South with the Sun

by Lynne Cox

  All of this data was conveyed to Lieutenant Colonel Rick McKeown, pilot; Major Cliff Souza, pilot; Major Joseph DeConno, navigator; Senior Master Sergeant Mark Olena, flight engineer; Master Sergeant Glen Preece, loadmaster; and Master Sergeant Francis “Snow Dog” Czwakiel, loadmaster. They were the experienced aircrew selected to fly this season’s put-in mission to Antarctica’s Gamburtsev Province project—AGAP.

  Clockwise from top right: Colonel Anthony German, Lieutenant Colonel Rick McKeown, Major Cliff Souza, Major Joseph DeConno, Senior Master Sergeant Mark Olena, Master Sergeant Glen Preece, and Master Sergeant Francis “Snow Dog” Czwakiel. This aircrew flew the AGAP mission (except Anthony German, who was the wing commander).

  The day before their flight, on November 19, 2008, the aircrew met, studied, and discussed all the research, including information about weather patterns and a satellite image that showed where the crew could land the aircraft.

  They discussed the flight plan in great detail. They built in flexibility and contingencies based on their specific procedures.

  McKeown, Souza, DeConno, Olena, Preece, and Czwakiel were confident that they could fly this mission. They knew one another very well, and they had flown together for years. They knew they held one another’s lives in their hands: if the pilots made a mistake in flying the aircraft, if the navigator didn’t know where they were at all times, if the flight engineer didn’t completely check out the aircraft before they took off and monitor and control the systems in flight, and if the loadmasters hadn’t balanced the load, the aircraft could crash. They understood the responsibility they had to one another, and with sixty years of combined flying experience, they had great confidence in one another. On this mission to AGAP, they would have to draw upon every bit of that experience to make it safely home.

  Four hours before the flight on November 20, 2008, the loadmasters, Preece and Snow Dog Czwakiel, two tall, strong, and totally focused airmen, loaded the cargo in the back of the aircraft. Preece had studied the cargo a few days before to make sure that it would slide out of the aircraft quickly and in the right sequence. Everything was about efficiency. Every extra minute the aircraft was moving along the ground, it was burning precious fuel, fuel that they needed to fly back to McMurdo.

  Olena, the compact “ninja turtle” and even-tempered flight engineer, entered the cockpit and went through his checklists, making sure that all the aircraft’s systems were functioning correctly. He also inspected the aircraft for fuel or oil leaks.

  Preece and Czwakiel calculated the weight and balance of the aircraft to make sure it was balanced and that they could take off. The weight of the aircraft was very important, but the balance of the cargo versus fuel was even more so. These calculations developed on takeoff and stabilized the aircraft aloft over the course of the long mission. The closest camp to AGAP where they could refuel was not around the corner; it was 330 miles away at the South Pole.

  If they ran out of fuel at AGAP, they would be breaking out their survival gear: sleeping bags, long underwear, parkas, boots, and Meals Ready to Eat (MREs)—food packets containing meals over fifteen hundred calories each that would give them energy to help keep them warm. They would be building snow structures, which they had learned how to make during survival school in Greenland and in Alaska. These techniques were like the ones Amundsen had learned from the Inuit to stay warm.

  The flight operations crew at McMurdo began the preflight check on the aircraft. Souza and McKeown, Olena, and DeConno were in the cockpit going over their preflight tasks and talking with one another. The crew communication in the LC-130 was different than any other air force aircraft. In the LC-130 the crew spoke and responded to one another like they were in a concert. They knew exactly when to speak, what to say, the flow of what they were doing. The navigator knew when to tell the pilots about course correction, drift, and speed. The flight engineer knew the moment to relay systems information. The pilots knew when to convey information and request support. They instantly recognized one another by their voices, and knew and understood every nuance. It was beautiful to listen to—this chorus in flight.

  McKeown and Souza, the pilots, had been scheduled for the lightest LC-130 aircraft for the mission. This was very important, and they were pleased. They knew that if they got the lightest aircraft, they would be able to take an extra fifteen hundred pounds of fuel. And if they decided not to take the extra fuel, then they would be fifteen hundred pounds lighter, which could make the difference between getting stuck in the snow or not. The goal was to increase the potential of mission success.

