My “pulsemeter” is still pegged after this, my first landing in NASA’s only full-motion orbiter simulator, which is equipped with a realistic visual system. It is at the Johnson Space Center in Houston. Astronaut Charles “Charlie” J. Precourt is seated to my right. He leans toward me and asks with a grin, “Why are you holding the brakes?” So real is the experience that I am still depressing the pedals, a habit bred during 46 years to prevent undesirable forward movement of conventional aircraft caused by idle thrust.
Precourt is NASA’s chief astronaut. He was the flight engineer on STS-55, the pilot on -71, and the commander of STS-84 and -91. (STS stands for space transportation system.) A seemingly natural linguist, he also learned Russian for and did all of the docking with the Russian space station, Mir, during his last two missions. An avid general aviation enthusiast, Precourt also built and flies his own Rutan Long-Eze.
The author (left) and “Charlie” Precourt, NASA’s Chief Astronaut at the time.
By the time an astronaut becomes a commander, he will have made 800 to 900 landings in the simulator and at least 1,000 approaches in the shuttle training aircraft. These are a quartet of Gulfstream G-IIs that have been extensively modified to duplicate the steep, high-speed approach-to-landing profile of an arriving orbiter. According to Precourt, this kind of experience probably would enable a commander to make a dead-stick approach and landing without computerized guidance and energy management, although he would prefer not to have to put this theory to test. (Each orbiter has five independent guidance computers, a redundancy that makes it extremely unlikely that any shuttle commander will ever be challenged in this manner.)
Although events occur rapidly during the approach and landing, my impression is that the average general aviation pilot could land an orbiter (as long as he first receives a few hours of instruction, nothing goes wrong, conditions are favorable, and Precourt is in the right seat). Someone skilled at video games might be more adept. Arriving in an orbiter is mostly a matter of using a joystick to match symbols on the HUD. This, however, is a simplistic view. Flying an orbiter while wearing a bulky spacesuit and coping with the effects of increasing body weight after days of weightlessness complicates matters.
In addition to a year of vigorous and intensive training, one of the most challenging aspects of becoming an astronaut for me would be learning NASA’s acronyms, of which there are literally thousands. Two of the most amusing are WOW (weight on wheels) and WONG (weight on nose gear).
But I will not have such an opportunity, despite how this incredible experience enflamed my desire for an actual flight. Perhaps in another life.
There was nothing unusual about my approach to Nyngan Airport in Australia’s Outback. But my airplane looked so unusual that the local press came to investigate the curious craft that had slipped from the sky to visit their remote community.
What they saw evoked quizzical expressions, poorly disguised chuckles, and a deluge of questioning. There is no disputing it. The Transavia PL-12U Airtruk is a strange-looking airplane. Like an Airbus A380, it has two passenger decks. The pilot and one passenger sit on top in tandem, but the passenger faces aft. Three additional passengers share the lower deck, and they too face rearward.
The Airtruk appears ungainly, resembling a Volkswagen that has been modified to look like a Cessna Skymaster with one engine. But instead of having a single horizontal stabilizer, the empennage consists of 2 independent T-tails, each supported by its own slim boom. A pair of stub wings adds to the curiosity.
Fascinating aircraft have lured me all over the world. Variety helps to maintain my passion for flight. It took only one glance at the photograph of an Airtruk to inspire my trek to Australia. There I developed an intimacy with what might have been the world’s most unusual general aviation airplane.
Gil Forrester, Transavia’s general manager, welcomed me to Sydney. He is amicable, quiet, and polite to the point of formality, not what you would expect of a transplanted New Yorker. He was committed to the Airtruk and defended the homely-looking airplane against any insult, implied or direct.
Forrester volunteered that the Airtruk was conceived as an agricultural aircraft, which explains some of its unorthodox features. The designer, Luigi Pellarini, was concerned with function, not aesthetics.
In the agricultural configuration, the pod-shaped fuselage contains a cavernous 220-gallon hopper that carries up to a ton of agricultural material. The unique tail assemblies are 11 feet apart, allowing a loading truck to approach safely from the rear and eliminate the need for the pilot to shut down the engine. The stub wings contribute 20 percent of the lift and preclude the need for the main wings to have greater span.
