Spirit Flight

by P. R. Fittante

  Dale Walker’s slow drawl broke the silence on the radio.

  “Bomber Control, Bone Zero One’s got a problem.”

  Frank detected a slight edge to the transmission. He waited for the control room to respond.

  “Go ahead for Control, Bone One.”

  “Looks like we took some birds on the low level. All the engines are showin’ normal right now, but we’re gonna get a chase to look us over.”

  Frank checked his fuel state—enough to stay airborne for at least another thirty minutes. He didn’t hesitate.

  “Bone Zero One, Zoom Two One’s available to chase. Say your position.”

  “Howdy Frank, I was hoping you’d be up freq. We’re just north of the field at fifteen thousand.”

  “Roger, I’m about eighty northeast of you.” He quickly adjusted the air-to-air radar tilt and locked up the big bomber. “I’m radar contact, be there in a few.”

  A bird strike didn’t surprise Frank. The B-1 had been performing low level weapon releases in the Edwards range just south of the main runway. The bombing pattern took the B-1 right over Rosamond Dry Lake. Unfortunately, with all the recent spring rains, the lake was no longer dry. The flattest surface on the face of the earth was uniformly covered with an inch of water. This brought out the birds. They liked to feed on the prehistoric shrimp that often lay dormant for years under the hard baked clay, waiting for a good rainy season to bring them back to life.

  “Bone Zero One, I’m visual. Request permission to join up.”

  “You’re cleared. I think we took the worst of it on the right side.”

  Frank pulled up along side the B-1 and began to scan for damage. A flock of birds could wreak havoc on an aircraft, especially one traveling at over 550 knots as the B-1 likely was at the time of the strike. The bomber’s wings were still swept full aft for high-speed flight. Dale knew better than to sweep the wings back forward for landing before getting a visual inspection for damage. Frank saw a great deal of damage.

  “Bone One, you’ve got numerous strikes along the leading edge of the right wing. There is obvious damage to the slats and you appear to have fuel leaking from the underside of the wing. Let me check the left side.”

  “Only if you promise to give me some good news.”

  Frank dropped directly underneath the bomber, looked through the top of his canopy to check its belly, then slid outside the left wing.

  “Left side looks good,” he said, maneuvering back to the right side. “Just one strike near the wing root.”

  “Roger Zoom Two One. We’re gonna bring the wings forward and slow to final approach speed to do a controllability check. We won’t be lowering the slats or flaps.”

  A controllability check was standard procedure after an aircraft suffers damage to its control surfaces. Dale wanted to make sure the jet was controllable at landing speeds while he was still at a safe altitude.

  “Wings coming forward . . . now.”

  Frank watched the right wing for movement. There was none.

  “Hold!” Frank pushed over and banked right as he got a face full of bomber. He yanked the throttle to idle and dropped behind the B-1, which had now leveled out from its abrupt right turn.

  “Bone One, confirm your wing sweep setting.”

  “We selected ‘Hold’ when you called it, but we’re indicating forty degrees now. What do you see?”

  Frank descended until he could see the whole bomber through the top of his canopy. With the right wing stuck full aft and the left wing over twenty-five degrees forward of it, the B-1 was an unnatural sight. Why didn’t Dale bring the wings forward in small increments?

  “You’ve got an asymmetry. Your right wing never moved. I assume your cockpit indicator is off the left wing position.”

  “That checks. I guess we’ll try to sweep the left wing back to match the right side. The jets controllable right now, but it’s taking a fair amount of left stick to keep it level.”

  “Roger, I’m back in position off your left wing.”

  After several seconds Dale came back on the radio. “Well Frank, I’ve got the handle full aft and we’re not showing any change here. Looks like we’ll be landing with some cockeyed wings.”

  “Bone One, this is Bomber Control.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Sir, we’ve got some engineering expertise gathering around the ops desk and we’ve got a crew at Dyess jumping in the simulator to trouble shoot your problem.”

