Lucky 6

Author: Chip Sanches

Each Air Force student is assigned to a single UPT base for the entire first year. Instruction is derived from a very detailed and broad-ranging syllabus. Flight Instructor Pilots are tasked by the syllabus to occasionally take the student away from the "canned" environment of the home UPT base to expose them to the real world. There were restrictions on where IP's and their students could go on these cross-country navigation sorties, based primarily on the flight characteristics of the airplane we piloted.

I instructed in the T-38 advanced jet trainer. By appearance it was a beautiful airplane- sleek and supersonic. The jet could cruise comfortably above 40,000 feet, higher than any commercial flights operated until the 1980's. The T-38, however, had very limited fuel capacity. The jet could cover only about 700 miles between fuel stops. Two additional considerations also required us to be very careful in planning our real-world training flights. The airplane had absolutely no tolerance for icing conditions and thunderstorms had to be avoided at all costs.

Given these restrictions, if the distance was not too great and the weather conditions were favorable, we could depart our home base, Columbus AFB in northeastern Mississippi, and fly to most military bases in the eastern half of the United States. Sometimes we would venture westbound to exotic locations in Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. If conditions were ideal, we could even reach Nellis AFB near Las Vegas. I planned flights to Nellis twice during my tenure as an instructor, but both times stronger than forecast westerly winds forced us to change plans after our first refueling stop in Texas.

Since these cross country "hops" were designed to teach the student how to operate away from the everyday familiarity of our home base, planning was critical. These navigation flights were frequently a student's first exposure to the operating environment they would face after they graduated from basic flight training. Learning and practicing enroute navigation procedures and flying unfamiliar instrument approaches were high priority objectives. Ideally, we would plan to reach each stop with enough fuel to fly at least two practice approaches.

The opportunity to travel to places many of us had never been to before and sample the local "culture" was a perk and held a special attraction for many pilots. Each base we visited and frequently the nearby town had unique attractions. Word of mouth information guided us to the best (and cheapest) restaurants, scenic attractions and night spots. One of the most popular destinations for those of us at Columbus was Wright Patterson AFB near Dayton, Ohio. The base facilities were first rate and the adjoining Air Force Museum was a must-see attraction.

Since I was a new instructor and had just been certified to fly cross country flights with students, I planned a very conservative itinerary on my first navigation mission. My student and I left Columbus on a beautiful Friday morning and flew to Grissom AFB in north central Indiana on our first leg. The distance of just over 400 miles provided ample opportunity for plenty of enroute navigation training. We had only enough fuel to practice a high-altitude instrument procedure or "letdown" and two instrument approaches at Grissom and then we had to land and refuel.

Our next leg was to Wright Patterson. Because the distance on this second segment was only 120 miles, this would be ideal for training in two respects. First, we would be able to practice navigation in the low altitude regime, which is a very different operating environment than at high altitudes. Secondly, we'd have enough fuel arriving at Wright Patterson to practice several approaches.

The flight to Indiana went well. Since I was with a student who was above average in ability, I was able to instruct at a relaxed and fluid pace. The student was a quick learner and flew in a very smooth and precise manner. The one-hour stopover at Grissom went as planned. We spent 45 minutes planning and then filing the flight plan with the FAA from the base operations area on the flight line at Grissom. We then had a required weather briefing at the meteorology desk and filed out flight plan with the FAA. After accomplishing the preflight on our T-38, we were on our way to Wright Patterson. I was relaxed and looking forward to an enjoyable Friday evening after we completed the short flight to our final stop for the day.

Our flight to Ohio went as planned. The enroute navigation portion was completed efficiently and we were able to complete several instrument practice approaches at Wright Patterson. As we neared the end of the runway on our last planned approach, I glanced at our fuel remaining. The gauge read 1,200 pounds of fuel. With that amount of fuel remaining, we certainly could have called it a day and landed and taxied to the parking ramp. But it was a beautiful day, we seemed to be the only airplane in the area and things were going so well I wondered if we could squeeze in one more approach.

I called the control tower and asked if they could approve a short visual landing pattern after the completion of our final practice instrument approach. A visual approach and landing would only burn 300 to 400 pounds of fuel. My thinking was, frankly, a bit selfish. As instructors, we allowed the students to fly the airplane most of the time and mostly we just talked. As a result, instructors took advantage of any opportunity to get some personal "stick time" to keep our own flying proficiency up. Landing with 800 to 900 pounds of fuel remaining was the norm back home at Columbus, so, I reasoned, why not take advantage of a good situation and fly the airplane myself through one visual approach and landing?

