"How many hours do you have in a Learjet?" the twenty six year old captain asked his new co-pilot.
"Ten."
The chief pilot had his reasons for sending these young crews out on these old freighters. He wanted them to not only be able to fly with part of the instrument panel not working, but also fly with a part of the plane not working. Deferred maintenance was the standard and not an exception. He wanted his crews to get high altitude thunderstorm flying experience without working radar. He wanted them to fly through being tired and fatigued and shoot perfect approaches when all they could think about was sleep.
"Get a taxi clearance, will ya pardner?" Donnie asked his new co-pilot. Donnie was all-pilot. All-pilots would rather fly than do anything else. He was in command of this Lear for two weeks and was already a hardened veteran of freight flying.
"Donnie, we're over gross weight," the co-pilot said as he finished the weight and balance paperwork. "Those boxes are full of ball bearings."
The jet was holding short of the runway and as soon as the DC-9 on the runway was airborne, it would be their turn.
Donnie checked his the figures. There was no question the airplane was too heavy. If he chose to taxi back and off load the extra weight, he could miss his takeoff window and in the morning, he could be replaced with another hungry-for-hours captain. His career as a pilot was on the line. He looked at his co-pilot who was waiting for instructions. He also knew their lives could be on the line, too.
"Tell them we're ready."
"San Jose Tower, Freight 807 is ready for takeoff," the copilot said through his boom microphone.
"Freight 807, San Jose Tower, cleared for takeoff."
"807 is rolling."
They were flying to Denver to meet three other Lears, a DC-9, and from out of the past, a copy of Sky King's plane, the legendary twin engine Beech 18.
"Power up," the co-pilot called as the old Lear started down the runway. "Steering. Pressures look good. Hydraulics are good. V1. Rotate. The jet stayed on the ground. The co-pilot looked at his captain friend who was straining to pull the nose of the plane off of the runway. "Rotate Donnie!"
The runway was slipping away faster than either of these pilots had ever seen. They should have been in the air 500 feet before but this Lear wasn't ready to fly. It was eating up runway at over 145 knots. The red runway end lights seemed like huge spotlights aimed at them as they raced toward the end of the runways and the waiting bay..
"Freight 807 do you have a problem?" the tower controller called out. He had seen plenty of Lears take off on this airport but had never seen a Lear use almost all of the runway. His finger hovered over the fire department alarm button. "Damn, those guys aren't going to make it," he said to another controller.
"Help me pull it off," Donnie asked his anxious co-pilot. As the two of them pulled back on the yoke, the old Lear finally gave up its death grip on the ground and lumbered into the air.
"Tower 807 is fine," the co-pilot called out.
"Roger 807. contact departure now."
Both pilots sat is silence as the jet climbed into the night sky. Donnie flew the departure and his co-pilot made all of the necessary radio calls, completed the after takeoff and climb checklists, and finished the paperwork. He knew if the FAA got wind of this, they would probably be waiting in Denver to go over the paperwork.
"Close, huh," the co-pilot said as he looked at his young captain with a sheepish grin. "Are you lucky or good?"
"Good."
"Do you think airline pilots fly under these circumstances?" his co-pilot asked.
"Hell no." Donnie answered. They have unions and attitudes. "What do you think? Left or right?" Donnie asked as he pointed out the front windshield at the tops of the thunderstorms lighting up directly ahead of them. The co-pilot squinted his eyes and tried to see the tops of the storms. A black mass in front of a flash of lightning could indicate a big cell that they couldn't see. The radar didn't work and it was an old single color green system that wasn't that good anyway.
"Left."
"OK, tell them left," Donnie said.
"Denver Center, Freight 807 would like to deviate left of course for weather."
"Freight 807, Denver Center, that's approved. Had a United heavy go through an area at your 10:30 position with no problems"
Donnie turned the Lear to the left to where the controller suggested. He was hand flying using two fingers at 43,000 feet and even in turbulence, he was keeping the plane within 100 feet of his assigned altitude. Donnie had great touch. Without a working autopilot, he had to have great touch.
"See anything?" he asked his co-pilot who was scanning the skies like human radar.
