Bri looks from me, to the panel, and back with a look of chagrin on her face. “I’m sorry, Dad. I should have been watching,” Bri says.
“No worries. No harm, no foul,” I respond. “But keep a watch next time. I’m not all that interested in exploring the glide characteristics of this beast.”
“I will, Dad,” Bri says. I nod, both as acknowledgement and assurance that all is good.
We weren’t far from getting a closer look at the streets of Twin Falls. We would have been able to restart the engines without too much difficulty but having all of your engines quit has to rank up there with having your head sewn to a carpet. It’s just the idea of flying along without the propellers turning for that length of time that raises the pucker factor by a degree or two. However, we didn’t so it’s easily forgotten. Well, maybe not as I know that my eyes will now track to the panel each time we switch tanks.
I cover various emergencies with Robert and Craig. The mountains of the Continental Divide enter our field of view along with Salt Lake City a short time later. Small plumes of smoke are still rising from the city but they are brownish in nature indicting yet more smoldering fires. There aren’t many and they aren’t large. We pass the large city and enter the tan of the desert proper after crossing over a small range of mountains. We are over half way through the flight and I begin to see the tops of building cumulus clouds to the southeast directly in our line of flight. That doesn’t bode well, I think wrapping up another emergency procedure. McCafferty makes way for Gonzalez at the flight engineer station.
I point out the rising clouds in the distance; their tops and sides reflecting white from the sun. Lower down, they turn into an ugly boiling mess of dark blue-gray and black as more of the line of building thunderstorms becomes visible. Although I can’t see his knuckles, I do notice Robert’s grip on the steering column grow tighter.
“Are we going through those?” He asks. “Or around?”
“I’d rather not and I don’t think we’ll be able to go around,” I answer watching the squall line build quickly to the northeast directly across our flight path. “They look like they are sitting right over Clovis.”
“What should we do then?” He asks.
“I don’t know. You’re the pilot in command. You tell me,” I answer.
“We should divert then,” he says. It comes out as both a statement and a question.
“Whatever you say,” I reply.
“That would be my choice,” Craig chimes in. I can tell he is holding off saying anything letting Robert arrive at his own conclusion and recognizes my wanting Robert to learn to take command.
Robert holds up the map he has sitting on the console. He looks up and compares the map with what he sees outside. After a moment he says, “It looks like Kirtland AFB is still in the clear. We’ll land there.” There was no question with that statement.
I hold back a nod or statement of correctness. I want him to analyze and choose an action without having my acknowledgement — own the decision and proceed with it — so that he can get used to making decisions and acting on them. He has gained a tremendous amount of confidence, as has Bri, and they will gain more.
The turbulence begins to increase as we draw closer to the towering line of clouds. They are still in the distance but their height is more than impressive. The thunderstorms in this area can reach 70,000 feet and beyond. If you haven’t seen these kinds of storms, you should add that to your bucket list. The power inherent within the boiling mass of clouds is impressive. The air and land below is cloaked in dark shadows with a light show streaking from the clouds to the ground.
Craig gathers the maps and approach charts to Kirtland AFB as the all arms and elbows show that a divert causes begins. Robert sets up and begins a descent to the city of Albuquerque. There is a continuing flurry of activity within the cockpit along with an increase in the bouncing of the aircraft. Robert looks at the map between checks to find the airport. I hold onto the back of his seat as the aircraft attempts to knock me off my feet at times. I can tell he is trying to locate the field with the way he is holding the map up in front of his face and looking outside.
“Ah, there it is,” I hear him say over the intercom. With that, he sets the map down.
“Craig, what runways are there?” Robert asks.
“We have 08/26, 17/35, 03/21, and 12/30,” Craig answers looking at the field diagram in the approach charts. I’m interested in finding out which one he chooses.
The long line of storms lies a few miles away. I’m surprised to see them so big this early on in the day but it does happen. Usually, squall lines like the one in front of us forms in the afternoons and evenings as the air from the heated ground rises and cools. The turbulence we are experiencing so far out shows an unstable air mass so that must have contributed to the early rising storms. I’m hoping we’ll be able to get down to Canon AFB in the morning. I glance over and notice tension around Gonzalez’ eyes. I’m not sure if it’s the flying, being nervous operating the panel, or if it’s because we are close to her home and family.
Robert hesitates a moment deciding which runway to use. We continue our descent. “Which one is that longest one?” He asks pointing outside.
“The longest one is 08/26,” Craig answers.
“Okay, we’ll use that one. We’ll use runway 08 as it is closer. I would use whichever one the wind dictates but we don’t have that information,” Robert says turning the aircraft to get into alignment with the runway.
“That’s a good choice,” I say deciding to interject my thoughts. “One, it is the longest and the ground level around here is over 5,000 feet high. You know what that means, right?”
“Longer ground roll and takeoff distances,” he answers.
“Yep, exactly. Plus, with the storms nearby, there is the chance one of those storms can have a downburst. That means strong winds can head this way in a hurry from them. I’d rather be heading into something like that rather than away when landing,” I add. I see the wheels turn quickly in his mind as he absorbs this information.
“Makes sense. We could stall out if it came behind us,” he says after a moment of contemplation.
I’m glad to see him able to work through these thoughts while setting up for a landing as well. It gives me more confidence about our return flight. I give him a pat on the shoulder. “You’ve got this handled,” I say glancing at the overhead panel to make sure Gonzalez, under Bri’s supervision, has them set up correctly. I still remember our near glider experience.
The gusty winds and turbulence make the final approach a tricky one with the threshold of the runway bouncing around in front of the nose, like a drunk trying to fit a key in the lock, but Robert manages to get us down. The turbulence continues into the flare, we rise and then set down a little abruptly but we are able walk away from it so it’s a good landing. We taxi in to where a couple of HC-130’s are parked and shut down. The wind continues to buffet the aircraft as strong gusts blow through the area. I’m not sure if the storms will venture this way during the day or evening but their presence is certainly felt.
We unbuckle and head into the back. There is the unmistakable odor of someone that didn’t enjoy the turbulence much. The 130 is notorious for shaking so I’m not surprised. I open the ramp and, after setting a schedule for the teams to guard the area, tell everyone they are free to loiter outside as long as they don’t venture far or alone. We find a shop vac in one of the open hangars and clean up the mess inside. We even find some of the aromatic “kitty litter” used for such messes. I’m not sure which is worse though, the original smell or the “aromatic” nature of the kitty litter.
The gusts continue to sweep through the area but other than the occasional deep rumble of the storms in the distance, no other sound is heard. Surely there must be other survivors, I think surveying the ramp. After all, we’ve found others in our area. Perhaps they’ll respond to the sound of our arrival.
Although it was relatively short flight, we are all thankful to be outside regardless of the blustery conditions. It’s warm and humid but it’s nice to be out of the aircraft. If the storms alter their direction and decide to pay us a visit, we’ll be confined back in the 130 and all of its “comforts.” Read facetious. MRE’s are opened and we take as much protection from the gusts as the leeward side of the aircraft will allow. The thin air of the high desert is keenly felt. After being at sea level for so long, I feel like I can’t catch my breath. The team on guard splits into teams of two and stations themselves, with binoculars, around the ramp. They should be able to give us some warning of anything untoward.
Sitting on the ramp, I notice just how gritty and covered with sand it is. The desert is slowly beginning to take back what was once its domain. I look across the ramp and notice a wide trail cut through the grit where we taxied in. It’s not something that will affect us greatly at this point but definitely something to keep in mind. We’ll
