The Persistence Of Memory

Those who've been following this Blog understand it's mostly about memories. In the beginning, I was afraid I'd forget the many things that happened before I could capture them in print. You know, before too much time passed. I now understand those memories are persistent, palpable and perpetual. They're always here with me. I can even feel them. Salvador Dali illustrated it pretty well in his masterpiece "The Persistence of Memory." With apologies to Salvador, I flew an airplane into his painting because, to me, the memories of air traffic have a persistence all their own.

Time, on the other hand, is of no real significance. It comes and goes; preceding each passing second and concurrently vanishing; leaving us with a "now" that is just too short to measure. Thankfully, it does leave those persistent memories of ours behind; scattered across the panorama of our lives.   

As to my life, it seems I spent most of it diligently winding clocks and watches, setting alarms or trying to correct the time if it was running fast or slow. According to the clock; I usually ended up being too early or too late anyway. It took a while but I finally figured out that I shouldn't even bother trying to set, sway, speed or slow the hands of time. The Universe calibrated my clock, then synchronized it to my life - and life isn't measured by hours and minutes. It's measured by events and those events always happen precisely when they're supposed to; which could be described as "right on time." I may never have believed my entire life happened on schedule - but it did. Take the early Seventies for example . . .

Life was moving at the speed of continental drift since my departure from military service. My application for an ATC position, eagerly and optimistically submitted, had apparently vanished into some minor FAA functionary's file drawer. I found an odd assortment of menial jobs to keep me busy. If you're interested, they're described somewhere in the back end of this blog. The work kept me afloat financially but my spirit was being swamped by waves of anxiety. I knew it was crazy but whenever my travels took me past the local airport, I'd glare at the control tower,  mutter a few expletives and shake my head. Frustration brought me to a point where I was seriously considering the idea of going back into the Air Force - just so I could work airplanes again. Looking back on life, I have to love that and every other mistake I almost made.

Living high on the extravagances that a minimum wage income allows, I moved into an affordable efficiency apartment on the north side of town. Although the classified ad called it an "efficiency," I referred to it as the "deficiency." There were so many deficiencies that I lost count half way through the list of health violations. Small, slightly smelly and unnecessarily outdated; it was the kind of apartment where police might one day discover 200 cats and a desiccated corpse. It was affordable though - as long as I stuck to my diet of deviled ham and bananas. I worked onward but could never quite reach my future.

Years passed. In the long run, the FAA did make me a job offer. Ironically, I had to think twice about accepting. By then, I'd worked myself into a pretty well paying and enjoyable job. I even had a better apartment! Going with the Feds would mean an initial (and substantial) decrease in pay. There was also a requisite relocation in the deal. The move would put me in an expensive metropolitan area that I couldn't possibly afford on a GS-7's salary. The offer was a "take it or leave it" deal though. I had one week to respond. That wasn't much time but it didn't really matter. My decision was preordained, so naturally I had to accept. There was simply no choice because, by the end of my Air Force career, air traffic control had become a vital organ that I couldn't live for long without.

I remember the subsequent months being a blur. The only time that mattered was my training time. Then, in nothing but an eight month instant, I found myself checked out through all tower positions and working on my radar certifications. Two years from that first foot in the door, I was fully certified at Big Time. Now that wasn't so hard, was it? Looking back, I'd say no. But back then? Looking ahead was intimidating.

It wasn't long before my first round of mids as a journeyman was scheduled. Trainees were always sent to the tower on mid shifts. But now, as a full performance controller, I could pull TRACON duty. Driving in to work, I knew what I would find when I got there. After all, I'd been home all evening, watching the lightning and listening to the din of heavy rain on the roof. I knew the crew on duty was dealing with a mess and that there'd be plenty left for me and my teammates to clean up when we arrived.

Mids, for me, usually began with a touch of circadian sleep disorder. Failing in my attempt to nap that afternoon, I would arrive at work a little out of sorts, off-balance and unshaven. By 10:45, traffic would normally be light and most of the radar sectors combined at two or three positions. Not tonight though. Walking into the TRACON I saw a Supervisor tearing strips off the printer and running them to the sectors. There were five still open and all were busy. Three of the evening shift guys would be held over for a couple hours to help us put a lid on the madness.

