Tracon is a good novel about ATC and mid-airs.
There's a wonderful collection of aviation stories collected in a paperback. It contains the story of the test pilot who ejected at some mad altitude and ended up getting caught in a thunderstorm. Sadly, the title escapes me, although if it comes back I'll repost.
One of my favourite pieces of aviation writing was an article that appeared in a copy of AOPA Pilot last year. I've taken the liberty of pasting it below, and it is rather long. It concerns a naval aviator's first night take-off and subsequent landing on an aircraft carrier. White knuckle stuff if you ask me.
Enjoy!
---------------------------------------------
Night Shot
Carrier qualification for a young Navy pilot
By Carl Pascarell (From AOPA Pilot, October 2000.)
An eerie darkness surrounds me. Not a midnight dark or a "lights out" dark, but a blind dark—a claustrophobic nothingness you can feel against your cheek. I blink, wondering that I can see anything at all outside my cold cockpit home. The systems surrounding me are dead, as yet untouched by the warmth of electricity. Beneath me, a 21-ton dormant airplane sways gently in perfect concert with its mother ship—a parasite and its host, insignificant on an infinite ink ocean.
Breathing is slow, easy labor against the pressure already present in my mask; my eyes are dry from escaping oxygen. Preflight complete, 30 minutes until launch; I am, for now, a prisoner of time.
My world is suddenly totally alive with light and sound, my semi-dream state shocked back to reality by glaring red power lights and the radio static of a volume turned up way too loud. I've obviously missed the external power signal from crewmen below, if indeed one was even offered. My head pounds at the explosive intrusion if only for a second and I, not so silently, curse the thoughtless source outside in the night.
Electronic uproar quelled, my hands move easily about the cockpit, effecting their familiar tasks of readiness while my mind wanders. They say that you're never as prepared for night carrier work as you are the first time, and, right now, that bothers me. Can anyone ever be ready for this, I mean really ready?
Will there come a day when the whole of this idea is routine? I accept the rhetorical nature of my thoughts and decide of necessity that the "big picture" is just too unsettling to entertain all at once—at least for now. So I set about concentrating on the rote, the bits, the pieces, the things I can grasp. Initialize the computer, test the Doppler, tune the radios, and more than enough other tasks—all welcome distractions from reality.
Time's pace is picking up, and my 30 minutes is fast waning. Inertial alignment complete and engine idling at low whine, I radio my status to the below-deck potentates. Meanwhile, the flight deck has come alive with a silent deliberateness, shadowed activities shrouded in a soft veil of red haze made of steam and night floodlights.
Outside my private sanctum, out of the darkness, two yellow wands flash into being, signaling my imminent launch from an aircraft carrier. The disembodied colors draw lines of light in the night as I am signaled ahead through the stealthy maze of darkened steel to my position of final anticipation, just aft of the shuttle on the waiting bow catapult.
Two minutes and counting. Movement on the flight deck has slowed—an indication that all is in order. Now the real waiting begins. In front of me, 180 feet of insane acceleration, and, aside from that, nothing; no sky, no earth, no ship. Just blackness, endless and sinister. Red fog appears as excess steam escapes from the catapult track in front of me—a perfect touch to the macabre picture thus far painted.
One minute. Final preparations. Ram air turbine extended for emergency power, flashlight on, illuminating instruments of importance. Backups for backups. Call it paranoia, but soon to be 50 feet off the ocean, eight knots above stall, IFR, in an overloaded stone of a jet, I'll need all the help I can get.
Thirty seconds. The shuttle engages my launch bar. Throttle forward, the engine howls as the A–7 Corsair hunkers down in indecision. Engine gauges dance crazily in wild overshoots of objection, reluctant repeaters of crying forces.
Fifteen seconds. Instruments checked. Controls free. Head back, throttle grip up, and, finally, external lights on—the signal of ultimate readiness.
One second. The cat fires, and there is no turning back. For the next two seconds I am the most bewildered, shocked, confused bystander that ever thought he was in control of an airplane. Seven Gs of shove blur my vision as I am hurled without consent into the void. Lifted from my seat, my multiplied weight is now almost totally against my back. My arms strain in amazement to control the stick and throttle while my mind boggles at the ever-increasing acceleration. One hundred fifty knots—as fast as you can say it—and it's over. The acceleration quits, and I am spit into the night and dubious flight. Reality returns despite the sensory overload, and I know that I've got about a tenth of a second to catch up to my airplane.