  The crew attached eight JATO rockets to the aircraft, four on each side. Normally the LC-130 didn’t carry the rockets; they were put on for special missions, such as the one to AGAP; at a high-altitude camp, the rockets could be necessary for the aircraft to get off the ground. As a precaution the igniter wouldn’t be put into the rockets until they were needed at AGAP. But the crew hoped they wouldn’t need them, because if they had to put the igniters in the rockets, they would have to stop and shut the engines down in the open snow; if they had to do that, the built-up friction heat on the skis would melt the snow beneath them. When it froze again on the skis, they could be stuck in the snow—in the way Shinn was on his first landing at the South Pole—and have to dig out, and digging out at high altitude was very tough.

  In the cockpit, Souza and McKeown, Olena, and DeConno were ready for takeoff. That morning’s weather forecast was fair. And it was beautiful. The winds were calm, and the sky was clear blue, a radiant Antarctic sky.

  The aircrew took off out of McMurdo, from Williams Field, and flew over Black Island and Minna Bluff, then above the Transantarctic Mountains over sheer white spires of rock, ice, and snow with peaks reaching over 14,800 feet. They sailed over the shimmering Beardmore Glacier, the treacherous glacier that Shackleton and Scott had trudged across on their illfated attempts to reach the South Pole.

  Souza, McKeown, DeConno, Olena, Preece, and Snow Dog Czwakiel were going beyond the South Pole, beyond the ends of the earth, 790 nautical miles from McMurdo Station, and 330 miles from the South Pole, into the remote eastern interior of Antarctica, into a world far beyond Amundsen’s imagination.

  The aircrew was heading for the mysterious Gamburtsev Mountains, an invisible and jagged mountain chain the size of the Alps, buried deep beneath a two-mile-thick mantle of dense glacial ice and the pure white snow. In 1958 the mountains were discovered by Grigoriy Gamburtsev, a Soviet geologist, but due to their inaccessibility, more is known about the water on the surface of Mars than is known about the Gamburtsev Mountains. Scientists believe that they are one of the world’s great mysteries, and they are a key to understanding the history of the earth and the birthplace of the East Antarctic Ice Sheet.

  DeConno was navigating. The 109th Air Wing was one of the only C-130 units in the world where a grid navigator was still employed. DeConno was using the aviator’s sextant, connecting it to a window in the ceiling of the aircraft to take sun shots, and he was also using radar and grid navigation to monitor their course. Grid navigation was the navigation system used by the air force in latitudes below 60 degrees south and above 72 degrees north, where compasses don’t work due to the magnetic variations. DeConno’s observations, plotting points on an aeronautical chart, and calculations enabled him to know where the aircraft was and where they were headed. His observations confirmed the information the pilots were getting from GPS and INS navigational systems. The crew needed the navigator. If the GPS and INS systems went down—for instance, if the electrical wiring to the navigation systems got too cold and the systems didn’t work—without the navigator aboard, the crew would not be able to find the way home.

  As a backup DeConno used a high frequency—HF—radio and stayed in touch with air traffic control in McMurdo and Charleston, South Carolina. Some of DeConno’s communications were relayed through satellite to Charleston. He gave them the aircraft’s position, altitude, and times. The information was
for aircraft separation and search and rescue so that air traffic control center would always know where the aircrew was flying. If for some reason the aircrew didn’t report in, search and rescue would do everything they could, like relay messages from other aircraft, and work to try to get in communication with the aircrew. As a backup, the aircrew also had a satellite phone so they could call back to McMurdo Station and let them know where they were, so they wouldn’t have to send out a search and rescue crew to find them unless the crew truly needed help.

  When the aircrew reached AGAP, they flew a box pattern overhead to thoroughly inspect the landing site. DeConno was studying the radar paint, a neon green image of the landing area on his radar screen. DeConno tweaked the radar and picked up the metallized flags near the skiway.