My mid shift teammate relieved both departure sectors and combined them into one. I was told to relieve the Final controller and let her go home. Airplanes that had been delayed at their departure points, some of them thousands of miles from Big Time, were only now beginning to show up at our arrival fixes. It was exciting. The approach controllers talked non-stop and their lines of planes stretched more than 40 miles from the airport. Radar vectors were flying in every direction. At least the bad weather had moved out and the field was VFR for the first time since that morning. After a brief consultation with the tower, I tried cutting some downwind traffic in tight on visual approaches. The first two worked nicely so I told the approach guys to start tightening up the arrival sequence. Everything was going well. The departure backlog was gone by 1:00 AM. Our holdovers from the evening shift left at 2:00 but the persistence of air traffic continued till after 3:00. The mid-shift Supervisor sat silently at his desk; counting strips, calculating the delays and catching up on log entries. In the ensuing years, there would be many more such mid shifts.

In sharp contrast with the FAA; I remember mid shifts in the Air Force being abnormally quiet. Still in the early stages of learning how impossible it was for me to sleep during the day; I'd lumber up the tower steps with my mid shift teammate, moving like a reanimated cadaver. Where I was stationed; most of the military air traffic was down for the night before 11:00 PM, so we'd be greeted by a bored looking NCOIC (Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge) who'd dutifully mutter his way through a review of the tower's daily log. I would dutifully nod with feigned interest in what he was saying. He and his evening shift crew would then rush down the steps as though the fire alarm had just sounded. In a moment, my partner Vince and I would be left in the complete silence of an empty tower cab, overlooking an empty runway. It was on such a night that a most incredible thing happened. My memory of it hangs on like the melted clock on Dali's tree limb.

By 3:00 AM, each of us had pretty well covered what we knew of the latest Squadron gossip and were settling into our chairs, feet up on the console, for a little quiet time (sleep). A light appeared across the airfield, just above the the horizon. It was moving slowly in a northerly direction; almost parallel to the runway and definitely inside our Control Zone. Certain it was a plane without a working transmitter; we simultaneously hailed it on both UHF and VHF emergency frequencies while signaling "Cleared to land" with the tower's light gun. As the craft continued north, we could see there were actually several lights glimmering; like the windows of an airliner's fuselage. But unlike the lights of an aircraft, these were indistinct; almost ethereal. They glowed like pale blue neon.

Curious about any sound this thing might be making, Vince dashed down the first flight of steps and out onto the catwalk. I called the radar unit. Did they see a target just Northeast of the field and moving North? I expected a wise-ass comment about flying saucers in the traffic pattern and I wasn't disappointed. Of course, the radar guys saw nothing on their scopes. After listening to the requisite dose of sarcasm and good-natured ridicule; I was told to leave them the hell alone and go back to sleep. Vince returned to report the night outside was as quiet as a crypt. None of the jet or propeller noise we were used to hearing. Nothing. The strange lights soon vanished over the northern horizon.

Me and Vince had an odd feeling about what had just happened. I picked up a phone and dialed the Watch Desk at our local Center. I was afraid that telling this story to anyone else was a mistake but decided it was worth the risk for a chance to have it corroborated.  The Supervisor, clearly much older and vastly more experienced than me, listened to my story. I could tell he was writing things down and figured he was making notes for a future discussion with our Squadron Commander. I'd be in trouble for sure. But no. He said my description of the object, its low altitude, slow speed and direction of flight matched reports some of his controllers had received from pilots flying across the region. Several people claimed to have spotted it but no one ever saw a radar image.

I remember watching the sunrise that morning, making a fresh pot of coffee for the day shift crew and talking to Vince about what we should do. The Air Force had a reporting program in place at the time. Named "Project Blue Book," it was a way of officially documenting what may have been a UFO sighting. Vince and I concluded there would be no report and no further mention of the incident to anyone; especially the incoming day shift guys. Along with the wry ribbing, we'd likely be labeled as lunatics by the Squadron brass; thus hobbling our chances of ever seeing another promotion. It was decided that what we saw that night must surely have been a weather balloon or another of those spontaneous outbreaks of swamp gas. We just left the tower, lingered over breakfast then moved on to the first open bar we could find. By the third round of beers, we were ready to admit what we'd really seen - but only to each other.

