A-10s over Kosovo

by Christopher E. Haave Kimos

  I immediately radioed Buster to let him know I had a problem and pulled the throttle back on number two in an attempt to recover the engine. When I moved the throttle, the engine immediately spooled back and flamed out. The right engine nacelle now generated drag rather than thrust. That and the combination of high altitude, low airspeed, and a dirty configuration caused the aircraft to yaw right and begin a descent. I immediately pushed the nose five to 10 degrees nose low, attempting to gain airspeed. As the aircraft yawed to the right, a chopped tone came over the headset indicating a stalled condition, which was immediately followed by a loud pop and buzzing sound as the number-one (left) engine compressor stalled. Things were getting serious in a hurry. I tried to stay calm and inform Buster what was happening.

  While making the radio call, I saw the main attitude direction indicator (ADI) freeze in the centered position, both steering bars came into view, and all my caution-warning lights illuminated—and the bottom dropped out of my stomach. Those indications told me that I had lost all alternating current (AC) electrical power and that the aircraft had just reverted to direct current (DC) battery power. Not wanting to believe what I saw, I looked at the number-one engine as it rolled back below 30 percent, approximately 12 percent below what was needed for the generators to provide the much-needed AC electrical power. With virtually no thrust, the aircraft began to descend rapidly into the weather, and I soon lost what little sunlight I had been able to see through the clouds. I knew that the only way to clear a compressor stall was to completely shut down the engine, but the idea was still not one I wanted to entertain.

  I then checked the DC-powered standby ADI, which showed the aircraft 15 degrees nose high and 20 degrees of right bank—the same attitude it indicated when I had leveled off. My confidence in this old piece of equipment was shot. With the main attitude indicator frozen, the standby attitude indicator unreliable, and no visual references due to the weather, I was forced to use the “needle and ball” of the turn-and-slip indicator to keep the aircraft in coordinated flight. My voice jumped about 10 octaves as I tried to tell Buster that I had just experienced a “double-engine flameout.”

  This situation calls for a “boldface emergency procedure.” I had long ago been required to commit to memory the steps I now needed to take—but I had never dreamed of actually using them. My initial A-10 training instructor had even made jokes about this emergency, swearing it could never happen in the A-10 because the engines were too reliable. Some guys in the squadron even joked in our monthly emergency-procedures training that if it ever happened they would just jump out using the ejection procedure. With that in mind, I had to decide and act in a hurry.

  The five boldface steps that I had long before committed to memory:

  1. THROTTLES – OFF

  2. APU [auxiliary power unit] – START

  3. FLIGHT CONTROLS – MAN [manual] REVERSION

  4. LEFT ENGINE – MOTOR

  5. LEFT ENGINE – START

  Thinking that I still had a little time before needing to make an ejection decision, I started to rapidly repeat these steps in my mind. We had decided to fly without antiexposure suits because they would have made our eight-hour missions miserable. However, now the thought of ejecting at high altitude, in the weather, over the Adriatic, and without an antiexposure suit was not very appealing either. I knew that I had to attempt the restart—I did not know that the procedure, which had not yet been successfully used, was intended for use in good weather and at lower altitudes.

  Passing 29,000 feet, I executed the first step, pulling the throttles back, forcing them over the hump, and into the cutoff position. I knew that I was now committed, and it was not a heart-warming feeling. As soon as the throttles were in the off position, the cockpit rapidly depressurized, and frost began forming on the inside of the canopy. Unfortunately, I was still far above the normal operating envelope for starting APU. I remembered that the aircraft flight manual (Dash-1) guaranteed that the APU would start only at or below 15,000 feet, but it might start as high as 20,000 feet. I waited for the aircraft to descend at least 9,000 more feet.

  With both engines shut down, there was no hydraulic pressure to power the normal operation of the flight controls. The control stick locked, so I had no ability to roll or turn the aircraft. I bypassed the next boldface step and selected flight controls manual reversion.

