to run better but was far from running right.

On descent, I loaded the RNAV approach for Ronan, straightforward and close. Then ATC delivered a blow: A recent flight had failed to land, there was no weather station reporting, and the airport was likely below minimums. They suggested diverting north to Glacier Park International (GPI). I knew the airport but also knew the route, right over Flathead Lake, bordered by a rugged wilderness area—not ideal as darkness set in. Instead, I requested a turn south to Missoula.

ATC warned conditions were near minimums but promised to light up the runway. Then came the question that made everything feel real:

“Cirrus Five-Eight-Four-Delta-Bravo, how many souls on board and how much fuel remaining?”

I loaded up the RNAV-D approach for Missoula and prayed that the airplane would get me safely on the ground. I knew it needed to stay in the air for 25 to 30 minutes longer if that was going to happen. The airplane was running, but power setting changes were sluggish, and I knew that 12,000 feet was all it would do. I just was not sure for how long.

When ATC said I could begin my descent, I declined until I was closer to Missoula. I told them that I wanted to stay high for as long as possible, and they gave it to me. The approach into Missoula was going to be a challenge. The winds were gusting out of the west, and 10 miles out, approach told me that Missoula had gone below minimums. To add insult to injury, there was an area of heavy precipitation between me and the airport. I told them I wanted to proceed.

Eight miles south of Missoula, I started to smell heat coming from the engine. Temperatures were still OK, but something was getting hot. I shut down the cabin fan and said to myself, You’re close, just fly the airplane. About that time, the rain started hitting the airplane so hard that my Bose headset sounded like snare drums. I was established on the approach into Missoula and kept checking my altitudes against the approach plate. I was doing well, but still in the soup.

Almost to the missed approach point, I could make out a yellow glow with flashing lights and knew it had to be the airport. The engine fought me all the way down, and I was not remotely confident in its ability to go missed. This approach had to result in a landing. Half a mile from the missed approach point and still 1,000 feet high with no runway in sight, I continued.

All at once I saw fire trucks, ambulances, and runway lights and immediately kicked off the autopilot; held the disconnect button, killing the yaw damper; cut the power; and slipped hard left and down, landing at the midpoint of the 9,500-foot-long runway.

I’d made it to the ground safely, kept it together, and taxied over to the FBO. My brother, who was listening to Live ATC, met me in the rain on the ramp, interrupted the fire fighters who were asking me questions, and kindly handed me a clean pair of underwear. I’ll forever be appreciative of his humor.

What I’ve learned: At some point, a small nut and washer made their way into the alternate air crossover tube in the intake system, likely during maintenance, as there was no other way they could have ended up there. They appear to have stuck to the alternate air access door, which is magnetically held shut unless needed.

Climbing through icing conditions, the alternate air door likely attempted to open, dislodging the foreign objects. The nut and washer were then sucked into both turbos, destroying them at 17,500 feet, the boom-thunk I felt in the floorboards.

As the engine struggled, the nut, now colliding with turbo components spinning at 10,000 rpm, jammed against a rivet that aligns the alternate air door, locking it shut. With no airflow, the engine was suffocating. Descending below 13,000 feet, the warmer air melted the cowl inlets, allowing the engine to breathe again, but it was far from running normally. We’ve since had the engine thoroughly inspected, oil analyzed, and two new turbos installed. The Cirrus is back in the air and performing well.

We’re taught to aviate, navigate, and communicate. I should have declared an emergency and squawked 7700. I later learned ATC declared the emergency for me. As a single pilot in a tough situation, I ran through the checklists but found no solution. So, I put the checklists away and flew the airplane.

Flying a Cirrus, I always have the parachute in the back of my mind. That safety feature allowed me to focus on flying instead of stressing about making a runway. Cirrus technology and top-tier training made it second nature to load approaches, switch frequencies, and review airport info.

Flying involves risk, but that’s part of the adventure. We train for the unexpected so when the unthinkable happens, we’re ready to fly, not freeze.

Dustin Bretz is an instrument-rated private pilot and owns a Cirrus SR22T.