By Will Dabbs, MD
Aviation always involves some intrinsic modicum of risk. Truth be known, for military aviators at least, that is part of the appeal. Statistically speaking, the really dangerous bit about flying is always the drive to the airfield. However, the profession is indeed notoriously intolerant of inattention or incompetence.
You go through the US Army Rotary-Wing Flight School in pairs. Jay and I were stick buddies at Fort Rucker. I have put my life in that man’s hands many times. Trials of a potentially fatal nature create a unique sort of bond. Even today, some 36 years later, were Jay to send me an encrypted text explaining that I needed to show up at his place on the other side of the country wearing dark clothes with a silenced handgun and a shovel, I’d at least hear him out.
Background
Following a tour driving Hueys, Jay went over to the Dark Side, took a fixed wing transition, and spent the rest of his time in the Army flying spy planes. He later got out and had a distinguished career as an FBI agent. Much of that was spent on the FBI Director’s security detail. Think what the Secret Service does for the President, only for the FBI Director. Jay is a great American.
In the summer of 1994, Jay was flying RC-12N Guardrails out of Hunter Army Airfield in Savannah, GA. The RC-12N consisted of a Beech King Air 300 fuselage, King Air 350 wings, and a pair of 1,500-horsepower Starship engines all synergistically conspiring to lift the voluminous classified electronic gear stuffed into the cabin. There were also a zillion antennas on the wings and fuselage that trashed the otherwise-sleek airplane’s aerodynamics. The crews called it the flying porcupine.
This weird plane did a lot of weird things, most of which are still classified. Everybody knew it listened in on cell phones. It could also likely read your mind, make you buy stuff on Amazon that you didn’t need, and render you sterile from a great distance.
The Mission
Jay had just returned from a six-month stint on the ground in Haiti as an intelligence officer and was excited to get back into the air. I can personally attest that Jay was a superb natural pilot. After his currency check-ride and with maybe 100 hours total in the RC-12N, Jay was assigned to fly as copilot on a training hop out over the Atlantic with a young CW2 warrant officer who had just received his PIC [Pilot-in-Command] orders. The mission was to let the intel guys exercise the airplane’s surveillance systems. The specifics involved zooming out over the Atlantic Ocean at 30,000 feet, doing tracks in the sky, and coordinating with the Jedi Knight techs on the ground while they did their thing.
Takeoff and climbout were uneventful. However, by midafternoon the weather was becoming a factor. Heat built up over land, drifted out over the ocean, and then came back later as a thunderstorm. This happened most every day.
Thunderstorms are where airplanes go to die. Such violent weather phenomena are undeniably gorgeous from a distance. However, the Internet claims that there is more energy in a typical Midwest thunderstorm than was released in the atomic bomb attack on Hiroshima. You really don’t want to fly through that.
Things Get Real…
They are now roughly 100 miles out over open ocean and have been there a while. Jay starts to get a weird vibe about fuel. A little quick mental calculation is indeed cause for concern. However, the guys on the ground request one more turn, and the inexperienced PIC agrees. Jay inquires again about gas, and the PIC struggles to do a decent fuel check. Jay does it himself and finds that they are 70 minutes from burnout—like when the props stop turning. Jay puts his foot down and tells the guy they need to go home now. The young warrant officer reluctantly agrees.
They turn 270 straight for land, but what they see through the windscreen doesn’t match what the weather radar is claiming. Jay fiddles with the set and realizes that the PIC has had the radar slewed straight down at the water. Angling the unit back forward, the scope shows a massive red thunderstorm system directly between them and home.
With every passing second, the gas gauge gets scarier. Jay’s PIC is starting to turn gray. Jay asks him what he wants to do. His inspired solution involves flying through the thunderstorm. At that point Jay makes a command decision to take control of the airplane.