Swinging the McCauley 88-inch, constant-speed propeller is a Continental IO-520-D, 300-hp engine. Although the Airtruk is not eye-pleasing, agricultural pilots rave about its performance, maneuverability, and safety features. The PL-12 also produces an efficient, 90-foot-wide swath pattern and has comparably low operating costs.
The Airtruk was remodeled and certificated as a passenger aircraft, marking what might have been the first time that an agplane went through such an evolutionary change.
Before I could fly the Airtruk, I had to obtain an Australian pilot’s license, a procedure that involved studying a manual, Australian Air Legislation, and passing a written exam. Most Australian regulations are similar to ours, but some are unique. Flight plans, for example, are required for all flights in excess of 50 miles; an alternate airport is needed for flights to certain major airports at night; en route position reports are required every 30 minutes; a smoke puff rising from the airport indicates a wind change, and so forth.
Bureaucratic procedures behind me, I drove to the Transavia plant in Seven Hills. There I met the company’s chief pilot, Roy Mitchell, who checked me out in the Airtruk.
As we approached the PL-12U, I could hardly believe my eyes. The aircraft is more provocative in person than in photographs I had seen. No question, the Airtruk is a unique breed of airplane.
Because the Airtruk has only one set of flight controls, Mitchell suggested that I sit behind him in the upper passenger deck while he flew the airplane to nearby Hoxton Park Airport where there was a runway more suitable for my first solo. The factory strip is little more than a 1,000-foot clearing surrounded by towers, cranes, and tall industrial machinery. I felt somewhat apprehensive as we taxied out. There was no way for me to get to the single-place cockpit should the pilot become incapacitated. Adding to my anxiety was the helpless feeling of being unable to see out the front window.
Before I had a chance to think about opting out, Mitchell had the Airtruk barreling along the dirt runway. After a ground run of only a few hundred feet, the nose pitched up rapidly, and I found myself staring back and down at the retreating ground at uncomfortably steep angle.
Seconds later, a large tower passed beneath and behind. Maybe this sitting backwards isn’t so bad, I mused. By the time you see a hazard, it’s gone. Also, the human anatomy can better endure the deceleration of a crash landing when sitting backward than when facing forward.
Mitchell’s dramatic takeoff and climb emphasized that the Airtruk is a STOL airplane. The wings (all four) have the same airfoil (NACA 23012) as the Helio Courier. Stall fences keep the Frise ailerons effective during stalls. At light weights, takeoff roll is only 255 feet but increases to 600 feet at maximum weight.
During cruise, I twisted in my seat and tried talking to Mitchell, but I could not overcome the din. The noise level reminded me of the B-25 Mitchell bomber. In the Airtruk, communication is via written note, even though pilot and upper-deck passenger are seated back to back.
Feeling lonely and slightly claustrophobic, I clambered down into the lower passenger deck and spent the rest of the short flight enjoying the roominess of this compartment.
I soon felt the power ease and watched with concern as the
flaps extended. When the left flap comes down, it blocks the lower cabin door, making it impossible to open. Not wishing to be a prisoner in an Airtruk, I scampered back to my lonely perch on the upper deck where there is a door through which I could evacuate.
After parking at the ramp, Mitchell motioned for me to climb into the cockpit. He squatted on the right wing and briefed me on systems, procedures, and what to expect during my first flight as pilot. This reminded me of being checked out in single-place airplanes. You must listen attentively during such instruction because your first use of the controls will be while alone.
The cockpit is laid out like a military fighter. The throttle, propeller, and mixture controls are clustered on the left sidewall. Also on the left between the seat and the sidewall are the trim wheel, flap handle, ignition switch, and fuel controls. In flight, the left hand can get a little busy, but the right hand is always free to fly.
