Golden Argosy Part 2B

By Tony Vallillo (29 June 2004)

Sleep on an airplane is usually dreamless, at least for me. Unlike REM sleep, where nocturnal adventures play like 3D movies, airplane sleep is simply a suspension of consciousness, a sort of physiological fast-forward. I once "slept" for an entire deadhead on a C-141A from Charleston S.C. to Tokyo, including a 3 hour stop at Anchorage, which I also slept through. So little refreshment resulted from all of this "sleep" that I promptly proceeded to the hotel and slept an additional 8 hours for real! Now, as the Flight Attendant nudges me awake at the request of the two stalwart airmen on duty, it seems that I have slumbered for no more than one or two minutes. A glance at my watch reveals otherwise - I have slept the entire two hours of my break, an unusual but welcome circumstance!

The Aurora Borealis seen at latitude 53 north in spring.

After a quick freshen-up in the "blue room", I return to the flight deck. Releasing the First Officer to his break, I survey the situation almost five hours into our odyssey. We have just passed 20 degrees West. It is still dark, although a faint glow in the east heralds the arrival of a new day. These late night flights can have a magic all their own. Occasionally, in the northern latitudes we sometimes use for the tracks, the Aurora Borealis treats us to a spectacular light show. Although we don't often see the Technicolor displays typical in the arctic, we can sometimes see pastel colors. On several occasions I have flown directly beneath an Aurora, looking right up into the vertex of the flux, which looks for all the world like a glowing circus tent from below. Several times per year the skies put on the best show of all - a major meteor shower. It is not uncommon to spend an entire flight watching several meteors per minute shooting across the sky! As I reminisce about the wonders of the night sky, dawn begins to break in earnest. Soon it will be time to hoist out the sunshades and arrange them painstakingly across the front windshield. Sunsets, when westbound at 500 knots, seem to last forever, but eastbound the sun leaps up like it was shot from a canon!

Sunrise at FL350.

Normally, at 15 degrees West the long tendrils of the ground-based radar system can once again take hold of us, and we would be in radar contact and VHF radio contact with Shannon Center. Today, though, we are taking a more southerly route, and so will proceed well south of Ireland itself, and Shannon airspace. In fact, we will not contact a domestic control center until nearing 8 degrees West, when we pass into airspace controlled by Brest, in western France. Once in radar and VHF contact with Brest, we can request a climb to what is now a more efficient altitude.

Jet engines have always performed most economically at high altitudes, generally the higher the better. But airplane performance is limited by a number of things, not merely engine efficiency. A major limitation on performance is the weight of the ship, and the wing can lift a given weight to only a certain altitude without reaching a point where the speed required to generate the lift needed is beyond the capability of the engines to generate; or, if the engines could do it, it would put the airplane too far into the transonic regime of flight.

At speeds above around Mach .70, swept wing airplanes enter what is called the transonic range. Although the airplane itself is still subsonic by a considerable margin, the air going over the top of the wing is being accelerated as it is slung up and over the curve of the airfoil. Above this "Critical Mach", some portion of the airflow at some point above the wing is actually going supersonic with respect to the wing structure itself. It matters not which is moving, the wing or the air, for the result is the same. As air flows across something at supersonic speeds, a shock wave is formed. In the lee of this shockwave, the flow becomes turbulent and somewhat detached, similar to a stall condition. Turbulent flow creates a buffet, which, as speed increases, becomes more pronounced as the airflow separation occurs over a wider area of the wing surface. Eventually, in theory, the entire airflow would separate, but this does not happen because the shock wave produces a large amount of drag, eventually precluding further acceleration altogether. It was partly this shockwave phenomenon, and the rapid drag rise, that gave birth to the notion of the "sound barrier" in the early days of sonic flight. Our cruise speed of Mach .80 puts us into this transonic range, but the wings are designed to fly like this, and the shape of the wings, as well as certain added featurettes like vortex generators, keep the shock wave under control. Sometimes, when the light is just right, you can actually see the shock wave out the window if you are sitting over the wing.

