“How many hours do you have in a Learjet?” the twenty-six-year-old captain asked his new co-pilot.
“Ten.”
The chief pilot had his reasons for sending these young crews on these old freighters. He wanted them to not only be able to fly with a part of the instrument panel that didn’t work, but also fly with a part of the plane that didn’t work. Deferred maintenance was the standard and not an exception. He wanted his crews to get experience flying in high-altitude thunderstorms without working radar. He wanted them to fly tired and tired and shoot perfect approaches when all they could think about was sleep.
“Get authorization for a taxi, will you, partner?” Donnie asked the new co-pilot about him. Donnie was all pilot. All pilots would rather fly than do anything else. He had commanded this Lear for two weeks and was already a hardened veteran of cargo flights.
“Donnie, we’re over gross weight,” the co-pilot said as he finished the weight and balance paperwork. Those boxes are full of ball bearings.
The jet was keeping close to the runway and as soon as the DC-9 on the runway was airborne, it would be their turn.
Donnie checked his figures. There was no doubt that the plane was too heavy. If he chose to roll back and dump the extra weight, he could miss his takeoff window and, in the morning, be replaced by another hours-hungry captain. His career as a pilot was at stake. He looked at his co-pilot who was waiting for instructions. He also knew that his lives could also be at stake.
Tell them we’re ready.
“San Jose Tower, Freight 807 is ready for takeoff,” the co-pilot said through his boom microphone.
“Cargo 807, Torre San José, cleared for takeoff.”
“807 is rolling.”
They were flying to Denver to meet three other Lears, a DC-9 and, from the past, a copy of Sky King’s plane, the legendary twin-engine Beech 18.
“Turn on,” yelled the co-pilot as the old Lear started down the runway. “Steering. Pressures look good. Hydraulics ok. V1. Rotate. Plane stayed on the ground.” The co-pilot looked at his captain friend, who was struggling to get the nose of the plane off the runway. Donnie! “
The runway was receding faster than any of these pilots had ever seen. They should have been in the air 500 feet earlier, but this Lear wasn’t ready to fly. He was eating up the runway at over 145 knots. The red lights at the ends of the track looked like huge spotlights directed at them as they raced toward the end of the tracks and the holding area.
“Load 807 do you have a problem?” the tower controller yelled. He had seen many Lears take off at this airport, but he had never seen a Lear use nearly the entire runway. His finger hovered over the fire department’s alarm button. “Damn, those guys aren’t going to make it,” he told another controller.
“Help me make it,” Donnie pleaded with his eager co-pilot. As the two pulled on the yoke, old Lear finally released his death grip on the ground and rose heavily into the air.
“Tower 807 is fine,” the co-pilot yelled.
“Roger 807. Contact outlet now.”
Both pilots sat in silence as the plane climbed into the night sky. Donnie flew the start and his co-pilot made all the necessary radio calls, completed the post-takeoff and post-climb checklists, and finished the paperwork. He knew that if the FAA found out about this, they would probably be waiting in Denver to go through the paperwork.
“Close, huh,” the co-pilot said as he looked at his young captain with a shy smile. “Are you lucky or good?”
“Okay.”
“Do you think airline pilots fly under these circumstances?” his co-pilot asked.
“Hell no.” Donnie answered. They have unions and attitudes. “What do you think? Left or right?” Donnie asked as he pointed out the front windshield at the top of the thunderstorms that were lighting up directly in front of them. The copilot squinted and tried to see the tops of the storms. A black mass in front of lightning could indicate a large cell that they couldn’t see. The radar didn’t work and it was an old green one color system that wasn’t that great anyway.
“Left.”
“Okay, tell them to go away,” Donnie said.
“Denver Center, Freight 807 would like to deviate to the left of course due to the weather.”
“Charge 807, Denver Center, that’s approved. A United heavy got through an area at his 10:30 position with no problem.”
Donnie turned the Lear to the left where the controller suggested. He flew by hand using two fingers at 43,000 feet and even in turbulence, kept the plane within 100 feet of its assigned altitude. Donnie had a great touch. Without a working autopilot, he had to have a big touch.
“See anything?” he asked his co-pilot that he was scanning the skies like a human radar.