  The manual system is designed to give the A-10 a limited flight-control capability to improve its combat survivability in the event the aircraft is shot up and loses hydraulic pressure. It uses a cable-and-pulley system to move small electrical trim tabs which act as flight controls. The amount of control that these tabs can provide is a function of airspeed. Since the control surfaces are only a few inches wide, greater airspeed allows the tabs to provide more control. The Dash-1 gives numerous warnings when using this system. It warns against low power settings and directs that airspeed be maintained between 200 and 300 KIAS so that the trim tabs will develop enough control authority to control large pitch changes. It now dawned on me that it was impossible to keep the power above idle during a double-engine flameout. I also realized that the aircraft was already slower than recommended, due to its having no thrust, high altitude, and a heavy combat load. Nevertheless, I had no choice other than putting the aircraft into manual reversion to regain even limited control.

  As I executed manual reversion, I experienced the meaning of the words contained in the fine print of another Dash-1 warning, which said that when transitioning to manual reversion, the aircraft may pitch up or down with excessive positive or negative G forces. As I flipped the switch, the aircraft pitched violently down, threw me up, and pinned me on the canopy—“Mr. Toad’s wild ride” had begun. The standby ADI now indicated a banked, nose-low attitude, and the vertical velocity indicator (VVI) was pegged at 6,000 feet-per-minute down. I pulled myself back into the seat with the stick and then continued to pull back on it for all I was worth in an attempt to break the dive. Unable to stop the descent, I slid to the front of the ejection seat and hooked my feet on the brake pedals to get better leverage. Pulling with both arms and trimming the elevator tab to its limit failed to break the dive—I began to panic.

  The altimeter was now unwinding extremely fast, and panic crept into my voice as I let Buster know what was happening. He responded with an irritatingly relaxed voice, telling me to just calm down and go through the boldface. He declared an emergency with Magic, the NAEW, and let them know I was looking for a place to make an emergency landing. For the time being, all I could do was try to gain and maintain aircraft control, and avoid entering an unusual attitude. I attempted to keep my wings level by staring at the turn-and-slip indicator. I tried to keep the DC-powered turn needle and the slip indicator’s ball centered. That ball—suspended in a curved, liquidfilled tube below the turn-needle—measures aerodynamic slip and is very reliable because it’s powered only by physics. I flew the aircraft with reference only to the turn-and-slip, airspeed, and VVIs—and waited until I reached an altitude where I would be able to start the APU.

  I do not know how long the descent really took, but I seemed to pass through 20,000 feet in the blink of an eye. Hoping to improve my chances, I waited until I passed 17,000 feet before I attempted to start the APU. When I flipped the switch, the start initially looked good. However, the APU’s operating temperature then appeared to drop rapidly. I stared at the indications for some time with the sickening thought that the APU had failed. I finally realized that the APU really had started, was operating normally, and indicated cooler-than-normal operating temperature only because of the altitude and ambient conditions. I continued to modify the boldface procedure. Instead of completing the next step to start engines, I turned on the APU generator to get AC electrical power and warm up the main attitude indicator.

  Passing 15,000 feet I motored the number-one engine until its temperature dropped to below 100 degrees and then brought the throttle over the hump to idle. By the time I had reached 1
2,500 feet, the engine had stabilized in idle, and I immediately shoved it to max. With it running at full power, I was finally able to slow my descent rate to about 4,000 feet per minute on the VVI. Now—for the first time since my engines’ compressors stalled—I realized that I might be able to fly out of this situation. The boldface ends at this point, and it would normally be time to pull out the checklist and go through the cleanup items. However, I was still in a descent and not really ready to take my hands off the controls to get out a checklist. I thought that if I could start the number-two engine I would have enough power to break the descent completely. So passing 8,000 feet I motored down the temperature and attempted a start. The second engine started and stabilized. With both engines operating normally, I bottomed out at about 6,500 feet—and, finally, the plane felt controllable.