As we burn fuel, and thus reduce the weight of the ship, we can reach higher altitudes without compromising this so-called buffet boundary. So we will request FL 370 initially, which is granted forthwith when Brest has us in radar contact. Dialing the new altitude into the AFCS window, I let the VNAV function carry out a cruise climb, which is so gentle as to be undetectable from the cabin. By the time we cross the beach near a VOR named Cognac (CGC), which I presume is somewhere in the heart of the wine country, we have reached our new altitude.

The Alpes Maritimes.

Contact with Brest brings linguistic confirmation that, as Dorothy told Toto, "We aren't in Kansas any more!" The French controllers speak excellent English, and they do so with a Maurice Chevalier accent that is as delightful to hear as it is sometimes difficult to understand, at least for a New Yorker! On paper, English is the international language of aviation, a decision taken at an ICAO meeting in the immediate aftermath of WWII. In reality, however, this means only that English will be available throughout the world, not necessarily that it will be the only language heard on the radio! In France, and a number of other countries as well, many of the local pilots converse with the controllers in the native tongue. While no doubt easier for them, this does create problems for the rest of us. By listening to the radio, a pilot can build a mental picture of the surrounding traffic and atmospheric conditions, which can be a valuable asset in overall situational awareness. But when a great deal of the chatter is in an incomprehensible language, you lose whatever intel could thus be gathered. Possibly that pilot is giving a turbulence report, or being cleared to land on the runway you are holding in position on. The ability to back-up the controller is pretty well gone.

Aviation English, outside of North America and parts of Europe, can often be a small vocabulary learned by rote in phrases (not unlike learning Italian from a CD!). As long as you keep to the standard body of repertoire, mutual understanding will take place. But pilots in America have long since become casual in their phraseology, as have some controllers. This works just fine in the land of the big BX, but is an invitation to trouble outside of the USA and Canada. The most important element of an international qualification is exposure to the accents and discipline in using the correct terminology. This has become an even bigger problem now that waypoints all have 5 letter names, the vast majority of which appear to have been made up by a computer with crossed wires! Consider these examples, all from the Western Europe area: RATKA, OMOKO, KENUK, BEGAS, HIDRA, NAKID, GIPER, GAPLI, and the list goes on to infinity. These particular examples, while nonsense words having no meaning or association with reality, are relatively straightforward in their pronunciation, at least for an American. But because these are not really words, and thus have no agreed-to pronunciation, someone from elsewhere may pronounce these things much differently than I do, and it leads to constant requests for "..say again..", often more than once!

Listening carefully, and taking even more delight in the accents of the young women, who seem to be moving into the controller ranks in large numbers throughout Europe, we make our way across France. The radar ATC system here is excellent, indistinguishable, but for the accents, from Chicago or New York center. Clearances to go direct and thus cut distance are often available, and we take advantage of them as much as we can. We ask for and receive clearance direct from around Cognac to a waypoint called LERGA, in the middle of southern France. From here on, we will begin to see the foothills of the Alpes Maritimes, lying in the morning mists below.

We are now around an hour out of Rome, and I begin to attend to the details of the arrival. A few taps of the ACARS keyboard brings us the latest weather, and the ATIS. Mid level clouds, a bit of mist lying around the valleys, and fairly good visibility with southerly winds is what is on tap. They seem to be using the 16's for landing, which is typical. We will set up the FMC's for the ILS to 16R with the TAQ transition. This transition leads directly to the localizer, without any need for vectors, and is often flown that way. It is something of a contrast to London, where even high overflying aircraft are treated to micro vectoring for hundreds of miles. (I have never been able to figure out the reason for these vectors, which usually take the aircraft along the filed route, only a few hundred yards to one side or another! Seems like a lot of work on somebody's part.)

The Cote Azur.

Approaching the Cote Azure, we look down upon Nice, just now waking up. The mountains run right to the sea at this point of the coast, and the Grand Corniche, the cliff-hugging coast road, can be seen on both sides now. This road, which is among the world's great thrill rides, was built by none other than Napoleon. And now, as we go "feet wet" for one more short time, we are confronted with two more memories of the General. Directly before us lies the mountainous island of Corsica, Napoleon's birthplace. We make a turn toward the east over the town of Bastia, on the northern tip of the island, and head for Elba, the volcanic island just off the coast of Italy itself, where the British first incarcerated Napoleon. The island looks beautiful in the extreme, but apparently the little man didn't like the scenery, because he escaped and returned to France, only to keep a date with the Duke of Wellington at a place called Waterloo. For my money, he should have stayed on Elba!