Locked on to the attitude directional indicator, it has my complete and undivided attention as nothing ever has. Twelve degrees nose high, hold it, cross- check angle of attack (AOA), altimeter sags to less than 50 feet. Hold 12 degrees, 12 degrees, 12 degrees, 12 degrees. Nothing happens. AOA is at optimum—12 degrees AOA, throttle bent against the stop—still nothing happens. VSI and altimeter vie for my attention, not willing to accept their secondary importance.
Slowly, slowly—too slowly—the wing starts to grab. Clawing at the void, the A–7 strains to escape the evil pull of the black hole that is the ocean, with only marginal success. Five hundred feet and it still feels as if I'm at the bottom of the ocean. One thousand feet, 12 degrees, 12 degrees, AOA, AOA, climbing—if you can call it that. Two thousand feet, breathing again. I find the courage finally to pry my hand off the throttle long enough to raise the gear. Flaps up, and my stately climb continues as the airplane slowly accelerates through the obscurity. The night is unrelenting. Twenty thousand feet comes and goes, and still the wet night cloud surrounds me. Invisible cumulus castles hide secretly in the dark, diffusing their lightning energy in blinding intervals, turning night into day and back again.
Twenty-five thousand feet and on top at last. Moonlit cloudscape challenges the imagination—as stunningly brilliant as it is serene. My adrenaline-wracked body relaxes slowly under the influence of this otherworld scene as my faith in nature's compassion slowly attempts to renew itself.
For the moment, at least, I am left alone in my cockpit home. The quiet static hiss in my headset provides sole accompaniment to the orchestral night of arcing light and silent thunder arranged for me this evening. Reality intrudes. "Razor Two-Four, you ready to copy your marshal instructions?" Fumbling for my mask, I stutter an affirmative, embarrassed at my inappropriate daydreaming. "Zero-two-zero, angels twenty, push zero two, say type approach requested." My voice is strangely monotone, and I feel detached—a casual observer as I watch and listen to myself read back my holding instructions to a voice in the dark; I'm to hold on a 020-degree radial at Flight Level 200 (angels 20) and start my approach at two minutes after the hour. Systematically, similar orders are passed out to my compatriots above and below me, each assigned their own unique altitude and commencement, or push time. Things seem to be running surprisingly well tonight despite Mother Nature's miserable display of temperament.
Fifteen minutes until push—more than enough time to establish myself in holding but not so much that I need to worry about fuel—or at least I shouldn't need to worry about fuel. Out here you can never be too sure. Methodically I make my way across the night sky and into my place in the holding stack. The moonlight strobes its black and white illumination of the cockpit around me while silent, static-colored clouds of dull hues race past my canopy, oblivious to the network of gray steel traffic organizing in and around them.
Reality again. "Ship's weather, 600 overcast, one mile, rain." A brief pause and then, "LSO requests landing lights on." Not a good sign and everyone knows it. The visibility is, no doubt, worse than they're letting on. Visual acquisition of the ship's landing aid system is evidently difficult at three-quarters of a mile, and the ship's LSOs (landing signal officers) are taking early control until certain acquisition of the "meatball" can be had. In order to see the approaching aircraft through the rain, the LSOs require more than just nav lights to go on. An unexpected twist on this, my first night of carrier "quals."
Time slips by unnoticed, and I, all of a sudden, find myself in a hurry to make my push time of 02. Power to military, 400 kt around the holding pattern, 10 seconds late on the push and, of course, everyone knows it. Obvious to me, even at this point in my career, is that there exists in this business an obsession with precision, an "of necessity" self-demand that you learn real fast or pay the ultimate price. Pushing 10 seconds late out of holding is not in itself a big deal, but if it doesn't bother you, if it's "close enough," then you're in the wrong line of work and, rest assured, you will be accountable in a most final way.
So, down I go, 10 seconds late. I leave the dreamscape above and plunge headlong into the solid gloom below, 250 kt in the descent, not 251. With only 60 seconds between aircraft on final, it doesn't take much speed differential to start bunching up aircraft on final approach and creating irrevocable confusion in CATCC (the carrier air traffic control center).
I fly automatically, oblivious to the incessant beating of rain on the Plexiglas surrounding me. Threading my way methodically along an invisible pattern of bearings and altitudes, I keep a God's-eye view of the approach firmly planted in my brain—1,200 feet msl and intercepting the final approach course.
I impatiently await the ACLS lock-on—the ship's guidance telemetry providing me with required bearing and glideslope information.
