Persistence Of Memory, Part II

My eyes aren't as sharp as they once were. Maybe it's their way of telling me I've already seen too much. These days, my memory isn't so sharp either. That might be good news for someone who'd rather not recall certain things. Unfortunately, my worst memories are still as brilliant and annoying as a pair of oncoming high beams. To me, bad memories are like volcanoes. They may lay dormant for a while but, sooner or later, they'll erupt again; sending me running to find quieter thoughts. Regrettably, experience has proven I can never outrun the flow of sad, bad or completely mad memories. One of them caught up with me recently - most likely triggered by a news headline I saw somewhere. 
   
You've probably had a few of those 'jump up and click your heels' kind of mornings. It was one of those rare days at work. No bedlam, no bad weather and none of the usual workplace bullshit. The day could only have been better if it was raining hundred dollar bills, so I was actually happy when the boss sent me upstairs. I mounted the last few steps into the tower just as the local controller, my old Air Force buddy Rob, cleared a medium sized twin engine airplane for takeoff. I watched as the flight rolled onto our longest runway and surged off toward the blue sky ahead - all the while wondering where it was headed and wishing I could be along for the ride. The day was as fine for flying as it was for air traffic control.

Spring filled the air - along with the usual swarm of airplanes buzzing around Big Time like gnats. The airfield between paved surfaces had already begun turning a very seasonal chartreuse; easy on the eye and a welcome change from the achromatic tones of Winter. Yeah, on a day like this, a few hours in the tower were just what I needed.

Looking around, I took in all the normal activity on Big Time's bewildering maze of taxiways, ramps and airline gates. Tugs, baggage trains, catering trucks, maintenance vehicles and planes were all moving to the cadence of another busy day. There was some repaving in progress at the intersection of two key taxiways; requiring a tricky reroute to the departure runway. The project had been going on for weeks so most of us were pretty tired of bitching about it. Billy, on Ground Control, was chattering non-stop at his traffic. He had a funny habit of pointing at each airplane he called; claiming it helped him keep the picture. It seemed to work. Never a "still life with planes," Billy's traffic was always a moving picture show. Even though his voice kept that West Virginia mountain twang of his roots; the pilots understood, complied and rolled into lines like a precision drill team. One of the tower trainees started referring to him as "Skillbilly" - an appellation that caught on quickly. Billy was a masterful tower controller,

Another departing flight rolled onto the runway and held as the twin became airborne. I watched the wheels retract as it began climbing but my attention was mostly on Billy; who I had been sent upstairs to relieve. Several air carriers were pushing out of their gates as others were already forming lines and moving toward the taxiways. Billy was doing a lot of pointing. Our first departure rush of the day was beginning and I couldn't wait to get into it. Glancing at the flight plans and our list of the center's departure restrictions, I tried to figure out what Billy's plan was. Then I heard Rob mutter something that sounded like "Jeezus!"

Glancing left I saw the twin engine aircraft, now midfield and five hundred feet or so above the runway. Seemingly poised in space, its nose was pointing nearly straight up but beginning to lean leftward. From there, it tilted into a vertical dive, hit the ground with a thump we felt through the tower floor, then vanished in a flash of flames. A roiling mass of black smoke rose from the ground and spread across the blue sky like spilled ink. It looked as though a hole had opened up next to the runway and swallowed that airplane.

Several other aircraft were lined up on the parallel taxiway awaiting departure but none of them said a word on tower's frequency. I guess everyone was as awe-struck as we were. No doubt there was widespread horror among those passengers who were unfortunate enough to see what just happened.

There was a graveyard kind of silence in the tower cab. I began hearing sounds that were normally masked by the cacophony of control instructions, complaints and cursing; things like the tower's ventilation system and the low murmur of electrical equipment. Our supervisor never spoke either. He simply turned, picked up the emergency hotline and started talking quietly - undoubtedly restating the obvious. This was not the usual emergency notification like an inbound flight with an engine out, unsafe gear indication or on board medical emergency, This was a story that was actually beginning at the end.

I had only been in the tower for a few minutes. That's all the time it took for my memory to record an image that, in all the ensuing years, has not faded. As a radar controller; I'd been involved in a few aircraft accidents over time but each one took place many miles from Big Time Airport. I never had to actually see the aftermath. Those off-airport crashes were traumatic enough for the controllers involved but this one was especially grim. I tried to imagine the pilot's thoughts during those final few seconds of life. Frustration? Resignation? Was there any time for realization or regret? And how about the passengers? I still wonder. For me it was simply stubborn disbelief.