“Nothing,” replied the co-pilot. “God, I wish we had a moon.” They could see the monstrous storms when the moon rose. With no moon, it was a good guess that kept them out of the center of a thunderstorm mountain with as much energy as an atomic bomb. Thunderstorms weren’t the only threat in this part of the country.
“Donnie, have you ever been in severe turbulence in clear air?”
“Once,” he replied. “Over Salt Lake. He shook the whole plane and almost upset us.” Both pilots had great respect for the invisible waves of wind in the air. “It was on us and it was over in about ten seconds. Really something.”
The co-pilot said nothing as he turned on the radio in the Denver airport weather and began writing down what he heard. Moderate snow. Visibility half a mile less. The breaking action on runway 35 right is still good. Light crosswind from the right.
“Load 807 contact Denver Tower on dialer, ga night.”
“807 Roger, good night.”
“Denver Tower, Freight 807 is at the outer entrance marker at 35 right.”
“Cargo 807, Denver tower, received. Continue to approach. Number two. United 7330 cleared for landing.”
Less than a mile separated the two planes, but there was a big difference in the captain’s salary. Donnie earned about $22,000 a year. His counterpart on the United 737 made more than $100,000 a year. Both were heading to the same track in the same conditions. United was down and off the track. It was Donnie’s turn.
“Approach the lights at twelve o’clock, go visual,” his co-pilot yelled. Donnie had flown the precision approach and the proof came when he looked out the windshield. Directly in front of the windshield and clearly visible through the blowing snow was the running rabbit light that guided them onto the runway.
“Good night, hey guys,” the freight forwarder said as Donnie and his co-driver entered the freight company shack. His plane was already being unloaded and cargo was being loaded onto the DC-9 bound for Dayton, Ohio.
“Did the Beech 18 come in?”
“Not yet,” replied the freight forwarder.
“That old 18 won’t make it tonight,” a young Lear co-pilot said confidently as he looked at the light snow falling. “They knocked our teeth out when we crossed the firing front. If you try to blow that old bolt bucket up here, it’ll bring more ice than cargo. I bet they turned around.”
“Five dollars say they do,” was the quick reply from one of the station agents.
“You are in.”
The radio began to crackle in the background. They could hear the ground controller giving yard 18 clearance to taxi to the loading ramp.
The grumpy old pair of pilots laughed when the young jet pilot asked them how they managed to fly the old plane through all that mountain turbulence, ice and snow.
“Tonight was a bit rough,” the 18-year-old captain said as he smiled and sipped a six-hour shot of coffee. “My co-driver looked to the right side and saw a moose looking at us. For a minute, I wasn’t exactly sure which canyon we were in. I almost hit a semi along I-25 on the way here.”
The crews soon made their way to the crew’s motel. Mexican cuisine and hamburgers. A very dimly lit bar. Worn mattresses. A perfect place for cargo pilots.
“Did you hear Delta is hiring?” one pilot said as they all sat at the dimly lit bar eating a taco.
“Yes, but they only hire Air Force athletes,” added another. “I think I’m going to try to get on with that new Federal Express team. They’re going places.”
“Federal Express! All they got is those three old Falcon 20s. It’s no different than this.”
“Wait, man. Eastern and Pan Am will be hiring in a couple of months,” another pilot added.
“I have a friend who just started with Frontier. Does anyone know what’s going on at Western?”
“Remember Scott, the Falcon 20 guy who used to come here? He got a break and went on with that new People’s Express airline. The employees own a big chunk of it and I hear they have a bunch of instant millionaires. Some people have all of it.” luck”.
“Hi, Dave,” asked one of the pilots from Los Angeles. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-two,” he replied as he looked up from a plate of tacos and cold refried beans.
“Man, that’s too bad. You don’t get a chance to get on an airline at that age. Thirty is tops.”
As soon as the crews gathered at the bar, they left. If they were lucky, they could sleep for five hours before the crew bus was ready to take them to the airport, leaving at five o’clock.
“Sweet dreams of a better job, mate,” his co-pilot said as he punched the old pillow in a way that might help him get some sleep. “You’ve paid your due tonight.”
“Good evening,” Donnie said as he continued to enter the flight in his log book. When he got to the comments section of the logbook, he stopped and looked at his new co-pilot, now asleep. He looked at his logbook and jotted down a word. Luck.
There was no doubt that on this trip they were both.