by Dale Brown
“The 182 is a good aircraft for the mission, Uncle Jon: good-weather, short-range, short-endurance, low-altitude, low-speed search-and-rescue, flown by civilian volunteers,” Brad said. “We have other planes that fly other missions. The Civil Air Patrol is the largest single operator of 182s in the world, with a fleet of more than five hundred.”
“A fleet of dinosaurs, if you ask me,” Jon said. “The plane is almost thirty years old!”
“They’re introducing newer planes into the fleet as the older ones reach a certain airframe time limit,” Brad said. “We were slated to get a glass-cockpit turbo 182 this year. That was canceled because of the economy and all the cutbacks. Maybe we’ll get it when the recession is over.”
“Or maybe get something better,” Jon mused.
“There’s nothing better than a trusty 182—maybe a turbo 182 with a glass cockpit,” Brad said. He unlocked the pilot’s-side door, then opened the passenger-side door from inside. “We still use the original instruments.”
“Holy cats—I’ll say you do!” Jon exclaimed, his eyes wide in wonder as he scanned the faded Royalite plastic instrument panel. “I can’t remember the last time I saw round steam gauges!” He pointed at the GPS device. “Jeez, that GPS manufacturer hasn’t been in business in fifteen years! And . . . and is that an FM simplex radio?”
“The radio operates both in simplex and repeater functions,” Brad explained. “CAP operates about five hundred repeater stations around the country to provide communications over a wide area, hostile terrain, or when conventional communications like telephone and the Internet are knocked out.”
“Wow—I didn’t realize you guys did what you do with such . . . outdated stuff,” Jon exclaimed. “I guess your major tool is the old Mark One eyeball, eh?”
“We have a Gippsland GA-8 with the ARCHER hyperspectral sensor—that’s probably the most high-tech plane in the fleet,” Brad said. “Back in the Vegas squadron they were able to send digital photos from the planes via satellite, but we don’t do that here.”
“It would be easy enough to do,” Jon mused again. Brad could always tell when his uncle’s mind began working a problem, same as his dad: they got this faraway look, as if they were looking through the earth back onto their lab bench or computer, already experimenting and planning. “The transceiver weighs less than a sack lunch. You could even do two-way voice, data, and text.”
“That would be cool,” Ralph said.
“Look at that—vacuum-powered gyroscopic gauges . . . a wet compass . . . carburetor heat . . . my God, an L-Tronics Model LA direction finder,” Jon muttered in disbelief. “Those were built in Santa Barbara, California, by hand practically by one guy, years ago. He was my hero. The guy literally transformed the nation with his gadgets.”
“Most of the time the stuff works pretty well,” Brad said. “And the plane flies great.”
“You’ve flown it?”
“You bet I did,” Brad said. “Ralph too. Every CAP cadet gets five powered and five glider orientation rides. It’s part of CAP’s aerospace education program. We’re not allowed to do takeoffs and landings in CAP airplanes, but I’ve done steep turns, stalls, and slow flight.”
“I didn’t realize the Civil Air Patrol did all that stuff with these planes,” Jon said. “Actually, I never thought about it. So when do you get to pilot one of these hot rods, Brad?”
“Not for a while,” Brad said. “I’ll train to be a mission scanner, get two supervised flights, then train to be a mission observer. Meanwhile, I have to get my private pilot’s license and get a hundred and fifty hours of pilot-in-command time. Then I can train to take a CAP Form 5 check ride, which is like an annual flight review. Once I pass that, I get two supervised flights in the left seat with a crew, followed by a CAP Form 91 evaluation.”
“Sheesh, it sounds worse than the Air Force,” Jon remarked. “They really make you jump through some hoops, don’t they?”
“I’ll be flying two other crewmembers in an Air Force airplane on an Air Force–assigned mission—they want us up to speed,” Brad said. “I don’t think it’s jumping through hoops at all.”
“You sound just like your dad—who, speak of the devil, here he is now.” Jon shook hands with Patrick as he walked up to the Cessna. “Brad was showing me his high-tech piece of machinery here. Are you sure flying one of these isn’t taxing your aging flying skills too much?”