CATCC interrupts again. "Razor Two-Four, go dirty at eight." They want me to hold my landing gear 'til eight miles. Correcting for a spacing problem, I suspect. Eight miles comes up fast as I review my landing checks—gear, flaps, hook extended, landing light on, harness locked, antiskid off, cross-check angle of attack and airspeed, 140 kt, about right for this fuel load. Trim and stabilize, check temps and pressures. Heavy rain thunders at me in droves, drowning out CATCC. Volume up—painfully high so as to hear anything at all. My concentration is total now and constantly tested. Microbursts of lightning take potshots at my night vision, threatening to disrupt the necessary order and flow of things.
Inside four miles now, a late ACLS lock-on. On glideslope, on centerline, the rain is fierce. The cacophony of light and sound digs at my senses as I struggle to maintain my course. It has been said that a good landing is preceded only by a good approach. Nowhere is that more evident than out here. There is no 12,000-foot runway waiting at the end of this run—there can be no "big plays" in close. Unless you're on—right on at three-quarters of a mile—your landing is in definite jeopardy.
Approaching to within a mile and a half, I remain engrossed and completely occupied by my cat-and-mouse game of up down, left right, fast slow. Needles are right on, cross-check with the heads-up display, it shows on and on. All is well, fuel is 5,500 pounds—max for landing—perfect.
Seven hundred feet, approaching one mile. Mentally calculating now: break out at 500 feet, a bit more than three-quarters of a mile out at 140 kt—that's 20 seconds—"on the ball," the visual approach slope indicator, and my life determinate for the final seconds of the approach.
Then, almost imperceptible through the infusion of rain and static I hear, "Razor Two-Four, three-quarter mile, have you on and on, call the ball." My heart skips a beat at those three words, realizing in an instant all that is implied. This is it; the reality of the situation is thrust upon me as I look up from the intensity of instrument flying through a rain-spattered windshield. For an instant there is nothing. Then, through the obscurity, it appears. My God, they can't be serious! Below the overcast, the night is an inkwell—up, down, left, and right have lost all meaning—my only clues are now supplied by the semimirage of lights I know must be the ship's VASI or "meatball."
The "ball" and its green datum lights are nothing more than blurred, runny paint smears on an impossibly black canvas. My voice surprises even me at its calm. "Razor Two-Four, Corsair ball, 5.5," indicating to the LSO my fuel state and "meatball" acquisition. "Roger ball," they reply, "you're just a tad high." Sheez! I'm glad one of us can see. Slowly the resolution improves, and I am completely entranced in what I have since decided is the ultimate video game. Meatball, lineup, angle of attack—over and over, the ubiquitous chant is reviewed. There is nothing else—these three things—all else is blocked.
Five seconds out now. The ship, which heretofore seemed so distant and detached, has filled my windscreen and instantly become my world. The temptation to take my eyes off the ball and look at the deck is tremendous—a steel target rushing up at me at 160 mph demands attention—and still I refuse it. The ball is still my sole provider, all the way to touchdown; to take my eyes off it now could spell disaster. Time is racing. Soon. Now.
Crash! The deck comes up hard and my hand automatically slams the throttle to full—just in case. Any doubt is shortlived as I am slammed against my harness, shoulder straps digging painfully into my collarbones. Damn.
My composure returns instantly as I realize my Corsair is stopped on the deck, the number-two arresting cable holding me easily at bay despite the 18,000 pounds of military thrust still emanating from my tailpipe. My senses are overloaded as adrenaline pours into my system: think, move, go, got to get back to the real world, throttle idle, lights out, hook up, nosewheel steering engaged, up on the power, move, move, move. I need to clear that foul line for the next guy and then signal my status to the troubleshooters as I slide across the wet deck into the darkness just forward of the island. Mask off, stop, exhale. I am shaking from the rush, shaking. Time resumes a more sane pace, and I have, thankfully, a moment to relax and reflect. Only seven more to go—tonight. How many in the future years, I wonder?
Turning forward into the night, I stop just aft of the number-one cat, next in line to go—again. The mix of emotions swirling through me is as foreign a thing as I have ever experienced, all blending together until each blurs indistinct, and a separate new awareness is forged.
I can't help but wonder what lies ahead for me, what new insights await discovery and what intimate knowledge lingers in this, a most bizarre institution of higher learning.
My philosophical musing is whisked away with a sharp hand smack to the side of my airplane and the not-so-polite cursing of a taxi director too tired and too professional to put up with some hotshot's selfish daydreaming. He turns me right and kicks me angrily to the bow cat director waiting with a less-sinister, hands-on-the-hip, are-you-finally-ready pose of mild impatience. I guess I am, I think to myself, but as I said, can anyone ever be ready for this? Two seconds later the question is left behind in its moot little place on deck as I once again vanish into the night.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Carl Pascarell of Jacksonville, Florida, is a commercial airline pilot. He owns a Pitts S–2A and a Piper Cub.