  “We appreciate the effort Control, but we’ve got barely enough fuel to keep our center of gravity on target. We’ve got to get this jet on the ground while I can still control it.”

  Though he had never flown the B-1, Frank appreciated the aerodynamic realities that Dale faced. He was going to have to land in an untested configuration at a minimum airspeed that would keep him above stall warning but still allow enough roll authority to keep the wings level through touchdown. The B-1 used fuel to keep the aircraft’s center of gravity balanced in flight. Fuel was needed in the forward tank to keep the jet from pitching up out of control. Also, since the forward swept left wing was producing more lift than the right wing, fuel was needed in the left wing to help keep the jet from rolling uncontrollably to the right. At the slower speeds desired for landing, these problems would only become more pronounced. He waited for Dale to announce his next move.

  “Zoom Two One, standby for gear.”

  Frank watched as the main landing gear and the nose gear safely extended into position.

  “You’ve got three down and locked Bone One.”

  “Roger, we’re starting our decel for the controllability check.”

  Frank monitored his airspeed as the bomber began to slow. He watched the B-1’s control surfaces, particularly the wing spoilers and the horizontal tail, for any indication that they were reaching the limits of their travel. He tried to anticipate the crew’s actions and any problems they might encounter. Frank’s own fuel state was becoming critical, but he wanted to stay with the B-1 crew until they were safely on the ground.

  Passing 230 knots, he could see the bomber beginning to buffet. Abruptly, the right wing dropped. The spoilers on the left wing went to full deflection. Frank tensed, focusing on the bomber’s nose and its horizontal tail. He knew if the B-1 tried to depart it would pitch up first.

  “Bone One, Recover!”

  He watched the horizontal tail slam full trailing edge down. The big bomber pitched over and then slowly leveled out, accelerating to 280 knots.

  “Well Frank, I think I found the min controllable airspeed. Unfortunately, we didn’t get any stall warning. The pitot-static system must be screwed up.”

  “I had you at two thirty when the wing dropped.”

  “That’s what I saw. The jet flew good at two forty, but I think I’ll add a few knots for the wife and kids.”

  Frank flew along side as Dale declared the emergency and set up for a landing on the main runway. The B-1 would be landing almost 100 knots faster than it normally did. Even the space shuttle touches down at only 230 knots. He would need all 15,000 feet of the main runway to get the jet stopped—if he could get it stopped.

  “Bone One’s east lakeshore for the full stop.”

  They started over Roger’s lakebed, still five miles out from the main runway. The surface below was mostly mud, with patches of standing water that made it unusable for an emergency landing. Frank caught the reflection of the two aircraft in one of the glass smooth puddles. Tucked in beside the damaged right wing, his tiny fighter was dwarfed by the contorted bomber. It seemed remarkable that Dale could still control the B-1. But Frank knew Dale to be an excellent stick and rudder man.

  Up ahead, Frank spotted the flashing lights of the fire trucks as they scrambled to get into position around the runway. He cracked his power to stay with the bomber, and checked his airspeed. It showed 250 knots. Anything slower and he would immediately alert Dale.

  The B-1’s spoilers and horizontal tail were in constant mo
tion as Dale fought to keep his jet on the desired glide path. They were two miles out. Frank noticed he had to keep using left rudder in his own jet to stay close to the B-1. He quickly cross-checked their alignment with the runway. They were not pointing at it. Instead, the B-1’s nose was aiming a good ten degrees to the left. Frank quickly keyed the radio.

  “Bone One, do you have use of your rudders?”

  After a pause Dale answered, his voice tight. “I’ve got the stick way left keepin’ her level. But every time I try to kick more rudder, I get a real strong buffet.”

  Too much drag. Frank knew Dale would either have to speed up or land it in crab. They were less than a mile from touchdown. Dale quickly made his decision.

  “I’m landin’ it like this, Frank.”

