**A \"Sea Story\"**

 

Interesting reading; reminds me of Jim Dunn's S2T rudder hardover save
at Columbia AAB, and some \'can do\' decisions made under the pressure
of \'external forces.\' Some obvious lessons;

1.  Much of airtanker "collective wisdom" (no pun for rotor-heads
    intended) is unwritten and learned over coffee, other liquid
    refreshments, SafeComs/FC119s, and meetings like NAFA. Share the
    wealth, and listen up.

2.  Know what you are carrying and what it weighs. Big difference
    between gel and retardant, and sometimes between batches. Being
    overweight can spoil your day, even if you remember to jettison.

3.  Don't allow any one to pressure or rush you. Lots of stories to back
    that up. Our job is too important to get excited about.

**Milk Run**

The Captain of a Navy ship at sea is perhaps the closest thing to an
absolute dictator left on Earth. While this is certainly true of most
ships, it is not quite the whole truth aboard an aircraft carrier. The
Captain rules the ship absolutely, but he leaves the Air Boss to run the
flight deck. As a Naval Aviator, I saw the Air Boss as larger than life.

He was the voice of authority crackling in my headset, a tyrant with a
hair trigger who lashed out at anyone foolhardy enough to disregard
him.  He used strong language and demanded immediate compliance.  He was
a man with immense responsibility and an ego to match. And he was
addressed by\
everyone aboard, including the Captain, simply as \"Boss.\"\
\
I flew the CH-46 Sea Knight, a tandem rotor helicopter typically
deployed on supply ships within the battle group. It was our job to
deliver \"beans and bullets\" to the fleet. While not actually stationed
on the carrier itself, we \"hit\" it at least every other day,
restocking everything needed to keep a small \"city at sea\" running.

 

It was exciting, challenging flying, requiring great precision and
skill, and I loved it. I was in my early twenties and in command of a
four-man crew and a multimillion dollar aircraft. But always there, just
below the surface, was the aura of the Air Boss. It would lead me to one
of the biggest blunders I have ever made in my flying career. But for a
matter of a few feet, excellent training, and some dumb luck, it could
well have claimed the lives of my crew.\
\
It was a day like most others for a Sea Knight pilot. We launched before
dawn on a vertrep mission, the vertical replenishment of ships at sea
that was our specialty. In a synchronized aerial ballet, we flew
maneuvers called side-flairs and button-hooks, moving tons of cargo,
attached externally to a heavy gauge steel hook beneath the helicopter.

Whether it was ammunition, food, machinery, or mail - referred to as
\"pony\" - the ships in the Battle Group depended on us for sustenance. 
Vertrep allowed the Battle Group to disperse over more than a hundred
miles of ocean, and still receive the daily supplies necessary to
operate.\
\
By noon we had completed the vertrep, and only had a load of internal
cargo left for the carrier. At ten miles out, I keyed the microphone and
called the Air Boss for clearance into his domain.\
\
\"Boss, Knightrider zero-six, ten miles out for landing.\"

\"Negative, Knightrider, recoveries in progress. Take starboard delta,\"
he mono toned, referring to the holding pattern designated for
helicopters.\
\
Sometimes I thought he put us there just to show his disdain, as there
often seemed to be no reason for it. But today he actually was
recovering jets, and we took our interval in the delta pattern with the
carrier\'s Sea King helicopter already orbiting. I watched as the jets
made their approaches and either \"trapped\" - caught one of the four
arresting cables on the flight deck, or \"boltered\" - missed the wires
and went around. As many times as I saw it, I never lost my fascination\
for carrier operations, and my admiration for those guys. With all the
jets aboard, I anxiously awaited our landing clearance. We hadn\'t eaten
since around 3AM, and wanted to get back to our ship for chow. But the
voice of authority had other plans.\
\
\"Knightrider, I\'ve got another cycle fifteen minutes out. I\'m going
to recover them first before I bring you aboard,\" he said\
matter-of-fact-ly.\
\
\"I haven\'t got the fuel for that Boss,\" I shot back.\
\
\"Then you\'ll have to bingo,\" he replied, without a hint of sympathy
in his voice.\
\
\"That cocky so and so,\" I thought. I could land, offload, and be
airborne again in less than five minutes, and he knew it. But he was the
Air Boss and his word was law, so I shut my mouth and turned for home.