“Jon, even you could pilot one of these,” Patrick said with a smile. “How are you, Ralph?”
“Fine, sir. Brad was helping me with some reading.”
“Good for you, Brad. How’s Jeremy doing?”
“Released from the hospital to his grandparents in Sparks, sir,” Ralph said. Patrick knew the boy would know the details. “He’s doing fine and has asked about joining the CAP.”
“I think he’d be a great cadet,” Patrick said. “So. Are you guys done?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I have a birthday surprise for my son, thanks to Uncle Jon here,” Patrick said. “Unfortunately your first scanner flight was canceled, but I have something else I think you’ll enjoy. Climb on out of that flight suit.” Eyes dancing in anticipation, Brad locked up the Cessna, put the keys away, then returned in a flash in civilian clothes.
“Drive us over to the hangar,” Patrick said, tossing him the keys to the Wrangler. Brad happily drove to the other side of the base, where the civilian aircraft were parked, the smile not leaving his face.
“Are we going flying, Dad?” Brad asked excitedly after parking beside Patrick’s hangar.
“We are,” Patrick said. “Dr. Masters owns the airspace around the base for his special project today, and he’s not using it for the next two hours, so he got us permission to use it. It won’t be a cross-country—we have to stay within thirty miles of the base—but you’ll be able to get some air work and some landings in.”
“Great!” Brad shouted. His smile dimmed a bit. “But . . . I can’t afford to fly the 210, even half. I’d be just as happy flying the 172.” Brad had been training for his pilot’s license in a rented Cessna 172 Skyhawk, saving money and doing odd jobs around town and the base to pay for fuel and flying time; Patrick was his flight instructor.
“That’s the second surprise,” Patrick said. “Dr. Masters is paying the tab for this flight. Happy birthday.”
“All right!” Brad cried. “Thank you, Uncle Jon!” Brad had to contain his excitement and, as his father had taught him, put his pilot’s brain in gear as he proceeded to unlock the hangar and get the turbine Cessna P210 Centurion ready to fly.
Patrick had downsized his airplane from the twin-turbine-powered Aerostar to a single-engine airplane, but it was just as high-tech. Thanks to Jon Masters’s tinkering, this Cessna pressurized single-engine airplane had an advanced turboprop engine that propelled the plane at a top speed of more than three hundred miles an hour for over 1,500 nautical miles at altitudes up to twenty-five thousand feet. It was equipped with two wide-screen electronic flight displays, dual GPS navigators, a NextGen datalink for weather and traffic, side-stick controllers, single-lever engine control, and a host of other features and upgrades. Its advanced electronic ignition system allowed it to burn any kind of liquid fuel available, from automotive gasoline to the latest biofuel.
“I’m going to let you do everything,” Patrick said. “I want to see if you’ve gotten rusty. Take your time.”
“Yes, sir!” Patrick watched as Brad pulled the plane out of the hangar, drove the Jeep inside, and began a preflight.
The exterior preflight mostly consisted of draining the numerous fuel tanks and sumps to check for water or contamination, checking that the flight controls were free and clear, and checking for any signs of leaks or damage. When the walk-around was completed, Patrick climbed into the front passenger seat first, followed by Brad in the pilot’s seat, and he closed and dogged the entry door tight. The interior preflight was even easier: the computers mostly did everything, under
Brad’s watchful eye. Engine start was stone-cold simple: turn on the battery switch, command the engine start on the touch-screen electronic controls, watch the engine displays, and watch for any hot-start anomalies that weren’t caught by the computer. Within minutes they were airborne.
“Three of the most dangerous stalls you can do,” Patrick said once they were at their operating altitude, “is an approach-to-landing stall, a departure stall, and a traffic-pattern or accelerated stall, so that’s what we’re going to practice first. Run through those for me.”
“Roger,” Brad said. “Clearing turn, coming left.” He performed a clearing turn left and right to check that the airspace around them was clear of other traffic, then said, “The approach-to-landing stall simulates stalling with the plane in landing configuration. Flaps ten, then the gear.” He lowered the first notch of flaps, then the landing gear. “As the airspeed decreases I’ll pitch up to landing attitude. Flaps twenty . . . flaps thirty. Power back, nose stays up . . .” A few moments later, the stall-warning horn sounded and they felt the first rumbles of disturbed air over the wings, the sign of an impending stall.