  I did not realize how pumped up I had been on adrenaline. The aircraft appeared to be flying normally now that I had both engines and could control the pitch. I failed to remember the 23–30 pounds of pressure I had to exert to move the control stick when I had tested the manual reversion system on functional check flights. After this experience, and while still using the reversion system, the stick felt light as a feather.

  With the aircraft level at 6,500 feet, I told Buster I had the plane under control. He had been descending and getting emergency vectors from NAEW in an attempt to stay near and in radio contact with me. Since I was still concentrating on flying, Buster started going through the checklist to help me clean up the unfinished items. He reminded me to put the flight controls back to normal. That step reconnects the hydraulic actuators to the flight-control system. The Dash-1 gives the same warning about rapid pitch changes when returning to the normal flight-control system. As I switched the flight controls back to normal, the aircraft violently pitched up—this time forcing me heavily into the seat. I grabbed the stick and started fighting for control. I was wildly going from stop to stop on the controls, trying to find neutral. The controls were so light, it initially felt like the stick had broken off in my hand.

  After thinking for a few seconds that I was going to depart controlled flight, I let go of the stick to see if the aircraft would settle down. It did. I gently took hold of the stick and focused all my attention on maintaining level flight. I was experiencing the “leans”—a condition in which my brain and my instruments disagreed on the attitude for level flight. Since I was still in the weather, there were no outside visual references to confirm which was correct. Normally the right way to fight this condition is to believe the instruments. However, knowing that they had experienced a power interruption and had been brought back on-line in other than straight and level, unaccelerated flight, I knew that their gyros might have precessed. I had less-than-full confidence that they were correct. Buster started telling me to head to steer-point alpha, a point along the Italian coast from where we could reach a divert base. Unfortunately, when the aircraft lost AC power, the INS had dumped and was useless. I had no idea where I was, or even if the aircraft-heading system was usable.

  Buster started asking Magic for directions to get the two of us together and headed towards Cervia AB, our divert base located on the east coast of Italy. Magic was unable to help us; its personnel did not have me on radar, but they were able to tell us that Cervia currently had a 300-foot ceiling and one-mile visibility. I told Buster I didn’t like that option because it meant that I would have to take my eyes off the instruments to study the instrument-approach plates for a bunch of strange fields. I had the approach and radio frequencies around Aviano memorized and really wanted to go there. Magic again stated that it did not have me on radar but said Primo might.

  Primo was the call sign for the 606th Expeditionary Air Control Squadron out of Spangdahlem. I had not known that the squadron was in place because it had not been operational during the first few days of the war. The Primo controller came over guard frequency loud and clear, telling Buster and me to reset our transponders so he could find us. Within seconds, he had us both identified and had started giving me vectors back towards Aviano. He did an awesome job of giving me snap headings to all the closest bases and letting me know the weather at each so I could make the decision. He also started giving vectors to Buster to get our flight, now about 20 miles apart, back together. Primo also coordinated with all the agencies along the coast so that I had to talk with him only. He got me all the way to Aviano before handing me off to the approach controller.

  While flying home, I noticed that the number-two engine was running hotter than number one. I still did not know what had caused the original problem, so I set the right throttle at 85 percent and planned on flying a simulated, single-engine approach. I still had doubts about the instruments’ accuracy, and since there was a mountain range just north of the base, Aviano approach gave me no-gyro vectors to landing. During the approach, the controller said, “Turn right” or “Turn left,” when needed. I then rolled into a half-standard rate turn; he timed my turn, monitored my position on radar, and then said, “Stop turn” to control my heading and eliminate any chance that a heading error in my navigation system would cause an accident. I followed his instructions and finally broke out of the weather 500 feet above and two miles from the approach end of the runway. We had been flying for one hour and 45 minutes, and this was the first time (without depending on the instruments) that I had a reference by which I could determine my attitude.