Cockpit visibility is wonderful, like being in a control tower. Sitting above the pistons instead of behind them allows the pilot to look down and ahead at a steep angle to see potholes and other ground hazards only a few feet ahead. It also is nice not to be sandwiched behind the engine, a factor that increases crash survivability. A disadvantage is that you cannot easily relate the position of the nose to the horizon. Attitude is best maintained visually by glancing at the wings.
Mitchell advised me to hold the stick forward during takeoff to keep the nosewheel firmly on the ground. “The rudders,” he cautioned, “are out of the propwash and unusable for ground steering until you’ve gathered airspeed. If the nosewheel isn’t held down, directional control is initially marginal.”
Taxiing for takeoff, I noticed that the Airtruk porpoises slightly because of the landing gear’s relatively short wheel base. Increasing taxi speed dampens this effect.
A brisk crosswind swept across the taxiway, and I noticed it had almost no effect on ground handling. The stubby fuselage offers little keel surface to the wind. Similarly, the Airtruk exhibits almost no weathervaning tendency during a crosswind takeoff.
The preflight check and runup were conventional. I taxied onto the runway, reviewed Mitchell’s instructions, and pushed the throttle home. By the time I remembered his caution about holding down the nosewheel, the Airtruk had pushed the ground away and clawed skyward at what first appeared to be a dangerous climb angle but later proved to be a normal Airtruk climb. You do not need to rotate for liftoff; the nose rises positively and without assistance.
At altitude, I retarded the throttle and noticed something strange. Reducing power does not cause the nose to drop the way it does in other airplanes. Conversely, adding power does not cause the nose to rise. I then realized that the elevators, too, are out of the propwash. Power changes have little effect on pitch. If a pilot wants the nose to move, he must move it.
I coerced the Airtruk into a few stalls, power-on and power-off. The airplane does not stall in the conventional sense; it simply mushes along in a nose-high attitude with little tendency to buck or roll. With power off and the stick held fully aft, the Airtruk sinks about 1,000 fpm, depending on weight.
Maximum-allowable gross weight of the passenger model is 3,800 pounds. The agricultural model is approved for 290 pounds more because it has a jettison system enabling the pilot to dump a 2,000-pound payload in 3 seconds in case he cannot clear an impending obstacle. Passengers, of course, cannot be jettisoned, but would not this be a novel way to silence a loquacious, backseat pilot?
I extended the flaps fully (30 degrees) on final approach and recalled that, in addition to their normal function, they create a venturi effect between the main and stub wings, thereby increasing the lift of all wings simultaneously.
Landings are easy. After the mains touch, though, it is difficult to hold off the nosewheel.
Becoming familiar with any airplane requires a few days of leisurely flying away from the watchful eyes of an instructor. My opportunity came a few days later when Gil Forrester asked if I would fly one of their executives to Cobar, a small community 349 miles into the barren Outback of New South Wales.
Half an hour after takeoff, we were over the Great Dividing Range, a north-south spine of low-lying mountains that keeps the moist Pacific air of Australia’s east coast from reaching the arid Outback.
The Airtruk is no hot rod and cruises at only 130 mph. What it lacks in speed it makes up for in load-carrying ability. The Airtruk has an empty weight of 1,849 pounds and a useful load of 1,951 pounds. It is one of only a few aircraft that can carry a load greater than its own weight. Range without reserve is 870 miles.
I noticed another strange Airtruk quirk as I leveled off at altitude. As airspeed increases, up-elevator and nose-up trim must be applied to maintain altitude, a clue that the aircraft is mildly unstable longitudinally.
As we progressed deeper into the Outback, the Airtruk became bludgeoned by afternoon thermals. The aircraft does not do well in turbulence and requires constant pitch and roll corrections. Left to its own devices in turbulence, the PL-12 behaves like a drunk trying to pirouette on a volley ball. The Airtruk wants to pitch and roll every which way and exhibits little tendency to return to its trimmed attitude.
I was informed later that extending the flaps to the first notch—7 degrees is allowed at any airspeed—shifts the center of lift and increases stability. Also, the Airtruk has a spring-loaded trim augmenter that could have been used because of the relatively aft location of the center of gravity during my flight.