Another mid shift sticks in my memory - one clear and very cold night in the 1970s. A Center controller's urgent sounding voice came across the handoff line. "Hey Big Time, you talking to that guy twenty east of MALYN squawking 4543 at eleven thousand?" It was nearly 5:00 AM and for the last hour or so I'd only been talking to myself.  I saw the target he referred to though, so I pushed the handoff line button and responded. The center controller said he'd been working the plane, a Piper Navajo, for the last 45 minutes but had recently lost radio contact. It was also way off it's planned route, now about 70 miles off course and headed toward some very unfriendly terrain. After checking with the other sectors, it was clear the pilot wasn't talking to anyone at the Center. The controller was now calling all towers and approach controls along the aircraft's flight path. It seemed no one was talking to the Navajo, which was still holding its last assigned altitude of eleven thousand feet. The situation would change but as we know; change isn't always a good thing.

I called the tower and, between us, we transmitted on every frequency we had. No joy. The plane flew on and soon left my radar coverage. It wasn't till nearly 7:00 AM that the Center sector called and told me the plane eventually began losing altitude then vanished from his radar screen. Wreckage was never found and we were left with our theories about what happened. The most plausible one was that the pilot had dozed off - his plane eventually running out of fuel. With luck, he died in his sleep. This incident lodged itself in my memory like a fishhook and became a shot of adrenalin whenever I felt myself getting sleepy on mid-shifts or long drives.

I have so many many memories; some good and others, well, not so good. They don't go away though. They accumulate over a long career and, like my old record collection, become disorganized and eventually take up a lot of space. I've put some of them away in storage but still retrieve them now and then for my own enjoyment. In a way, memories are a lot like my old records. They can both be played over and over again. Someone or something just needs to push the right buttons. Case in point; I recently discovered one of my old teammates from the Big Time days, on a social media site. That pushed some long unused buttons and the memories started playing immediately. Like me; this guy was brutally insane in those days. We shared secrets and experienced many control room tantrums, terrors and temptations together. The memories of them persist, even after all this time.

Time passes. I don't even care where it goes. It takes nothing of mine when it leaves but it leaves me with plenty. Those persistent memories; they stay like my skin color. I don't know exactly where each one is at the moment but, like my old Big Time buddy, I'll eventually find them again. 

© NLA Factor, 2013

Don't Come Back Till Spring!

Trying to drive a hardly heated, subcompact car on a partly plowed, subfreezing road was bad enough. Snow hadn't been my friend since the days when it got me out of going to school. But now I was up to my hubcaps in it, lurching along in the ruts made by larger vehicles and hoping I could reach the airport without sliding sideways into a ditch. Meanwhile, the usual assortment of Winter driving 'experts' showered me with slush as they flew past in four-wheel drive. My wiper blades were starting to seize up and the windshield defroster wasn't working. What could make it worse? How about this; I was heading to the airport on my day off.

A sizable snowstorm hit the region over night and, by morning, everything was buried under 18 or more inches. High winds had driven a four foot snowdrift onto my driveway and across the front yard. The only way out of the house was through the back door. It was a good day to be home so I sat in the living room, drinking coffee and watching TV . . . probably "Lucy" reruns. The only thing I had to do today was get the driveway cleared ~ but I figured there was no hurry. Streets in this neighborhood wouldn't be plowed till late afternoon anyway. Then, at around 10:00 AM, I got a call. Picking up the phone, I regretted it immediately.

It was Hank ~ one of the day shift Supervisors. I was sure he wasn't checking in to tell me I'd won the football pool. He said there were only eight or nine controllers in the facility. That wasn't a problem though. Since all runways were closed and any traffic coming to Big Time had been ground-stopped, I knew that most of those controllers would be loitering in the break room with their own cups of coffee. The real problem was looming for the evening shift. That's where I would come in - literally. One runway and a few connecting taxiways were expected to open around 2:00 PM. The ground stop would then be replaced with some hefty mile-in-trail restrictions on arrivals. The problem was that many of the evening shift guys had already called to say they weren't going to be able to get to work. How about me? Would I be able to make it in?