“Recover,” Patrick said just as it felt as if the plane was going to nose over. Brad released the back pressure on the side-stick controller and fed in full power. When the plane reached takeoff speed, he raised the landing gear and the first notch of flaps and waited until he had a positive rate of climb.
“Good job—minimal loss of altitude, nose straight, positive rate of climb,” Patrick said after Brad had completely recovered from the stall and reconfigured the plane. “Next: departure stall.”
Like the first, Brad verbalized his procedures, then executed them. The departure stall was done in the takeoff configuration with full power, simulating a stall right after takeoff; the third was a stall while turning in the traffic pattern.
“Very good,” Patrick said after the last one was finished. “Remember, keep those controls centered and use rudder to keep the nose straight as you approach the stall—a stall with one wing down is a spin, and the P210 is not a spin-friendly plane at all.”
“Got it, Dad.”
“Good. Let’s do some landings. This plane has prop beta and reversers, but let’s not use any of that—just watch your airspeed. Normal configuration, then half flaps, then no flaps. Watch your descent rates with each flap setting. After that, we’ll go over to the other runway and do a crosswind landing.”
Brad’s landings were very good with the winds right down the runway, but when they switched runways, it was slightly different story. Brad had never been a big fan of crosswind landings. The Cessna P210 Centurion had thin tubular main landing gear and small tires, which necessitated a crabbed approach to an airport in crosswinds instead of a wing-low approach. A crabbed approach meant angling into the crosswind until just before touchdown, and then “kicking out the rudder”—quickly transitioning to a wing-low approach and using the rudder to keep the wheels aligned with the runway centerline to avoid excessive side loads on the landing gear, all done just moments before touchdown.
Brad had trouble gauging when the crab should end, and on touchdown it felt as if they’d shoot off the side of the runway. Patrick’s hands were ready to grab the throttle and controller, but Brad kept the plane on the runway. “Good recovery,” Patrick said as they taxied off the runway. “Use more nose-up trim to help you keep that landing attitude, and be aggressive with your rudder inputs. Let’s taxi back and do a crosswind takeoff, then another crosswind landing, and that’ll be enough of a workout for you. Verbalize everything you do.”
When they were cleared for takeoff, Brad said, “Okay, crosswind takeoff. I’ve got lots of power and runway, so I’m not going to use flaps.”
“The plane will be on the ground at a higher speed, which is usually bad for landing gear and tires,” Patrick said. “Tell me why you’re not using flaps.”
“Because with flaps the plane will have a tendency to weathervane into the wind, which makes it tougher to straighten out with the rudder,” Brad said. “The extra speed will make controlling it easier too.”
“Exactly,” Patrick said. “Now the crosswind is not that strong, so if you wanted to you could use ten degrees flaps, but you are correct that we have plenty of runway and power. Continue.”
“Because the winds are coming from the left, I’m going to start the takeoff on the right side of the runway and aim for the opposite corner, so I have less of a crosswind component,” Brad went on. “Emergency stuff briefed as before: engine failure before takeoff is power to idle and braking as necessary to stay on pavement; engine failure after takeoff but below five hundred feet is best glide speed of eighty knots, flaps full, land straight ahead with minimal turns to avoid obstacles; engine failure above five hundred feet is best glide speed, attempt to return to the runway, gear and flaps when the runway is made.”
“Good,” Patrick said. “Remember to put in full aileron into the wind until your rudder is effective.” Brad made the takeoff, being careful to put in firm aileron and then rudder inputs to maintain runway alignment. “Good takeoff,” Patrick said after they made the turn onto the crosswind leg. “Let’s see how you do on this landing. Keep positive authority on those rudder pedals.”
