Flying a 747

...without a license

an actual story

Copyright 1998 Tim Vasquez

Click any of the images to enlarge them.

The evening of Saturday, July 26 was a clear and calm one at Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. Our United Airlines Boeing 747-200 sat at the gate. I glanced out the window at the sky. The sun had already set, and the sky was painted in dark blue and reddish colors. However, instead of sitting back in my seat and picking up a magazine, I was up in the flight deck.

For this trip, the flight engineer was Don Sinel, a pilot in his 60s who just retired with United. He looked like the captain of a merchant ship, with a friendly, authoritative voice, an ivory-white beard, and a spirited gaze that spoke of many years of experience in the flight deck. Don sat in the middle, just aft of the center panel, and was busy flipping switches to prepare for engine start. Sitting in the right pilot seat was Bob Clarke, 30, a weather forecaster. Sitting in the left seat was myself. Tim Vasquez, 28, a software development business owner with zero 747 experience (unless you count hundreds of hours logged with Microsoft Flight Simulator).

What was I doing in the captain's seat? For all we could tell, we were at Dallas-Fort Worth airport. But outside the confines of our cockpit, past an array of video graphics screens, we were safely inside a large building in Denver, housing a cluster of giant full-motion aircraft simulators.

My interest in simulators goes many years back. Oddly enough I was never interested in fighter planes; I always had a fascination with commercial aircraft. At age 19 I used to love spending a Sunday afternoon hanging out under the approach lights to DFW's Rwy 18R (at least until airport management closed access and built that awful, distant observation outlook near 35R -- where can a man go anymore to see planes and actually smell the jet fumes?). I was happy when the latest generation of PC flight simulators came out. In 1997, though, I wanted a taste of the real thing. So I went to United Airlines, who offered to sell me a two-hour block on their best 747-200 simulator for about $1200. I bit.

And what about this simulator? Manufactured by Rediffusion Simulation, it was a 6-axis model (three axes of tilt, plus three axes of motion, using huge hydraulic jacks). The simulator cab resembled a metal box, 15 feet square, 10 feet high, and completely enclosed, standing nearly 30 feet high. Inside the cab was an actual aircraft flight deck, featuring state-of-the-art graphics just outside the windows projected at optical infinity using collimation displays. In fact, I was beginning to forget that it was all just an illusion. That's the entire point of these multi-million dollar simulators, which are in operation 20 hours a day at an operating cost of up to $700 per hour for maintenance and electricity alone.

Pushback

"Okay, let's push back from the gate so we can do an engine start," said Don. "The first thing we'll do is release the parking brake."

Using both of my toes, I pressed hard with simultaneous force on the rudder pedals. A rattling lever near my right hand, near the throttles, snapped back. It was the parking brake lock.

As I watched, the terminal building slowly began receding, and I felt the aircraft bouncing gently as the tug pushed us back. Once we were a few hundred feet from the gate, the aircraft slowed to a halt and the tug disconnected and drove away. Don swiftly began turning knobs and switches on the overhead panels. One by one, our four engines started up and came to life. I spent those minutes looking carefully over the instrument layout.

"Okay," said Don after about a minute. "All engines are up. I really don't know the layout of DFW, so go ahead and find us a runway."

Taxi

We sat there on the tarmac, facing east towards Dallas. A yellow stripe was underneath us, leading the way towards the main taxiway. The cockpit was quiet, except for the rush of the air conditioning, the whine of the engines, and the buzz of transformers and the gyroscopes. I knew this was my cue.

Carefully, I took the thrust levers and advanced them forward a couple of inches. They were surprisingly stiff and it took quite a bit of pressure to move them. It felt like shoving a cinder block forward with one hand.

I looked at Don. "These things are tight. Are they supposed to be like this?"

He smiled. "Yes. The thrust lever friction is usually set that way. Otherwise, you'd have bumps and turbulence constantly moving the levers and interfering with the engine settings. That's how they should be."

Responding to the new thrust lever settings, the engines spooled up and the engine instruments quickly responded with a chorus of clicking noises as the mechanical digits on the engine gauges changed, settling into their new positions. Soon the aircraft was slowly moving, and I pushed the rudder pedals with my feet to turn the nosewheel and keep us on the stripe. It felt rather sluggish and uncoordinated, and I vaguely had the impression that I was sticking my legs outside and pressing on the tarmac to stop the plane, rather than pressing on pedals. At least it wasn't like I'd be driving the plane on the highway.

As we rolled, Don pointed out a digital indicator below the artificial horizon that showed "011", our groundspeed in knots (see the photo). I pulled the thrust levers back to idle, vaguely aware of the mechanical chattering from the instrument panel.