Since passing Nice, we have been cleared to lower altitudes. There are a number of ways to perform a descent in an airliner, and 5 different pilots will probably have 5 different ways to do it! Much depends upon the level and quality of the autoflight system. The old Boeing 727 had a dependable autopilot, but aside from altitude hold, it had no real pitch mode other than plain old attitude hold, which could often be a bit jerky. A great many pilots on that now-venerable liner began descents by disconnecting the autopilot and starting the descent manually, engaging the autopilot only when the correct attitude had been established. Or, perhaps, not at all - quite a few of us hand flew the bird at all times except in cruise! It had great handling qualities and a not-so-great autopilot. The DC series, the various versions of the 9 and 10, had a vertical speed function that apparently worked very well, to judge from the proclivity of the alumni of these airplanes to use the vertical speed knob on the 767!

The mountains of Corsica.

The 767, on the other hand, has an autoflight system that can out-finesse almost any pilot, except on a very good day! Any mode of the autoflight yields a smooth transition from cruise into descent, so we can choose from flight level change, vertical nav, vertical speed, or hand flying. I tend to use the cruise descent feature of the vertical nav function. This simply involves inputting a new altitude in the cruise page of the FMC and activating it. It has the advantage of updating the top-of-descent calculations for the later portions of the descent. The vernav function can be programmed to hit a whole series of intermediate altitude constraints, crossing various fixes at, or above, or below specified altitudes, at any speed desired within the capability of the airplane. One does have to keep a close eye on it, since it will, when tasked beyond its' limits, "give up" and default to an idle descent without warning, which will no longer comply with the constraints placed upon it! But most of the time it works like a charm.

Approaching Elba.

Heading now toward Elba, we change over to Rome control. The difference is amazing, like strolling from the France pavilion at EPCOT over to Italy! The Rome controllers speak excellent English, with an accent straight out of Mama Leone's! They have everything lined up for approaches to the 16's. Although we often get an initial approach clearance for 16L, by the time we are talking to approach control we are usually given the ILS to 16R. This is the way we want it, because our gate is much closer to 16R than it is to the left.

Crossing Elba, we set course for Tarquinia, on the coast of Tuscany. Off in the distance to the northeast, we can occasionally get a glimpse of the environs of Florence. From Tarquinia onward, we are using the approach page for the ILS 16R. Only once or twice have we gotten vectored off the transition, usually for spacing on another leading aircraft. Most of the time, the controllers just let us follow the transition all the way to the localizer, at Golpo. Speed below 10,000 feet is 250 knots, although the controllers can issue a clearance for higher speeds and they occasionally do. Closer in, speeds are held at or above 210 kts until around 12 miles from touchdown. This yields just enough time and distance to slow down and get the flaps extended past 5 degrees before intercepting the glide slope.

Today the logbook says that the airplane needs to log an autoland, so I will perform a coupled approach to landing. The automatic landing system originated in Britain in the 1960's; a product, no doubt, of the famous London fog! The first jetliner so equipped was the Trident, a medium range trijet from which, it is said, the 727 inherited its appearance. The success of this early system spurred development of more advanced versions, and nearly all modern airliners are equipped with double or triple autopilot systems certified for landing and rollout in visibilities less than 600 feet. The autoland uses the localizer and glide slope of the ILS to create a path for the autopilot to track, and the onboard radar altimeter cues the flare. The autothrottle system maintains speed and retards the throttles to idle at touchdown. The airplane needs to log an autoland for certification purposes every so often, around 60 days or so, and the opportunities to fly one in real weather are somewhat scarce, especially in the summertime. Since we can let Otto make the landing on any ILS runway, we'll give him a shot today.

Breakfast time.