Hank could have simply ordered me to work but was hoping I'd volunteer first. His voice dripped with desperation. I felt sorry for him. The situation had to be bad because trainees like me, who were certified only in the tower, rarely got called for overtime.

Big Time was an airport surrounded mostly by urban blight and highway interchanges. None of us lived nearby. Everyone lived at least 40 minutes out in suburbia and many were much further away than that. I was in one of the nearest neighborhoods and, painful though it was, I couldn't bring myself to decline Hank's plea for help. Besides, the extra bucks would be handy. So, after a couple of hours spent clearing the walk and driveway, I set out to collect a little overtime pay. It was not going to be worth the money. I figured this would be a long, agonizing ordeal but I had no idea. Attempting to stab myself to death by planting a carrot seed in my belly button would have seemed quicker and less painful.

When I arrived at the TRACON to sign in, the place was nearly empty. All of the radar sectors were combined at two positions and, even at that, neither of the guys were busy. I started thumbing through the "Read & Initial Binder," looking for anything new. One of the Supervisors walked by and muttered "When you're done there, go on up to the tower." No surprise. At this point in my training, I was only certified in the tower and two TRACON Flight Data positions.

The tower saw most of the action during snow situations. Looking down on one of the gate areas, I could see plenty of activity. Ramps were mostly plowed and several aircraft were being deiced. Across the airfield, I saw the lines of snow removal equipment moving in formation down the runway. It appeared they'd be done on schedule. Good thing. There were already airplanes from the more distant departure points airborne and headed our way. Airports closer in would start getting releases fairly soon.

Big Time sat quietly in the snow. It was like a well shaken bottle of beer and the cap was about to be pulled off. Worried as usual, I waited for orders from the Cab Supervisor. He was on the phone to the TRACON but finally glanced in my direction and said "Better open up Ground."  Traffic was currently so slow that Ground was combined at the Local Control position. I felt a sense of relief. Ground was going to be challenging enough but Local? I had no clue. Since my tower training had started and ended before I had the chance to work under these conditions - I was a bit 'snow blind' to all the realities of Winter operations. Lucky for me, an older journeyman had already been assigned to Local. I saw a chance to get a little learning done if I could just pay attention to what he was doing.

A half-hour after I signed onto Ground, the Airport Authority opened the first runway.  A few airplanes asked for taxi instructions and I started steering them toward the only available way out of here. More airplanes were being deiced at the gates and I even saw some movement on one of the General Aviation ramps. Big Time was shaking off the snow and waking up. So far though, there were still no arrivals visible on the tower's BRITE radar. I heard someone coming up the tower steps.

It was Jack; another trainee. Jack was only certified through Ground Control, which is where the Supervisor sent him.  I was to relieve the Journeyman controller on Local, who was now needed in the TRACON. Apparently Approach Control was beginning to see some of those arrivals we'd been waiting for. I took a deep breath, plugged my headset in and looked out across the airfield. Gusty winds were blowing a lot of snow right back onto the plowed surfaces.

Within twenty minutes, there were several aircraft lined up, both at the runway and on the final approach course. The TRACON was under orders to give us at least eight miles between inbound flights. That should have been sufficient spacing to allow me to get one departure out between arrivals. Normally, eight miles would be excessive spacing on final. The thing was, we had to compensate for the fact that pilots were dealing with packed snow on the runway (braking action fair) and only two cleared exit taxiways. Missing the first turnoff would mean a slow taxi to the runway end, while the next departure rolled gingerly into position. Runway occupancy time was going to be high. That was normal for such conditions. The real problem was my low experience level and unfamiliarity with the ways of Winter in tower operations. Runway occupancy time? What the hell was that?

The simple act of getting the next departure into position, normally something clocked in seconds, could take twice as long under such dicey conditions. It seemed the larger the airplanes were - the slower they rounded each snow covered corner.  It was the same at the far end of the runway as each arrival decelerated, then began creeping toward the next available exit point. All the while, another arrival would be bearing down on the landing threshold - hoping the plane sitting there would start rolling soon.