"Flaps 20," said Don. Bob reached over near the throttles and pulled the flap levers to the 20-degree position to lower the flaps. This would increase the area of the wing and get us off the ground at a lower speed, only at the cost of added drag. We would retract them as soon as we got airborne. I watched as the flap gauge slowly moved towards the 20 mark.

As we approached the 90-degree turn to get on the main taxiway, I pressed the tips of the rudder pedals with my feet to brake the aircraft. I had to let the nose of the 747 go almost into the grass, since the main gear was almost 100 feet behind the cockpit. The 747 slowed to a creep.

"Good," said Don, "now use that tiller for extra turning power. Remember, make sure and use a bit of thrust."

With my left hand, I took an odd shaped crank handle beneath the window, the tiller, which was used to turn the nosewheel through sharp turns. With my right hand, I advanced the thrust levers about an inch. The aircraft began moving towards the grass and the engines spooled up. I cranked the tiller a full turn to the right, and the cockpit began moving sideways as we turned towards the taxiway. Soon we were lined up. I moved the crank back to center position and let the plane move down the main taxiway. I opened up the throttles about a third of the way until we reached 30 knots, then brought them back to idle.

The left turn for the runway entrance came up on us. I braked the aircraft, took us up to the grass, and once again used the tiller to rotate us through the turn. Another hundred yards and we were on DFW's Runway 35L, 11,388 feet (2.1 miles). I went to the edge of the runway, turned the aircraft left again, and we were lined up with the runway, sitting still and facing north towards the big blue sky.

Aborted takeoff run #1

"Now, we're going to do a dummy run," said Don. "We'll go for takeoff. Right when we hit V1, the takeoff refusal speed, we're going to chop power and brake the aircraft to a stop. No thrust reversers. Just brakes."

V1, pronounced vee-one, is a key concept. It represents the highest speed at which an aircraft can safely accelerate to and then stop without going off the end of the runway. It varies depending on aircraft weight, runway length, and so forth. If the aircraft reaches V1, come hell or high water, the captain will not attempt to abort the takeoff. Any attempt to do so will most likely result in a dangerous excursion off the runway.

In our case, V1 was going to be 130 knots (150 mph). So the plan was, on a runway only two miles long, to bring the fully-loaded 747, weighing about 700,000 pounds (350 tons) to 150 miles per hour, then stop it cold in its tracks. And we would use brakes only. The brake systems on a jumbo jet are very complex and have to dissipate an incredible amount of energy and heat effectively. After a large plane is stopped using full brakes, the brake temperature readings often redline for 5 or 10 minutes, and at times airline crews have to call the fire department to come out and inspect the landing gear. The brake pads also require up to 3 hours to cool down. It's not quite like bringing your Honda Accord to a stop on the freeway!

As we were taught, I held the brakes with my toes and brought the thrust levers about a third of the way forward. To make sure we were getting the right amount of thrust from the engines, I watched the EPR (exhaust pressure ratio, pronounced "eeper") gauges, and adjusted the thrust levers until the EPR values reached 1.1. In effect, this ran the engines up to about 30% of takeoff thrust. Doing this would help make sure the engines were stable and ready for takeoff power. If we had went immediately for full takeoff power, a lazy engine could have given us problems keeping the aircraft straight on the runway.

Taking my eyes off the EPR gauges, I glanced down the runway and spoke up. "Set takeoff thrust."

It was my job to take the plane safely down the runway, and it was the responsibility of Don, acting as flight engineer, to make sure our EPR was set at the proper takeoff thrust level -- high enough to give us takeoff power, but low enough to keep from overstressing the engine. Jet engines do not have mechanical means of preventing overspeed from occurring, so takeoff power is always carefully computed and is rarely full-throttle. Our EPR for today would be 1.5, about 95% of full power. Don would need to bring us up to that EPR reading of 1.5, ideally within about 20 seconds (before we reached 80 knots). I kept my hands on the levers in case I needed to chop power for an aborted takeoff, while Don worked a duplicate set of levers, about five inches behind my hand and which moved my own levers. I loosened my grip and Don advanced both throttles forward nearly all the way. Our levers moved forward together. The engines surged with power and the engine instrument panel was clicking furiously as exhaust temperature, N2 (compression ratio), and EPR digits soared. I could feel the rudder/brake pedals vibrating as the brakes strained to keep the aircraft in place. It was time to go. I took my feet off the pedals, and the aircraft lurched forward and begin accelerating down the runway.