But then I remembered those big orange bags on the cabin floor behind
me - the ones with \"U. S. Mail\" stenciled on them - and realized that
they represented my landing clearance. As any sailor knows,
\"mail-call\" ranks just below \"liberty-call\" in a mariner\'s heart.
Not even the Air Boss could resist the powerful lure of his mail. I
keyed the mike, and played my trump card.\
\
\"Be advised Boss, we have pony aboard.\"\
\
I knew that everyone in the tower was staring at him right then,
silently willing him to reverse himself. And if he didn\'t, word would
spread like wild fire to each of the six thousand sailors on that ship
that he had denied them a mail-call. He couldn\'t say no.

\"OK, Knightrider, you\'re clear to land, spot three,\" he spat,\
specifying the area all the way forward on the angled deck.

He was obviously annoyed, but what did I care? In minutes we would be
out of his airspace and on our way back home for chow. I flew a slow,
shallow approach, careful not to let my rotor wash disrupt the activity
on the flight deck. As soon as I touched down, my aircrewmen lowered the
aft deck and began pushing pallets down the rollers to the waiting
forklifts. It was like clockwork. Only minutes after receiving his
grudging clearance, we were empty and buttoned up.\
\
\"Boss, Knightrider zero six is ready to lift, spot three,\" I\
transmitted.\
\
\"Hold on Knightrider,\" he ordered. \"I just got a call from supply.
They want you to move a load of milk back to home plate for dispersal.
How many gallons can we load max?\"\
\
It was a question I had never gotten before. I knew we could lift about
seven thousand pounds with our current fuel load, but I hadn\'t a clue
how many gallons of milk that equated to.

I looked over at Dave, my copilot, and wondered if he had any more
insight on the nature of milk than I did.\
\
\"Got any idea what a gallon of milk weighs?\" I asked.\
\
He just looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and turned his palms
upward in what is commonly referred to as the Ensign\'s salute.\
\
\"Come on, Knightrider, I need a number. I\'ve got Tacair inbound,\" the
voice of authority growled.\
\
I could feel my palms starting to sweat as the forklifts came off the
elevators with pallets of milk.\
\
\"Come on, Knightrider!\" he snarled.\
\
I pulled the calculator out of my helmet bag and input 7000. Now I just
needed to know what to divide it by. The supply officer usually did all
this for us. But here on the carrier I was on my own, and for some
reason it was important to me to impress the Air Boss. I was determined
to take the biggest load we could.\
\
\"Hey, Knightrider!\" he barked. \"I need a number and I need it now.
How many gallons?\"\
\
\"I guess milk weighs about the same as fuel, right Dave?\"\
\
He rendered another Ensign\'s salute.\
\
I knew that jet fuel weighed 6.5 pounds per gallon. We used that figure
all the time. Even though that voice in my head told me it was a
mistake, I convinced myself that a liquid was a liquid, and milk must
weigh about the same as jet fuel. I plugged it into my calculator and,
just as the Air Boss started to growl again, closed my eyes and gave him
his number.\
\
\"One zero five zero gallons Boss,\" I transmitted with far more\
confidence than I actually felt. It was meager comfort that I had
actually left a twenty-seven-gallon \"cushion,\" just in case milk was a
little heavier than fuel. How much heavier could it be?\
\
\"OK, Knightrider. Here it comes. Be ready to go as soon as we button
you up,\" he ordered. \"I have Tacair inbound.\"\
\
The forklifts dropped the pallets on the ramp, and then our aircrewmen
pushed them up the rollers and secured them to the deck. In minutes the
cabin was filled with enough milk for the entire Battle Group, the ramp
was closed, and I was ready to lift.\
\
\"Boss, Sabre Seven, five miles out for the break.\"\
\
\"Cleared for the left break, Saber Seven. Caution for a Helo lifting
spot three. Break, Knightrider you are cleared for immediate takeoff.\"\
\
That was it. My welcome, as tepid as it was, was officially worn out now
that the fighters were on station.\
\
I had hoped to do a thorough power check while hovering in the ground
effect cushion of the flight-deck before transitioning over the deck
edge.\
\
Ground effect, or the extra lift derived from operating close to the
ground, can be a blessing or a curse. Given a long hover run, a pilot
could accelerate in ground effect until reaching flying speed, thereby
lifting far more weight than would be possible from a standard climbing
transition. The carrier however, presented the opposite situation. From
our position forward on the angle, I woul d take off into a ground
effect\
hover, and then transition over the deck edge ninety feet above the
water, to an immediate and complete loss of ground effect. It would
require tremendous power at max weight . . . every ounce the aircraft
had. The little voice inside my head kept telling me about it as I
slowly raised the collective to hover, but the big voice in my headset
kept drowning him out.\
\
\"Come on, Knightrider, I need my deck!\" he bellowed.\
\
I stabilized in a ten-foot hover and glanced down at the torque gauges
to evaluate the power required. Back on my ship, I would have taken
thirty or forty seconds in the hover to evaluate a takeoff this
critical. But this wasn\'t my home deck.