  The stress on the landing gear would be enormous, but Frank understood there was little choice. If Dale tried to go any faster, he would likely blow all of his tires upon touchdown and the jet could veer out of control.

  Frank stayed with the B-1 as it settled toward the runway. He leveled his fighter at fifty feet and waited for the touchdown. Two huge clouds of gray smoke marked the impact. The bomber immediately lurched hard to the right as Dale struggled to keep it headed straight down the runway. It showed no sign of slowing down. Frank was still at 200 knots, right beside the B-1 as it hurtled past the runway mid point.

  At last, Frank began to move ahead of the B-1. He reached the end of the runway and pulled up to set up his own landing. A low fuel warning sounded in his helmet.

  He leveled off at altitude and watched the B-1 roll to a stop in the overrun. He flew over the top of it and checked for any signs of fire. A huge cloud of smoke billowed from the landing gear, but the fire crews were already spraying them with foam. Frank was relieved to see the four crewmembers scramble out from underneath the front of the jet.

  He received clearance from tower to land and thankfully touched down with just minutes of fuel remaining. For the moment, he was satisfied. They had kept their focus and done a good job. As he taxied clear, he saw Dale waving to him from one of the fire trucks.

  “Appreciate the help, good buddy,” Dale called using the fire truck radio.

  “I’ll be waiting for you at South Base,” Frank said matter-of-factly. “It’s time to prep for the next one.”

  Chapter 3

  Frank headed for the conference room where the Mission Readiness Review, or MRR, was scheduled to take place. The MRR was the last chance for all the key players involved with a test mission to get together, review the flight profile and decide whether it was prudent to proceed. As he rounded a corner, Frank saw Byron Schmidt, one of those key players, waiting outside of the room.

  Byron Schmidt was the Program Manager for B-2 testing. A government engineer, he had risen through the GS ranks to oversee the highest visibility test program this side of the F-22. He was a top-notch engineer and administrator, responsible to the Air Force, the Pentagon, and ultimately the U.S. Congress for the funding, provisioning, planning and successful execution of a multi-billion dollar program; and he had the personality of a mushroom.

  Frank braced himself for “Byron Speak.” Part of the purpose of the Test Pilot School was for engineers and pilots to learn each other’s language so they could successfully communicate with each other in the realm of flight test. Unfortunately, the School never envisioned Byron Schmidt. Talking to Byron was like talking to a fish, albeit a very intelligent one. His eyes didn’t reflect any emotion that could be tied to what he was saying. If you asked him a question, there was a noticeable pause before he replied as his eyes studied you with cold, unblinking calculation. It was as if the internal CPU was searching its database for the best response. The man wasn’t one for small talk.

  “There’s an issue we need to discuss.”

  “How are you Byron?” Frank asked cheerfully, not expecting a response.

  “I just learned the Test Conductor is adding some of the flight control test points we couldn’t do today to tomorrow’s mission. My concern is that you are scheduled to fly with Dale Walker, and he has never done flight controls testing before.”

  “Don’t worry, Byron. I’ll fly the points and it will be good experience for Dale to see how we do it.” Frank started to turn away.

  “I think it would be better if we had an American Aero pilot on the sortie with you.”

  Frank had heard enough. “Byron, it’s time for the MRR and it’s too late to make a crew change. Dale is well qualified to fly this mission.” He headed into the conference room, not waiting for Byron to calculate a response.

  Inside, arrayed about the conference table were over forty contractors, government engineers, Air Force supervisors, maintenance troops and various other specialists. Together, they formed what was known at Edwards as the CTF, or Combined Test Force. Each of them had a role to play in the successful execution of a B-2 test mission.

  As Frank entered the room, all heads turned to greet him. He was conscious of the attention, but had grown accustomed to it. For better or worse, the test pilot was the star of the show. He was at the pinnacle of the people who made things happen. Others may plan the programs, budget the money and schedule the resources, but it was the engineers, maintainers and ultimately the test fliers who did what it took to make things work.

