Vic Socotra

16 January 2008

Bird Strike

(Wingwalkers)

Leaving Cleveland one time I was seated in the rear of a commercial jet. It was a DC-9, a nice comfy single-aisle aircraft designed for multiple quick turn-around flights. Its reputation for reliability and efficiency drove strong sales, and it was one of the most successful commercial jets of the era.

Many found their way into military service, where the original spacious civilian seating was retained. In these sad days when the in-flight seat-back tray is pressed into your chest when the oaf in the seat in front of you reclines, there is more than a little nostalgia in remembered when you could spread out in your little rented space and enjoy the flight.

I was seated near the intake of the starboard Pratt & Whitney JT8D engine. It is the civilian version of the J52 turbojet that powered the A-6 Intruder attack jet in which I managed to get a few precious hours of flight time. In it’s day, was one of the more rugged turbofans on the market, which was a good thing.

I had my book out and had just crossed my legs after the take-off roll as the pilot pulled the yoke back and the hundred or so souls on board climbed out over Lake Erie with him.

Looking out, I saw a flash of white fly by my window, and vanish into the intake.

There was a muffled thud, and a marked change in the whine of the turbine as the RPMs came down. It would not have been possible that fast, but I swear the odor of broiler chicken began to waft through the compartment.

Almost instantly, the jet went wings level, then the nose came down and power came off the engine. The Captain came up on the PA and told us we had taken a bird strike, and would be returning to Cleveland. Before he finished his announcement, the right wing dipped and the jet wrapped itself around to return to the landing pattern.

The JT8D munched through the seagull, processing the bird through two coaxially-mounted independent rotating assemblies that make up the first two stages of the bypass turbine, crunching bone and flesh and feather into the second downstream turbine’s three stages, and eventually out the exhaust after slicing and dicing through the high-pressure compressor section.

There was a time when a lot of us had to learn about what happens when you feed things into jet engines. Someone had taken to placing quarters into the intake of our F-4 Phantom jets, which is a nasty little bit of sabotage, and can lead to catastrophic failure

Apparently the individual who did it was not happy about being where we were at the time, and was of the opinion that if we ran out of jet engines, we would have to depart and go home. We just had a bunch of cranky pilots and pissed-off maintenance troops who had to pull the engines every time it happened. The authorities never caught the bastard, to my knowledge, and of course we did not depart early.

That was not the case with the DC-9 and the birdstrike.

We were back at the gate in just a few minutes with a minimum of fuss, almost before the anxiety level could rise. Very professional, all things considered, and aside from being back in Cleveland again, none of us was the worse for wear.

It came back to me on the frigid Washington afternoon when the AM radio of the Bluesmobile crackled like a police dispatch. All News radio WTOP was talking about the President’s farewell address scheduled for that evening, saying that they anticipated a professional performance about a mixed legacy. Suddenly, there was breaking news.

It was a little hard to keep straight. I probably need to get in back of the dashboard and look at the wire ends where the tactical radios were ripped out, but it is way too cold for shade-tree mechanical projects.

What the tinny speaker told me was that there was an airplane down in New York, in the river. More details would be provided as they became available, but the initial report sent a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

Driving around DC has more than the usual hazards. One of my friends was stuck in traffic trying to get to her job at the Capital when American Flight 77 went into the Pentagon. Horror-struck, she felt the roar of the engines over the top of her car and the suspension rock with violently displaced air.

Another pal was in the snarl on the 14th Street Bridge when Air Florida Flight 90 failed to stay airborne and sliced across the travel lanes, taking out four cars, seventy-five feet of the guardrail and plunging into the Potomac within sight of the White House and the Jefferson Memorial.

Both were catastrophic events, so I braced myself for the worst. Apparently the airplane in New York had been on departure from Laguardia, which like Reagan National, sits next to a swamp where migratory birds and seagulls like to hang out.

At Reagan, they have air cannons at each end of the runway to discourage the birds from lingering. I assume it works, though of course it could be more for the benefit of the traveling public than our avian fellow-travelers.

By the time I got to the office and was ready to plunge down to the third level of the underground garage, the reports were that it had been a U.S. Airways A-320 jet that experienced a double bird strike, and landed in the Hudson River. Twisting around in the garage at the bottom of the ramp, I lost the scratchy signal, but I had a vision of chill disaster that twisted my gut.

By the time I got up to the office, there was something remarkable. Flight 1549 was fortunate enough to have Chesley B. Sullenberger III, a former USAF fighter pilot, at the controls. Apparently he radioed Tower that he had no engines, made a tactical decision to attempt a water landing rather than something ashore in Manhattan, cleared the George Washington Bridge by 900 feet, and set the jet down so gently in the icy water that it continued to float.

After deploying the rescue slides, passengers emerged to stand on the wings. Being in the heart of one of the busiest harbors on earth, working boats were on the scene almost immediately. Without panic, or at least with only a modicum of it, everyone got out.

Captain Sullenberger then walked the aisle of the A320 twice to ensure that he was the last one on the plane, and then considered his mission accomplished and abandoned ship. He emerged onto the wing, where he was ferried to safety, his jet floating majestically down the Hudson.

I always used to laugh when they give the water landing brief. “Life vest under your seat,” my butt. No one has put a commercial jet down on the water safely in nearly fifty years. Until yesterday, that is. I’ll pay more attention to the safety brief now.

With so much that is so desperately screwed up in every direction these days, it is inspirational when a professional shows you how things are supposed to work.

It is almost enough to give you hope, you know?

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