The tower Supe was a gentleman known around Big Time as "Tampa," in recognition of his home town. Tampa was cool. A quiet guy, never excitable, you might not even know he was there. Tampa could enter a room like smoke under the door. Suddenly he'd be right behind you. He had an uncanny talent for knowing where the trouble was or soon would be. Tampa also knew I needed this Wintertime experience on Local Control. He was probably weighing the benefits of allowing me to get it against the complaints he'd hear from the TRACON, the airlines, the Command Center and everyone else who expected a perfect world under imperfect conditions. Until I got my timing down, there'd be missed approaches, missed EFC's (Expect further clearance times) and missed departure opportunities. Like I said though, Tampa was cool. He knew we all had to learn sometime.

So, down came the airplanes from their holding patterns. Then, after a few vectors across the outlying Counties, they'd turn onto a downwind leg. From the tower, I could see them descending through the bright, Winter sky and rolling quietly onto the localizer- still miles away. The previous arrival having just touched down, I promptly cleared the next departure into takeoff position - using my most authoritative "Prepare for an immediate!" Halfway down the runway, reverse thrusters were kicking up great billows of loose snow as the last to land made its best effort to slow up and get off the runway. Tampa stood silently in the back of the cab; watching and listening to everything. From the B-727 on a 4 1/2 mile final; "Tower, are we cleared to land?" My last to land had missed the only available high-speed taxiway and was now heading for the runway end. I asked him to expedite but that wasn't going to happen. He was moving at a speed that made things go wrong quickly.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Everything, that is, but the Boeing, now on a three mile final. My departure had nudged forward across the hold line and made a slow 90 degree turn onto the runway, where it stopped.  I glanced at the last to land - now at the far end of the runway and beginning to turn. I refocused on the arrival, now less than three out. "Allegheny two-eighty-five, cleared for immediate takeoff, traffic two and a half miles out." (Sometimes we fib a little. Call it providing impetus.) Seconds ticked by. I saw a cloud of snow rise behind the DC-9 as its engines spooled up.  This wasn't going to work. The B-727's gear was coming up.  "We're going around." was all the pilot said. I squinted out the tower window, wondering why I answered that damned phone this morning. Tampa was already talking to the TRACON Supervisor about the go-around.

Cursing to myself, I issued missed approach instructions. Then I pushed a button on the console that put my voice directly into the Departure controller's headset.  "Eastern is going around." By the time I got additional instructions from the TRACON on where to send the missed approach, my departure was lifting off and heading skyward. An annoyed sounding approach controller's voice in my headset said; "Gimme the Eastern on a two-forty heading and up to five!" I looked at the BRITE radar. By now, there were arrivals all over the place and I was giving the guys downstairs another one.

Allegheny had been switched to Departure Control and was into a climbing turn. I cleared the next plane in line for takeoff, just as another flight called outside the outer marker. Tampa sidled up next to me. "Try to keep 'em moving" he said in a low tone. I'm sure I gave him a puzzled look. "The departures" he said. "Try not to let 'em stop on the runway. Once they stop, you've gotta get 'em movin' again, and that takes time! After your arrival touches down, you need to watch it and wait a few seconds. If it looks like he's gonna miss the high-speed turnoff, wait till he's close to the end, then put your departure into position. It's all in the timing. The idea is to clear him for takeoff before he has to stop. Approach is giving us plenty of room between the arrivals. You need to make it work!" Jack, the new Ground controller, was listening intently to everything Tampa said.

Sometimes I made it work and sometimes I made a mess. I was learning though. Tampa left me on Local Control for nearly two hours; alternately coaching, cringing and answering angry calls from the TRACON Supervisor. They got pissed off whenever I gave them back an airplane they'd somehow have to squeeze into the arrival flow. By the time I was radar certified, I understood why. You start setting up your required mileage interval between arrivals as they leave the holding patterns; tweaking it with a little vectoring and speed control, then allowing for some compression as they turn onto the final. Trying to fit an eleventh airplane into the middle of a nicely spaced line of ten usually required a lot of vectoring and speed reductions.   It was a lot of work for the controller, made the Approach frequency noisy and put the pilots on edge.