The intense fire was eventually extinguished and the smoke blew away. Once again it looked like Spring across the airfield - except for that large black spot next to the departure runway. In the days ahead; FAA would do its required reviews, interviews and reports. The NTSB would investigate and draw its conclusions. I never heard what they decided about a probable cause.

I do know one thing for sure. From that day on, whenever I went to the tower, a bad memory followed me up the stairs. It was as inevitable as your dropped coin that rolls under the vending machine. Good thing smart phones hadn't been invented yet or I'd still be dealing with the "You Tube" videos.

Bad things happen and sometimes you can protect yourself from them. Friends of mine recently had one of those "safe rooms" installed in their garage. Unfortunately, it'll only protect them from things like fires, hurricanes, home invasions and, with luck, cable news networks. I wish someone made a product that could lock out my bad memories. They don't always fade with time. Alcohol can blur them for a short while but, when they come back into focus, they seem even worse than before.

© NLA Factor, 2015

Like It Or Not

Thinking of revisiting the past? I can tell you this; it's nearly as impossible as the idea of returning to a place you've never been. I keep trying to do it though. I keep trying to travel my mind back to those halcyon days of headaches, havoc, heartbreak and even a little hostility. Or was it the days of  kinship, certitude and camaraderie among my fellow controllers? I'm not sure but, either way, it's like going the wrong way on an exit ramp. Going against the flow of time is an exercise in crazy. But if, like me, you insist on attempting the trip; you won't need any baggage. Baggage is what you carry into the future. The past is where you pick it up. 

Damn. Instead of trying to return; maybe I should have just stayed there. Sometimes, when I hear certain music from the past and the wine I'm drinking is working just right; I feel like I'm still there. I can still recall some of the communal minutia of our conversations: the controller's common likes and dislikes - especially the dislikes. To wit . . . 

Airline pilots. We idolized them, envied their salaries and occasionally wished we could shake them by their collars till the little gold wings fell off their uniforms. Perfectly groomed; they perambulated through the terminal building, leading their flock of flight attendants to a gleaming stretch eight, B-707 or maybe a waiting hotel limo. With neatly pressed uniforms, hat bent into the requisite "fifty mission crush" topping a shock of gray hair; their eyes seemed to reflect the cloudless blue flight levels they traveled in. Everyone called them "Captain" or "Sir." Many of those same people typically referred to us as jokers, jerks, assholes or, on a good day, troublemakers. They had no idea. We were all that and more.

We were air traffic controllers; government drones who's workday was spent in rancid radar rooms and smoke filled tower cabs. Immersed in the incessant murmur of control instructions, requests, rumors and occasional rage; we were rebellious, disrespectful, sartorially senseless, often unshaven and damned proud of it all. But ask a tower controller about the airline pilot who, on being instructed to taxi into position and be ready for an immediate departure ("Traffic three miles out."), turns his flying machine onto the runway like it was full of eggs balanced on beer bottles. Yep. Here comes the first go-around of the day. We often wondered if the slow taxi was a not-so-subtle way of screwing with a rival airline's bottom line. That go-around cost them money, worried their passengers and could even lead to missed connections. Usually though, it was the tower controller who'd eventually be called on the carpet for "exercising poor judgement."

There's also the guy driving his swift and sleek 727 who's been issued one or two speed reductions but clearly hasn't slowed up. Now he's gaining on preceding traffic. You tell him to reduce speed or face a few delaying vectors. One left three-sixty puts him back in line behind two flights that were originally following him. Later on, he calls the Watch Desk to complain about the inept and impertinent controller who caused him to miss his scheduled arrival time.

One of my personal favorites is the flight crew that never seem to be paying sufficient attention on arrival into a busy radar sector. After some frazzled controller has to call them at least twice for every instruction (a waste of everyone's time); the pilot is liable to hear a very blunt "Listen up Captain!" or something far worse. Since every other airman on the frequency (sometimes dozens) hears the admonishment, it can be an embarrassing blow to someone's overpaid ego. Odds are good the Watch Supervisor will soon be taking a call from the pilot. The controller involved will likely be "questioned and released."

Such things are infrequent and quickly forgotten - until the next time. That's when we recall all previous peeves and may get a little pissed off - especially if we're the ones being yelled at by a management who's job score is built mainly on points made with the airlines.