  The crash vehicles were waiting to meet me as I landed and rolled out on the runway. I taxied clear of the active and waited to shut down. The rescue crews looked at me with some confusion, not knowing what needed to be done. I was exhausted and still sweating like a pig although it was cold and rainy outside. I told them I needed to shut down and have the plane impounded. But first, I wanted a minute to talk to the squadron and get my thoughts together.

  Sitting there on the taxiway—getting my stuff together—I listened as the FM radio came to life. It was Buster saying that the weather was clearing in Kosovo and we needed to hurry and get down there. He had already contacted squadron ops, located a spare aircraft for me on spot 18, and arranged for ops to warm it up. He had also coordinated for his aircraft to be hotrefueled while I moved to the spare. Still dazed and confused, I acknowledged, shut down, and got a ride to the spare.

  Capt Rip Woodard and aircraft 956 (Photo courtesy of author)

  After briefing maintenance on what had happened to aircraft 956, I moved to the spare and started getting it ready to go. Running through the after-start checklist, I saw the squadron commander pull up. He jumped out of his car and got on the maintainer’s headset to talk with me. After asking me what had happened, he told me, “Good job” and “Go ahead and shut down.” I was relieved; there was no way we could make the tanker times, and I did not feel the need to push my luck twice in one day. Fortunately for me, nobody had been able to attack any targets that morning. I only had to take grief from Buster for about 24 hours for ruining his day.

  About eight months later, I was attending a safety ceremony at the Pentagon. Maj Gen Francis C. Gideon Jr., chief of Air Force Safety, was one of the generals in attendance. Coincidentally, he was the test pilot who had ejected from an A-10 after both engines flamed out while test-firing the gun. We sat and talked for a few minutes about what had happened and then discussed a few shortcomings in the boldface procedures. He asked what had helped me work through the emergency. I thought the things that contributed most to my getting through that experience were fear, luck, and divine intervention.

  Chapter 8

  MY TURN IN THE BARREL

  Introduction

  Lt Col Chris “Kimos” Haave

  My first time in combat was one of my significant life experiences, as it has been for most military professionals. Our OAF stories show just how strange some of those combat experiences were. We had a close view of OAF combat, a closer one than some of our support teammates and fellow strikers who employed precision-guided munitions from relatively high altitude
s. Their combat duties often kept them focused on interpreting their sensors and radarscopes, but we Hog drivers (and other FACs) watched with revulsion as Serbian atrocities unfolded before us. We spent most of our time putting eyeballs and ordnance directly on enemy troops whose identity we confirmed firsthand with our gyrostabilized binos.

  The war was very real for our maintainers, who worked in shifts and hustled 24 hours a day to launch, recover, and reload our jets—and to repair the two combat-damaged Hogs. Some of our noncombat experiences, on the other hand, seemed unreal. Even when we were flying over the KEZ and working 12-hour days, we still slept in nice hotels, ate in restaurants, and sunbathed at the hotel pool.

  Most of our pilots and maintainers had no previous combat experience. That included both colonels and both squadron commanders at Gioia del Colle, who received their baptism of fire over Kosovo. I will never forget Dirt Fluhr’s radio call on 7 April: “Hey, they’re shooting at us!” as we checked out a convoy of civilian and military vehicles northwest of Prizren. Our reaction that day was similar to many battlefield responses recorded in history—a warrior’s training takes over, and he acts aggressively and dispassionately to eliminate the threat immediately.

  Many of our first combat experiences included shouldering the mission’s heavy responsibility and acquiring the “I’d better not blow this!” syndrome. Maintainers understood and internalized the importance of preparing the aircraft, building up and loading the weapons, installing and setting the self-protection countermeasures pod, and loading and setting the chaff and flares—all of these systems had to work. Pilots experienced similar character-building pressures when they led young wingmen in combat, squeezed the trigger near a civilian village, and decided what got shot and what didn’t in a highly politicized conflict.