Tampa's advice was good. I had a lot to learn and needed hone my skills. In air traffic control, timing was always important but under these airfield conditions, it was everything. With a little prompting from Tampa, I began getting the hang of it.  An arrival would fly over the runway end and touch down six to 800 feet later. Reverse thrusters would kick up some snow as the plane started slowing up.  Resisting the urge to get my next departure into position, I kept an eye on that arrival to see if he was going to make the first turnoff. Then a quick check of the next to land's distance from the runway and groundspeed.  If things looked reasonably good, I'd get the departure moving into position; hoping I could clear him for takeoff before he had to stop. Tampa stayed within arm's length of the TRACON hotline as we both watched that next arrival, now less than three out. My previous arrival turned off the runway just as the departure rolled onto the centerline. It looked sweet.  "Cleared for immediate takeoff, traffic two and a half miles out."

It worked . . . well . . . most of the time. There were a couple more go-arounds but I wasn't nearly as 'snow blind' as I was at the beginning of the shift. When Tampa finally had me relieved from Local, he told me to get the hell out of the tower and with a wry tone quipped; "And don't come back till Spring!" Then he smiled, told me to "Take ten," then relieve the guy on Clearance Delivery.  I headed downstairs to the break room but Robbie, one of the older journeymen caught me in the hall. "You're a god damned idiot, Factor! But you're learning." Nodding stupidly, I recognized the kind of compliment a trainee gets. If he'd only glared at me and said nothing I would have been in real trouble.

NLA Factor, 2012

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

A Quiet Sunday Morning

It was a sloppy setup. If there'd been a few more airplanes in the picture, I would have called it a bad setup. Two air carriers, a B-737 and an MD-80, on parallel courses, were headed toward an empty localizer on a 25 mile long left base leg. The Boeing was on the airport side of the formation and the MD-80 was at its two o'clock and five miles. Although the Boeing would turn final closer to the marker, the Md-80 was s couple of miles ahead. Both aircraft, level at 4000, were cloaked in a cloud layer that extended down to about 2000 feet. Two controllers had all sectors combined. It was a quiet Sunday morning at Small Time Tower.The arrival controller had taken the handoffs at different fixes; each about 45 miles from the runway. He assigned a couple of headings toward final and gave them pilot's discretion down to 4000. The sequence would surely become self-evident when they got closer to the airport ~ although they were running neck and neck all the way. A timely dash of speed control would have taken all the guesswork out, but no. They hurtled on with nose cones glowing. On the other side of the localizer; one lonely air carrier made its way along the downwind leg. Since it hadn't yet passed the airport, there was plenty of time to figure out who'd follow who. It looked like a possible three-way tie to me.

As the dayshift supervisor, I had just finished one of my periodic walking tours of the TRACON. Everything was accounted for. Three airplanes, two controllers, one supervisor and no problems. A countdown to disaster perhaps? Nah! It was a quiet Sunday morning.

I didn't like the approach controller's serendipitous sequencing strategy but he was an experienced enough guy. I knew he'd figure something out. I sat back down at the desk and began pondering Summer leave requests from my team members. Where the hell did I put that seniority list? Oh, I must have set it down on the TRACON Data position during my last walk-through. I got up and headed across the room. Passing the arrival controller again, I noticed the Boeing and Md-80 were now level at 3000, about four miles apart laterally and still in a staggered formation with the Boeing slightly behind. The localizer was only about ten miles ahead. That lone air carrier on the opposite downwind was now looking like the proverbial fly in the ointment. Something had to give but I knew the controller must have a plan by now.

He did. Instructions were murmured into a headset, the controller's voice was heard in the MD-80's cockpit and a plan was thereby set in motion. The plan was that the Boeing would be number one. The flight on the opposite side of the final had been given a speed reduction and would turn to follow. The MD-80 was assigned a right two-seventy for spacing and would be vectored back onto the base leg as number three in sequence. That was the plan. It was a bit extreme but that was because the controller let everyone get to a point where there was no room left for more subtle solutions.