We soon passed over some of Australia’s expansive sheep ranches. The one below reportedly had so many drovers that the cook there has to ride a bicycle around the frying pan to turn all the sausages.
After sending a position report to Dubbo Radio, I was given a destination notam: “Caution. Kangaroos on the runway.”
The Airtruk droned on, and I began to appreciate where in the world I was. It explained why the full moon looks so unusual. The man in the moon is upside down when viewed from the Southern Hemisphere, as are the zodiacal constellations. My familiar compatriot of the night sky, Polaris, was hidden beyond the horizon, and the sun is in the northern sky. Adding to the confusion, winds blow the wrong way, clockwise around a low and counterclockwise around a high.
Outback navigation before GPS required dead reckoning and a pair of sharp Mark IV eyeballs. A nervous ADF occasionally added a confirming wiggle. Radio aids in the Outback were as common as oases in the Sahara.
On the ground at Cobar, I turned the hand crank on the payphone and closed my flight plan. Australian flight service stations encourage pilots to keep in touch and accept collect calls. When a pilot needs a briefing or wants to close a flight plan, he tells the telephone operator that his call has “air-move” priority. The government picks up the tab, or at least it did in those days.
I checked into a local motel and inquired about a good restaurant. I realized that I was really in the Outback when a freckle-faced teenager told me that the Shell station down the road has the best food in town.
Sydney is just another big city, but the Outback is the romanticized, story-book Australia that beckons the visitor. Cobar, like so many Outback towns, had the placid atmosphere of a small, 1950s town in the Midwestern U.S. Ice cream parlors were cooled by large overhead fans, malts were still served in stainless-steel shakers, and flypaper took me back to my youth.
The Airtruk was the only lightplane manufactured in Australia at that time, and although it lacks creature comfort and speed, this flying truck satisfied a variety of utilitarian roles. In addition to reportedly being a good crop duster, the PL-12U would serve well as a firefighter. When the aircraft carries freight, the lower deck can be filled with 80 cubic feet of outsized cargo or a pair of medical patients on 6-foot stretchers. Ample room remains for the pilot and a passenger on the upper deck. This workhorse is also rugged, designed to operate on terrain that would tear away the
landing gear from lesser aircraft.
The Airtruk has been used as a rainmaker, too. When the monsoon season in Southeast Asia once failed to produce needed rain, the King of Thailand said, as kings sometimes do, “Let there be rain.” And with the help of 9 Airtruks that deposited the proper chemicals into the humid, cloudless skies, there was rain. The king was very happy.
The Lancer is, in almost every respect, a most unusual airplane. It has 4 throttles and 4 mixture controls but only 2 engines. It seems that its designers could not decide whether to use wheel or stick controls because the Lancer has both, a joystick in the rear cockpit and a wheel up front. It looks like a Grumman amphibian. But with fixed tricycle landing gear, the notion of a water landing is outlandish. To top off the list of curious features, the Lancer has a gear-position switch complete with green “safe” and red “unsafe” lights.
That the Lancer can even get off the ground is almost miraculous. The basic design is cluttered with a proliferation of struts to brace the wings and 2 husky, 5-foot-long main landing gear legs that seem to belong on a much larger airplane. A nose wheel, 8 flying wires to support the horizontal stabilizers, 4 external landing gear braces, an ultra-large pitot tube, and an assortment of other oversized protuberances add to the drag. No wonder that the Lancer’s single-engine ceiling is below sea level!
With a maximum gross weight of only 2,450 pounds, the Lancer is one of the lightest production twins ever built in the United States. It certainly is the only one with fixed-pitch propellers and a fuselage of chrome-moly steel tubing, wood and fabric.
The Lancer was born in the early 1960s when the Champion Aircraft Company had what it considered a better idea, to manufacture a small, economical twin that could be used exclusively to train multi-engine pilots. With a price tag of only $12,500 (including a combustion cabin heater and night lights), Champion offered two engines for little more than the price of one. The idea sounded great on paper but did not sell or fly very well. The Lancer was given burial rights after only 100 had been produced.
Dream Aircraft Page 10