When I queried him, the tower controller said that he didn't foresee a problem approving a visual approach. Once my student successfully initiated a "missed approach" at the end of his last instrument approach, I took control of the airplane. At the departure end of the runway as we reached the proper speed and altitude, I radioed the tower and requested a "closed pattern" or short visual approach to a full stop landing. The tower approved the request and I began the aggressive, climbing 180 degree turn to begin the visual approach also called an "overhead."

The visual procedure calls for the pilot to turn 180 degrees while climbing to 1,500 feet above ground level. The object is to fly the aircraft alongside the landing runway back towards the approach end while extending the landing gear and flaps and slowing to 180 knots. We would fly about a mile and a half beyond the approach end of the runway and then begin a steep-banked descending turn to line up with the runway for the landing. The final turn was planned to align the aircraft with the runway at about one mile and 300 feet above the ground. The whole visual approach took only 3 to 4 minutes from beginning to end.

I reached the final turn point and called the tower saying, "Cuddy 81, gear check, full stop." This was a basic request to turn 180 degrees while descending and land. The tower controller hesitated and then informed me that he was unable to approve the turn to final. Needless to say, I was shocked. I asked why and he responded that he had just been "handed" another airplane unexpectedly by TRACON, the local radar control facility. He said that the aircraft was a C-130 cargo plane that was on a four mile straight in approach and there would be a spacing problem if we began the turn to final.

Since the tower controller "owns" the runaway and pilots must get permission to use it, I had to ask the controller for instructions. He directed us to "break out" of the traffic pattern and re-enter visually. I accelerated, raised the gear and flaps and climbed 1,000 feet while turning away from the runway. Break out and re-entry procedures are standardized and set up to allow an aircraft to leave the immediate runway area and re-approach the airport safely and efficiently.

After glancing at my fuel gauges and seeing just less than 1,000 pounds of fuel remaining, I knew I had to "short cut" the procedure. I flew about five miles away from the airport and then turned to fly straight back towards the single runway at Wright Patterson. The visual track I flew was at 1,500 feet above the ground straight up the extended centerline of the landing runway. This was called "flying up initial." As we neared the approach end of the runway, I noticed that the C-130 had landed and was turning off at the end of the runway. I breathed a big sigh of relief because our fuel was now down to 700 pounds. That equates to about 15 minutes of flying time at low altitude. Beyond that time and we would become a "glider". Unfortunately, the T-38 had the same gliding characteristics as a city bus: NONE!

Normally, after flying up initial, over the runway threshold at 280 knots and 1,500 feet we would begin an aggressive, 60-degree banked turn to slow, configure and position the aircraft for our descending 180 degree turn to landing. Just as I was about to "break," the tower controller radioed and said that we had to delay the turn until the departure end of the runway. He said he had just been "handed" another aircraft. This new aircraft was an "alert status" B-52 bomber. We were a training command sortie and, as such, we always played second fiddle to operational missions. This was standard operating procedure, so the fact that the bomber was being given higher priority than us was not unusual. But our current fuel state was suddenly anything but standard.

Our remaining fuel was enough to make only one normal overhead pattern and land without any further delay. I realized that I had not yet radioed information about our low fuel state. Up to this point I felt that we would be on the ground soon and it wasn't important for the control tower folks or other airplanes on frequency to know how low our fuel was. That feeling changed instantly when I reached the end of the runway and, instead of clearing us to begin the "break," the tower controller said we had to "break out" of the landing pattern again and re-enter.

My heart rate doubled as I envisioned having to eject from a perfectly good multi-million-dollar airplane because we had run out of gas. I finally and quickly fessed up and told the controller we were unable to breakout due to "minimum fuel." This standard phrase is used by pilots to inform the air traffic controllers that no further delays can be accepted due to fuel state. Any further delays would result in a pilot declaring "emergency fuel" which is a BIG deal. Any aircraft declaring an emergency must be given priority handling, fire trucks are dispatched to the runway and a bunch of explanatory paperwork has to be filled out.