"Okay, keep her going straight," said Don, making adjustments to the thrust levers as we accelerated. "Remember, put your right heel on the center line of the runway. Initially, you'll need coarse use of the rudder to keep it going straight."

Don was right. As the airspeed increased, it took less and less rudder pedal pressure to steer the aircraft along the centerline. Unseen to us, the Boeing 747's systems were automatically transferring rudder pedal control from the nosewheel gear to the rudders themselves as we reached higher ground speeds. I later discovered that this function represented a lot of engineering work by Boeing and was a feature they took pride in.

"EPR set," said Don, taking his hands off his thrust levers and sitting back. He glanced at the airspeed indicators. "Eighty knots."

Our aircraft continued racing down the runway. I could see the end of the runway looming just over a mile away, coming quick.

"A hundred knots."

No words were spoken. As we reached higher speeds, we could feel the bumps coming faster and faster, making the flight deck shudder. The aircraft controls were feeling very light and it seemed as if it would take very little effort for the plane to spring into the sky.

"Vee-one. Abort!"

I quickly pulled the thrust levers to idle and pushed the rudder pedal tips hard with my feet. The end of the runway was coming -- less than half a mile away!

"Stand on them!" said Don.

As he suggested, I used all of the energy in my legs to push the pedals in, not literally standing on them but straining against my seatbelt. The speed was dropping nicely, but as we slowed through 80 knots (92 mph) I could see that not even 150 pounds of muscle force on the pedals was going to keep us from rolling off the end of the runway into the field. And that's what we did at a leisurely 30 knots.

Once the aircraft was stopped in the middle of a field, Don punched some buttons on the simulator control panels. The sky turned white, and once again we were lined up for takeoff.

Aborted takeoff run #2

"We're going to do the same thing this time," said Don, "but this time, use brakes and reverse thrust."

I brought the throttles up, stabilized the engine, and Don took over, pushing the levers forward to give us full takeoff power. We rolled down the runway, rapidly gaining speed, and before long passed 80 knots, 100 knots, and 120 knots.

"Vee-one! Abort!"

I brought the thrust levers to idle, and pressed hard with my toes on the brakes, nearly standing on them. With my right hand, I grabbed a third set of thrust levers about four inches forward of the main ones, and pulled them backward. A loud roar sounded as the reverse thrust doors closed over the engines, and we were nearly thrown forward as the 747 rapidly decelerated. The difference in deceleration was amazing! In fact, the deceleration was making it easier for me to stand on the brakes.

"Okay, we're slowing through 80 knots," said Don. He was reminding me to take the reverse levers back to idle, since running reverse thrust at speeds below 80 knots has the tendency to flame out the engines.

I brought the reverse levers forward, and the roar subsided. We decelerated quickly through 60 and then 40 knots. Once we stopped, I looked ahead. A quarter mile of runway was still left in front of us. Clearly the thrust reversers helped us gain an extra 3,500 feet of stopping distance.

The sky turned white again, and Don spoke up. "Okay, this will be a takeoff. I know you wanted Dallas, but there's no scenery there. We'll fly San Francisco."

"Great."

"Now remember to pitch up to fifteen degrees on climbout."

A runway appeared in front of me, and the hills of northwest California materialized around me.

Real takeoff

We went through the same routine, stabilizing the engines, bringing them up to takeoff thrust, and accelerating.

"EPR set!" said Don. "Eighty knots."

I kept the aircraft steady along the centerline, watching us gain speed.

"Vee-one!"

I removed my hand from the thrust levers. After all, we passed V1 and were now committed to fly.

"Rotate," he said -- a signal that we were at a speed where it was appropriate to pitch the nose upward to allow the aircraft to lift off. Rotating at too low a speed causes drag, slowing the acceleration to liftoff speed and lengthening the takeoff run, and at too high a speed it also forces the plane to use up runway when it could already be airborne.

I pulled back slowly but firmly on the yoke, and the nose began rising.

"Vee-two," said Don. The horizon dropped below the nose of the aircraft and the runway began falling away beneath us. We climbed skyward. "Positive rate of climb, gear up!" Bob reached toward the center panel and moved the gear lever from the DOWN to the UP position.

As instructed, I kept my eyes on the artificial horizon, keeping the wings level while seeking out 15 degrees of pitch for our climb. Once I established 15 degrees, I glanced over the instruments. My eye caught something. The landing gear lever. It reminded me of a question I'd always forgotten to ask over the years.

"Why does the gear lever have an "off" setting? Why not just up or down?"