Patrick could feel that Brad was indeed being more aggressive on the pitch trim and rudder pedals as he lined up with the runway, established his crab angle, lowered the flaps and landing gear, and approached the runway. Normally Patrick’s hands would be ready to take the controls as soon as he felt something amiss, but Brad was reacting well to every change in the winds or every altitude correction. When it was time to flare and kick out the rudder, it was almost a nonevent—Brad pressed in plenty of right rudder to align the plane with the runway centerline, dipped the left wing into the wind to correct for the crosswind, and eased the controller just enough to let the nose come carefully up. As soon as the stall-warning horn bleeped, the main landing-gear wheels kissed the runway in a satisfying SQUEAK SQUEAK of rubber hitting the runway. He put in a tiny bit of power so he had enough airspeed to fly the nose gear onto the runway instead of letting it drop because of a lack of airspeed.
“Excellent job,” Patrick said after they taxied clear of the runway. “You definitely felt like you were in charge of your plane, anticipating rather than reacting. How did that feel?”
“It felt great, Dad,” Brad said. “I think I’m getting used to crosswind landings. They always got me so nervous.”
“It’s the same with just about every pilot in the world,” Patrick said. “No one likes crosswind takeoffs or landings, and a lot of takeoff and landing accidents happen when crosswinds are involved. It just takes practice. Had enough for today?”
“Heck no,” Brad said. “I wish we could go somewhere, but I’m ready to go flying, even if it’s just around the airport. Let’s do some more.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve got stuff to do, and they’re restricting everyone unless they’re on an IFR flight plan,” Patrick said. “Let’s head back to the barn.” Brad’s face registered a hint of disappointment, but he steered the Centurion back to its hangar without complaint. When they arrived, they noticed Jon Masters, Rob Spara, David Bellville, John de Carteret, Ralph Markham, and Michael Fitzgerald standing in front of the hangar.
“What’s going on?” Brad asked. “Did we get another alert?”
“I have no idea,” Patrick said. “Park it out front and let’s find out.” Brad parked the Centurion in front of the hangar, accomplished the shutdown checklist, and stepped outside, with his father following closely behind.
“So, how did he do?” Jon asked.
“He needed a do-over on the crosswind landing,” Patrick said, “but he did good the second time around, and otherwise he’s good to go.”
“I had no doubts,” Jon said. “If you’re good, I’m good.”
“Thank you, Jon,” Patrick said. He turned to his son. “Hop back in, big guy. Three landings with a full stop in between, then brin
g it in.”
Nye County Administrative Offices and Sheriffs South Area Substation, Pahrump, Nevada
That same time
The express delivery truck turned left onto Kittyhawk Drive and was met by a crew with a tractor, which was lifting three-foot-high concrete jersey walls into place on the side of the street. The truck driver had to stop to let the tractor pass. He slid his door open and asked a nearby worker, “What’s going on?”
“The county is closing off Kittyhawk and Vaqueros Streets and the parking lot in front of the administration building,” the worker replied. “Added security, I guess, although it’s not going to protect anybody from another damned plane.”
“Well, who’d want to attack the county building in Pahrump?” the delivery driver asked. The worker just shrugged. “So where do I make the deliveries?”
“You can go ahead for now around to the loading dock—we haven’t closed the streets off yet,” the worker said. “But after this they’ll be setting up the vacant lot across the street for parking. I don’t know about deliveries—they’ll probably be inspected before being allowed in.”
“The times we live in, I guess,” the driver said. As soon as the street was clear, he proceeded on. He took a right onto Vaqueros Street, then another right toward the parking area marked DELIVERIES. He let a security guard see his delivery manifest, then let him peek inside the truck. “All these here in the back,” the driver said, pointing to several large boxes and one wood-framed crate. “Copiers, paper, and office furniture.”
“I thought there was a recession going on,” the security guard grumbled. “Who has the money for all this stuff? The security staff gets cut by half, but some suit gets all-new office stuff?” The guard initialed the manifest. “After today, you guys will have to park across the front parking lot in the vacant lot for inspection.”
“I heard. I’ll pass the word.” The guard handed the driver his manifest, and the driver drove to an empty bay at the loading dock. He took his electronic clipboard inside to the receiving office. Just as he reached the receiving clerk’s window they heard an electronic siren followed by the words, “A FIRE ALARM HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. PLEASE EXIT THE BUILDING THROUGH THE MAIN ENTRANCE IMMEDIATELY,” followed by the same message in Spanish.