Slowing now at 10,000 feet, I signal the Flight Attendants to finish battening down the hatches and take their seats. Notwithstanding the considerable amount of hash they have slung (including a breakfast served over the last half hour or so), their real duties occur mostly below 10,000 feet. It is here, strapped into jump seats at every exit, that they stand guard, ready to go into action should an emergency develop and the passengers need to be evacuated quickly. They are trained and certified to get everyone out of the airplane in less than two minutes, using only half of the available exits. They would do this on receipt of a special signal from the cockpit, but they are also trained to use their heads and initiate an evacuation on their own, if conditions are serious enough to warrant it.

Approach control clears us to intercept the ILS localizer, and I arm the autopilot for the approach. Once the localizer is captured, we arm the approach mode, which arms the glideslope function. All three autopilots are now engaged. The 767 has three autopilots not so much for enroute redundancy as for this one duty - the automatic landing. The FAA decided, rightly so, that triple redundancy would be required for blind automatic landings to be considered sufficiently safe. Below 200 feet, we can lose an entire electrical bus system, including one of the three autopilots, and still have enough gadgetry working to complete an autoland.

Approaching Tarquinia.

As we near the glideslope, I reduce speed. The autopilot works best when changes are introduced slowly. We want to be fully configured and on speed by around 1500 feet, to give Otto a chance to track the localizer and glideslope accurately. He needs to get a sense of the drift caused by the winds in order to fly the last few hundred feet precisely. Approaching glideslope intercept, the gear is extended and flaps are set to 20 degrees. From here on down, it is a matter of keeping two needles centered - the localizer, which indicates our deviation left and right, and the glideslope, which shows us our deviation from the correct vertical path.

Porte San Stefano on Argentarola, on the coast approaching Tarquinia.

The ILS approach system, now the worldwide standard, has been in use for around 50 years. It consists of several transmitters - a localizer aligned with the runway centerline and projecting out in both directions beyond each end of the runway, and a glideslope which is aligned with the descent angle and projects only up the approach path. Until the early 1970's, the system was accurate enough to allow descents to as low as 200 feet above the ground, which in turn meant minimum visibilities of 1/2 mile or so. In the '70s more accurate transmitters were developed which allowed the localizer and glideslope to be followed down to 100 feet above ground. This allowed minimum visibilities of 1/4 mile. The current no-ceiling and 300 foot visibility minima came about when the autopilots got sophisticated enough to land the plane, since it was considered beyond the safe capability of any pilot to hand fly in visibilities that low. Ironically, the future of low visibility operations seems to be in the direction of hand flying once again, with Heads Up Displays providing artificial visual cues which the pilot sees projected on a transparent screen in the windshield in front of him. Either way, it is a tremendous improvement from the old DC-3 days, when approaches were flown using the 4-course radio ranges, often to 200 feet and one half mile, although the actual published minima were higher! (See again "Fate is the Hunter", by Ernest K. Gann)

Lago de Bolsena abeam Tarquinia.

As we slide down the glideslope toward the runway, we can see the coast just to our right. Several large cruise ships are in port, and more than a few of our passengers are probably going to be enjoying the sunset from the poop deck of one of them!

Lago de Bolsena with mist in the nearby valley.

At 1000 feet we check everything again - gear, flaps, brake pressures. We are by now talking to the control tower and are cleared to land on 16R. We have, of course, been able to see the runway for the last 10 miles. If this landing were actually being made in 300 feet of visibility, things would now be getting interesting. From here on down, I hold the control wheel and throttles, a finger close to the disconnect button of each, alert to any untoward movements and ready to disconnect in an instant. Below 100 feet, an instant is all I would have, but it would be enough. Special monitoring systems will flash us an alert now if any component, airborne or ground, should go awry. At 300 feet radar altitude I make an initial assessment: speed within 5 knots of approach speed, needles within 1/2 dot of centered. These will be the limits from here to the ground, and any deviation in excess of these will result in a go-around. Go-arounds are also automatic - just push one switch on the throttle and power increases to maximum and the autopilot starts a brisk climb. But that won't be necessary this morning. Otto has everything nailed - speed right on and needles perfectly centered. At 100 feet the flare mode arms and around 30 feet it begins to raise the nose to reduce the descent rate. Throttles retard smoothly and we touch down with only a small squeak. I can do better, but not consistently!