"When it's up or down, hydraulic pressure is being fed to the gear system," said Don. "When it's in the middle position, it shuts off hydraulic pressure. It eases wear on the system."

"So hypothetically he could leave it like that?" I said, pointing to the lever still in the up position.

"Sure."

Concentrating on the climb, I kept my eye on the artificial horizon, keeping us in the 15 degree climb.

"Not bad!" said Don. "Keep it at fifteen degrees. Flaps 15." Bob reached forward and retracted the flaps by five degrees, cleaning up the airplane so we could reduce drag and accelerate.

I looked outside at San Francisco in a July twilight. I looked down at the roads and could see headlights of cars. I was astounded. They were moving along in both directions! I was mesmerized, and for quite awhile I forgot I was in a simulator. My grip on the yoke tightened a little.

Landing

Descending through 3,000 feet, I banked the aircraft for final approach to San Francisco's runway 28R. About eight miles ahead was the runway.

"Okay!" said Don. "Gear down, flaps 20!"

Bob lowered the landing gear lever and set the flaps to 20 degrees. He then glanced at the flap speed chart and turned a knob along the top of the instrument panel. This set our red airspeed bugs to 175 knots (201 mph). The red bug represented our V-ref speed -- the lowest speed at which safe control of the aircraft can be maintained. We were at 190 knots (219 mph), well above that, but I wanted to get the plane down to V-ref.

"Remember," said Don, "keep the nose at two and a half."

I glanced down at the artificial horizon, and pulled back slightly on the yoke to get the aircraft's pitch at 2.5 degrees upward. This placed the aircraft in its natural flight position, allowing it to handle the descent better. But the added pitch also helped drop the airspeed somewhat, and within a few moments we had dropped down to 178 knots (205 mph).

"Flaps 25!"

Bob moved the flap levers to 25 degrees. He then looked at the data card and dialed the airspeed bugs to 164 knots (189 mph).

We were descending through 1400 feet.

"Winds are calm?" I asked.

"Yep. Right on the glideslope! Beautiful!"

A flash of lightning illuminated the landscape. We quietly continued our descent, while I made a few thrust adjustments.

"I like the lightning," said Bob. "That's good!"

"Being a weather guy," Don said, "you would like lightning, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah."

The descent continued through 1000 feet. About 800 feet per minute sink rate. We passed through 800, then 600 feet.

"Just a shade low. Two and a half."

The automated voice system began sounding. "Glideslope! Glideslope!"

I pulled back slightly and applied a bit of thrust to get us back on the glideslope. I noticed part of the reason we had sunk low is because as airspeed diminished it took increasing amounts of back pressure on the yoke to keep us at 2.5 degrees. I'd been slacking, and we were a little low.

"More power," said Don. "More power. More power."

I added a bit more power, and the aircraft responded sluggishly. At this point it took a bit of strength to keep enough back pressure on the yoke. I made a few aileron corrections, taking us through a series of unnerving banks as the runway approached, but soon got us lined up about a half-mile from the threshold, two hundred feet up. I quickly found it very easy to make minor adjustments using carefully-timed rudder inputs.

"Two and a half degrees, let her fly on."

We were soon over the approach lights, about a hundred feet off the ground and at 160 knots (184 mph).

In the back of my head, I began calling, "Bob? Radar altimeter?? Heights???" I did not want to take my eyes off the runway. As if by magic, Don had me covered. A computer voice began calling out the radar altimeter readings. "Fifty...... thirty....."

I chopped power, bringing the thrust levers all the way back to idle. Using the advice given me by a 747 pilot I knew over E-mail, I applied only a slight amount of back pressure on the yoke, anxiously waiting for the "ground effect" to take over. As the aircraft neared the ground, the plane slowly stopped descending, and gently touched the pavement. At that moment I realized that this bit of advice definitely kept me from overshooting the runway. The 747 needs very little coaxing to start the flare.

"Beautiful!" said Don.

I eased the nose down to the runway, pressed the brakes in, and applied reverse thrust. As the aircraft slowed down, I kept the plane lined up.

"Ninety knots, eighty knots."

I moved the thrust reverser levers to idle.

"Sixty knots. Okay, bring her to a stop!"

Keeping pressure on the brakes, I guided the plane to a gradual stop on the runway.

"Nothing to it, right?"

I smiled. Of course, Don was just kidding. But he was right. The plane didn't demand a lot of skill from its pilot. The 747 was a plane I enjoyed flying immensely. Another trip to Denver might be on my agenda before long.

Special thanks to Don Sinel and the folks at United Airlines for arranging this flight. Tim Vasquez can be reached at tim@weathergraphics.com.