  Seated on the left side of the conference table was the American Aero contingent. The American Aerospace Company was the end result of numerous mega-mergers over the past few years. Several family names, storied through a century of aviation, had been assimilated by this behemoth, including the original creators of the B-2. In a dwindling defense market, American Aero was fighting to become the world’s preeminent defense contractor. The B-2 was the symbol of their company’s technological prowess.

  Frank took a seat on the right side of the table next to Dale.

  “Nice landing,” Frank said. “Ready to plan another mission?”

  “Yeah, I cleaned out my britches after the last one, so I’m good to go.”

  Frank leaned over and whispered, “Don’t be surprised if Byron says something about you flying on this one.”

  “And he can press his lips to my soiled behind.”

  Lieutenant Melissa Fairfield stepped up to the front of the room and turned on the computer projector. The young engineer was fresh out of MIT and had been with the test team for less than a year. However, she had already established herself as a strong-willed young woman who knew the systems of the B-2 inside and out. She was the Test Conductor for this mission, responsible for planning the test points to be flown and working with the pilots to execute them.

  She brought up the slide show on her laptop computer and turned to brief the first slide that was projected on the wall.

  “Good afternoon. Tomorrow’s B-2 mission will primarily consist of weather testing of the low level terrain following system. This is a final required test before the B-2 can be cleared for full up operational use. Additionally, we will finish up the flight control test points that we could not accomplish today. The crew for tomorrow will be Major Farago and Major Walker . . .”

  “Excuse me Lieutenant,” began Byron in his measured monotone. “I do not believe we have a crew that is qualified to execute this flight controls testing. A Test Pilot School graduate is required for any elevated risk flight controls testing. If it is too late for a crew change, then I would suggest we postpone these test points until a later date.”

  Frank saw Dale begin to tense. He intervened before Dale or anyone else could speak. “Byron is correct. A TPS grad is required for this testing, but only one. I fulfill that requirement.”

  Byron paused, and then focused directly on Frank. “Where is it written that only one test pilot is required?”

  “It’s squadron policy, spelled out in a directive concerning B-2 flight test.”

  “I will need a confirmation and clarification of that policy from the individual who authored it.”

  “You’ve got it. I’m the one w
ho wrote it.”

  Byron appeared oblivious to the murmur of laughter around the room. Frank had not wanted to embarrass the Program Manager, but he needed to understand the limits of his authority. He was not going to be allowed to interfere with flight operations. He may control the purse strings but he didn’t control the fliers.

  “I will yield to Major Farago,” Byron said. “With the understanding that he is to fly all of the flight controls points. We need to closely observe all aircraft limitations during this testing. I don’t want any impediments to completing this test program.”

  Lieutenant Fairfield looked around the room to see if anyone else had something to add. She smiled at Frank and Dale and then continued. “If there are no other impediments to this briefing, we’ll proceed with the test card review.”

  Chapter 4

  “Thanks for fightin’ for me in there old buddy.”

  Frank turned to see Dale coming up behind him. “Don’t pay any attention to Byron. He’s just getting a little conservative as his program comes to an end.”

  “That boy’s tight as a tick. Shoot, he’s wound so tight I was tempted to shove some coal down his throat. Get me a diamond in no time.”

  Frank laughed. Dale came across as a good old Southern boy, but he was one tough nut. Small and wiry, he had grown up pulling tobacco on his grandfather’s farm in North Carolina. Dale had been a year behind Frank at Carolina and they had met during Frank’s junior year as members of the wrestling team. Dale had been a walk-on, a real scrapper who impressed everyone with his determination. He remained an overachiever. Unlike Frank, who had gone through the test school and become a DT guy or developmental tester, Dale was an OT guy, an operational tester. He belonged to the Air Combat Command, but was assigned to Edwards to pick up where the DT guys left off, ensuring a new jet was ready to handle a combat environment. It wasn’t glamorous, but then again, neither was Dale.