  McKeown and Souza were also checking out the condition of the old skiway. They flew down and made a left-hand turn. The winds were very light. They made a low pass over the skiway so they could see what the flagging was like for the next crew so they would know what to expect.

  Taylo, a civilian mountaineer on board as an adviser, came along to check if the camp area had survived the previous winter extremes. He looked out the window, studying where the snowdrifts were and if they were going to have to dig to get into their shelters. He was noting the location of the fuel drums and where they needed to off-load the cargo. There were remnants of the old skiway, a camp lab, and fifty-five fuel barrels.

  McKeown and Souza visually set up the approach and kept a wide margin from the previous camp to make sure they didn’t hit any flags or run over any fuel drums that might have drifted over during the Antarctic winter with wind and shifting snow. The flags could damage the aircraft, and the fuel drums could explode. They were very careful.

  With clear skies and great visibility they landed the aircraft visually, using a long box pattern, and they touched down in deep snow. They faced the aircraft to the left of what remained of the old camp so they had a shorter taxi distance and used less fuel. They reduced the aircraft’s speed and continued moving slowly across the open snow.

  Preece and Czwakiel began unloading cargo. They were wearing full Antarctic gear and safety harnesses to ensure that if the aircraft hit a bump they wouldn’t fly off the back of the aircraft.

  Executing a combat off-load procedure, they slid the cargo out of the back of the aircraft as it skied down the runway. Preece and Czwakiel were achieving one of the most important parts of their mission, the primary reason for the flight—off-loading cargo that would be used to build, equip, and supply the research camp, enabling scientists to survive in this utterly remote area of Antarctica and conduct studies that would help them uncover the mysteries of the continent, the Earth, and the universe.

  Preece and Czwakiel were working at a pressure altitude of 13,500 feet, where the air was very thin. They had to pace themselves. When they needed to, they breathed oxygen from the aircraft system.

  They knew their abilities. They had trained in an altitude chamber and learned about altitude sickness. They were constantly checking on each other for signs of hypoxia. They looked at each other’s faces to make sure that that they didn’t have blue lips or appear disoriented. DeConno was also serving as the safety officer, keeping track of Preece and Czwakiel from the bottom of the flight deck to make sure they were okay during the cargo off-load.

  In the cockpit, everyone was scanning the ground to make sure that they didn’t run over anything. Souza and McKeown were checking out the old skiway. They noted that there wasn’t any difference between the snow conditions on the old skiway and the open snow, and the skiway flags appeared to be in good condition. They opted to make an open snow takeoff to take advantage of the headwinds and have enough space for a takeoff slide. A two-to three-knot increase in headwind could make a difference between success and failure. A typical open snow takeoff slide could stretch over four miles at this pressure altitude. They wanted to stay within a ten-mile radius and that equaled a one-hour taxi or a one-day walk in deep snow.

  They taxied between the flags across the skiway, and when they completed their checklist they started their takeoff slide. The pilots increased the throttles, but the LC-130 struggled to overcome deep undulating snow. The aircraft rose on the crests, fell into the troughs, shifted and tipped from one side to the other. McKeown and Souza were trying to keep the aircraft directed into the wind. Snow was dovetailing above the windows, reducing their visual cues, and the aircraft was ballooning and bananaing across the open snow. And with the pressure altitude of 13,500 feet, the pilots couldn’t get maximum thrust out of the aircraft engines. The air temperature was minus 58 degrees Fahrenheit, near the limit for LC-130 operations.

  Souza and McKeown kept working on different combinations of flaps and rudder to get the aircraft to accelerate, but it wasn’t responding, and because the cargo had been off-loaded, the aircraft’s center of gravity had shifted forward. This was not optimal for flight.

  The weight of the aircraft was on the nose ski at the front of the craft. The pilots had to gain enough speed to get the nose ski up as quickly as possible and hold it off the ground. But the nose ski and the two main skis in the back of the aircraft were producing drag.