"Nothing," the co-pilot answered. "God I wish we had a moon." They could see the monster storms when the moon was out. Without a moon, it was good guessing that kept them out of the center of a mountain of thunderstorm with as much energy as a atomic bomb. Thunderstorms were not the only threat in this part of the country.
"Donnie, have you ever been in severe clear air turbulence?"
"Once," he answered. "Over Salt Lake. It rattled the entire plane and almost upset us." Both of these pilots had serious respect for the invisible waves of wind in the air. "It was on us and over in about ten seconds. Really something."
The co-pilot said nothing as he turned the radio to Denver's airport weather and started to write down what he heard. Moderate snow. Visibility a half mile of less. Breaking action on runway 35 right is still good. Light right crosswind.
"Freight 807 contact Denver Tower at the marker, ga night."
"807 Roger, ga night."
"Denver Tower, Freight 807 is at the outer marker inbound for 35 right."
"Freight 807, Denver tower, roger. Continue approach. Number two. United 7330 cleared to land."
Less than a mile separated the two planes but there was a huge differences in captain's pay. Donnie was making about $22,000 a year. His counterpart on the United 737 was making over $100,000 a year. They were both headed for the same runway in the same condition. The United was down and clear of the runway. It was Donnie's turn.
"Approach lights at twelve o'clock, go visual," his co-pilot called out. Donnie had flown the approach to precision and the proof came as he looked out the windshield. Directly in front of the windshield and clearly visible through the blowing snow was the running rabbit light that guided them to the runway.
"Nasty night, huh guys," the freight agent said as Donnie and his co-pilot entered the freight company shack. Their plane was already being unloaded and the freight was being reloaded on the DC-9 bound for Dayton, Ohio.
'Did the Beech 18 get in?" one of the other pilots asked.
"Not yet," the freight agent answered.
"That old 18 isn't gonna make it tonight," a young Lear co-pilot said confidently as he looked at the light snow coming down. "We got our teeth kicked out when we came across the front range. If he tries to fly that old bucket of bolts in here, he'll bring in more ice than freight. I bet they turned back."
"Five bucks says they make it," came the quick reply from one of the station agents.
"You're on."
The radio started to crackle in the background. They could hear the ground controller give the Beach 18 clearance to taxi to the freight ramp.
The crusty old pair of pilots laughed when the young jet pilot asked them how they managed to fly the old plane through all of that mountain turbulence, ice and snow.
"Tonight was a little rough," the old 18 captain said as he grinned and gulped a swallow of six hour old coffee. "My co-pilot looked out the right side and saw an elk looking down at us. For a minute, I wasn't exactly sure which canyon we were in. Almost clipped a semi along I-25 on the way in here."
The crews were soon on the way to the crew motel. Mexican cuisine and burgers. A very dimly lit bar. Worn out mattresses. A perfect place for freighter pilots.
"Did you hear Delta is hiring?" one pilot said as they all sat in the dimly lit bar eating a taco.
"Yeah, but they only hire Air Force jocks," another added. "I think I'm going to try to get on with that new Federal Express outfit. They're going places."
"Federal Express! All they've got are those three old Falcon 20's. It's no different than this."
"Hang in there, man. Eastern and Pan Am are going to be hiring in a couple of months," added another pilot.
"I've got a buddy who just got on with Frontier. Anybody know what's going on at Western?"
"Remember Scott, the Falcon 20 guy who used to come in here? He got a break and got on with that new People's Express airline. The employees own a big share of it and I hear they have a bunch of instant millionaires. Some people have all of the luck."
"Hey, Dave," one of the LA pilots asked. "How old are you?"
"Thirty two," he answered as he looked up from a plate of tacos and cold refried beans.
"Man, that's too bad. You don't have a chance getting on with an airline at that age. Thirty is tops."
Just as soon as the crews had gathered in the bar, they were gone. If they were lucky, they could get five hours of sleep before the crew bus was back ready to take them to the airport and a five o'clock departure.
"Sweet better-job dreams ole' buddy," his co-pilot said as he slammed the old pillow into a shape that might help him get some needed sleep. "You've paid your dues tonight."
"Night," Donnie said as he continued to enter the flight in his logbook. When he reached the remarks section of the logbook, he paused and looked at his new co-pilot now asleep. He looked down at his logbook and jotted down one word. Lucky.
There was no doubt that on this trip they both were.
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