Time to do Some Pilot Stuff
The PIC just sits quietly while Jay gets up with the Marine Corps Air Station at Beaufort and requests radar vectors around the storm. They comply, and he pulls the engines back to their most efficient cruise setting. His PIC seems content to occupy himself in the left seat doing serial fuel checks.
Following the Jarheads’ vectors, it looks like they will indeed make it to feet dry. However, the incoming storm has created some ghastly winds at their home aerodrome. All those antennas make the RC-12N a monster in a crosswind landing. They’re still in trouble.
Jay puts the plane on autopilot and does another fuel check himself. They will be right at flameout when they get home to Hunter Army Airfield even if everything goes perfectly. He offers the alternative of landing at the Savannah commercial airport some 20 minutes closer.
The storm winds are now coming in from the south. The sole Hunter runway runs east/west. Savannah’s two long splendid concrete runways are oriented east/west and north/south. Savannah is much more amenable to the nasty weather conditions. His PIC refuses to consider it. Landing the airplane short would make him look bad. Jay, in his own inimitable way, insists.
A Bad Time to Grow a Spine
His PIC finally grows a pair and adamantly refuses. The winds are now so severe that they are overwhelming the autopilot. Jay radios Hunter, and they are gobsmacked that anybody would try to land in those conditions. With 15 miles to go, Jay’s PIC takes manual control of the airplane. By now, they’re running on vapors. Thankfully, there’s nobody else stupid enough to be out flying in this weather, so they have the airspace to themselves.
The wind is battering the airplane relentlessly, and Jay’s PIC is struggling to maintain control. He overcorrects and floats alternately left and right of the runway centerline. The sensation is like riding an unbalanced washing machine. Three miles out, Jay asks if he’s still got this. Despite the worsening ride, the young pilot assures him that he does. Then the PIC gets quiet and says, “Jay, I can’t make this landing.”
From the Horse’s Mouth
In his words, “I tell him I have the controls. I take over the aircraft, get us lined up, and put in the crab to get us where we need to be. The weather is beating the crap out of us. We’re looking at maybe an 18-knot buffeting crosswind. A quick glance at the fuel, and I have never seen the gauges this low in flight.
“With this airplane in a crosswind, the antennas act like sails to push us off the runway. As we get closer, I’ve got us lined up on centerline, but it’s knocking the hell out of us. Then I remembered something my instructor pilot in the fixed wing transition taught me that he wasn’t supposed to teach. Using differential power on the engines can help you in a bad crosswind. More power on the leeward side of the plane lessens the amount of bank angle and rudder needed.
“As I’m coming down through 500 feet, trying to keep us on centerline and lowering the left wing, I start using differential power and my PIC chimes in, ‘Hey man, you’re not supposed to do that.’ I gave him a look that basically said shut your snack hatch.
“We came in over the numbers using differential power. I put one wheel down on the ground followed by the second and then finally the nose gear. It took full left rudder to keep us on the runway. I then reversed the engines and we gradually slowed to a crawl. My PIC didn’t speak for about two minutes. I had to call ground for taxi instructions. Finally, he looked at me and said, ‘Well, Jay…’ I said, ‘Dude, not another word.’”
The Aftermath
The ground crews met the plane at parking. The guy directing the aircraft to its designated slot mouthed, “What the fuck!?” Everybody knew they had no business flying in those conditions.
Jay’s day job was as the operations officer. He shut the plane down and called the unit’s two instructor pilots into his office for a closed-door meeting before pulling the young man’s PIC orders. The other pilot didn’t speak to him again for the rest of his time at Hunter.
When Life Gives You Lemons
After eight years on flight status, Jay and I left the Army at the same time. I went to medical school, and he applied to the FBI. One of the questions on his entrance interview was, “When was a time that you weren’t in charge when you had to take charge?”
I have had some white knuckle moments flying military aircraft. We all have. However, Jay said this tale kept his three interviewers mesmerized. Nobody likes being terrified, and Jay’s story was worse than most. However, he’s quick to tell you that this is what ultimately got him his job with the FBI.