The controller at this point approved our "break." At the completion of the 180-degree turn, as we were slowing and configuring, I saw the B-52 on a 2 to 3-mile final approach. When we arrived at the normal turn to final point the bomber was over the runway threshold. I knew we were too close to the B-52 to begin the final turn so I asked for permission to do a tight 360 degree turn at our present position to give us the spacing we needed to land. This request was approved. Upon completion of the 360-degree turn, I noticed the bomber clearing the end of the runway and said a quick prayer of thanks.

I called "Cuddy 81, gear check, full stop, minimum fuel" and began the descending turn to final. I chose to not mention the specific amount of fuel remaining, because we were now down to 400 pounds of fuel (roughly 65 gallons). The T-38 fuel gauge accuracy tolerance was plus or minus 200 pounds. By any measure we were now in an "emergency" fuel state, but I was still reluctant to openly mention it. I rationalized that we'd be on the ground in two to three minutes and no one would ever know.

I had just begun to level the wings on a mile and a half final when the controller said, "Go around, the B-52 blew several tires at touchdown and there are men and trucks on the runway!" I looked straight ahead at the runway and saw two trucks and four or five people in the touchdown zone at the approach end picking up tire pieces. I looked quickly at the parallel taxiway running alongside the runway as a landing option, but, lo and behold, it was occupied by the B-52 pointed straight at us surrounded by fire trucks. There is no second runway at Wright Patterson.

I had to make a split-second decision to go around and run out of fuel, to land nose to nose with a B-52 on a taxiway or… I radioed, "Tower, tell the guys on the runway to duck, I don't have enough fuel to go around. I'm going to land on the runway." I got no response from the tower, but, in all honesty, I didn't expect one. What could the controller possibly say at that point?

Luckily the single runway at Wright Patterson was a standard Strategic Air Command runway - 300 feet wide and over 12,000 feet long. Our normal runway length for T-38 operations was 8,000 feet. I leveled off briefly on short final at 100 feet above the ground and, once I cleared the folks on the runway, I pushed the nose down and landed. We were easily able to stop the aircraft despite landing a little long and then began the long taxi to the visiting aircraft ramp area.

My mind was jumbled with all kinds of thoughts, but the overriding one was of impending doom. If we didn't run out of fuel and coast to a stop on the taxiway, I was sure that we'd be met by some senior operations officer, if not the Wing Commander himself, at the transient parking ramp. I pictured climbing out of the cockpit, descending the ladder and seeing an enraged Colonel striding towards me. Without saying a word, he would tear the pilot wings off my flight suit, turn and fling them across the ramp. Then he would undoubtedly wheel back towards me and bark directions to the nearest Greyhound bus station with instructions to hurry back to Columbus so I wouldn't miss my court martial.

I decided not to make excuses or give explanations. I had truly screwed up. I would just say I was sorry for what had happened and take the consequences like a man. I hoped faintly that the Air Force didn't expect second lieutenants to be perfect all the time and that I wouldn't end up as the latrine officer in Thule, Greenland. Surely a firing squad was not being formed up. I didn't remember ever seeing a rifle at an Air Force base, thank goodness!

As we approached the parking area, I was stunned to see just two enlisted men, both transient ramp parking personnel, who directed us to a stop and chocked the aircraft. As my student and I climbed down, did our post-flight and filled out the logbook, I kept glancing around looking for a base operations vehicle speeding towards us, but none appeared. As we walked into the base ops building to stow our gear and close out our flight plan, I was sure that we'd be met by some scowling senior officers looking for explanations. None appeared. I was mystified.

We went to the visiting officer's quarters and checked into our room. We showered, changed into casual clothes and went to the Officer's Club to eat and, in my case, get fairly intoxicated. As the evening wore on and the Wing Commander didn't appear and lop my head off, I began to feel that maybe, just maybe, this would be a consummate learning experience and nothing more.

As we flew out of Wright Patterson the next day, I felt that since I hadn't heard from any of my superiors at Columbus, I had skated. But I determined that I would never push my luck again regarding fuel. In the future I might land with a little more fuel than necessary, but I wouldn't find myself having to choose between ejecting from a good airplane, landing on top of an airplane armed with nuclear weapons or hurting people on the ground by landing on a closed runway. I considered myself lucky to have learned this lesson the "easy" way.