  If they could just get to sixty-five knots, they could start to lift the nose ski off the ground; they could reduce the drag and accelerate. With more speed, they would get more lift off the wings because of the flap setting and the wing design; that would help take weight off the main skis so they could float the aircraft on the snow.

  The LC-130 “Skibird” was sliding over two-to three-foot snow mounds that were like frozen waves. The plane was climbing over the mounds, riding over the crests, and pounding down into the troughs, and when the aircraft bottomed out, it slammed into the snow, boomed, and jolted the aircraft. The men inside were being pounded. Their heads jarred forward and snapped back with each impact. They clenched their teeth and held on.

  The wings were starting to flex. Souza and McKeown knew they had to watch for larger snow waves. If the waves got too big, and the aircraft slid over them, the wings could start flapping and that motion could overstress them.

  The aircrew stared ahead and got a glimpse of long rolling snow waves; they cringed and held on more tightly.

  Long rolling snow waves were worse than snow mounds and if they skied over a sequence of them, the constant up-and-down movement could cause the wings to flex too much, and the aircraft could crack internally.

  Souza and McKeown diverted their course, and steered clear of the long snow waves. They pulled back hard on the yokes. It felt like they were pulling one hundred pounds and that the weight was growing heavier as their muscles fatigued. Their biceps burned; their upper bodies were engaged in one unending isometric contraction. They were straining to lift the Herc off the snow. They worked the flap settings and moved them from 70 percent to 50 percent to 100 percent. Their minds were completely focused on the problem. They were trying every technique they knew to make the Herc accelerate.

  But the aircraft wasn’t responding. They were in what was known as a stagnant acceleration. The aircraft’s speed was hovering between forty and fifty knots.

  Souza and McKeown had to find a way to increase their speed to seventy-five knots.

  Normally the loadmasters would off-load cargo or fuel to lighten weight, reduce drag, and shift the center of gravity of the aircraft from the front of the aircraft to the back. But they’d already dropped off the cargo, and off-loading fuel was not an option because they needed all of it to return to McMurdo.

  McKeown and Souza changed the flap settings to lift the skis on top of the snow, but the pressure altitude was killing their speed. The air was too thin. The aircraft propellers needed to “bite” denser air to propel the aircraft forward.

  As the pressure altitude increased, the aircraft performance decreased. The pressure altitude was what the wings and propellers were “feeling” as they moved through the air. At McMurdo Station, at sea level, the pre
ssure altitude was at about one thousand feet, and there were a lot more air molecules, much closer together, so the propellers “felt” a lot of air and performed very well. At the South Pole the pressure altitude was at about ten thousand feet on a good day, and the wings and propellers “felt” fewer air molecules so the aircraft didn’t perform very well. And at AGAP, at 13,500 feet pressure altitude, the aircraft’s performance dropped even further.

  The crew in the cockpit had to compensate for the high pressure altitude, too. They had to wear helmets and oxygen masks to be able to breathe.

  The Herc was bouncing, shaking, wobbling, and slamming against the ice cap.

  The pilots were working harder, and breathing harder. Their diaphragms, and the intercostal muscles between their ribs that helped to lift the ribs for inspiration and lower them for expiration, were overtaxed. Their lungs were working very hard to pull oxygen into their bodies and blow off carbon dioxide. When they managed to hold enough air in their lungs, they spoke in bursts. With the masks over their faces they sounded like Darth Vader.

  Sweat streamed down their faces and dripped down their sides. Their flight suits that didn’t keep them warm in the cold or cool in the heat weren’t wicking the moisture away from their bodies, either. They were drenched. They could not let down, take a few deep breaths, blow off the carbon dioxide, and flush the lactic acid out of their bodies. They could not take a moment to recover. They kept working, trying different combinations of flaps settings. The aircraft pounded harder against the snow. The crew was holding on, taking care of their responsibilities and supplying the pilots with information and helping whenever needed.

  In the backs of their minds, though, they wondered if they would ever achieve flight.

  They recalled the warm day with fresh snow at McMurdo when they were on their takeoff slide and only had two feet left before they reached the end of skiway. In the final seconds, somehow the pilots got the aircraft off the ground.