It was the Air Boss\'s deck, and he wanted it back.

\"I want that damn Helo off my deck, Knightrider, and I mean now!\" he
screamed. So without ever getting a stabilized torque reading, and
against all my better judgement, I eased the stick forward and the
aircraft lumbered across the deck edge.\
\
As soon as I saw blue water through the chin bubble, I knew we were in
trouble. The aircraft immediately settled, and I instinctively countered
by raising the collective to add power. But instead of checking the sink
rate, the helicopter only settled faster.

 

The steady whirring noise of the rotor blades changed to a distinct
\"whump, whump, whump,\" and the familiar peripheral blur slowed to the
point where I could clearly see each individual rotor blade. A quick
glance at the gauges confirmed that both engines were working normally.
I was simply demanding more power than they could produce, and the rotor
speed was decaying under the strain.\
\
I should have predicted what would happen next. With a perceptible jolt,
both electrical generators \"kicked\" off. Powered by the rotor system
itself, they had been designed to \"shed\" at 88% of optimum rotor
speed. Thankfully it was daylight, so lighting wasn\'t an issue, but the
jolt I felt was the loss of the flight control stability system. The
helicopter was still controllable, but it was far more work without the
stab system. Things were starting to go very badly.\
\
  As the rotor speed continued to audibly and visibly decay, I realized
the only chance we had was to somehow g et back into ground effect. If I
continued to \"wallow\" like this, the helicopter would eventually \"run
out of turns\" and crash, or simply settle into the ocean and sink.
Neither of those appealed to me, so I determined to try a maneuver the
\"Old Salts\" called \"scooping it out.\"\
\
Any pilot will understand when I say it is counterintuitive, when faced
with an undesirable sink rate, to decrease either power or pitch. But
\"scooping it out\" required both. In order to dive back into ground
effect, I lowered the nose and the windscreen filled with the sight of
blue water and white foam. To preserve some of the rapidly deteriorating
rotor speed, I lowered the collective and descended. The ocean rose
fast. Remembering my crewmen, I managed to blurt out \"Brace for
impact!\" over the intercom. Dave immediately sensed what I was
attempting, and began a running commentary of altitudes and rotor
speeds.\
\
\"Fifteen feet, 84% .\"\
\
I needed forward airspeed and knew I had to trade so me more altitude to
get it, so I eased the stick forward a little more.\
\
\"Five feet, 85% .\"\
\
I stopped descending and stabilized in the ground effect run.\
\
\"Three feet, 85%.\"\
\
\"OK,\" I thought. \"We\'re not settling anymore, and the rotor speed
has at least stopped decaying.\" But I couldn\'t seem to coax any
acceleration out of it, and this close to the water, even a rogue wave
could bring us down. That\'s when I decided that I really hated milk.\
\
\"Three feet, 86 %.\"\
\
With just the pitiful speed I had brought from the dive, and no sign of
any acceleration, I began to despair. What else could I do? I thought
about asking Dave, but didn\'t think I could bear another Ensign\'s
salute.

