received the weather brief for my flight. Another pilot was the designated lead for this leg back to Amarillo. The weather wasn’t great with moderate to severe icing conditions enroute. We were flying trainers at the time so we didn’t have any de-icing or anti-ice capabilities. Oh, and icing sucks if you can’t get rid of it in some form or another. I thought about cancelling the flight but the weather reports for the next couple of days were even worse and the DO wanted to get home. I at least talked him into breaking the flights into 2-ship formations. That provides a little more flexibility.
I was with the original flight lead and the other two formed their own flight. I was not all that fond of our lead and remember him telling me in the crew bus, “Now, I’ll show you the way to truly lead a flight,” making me even fonder of him.
Well, off we went. We were the third 2-ship off the ground and were separated by 15 minute departure times. He asked for clearance and leveled us off at 11,000 feet which was below the cloud deck. Okay, that makes good sense but we burned fuel at a higher rate down that low. Plus, after leveling off, he kept the throttles up. I was snugged up into fingertip but glanced at my rpm to find we were still around 95%; burning fuel like crazy for no reason I could fathom.
The clouds and icing forced us to ask for and receive clearance down to 9,000 feet a short time later. I had the approach charts for Amarillo out and dialed in a secondary frequency for Amarillo approach. The weather was not forecast to be the greatest there either. Normally, we would have fuel to destination, to an alternate, and 45 minutes after reaching the alternate. We had this on leaving but our current fuel burn and altitude took our reserve down considerably. I would switch between our enroute center freq and the approach freq to determine what was going on there. We still had enough fuel to get to our destination, but it was even odds getting anywhere else. I heard a buddy in another flight flying into Amarillo notify approach that he was initial approach fix inbound. A short time later he called final approach fix. Approach came on asking him if he saw the airfield. Apparently the ceiling was pretty low there. The final approach fix is close to the missed approach point — the last point at which you either see the airfield and land or put the throttles up and go around for another try or head somewhere else. “Negative,” he replied back to them.
I missed his clearance switching back to our freq but knew where he was heading. Then that wonderful radio call, “Amarillo approach on guard, Amarillo is now closed.”
I could see scrambling in the aircraft next to me. After a moment of this, he looked over at me and gave me the hand signal to take the lead. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!!!” I said into my mask without transmitting. Not only had he gotten us into a mess but now expected me to get us out of it. My disgust meter pegged against the upper stop into the red zone.
I took and verified the lead, focusing on where we were. This led to a scrambling on my part. Part of me wanted to separate him off to get his own clearance and fend for himself but that was only a thought. Breaking him off would save fuel on both of our parts but it was obvious his clue bag was empty. I looked at the fuel gauge and damn near had a heart attack.
I keyed the mic button on the throttle and responded back, “Otter 39 flight, left 130.”
Looking again to the cloud base I could reach out and touch, I knew we had no choice but to climb. We were flat going to run out of gas before reaching Altus if we didn’t and the higher altitude would give us a better fuel rate and increased performance lengthening our range. But there was the icing to think about. Well, a certainty versus a possibility. “DenverCenter, Otter 39 flight requesting flight level 250 (pronounced two five zero).”
The reply came back, “Otter 39 flight, standby, expect flight level 250 in ten minutes.”
The military is different from the civilian world in that we could declare a precautionary without having to go to a full-blown emergency. This notifies our control facilities that we were in a situation that wasn’t quite an emergency but could result in one.
“Otter 39 flight, Denver Center, copy precautionary. Climb and maintain flight level 250.”
Yes, we were just bumped up on the priority list. I looked over at the aircraft tucked against my wing and gave the throttle up signal getting a nod back. Moving the throttles up into mil power, I raised the nose. We immediately went into IFR conditions meaning we had only the instruments to guide us as we lost visual reference. Ice immediately gathered on our wings. Not only does this decrease aircraft performance, but interrupts the airflow. Enough disruption and the aircraft ceases its ability to produce lift and turns from a high performance fun machine into a brick.
As we climbed higher, I kept expecting and wanting to break out on top of this. By flight level 180, I realized this may not happen and was questioning my decision. Ice coated the leading edge of our wings but we were still flying. This, incidentally, is a good thing. At flight level 210, the clouds began getting thinner and I could see the sun shrouded in mist above me. The ice stopped increasing and I fully expected to break out on top soon. But as we continued to climb, the sun only became a brighter disk in the sky, however, visibility increased. I leveled out at flight level 250 — that is really 25,000 feet but we use flight level designations beginning at 18,000 feet.
The visibility wasn’t too bad so I sent my wingman to chase. This is basically a loose formation where the wingman flies about a 1,000 feet behind and to the left or right of the lead aircraft. This position lends to a flexible position where I could maneuver easier and the wingman wasn’t constantly adjusting the throttles giving a better fuel consumption rate. I looked at the fuel gauge again.
I was actually beginning to get a bit nervous and worried at this point. Peeling my glove back, I used the flight calculator on my watch, setting the ground speed on the distance. I then looked at the fuel flow rate which gave me the fuel required. I compared that number with what I had on my gauge.
I continued to calculate the fuel. The fuel required and fuel onboard differential kept shrinking. I had serious thoughts that I would have to bail out; to the point of going through the controlled bailout checklist. The thought of bailing out didn’t exactly please me. It would be a long silk ride down through some very cold clouds. There was also the chance that the chute could freeze up with ice and cease being a parachute and more like a large piece of cardboard. Plus, there was the inquiry that would follow. See, the Air Force severely frowns on planting their aircraft into the earth. I knew I could probably skate on this one but still, not a pleasant thought. I liked my companion even more now!
The fuel differential finally became a negative one. I should have declared an emergency much earlier on but I always hesitated on doing that. “DenverCenter, Otter 39 flight, declaring a fuel emergency at this time,” giving out particulars with regards to position, fuel remaining and intentions, “request enroute descent into Altus for the PAR runway 35.” (Precision Approach Radar. An approach option for military aircraft whereby the controller guides the aircraft in with very precise headings and altitude corrections).
“Otter 39 flight, DenverCenter, copy emergency. Turn left heading 125, descend and maintain 15,000 at your discretion.”
About 100 miles out, having furiously checked and rechecked calculations, I signaled my wingman back into fingertip formation, completed our approach to field checks, and we started down towards Altus. During my