I was back at the supe's desk when I heard the Conflict Alert alarm. Within seconds I was behind the arrival controller, leaning over his shoulder and gaping at his scope with incredulity. The MD-80 was well into a left turn and closing quickly on the Boeing. Since the MD had been a couple of miles ahead to begin with, it was practically turning into the other aircraft's nose as the two aircraft converged. The controller was transmitting excitedly but his words were just white noise. All I could hear was the Conflict Alert alarm which was nearly overridden by a loud ringing in my ears. Data blocks showed both aircraft level at 3000 as the radar targets merged.I stood, frozen in horror ~ unable to speak ~ unable, even, to exhale.You can rediscover an entire lifetime between two ticks of a second hand. A kid lying on the warm suburban sidewalk; watching a Super Constellation climbing away from some big city airport. Years later ~ boarding my first airplane at that same airport and taking off for a four-year hitch in the Air Force. I recalled every tale of aviation tragedy told by the old timers at Big Time Tower. I saw the mortally wounded PSA Flight 182 leaving a clear San Diego sky one September day in '78 ~ victim of a midair collision. All this and more was there between those two ticks ~ including a vision of the headline in tomorrow's newspaper. "Hundreds Killed As Two Airliners Collide"I was overcome by the sickness of paralyzing inability. Nothing could be done but wait and I couldn't even do that. Light-headed; I might have fainted but there was no time. Resigned to the situation, like someone strapped into an electric chair, I began wondering how the collision would appear on our radar. Would there be dozens of tiny targets? Would the wreckage hit a school? Would the Warden call with a last minute reprieve? Whatever the outcome, I knew the next second would represent a seminal moment in my journey. Hit or miss, this was a life changer.

The MD-80 was still in its left turn when, once again, we could discern two targets. The radio frequency was silent. Not a word came from either aircraft as they quietly headed off in nearly opposite directions. The controller issued a descent to the Boeing, then a turn to intercept the final approach course. The MD, now moving away from the airport, was given another turn. I told the controller to have the MD-80 crew telephone the TRACON when they got to the gate. I had him relieved, appointed a controller in charge then made a call to the Regional Office. Somewhere along the line I had to sit ~ so I could finish my heart attack without the risk of falling.

I asked the controller why he hadn't done something when the MD-80 began its left turn. His reply was that it all happened too quickly. There were, of course, a few ways to have mitigated the situation. It could even have been completely avoided if he'd put those two aircraft in-trail 30 miles from the airport. Water over the dam. By the time he realized what was happening it was too late. Thinking about the fact that I was seated at the supe's desk when this started only exacerbated my discomfiture. What the hell was I doing at the desk? Oh now I remember! It was a quiet Sunday morning.

The tape playback verified what the controller had reiterated several times. He'd decided the MD-80 would be number three in the sequence and, to make it work, assigned a right two-seventy for spacing. The pilot's response was vague and should have been questioned. Then the flight turned left. Why? It took a call from the Captain to understand. He'd missed the "right" and heard only the "two-seventy for spacing." This was understood to be the new heading. From where he was, the quickest way to two-seventy was a left turn. Unwilling to believe what I assured him was the controller's actual instruction, I invited him up to hear the tape. Astonishment ensued.

It wasn't even noon and I felt like I'd been inhaling paint fumes all morning. Sick and exhausted, I made log entries and filled out forms for the rest of the shift.

Supervising the TRACON was much different than the tower. Upstairs, I could see everything from the middle of the cab. I could hear each controller and keep a general idea of what was going on across their airport world. If needed, I was ready to help.The radar room was another story. Depending on the number of open sectors, there were as many separate worlds. Standing at a vacant scope and pushing "Quick-Look" buttons only revealed a part of what each sector was doing. I could get a much better idea by spending a little time behind each controller and listening. Even at that; I was seeing and hearing only part of a composite picture. At the supervisor's desk I was mostly uninformed and therefore pretty useless if trouble broke out. But who'd expect trouble to break out on a quiet Sunday morning?

© NLA Factor, 2010

Simple Math

Does one plus one really equal two...or just too much? Sometimes you don't know till its too late. Therein lies the uncertainty of combining radar sectors. One plus one can end up equalling one big problem. Do the math. Add two sectors together. Subtract the extra set of eyes normally watching over things, multiply your responsibilities, then try dividing your attention between dissimilar situations happening in diffuse locations at very high speeds. Kids, do not try this at home.