 

Then I remembered those Old Salts in the ready room again.\
\"Remember, this aircraft has no tail rotor. If you ever need just a
little something extra, try a fifteen-degree right yaw. The increase in
drag is negligible, but it feeds undisturbed air to your aft rotors.\"\
\
Well, what did I have to lose at this point? I gently pushed on the
right pedal and the helicopter yawed. Again, it seemed
counterintuitive.  If I was trying to accelerate, shouldn\'t I
streamline the aircraft? But I was out of options.\
\
\"Two feet, 85%.\"\
\
I began running through the ditching procedures in my mind. But then I
noticed that the waves were gliding by slightly faster than they had
been only seconds before. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, we were
accelerating.\
\
\"Three feet, 88%.\"\
\
I glanced down at the airspeed indicator and my heart leaped; it had
moved off the peg and was passing through forty knots. The next thing I
felt was that beautiful shudder every helicopte r pilot knows as
translational lift - the point where the aircraft is flying more like an
airplane than hovering like a helicopter.\
\
\"Five feet, 92%.\"\
\
Then I felt another jolt, and knew the generators had come back on the
line, bringing the stab system with them. We were a fully functioning
aircraft again. I accelerated through our normal climb speed,
remembering those Old Salts once again. \"Speed is life.\"\
\
\"Ten feet, 100%.\"

At ninety knots and all our turns back, I finally felt confident\
enough to climb. Passing through one hundred feet, and over a mile from
the carrier, the voice of authority spoke.\
\
\"It\'s great to see you flying again, Knightrider. We were all holding
our breath up here. I hope I didn\'t talk you into doing something
ugly.\"\
\
Well, what do you know. The guy was human after all. Who knew?\
\
Turning for home, I passed the controls to Dave, and sat back. For the
first time, I took a deep breath and noticed that my hands were shaking.
I had made a rookie mistake, and very nearly paid for it with four lives
and a helicopter. I had allowed myself to be intimidated by the Air
Boss, and sacrificed my judgement as a result.\
\
I did some checking the next day, and found that the weight of a gallon
of milk is 8.7 pounds, a far cry from the 6.5 I had estimated. So even
with my little \"pad,\" we took off from that carrier more than 2,100
pounds overweight. And that do esn\'t even consider the weight of the
pallets and packaging. All in all, I was very lucky to get away with
it.\
\
That was almost twenty years ago, and I guess I\'m the Old Salt now.
I\'ve accumulated thousands of flight hours and more than a few gray
hairs since then, but I try never to forget the lessons I learned that
day. Besides a life-long loathing for milk, I came away from that
episode with two rules.\
\
First, never, never allow external pressures to force a rush to judgment
on any matter of safety. There\'s simply too much at stake. If I ever
feel rushed, I make a conscious effort to step back, slow down, and
think the matter through.\
\
And second, I never, ever ignore that voice in my head when he tells me
something just isn\'t right.  I\'ve learned over the years that he is
frequently the only one in the conversation making any sense.\
\
Oh yeah, and when the guy at the supermarket asks me if I want my milk
in a bag, I always ask him if he would mind double bagging it for me -
just in case.