Photo by Adriano Fidanza

The spoilers deploy automatically, to dump whatever lift the wings are still generating, which is, in fact, a considerable amount. The autopilot is still controlling steering, using the localizer for guidance. I apply reverse thrust manually. Here in Rome, in the morning, reverse is allowed only in idle unless an emergency dictates more. This makes things less noisy, but it is harder on the brakes, which will now have to do all of the stopping themselves. As we slow to 80 knots, I stow the reversers. Reverse thrust below about 60 knots can blow things forward of the engine, where they can be sucked in and cause damage to the fan stages. Around 40 knots I disconnect the autopilot and begin steering toward the high-speed turnoff coming up on the left. As we clear the runway, I stow the spoiler handle and call for the after landing checklist. We're almost there!

Any taildragger pilot will tell you that you must fly the bird right to the chocks. Although an airliner can be driven there, and not actually "flown", it still pays to be alert. Rome airport is just like JFK - a beehive of vehicular and aircraft activity at this hour. So I pay close attention to our taxi route and let the FO handle the after landing checklist.

Parked at T-8.

We are parking at gate T-8 today. This gate is located in what appears to be an addition to the terminal complex, separate from the main buildings and reached by a small tram, similar to the one at MIA that connects Concourse E to the main terminal. All of the gates here have an automatic parking system, one that is well modeled in the Rome add-on scenery created by SimFlyers. As I turn toward the lead-in line, a digital lighted signboard flashes with the aircraft type (767-300) to confirm that it is set correctly. Then it begins to give steering guidance, left or right as necessary. Within the last 30 feet or so, it indicates distance to go, climaxing with a "STOP" command at the penultimate point. If I have carried to much momentum this far, and go even a millimeter beyond the bounds of automated propriety, a denigrating "TOO FAR" remonstration flashes accusingly! I have no idea what the purpose of this last insult is, since no effort is made to reposition the aircraft. Just the system thumbing its' nose at me, on the one or two occasions I have triggered it! Not today, however, since I am wise to its ways. I taxi the last 30 feet at a literal snail's pace, and when the STOP indication first appears, I can make a smooth stop that will go unnoticed in the back.

This constant endeavor to make a flight as totally sensation free as possible is, in my opinion, the hallmark of a real professional pilot. The passengers pay us for a serene experience - they can easily get thrills at any amusement park - and we try hard to provide what they desire. This is rarely possible in any total sense, of course, since the air is a fluid and often unstable medium. But we certainly do our best to keep our own manipulations from adding to the sensations!

Leonardo's statue in front of the terminal.

Having arrived at the gate, we run the last checklist of the flight and I proceed to the door to bid the passengers farewell. This last task, of course, is more palatable when the landing has been a grease-job, but it is important no matter what the circumstances. Air travel has metamorphosed from an elegant experience savored mainly by the rich and famous to a mass transportation common-carrier experience. Nonetheless, I believe that most passengers still look to the cockpit crew with at least a little of the respect and perhaps awe that attended the Captains of the great ocean liners during the golden age of the sea. They very much want to place their full trust in us, and part of the reason they feel free to do so may well be what I call the "Central Casting" image of the airline pilot, perpetuated in movies over the years. It is more or less what they expect to see, and we try hard to ensure that they do see it. This is one reason why the "suit of lights" is so important, along with the hat and the other accoutrements like wings and big watches! And so I stand at the cockpit door, hat and jacket on, and bid each passenger adieu. Occasionally, I collect a salute or a proffered handshake, which I courteously return. And there are always the children! I well remember my first and only airplane ride as a child, on a DC-3 of Allegheny Airlines. I spent the entire flight in the cockpit - that was legal in 1958! Today's kids can't do that, of course, but at the gate we are always willing to let them have a seat at the controls, and let mom or dad get that once-in-a-lifetime picture that just might start them on the way to their own flying career someday.

Once the last of our guests have departed, we can gather up our charts, checklists and other belongings, and head for the hotel. We have to clear customs like everyone else, although in many places, Rome among them, the process is somewhat accelerated. Once through the terminal, we gather at the curb where the hotel van is already waiting for us. Now, as they say, it's Miller Time!

To be continued: Join us on the Rome layover in Golden Argosy Part Three - The Glory of Rome!

Anthony Vallillo
avallillo@charter.net