To be fair though, it can also be fun. You have a lot of flexibility in a combined configuration and can do all kinds of pilot pleasing things without coordination. Climb higher, turn sooner, go direct...whatever. The airspace is all yours, so be creative! There are things to keep in mind though. You will lose some of the unspoken advantages that two sectors provide...like frequency separation. So don't get too tricky. Moreover, combining must be done with the insight and timing of a Wall Street trader. Know your market trends and when to make the move. Still, when done properly, combining sectors can be like combining milk and honey. Sweet.

I should mention it can also be like combining a house full of gas fumes with a lighted match.

If I had a pin for every time I asked a supervisor to let me combine sectors, I'd probably look like this guy by now. Then there were times when, as the TRACON supervisor, a controller would tell me it was time to combine. I'd take a look at things and usually agree with the assessment. There must be a number I could attach to the times I got "stuck" sorting out the ensuing debacle but I can't really pin it down. I can attest to the pain though.

Take, for example, an early Sunday morning in September when I sat at Big Time's Southwest arrival sector with little else to do but doodle on my strips. Sunday mornings were like that. I told the TRACON supe I'd be happy to take the underlying satellite sector for a while. She wisely called the satellite tower and asked if it looked like anything would be happening soon. "Nahh!" was the reply. "Not much going on here either." She then closed the sector, sent the controller to the break room and gave me the airspace. Great! I was beginning to get bored.

A couple of Big Time arrivals rolled in over my South fix; back from their cross-country jaunt. In a wink I had them both on vectors toward the airport for a visual approach. Some guy in a Bonanza called to request VFR advisories. No problem. I lit him up and issued the altimeter setting. Then the satellite tower phoned to say there was a twin Cessna taxiing out and was hoping to shoot some VFR practice approaches. Make my day.

A few more air carriers headed toward my other arrival fix. Easy money. I took the handoffs, gave em' the official greeting then turned them to follow the other two. The supervisor had vanished but I could hear her voice coming from the break room. She was slightly louder than the television. Apparently, somebody needed to get back up to the tower "Right Now!" I wondered why. Fragments of the discussion made their way back to the TRACON but I could barely hear it over the noise of the flight data printers. They'd started spitting out arrival and departure strips; non-stop. Glancing at my tab list I noted it was multiplying. From these clues, Sherlock Holmes would already have deduced I was about to be roughed up.

I won't drag you through the minutia of how a subtle but steady drop in visibility lead to a sudden spike in my blood pressure. The twin Cessna was on downwind for a second ILS approach when the pilot said it was just getting too hazy. He needed an IFR clearance back to the airport. Another clue? Elementery my dear pinhead. Five seconds later, the satellite tower called for release on two IFR departures. I released the first one. Oh, and that VFR Bonanza getting traffic advisories? He now needed an IFR clearance into another, uncontrolled satellite airport. I looked around for the supervisor. No joy.

The satellite departure was off and climbing toward a VOR on the other side of my sector. There were several more aircraft inbound to Big Time and it was clear to me that none of them would find the airport on their own. I was calling traffic on numerous unknown VFR targets. Nobody ever saw them. I wondered if anybody had seen the TRACON supe?

The East arrival controller called to ask which of my airplanes he should follow on the ILS. There was no final controller either so he and I were tweaking aircraft speeds and turning them onto the localizer. Heart racing, I mumbled something about giving him ten miles between my traffic and he should hit the gaps. The Center started calling about the next two inbounds that had been flashing at me. Okay, okay! Just as I got back into my vectoring, the satellite tower called again about the other IFR departure still waiting to go, plus two more now taxiing out. I was preparing my brusk response when the TRACON supe, who was now standing behind me, took the call. In a move that would stun the breakroom population for hours, she had just conscripted someone to reopen the satellite sector.

Explaining my flustered state came down to simple math. In-flight visibility was subtracted, workload multiplied and my attention precariously divided. It all added up to ten white knuckles. Did I learn anything from this exercise? Not in an enduring way. Would it happen again? Many times. Am I a dumbass? Well, I never was much good at math.

© NLA Factor, 2010