In fairness; I should add that controllers can come up with a thousand ways to anger an airman - sometimes deliberately. After all; we could cost them lots of money. Time spent on delaying vectors, in a holding pattern or parked on a taxiway could easily have cost their company more than my monthly salary. The worst they could do was get us a good ass chewing or possibly a letter of discipline in our official personnel file. For some choice examples, read any of my blog entries recounting the years before PATCO called for a strike. One genius I worked with actually responded to a pilot's query about when he would get out of the holding pattern with; "Maybe when you declare minimum fuel Captain." Sure, it had been a long, stressful shift and the guy had actually been given an "expect further clearance" (EFC) time when he entered holding. But . . . really?

On the flip side of all this; we also loved airline pilots. I couldn't possibly say how many times one of them helped me out when I really needed it. Take the plane I mentioned earlier that was instructed to taxi onto the runway and be ready for an immediate departure.

Pilots who were as interested as we were in keeping things moving efficiently could make a tight situation work. They looked out the cockpit window and could see the approaching airplane on final. They knew they had to be airborne before that plane touched down and they knew how to make that happen. Rather than lumber onto the runway as though every one of the tires were flat; they'd swing smartly into position, stand on the brakes and begin sliding the throttles forward - waiting for the green light. When cleared for an immediate takeoff; the pilot did things with the plane that would make any aircraft manufacturer proud.

ATC was always a joint effort between controllers and pilots. The controller can see what needs to happen but oftentimes it's the pilot who either makes the plan fly or fail. For example; the controller can see a usable gap in the long line of landing flights. Holes in the landing sequence are a waste of airspace. A skilled controller sees the chance to fit an airplane in there. To make it work though; immediate action on the flight crew's part is needed on any request for speed adjustments and heading changes. A few seconds of delay makes the chance go away.

The best controllers I worked with were, in a way, lazy controllers. They didn't want to be bothered with vectoring an arrival out to the end of the line if they could squeeze it into the middle somewhere. Pulling it off usually required some help from the higher ups.

Genetically, most controllers I knew were averse to Management. While some air traffic facilities were guided by a highly competent, fair and empathetic leadership; others were run by folks who were far too intoxicated by the power, influence and prestige of their position to listen when they should have. They dealt with the controller workforce in a consistently authoritarian manner, which only set the stage for more conflict. Bound by contract to negotiate with the bargaining unit (us controllers) only meant they had to work a little harder to win the day. Working in such a facility, we knew the hand holding all the Aces also held us jokers by the neck.

Other things we didn't like were bad weather, sudden or scheduled equipment outages, short staffing, disapproved leave requests, incompetent supervisors and many other things that even a sane person would find disagreeable. What we liked was the adrenalin rush we got from working heavy traffic when everything clicked. In fact; the exuberance we felt during and after such a shift was more than enough to keep us coming back for more - no matter how bad it got.

Speaking of that; I'll tell you another thing we liked. After an evening shift, good or bad, we liked going to a rundown roadhouse just outside the airport. Like Big Time itself, it was in the worst part of town, where just parking a car after dark was risky.

The barroom floor was sticky from years of spilled drinks, walls were infused with cigarette smoke and the men's room often smelled like vomit. In retrospect, I guess it was a lot like our TRACON.

On weekends, a couple of sad looking strippers went through the motions on a small stage, then worked the room for tips. Caught up in our carping and camaraderie, we paid little attention to their dancing but we tipped them well anyway. I liked the place because I could learn a lot by listening to  my teammates as they washed down the shift's successes and distresses with a cold beer. As a relatively inexperienced controller; it's where I learned many of the "do and don't do" aspects of the job.

Good or bad, like it or not, it was all part of my past. Everyone has their own way of dealing with a career in air traffic control, Some drank to excess, brought their job related problems home and eventually got divorced, Some became progressively more disgruntled until arriving at that emotional tipping point. They'd go on strike and be fired or maybe just retire. Some moved on to another facility; believing the grass would be greener in another place. There were those who bid on every staff job they saw; hoping to be promoted out of the controller position they now had difficulty dealing with.

Me? At one time or another, I tried it all. I know I can't go back and change a thing. Actually; I wouldn't want to. My path had some tricky curves that, like it or not, brought me to where I am now. I like that.

© NLA Factor, 2015



Quite Rightly

Returning to our regularly scheduled programming . . . . 

We hear a lot about the black boxes whenever an airplane meets with an untimely end. Like the inscrutable Oracle of Delphi, these things speak in utter gibberish but somehow bring clarity to those who are esoterically inclined. Knowledge bestowed by the black box often provides insight about what went wrong and why. It's a useful tool that offers great learning opportunities but it sometimes makes me wonder. What if I'd come with a black box? It could have revealed the "how" and "why" of every idiotic thing I've ever done in life. The big question is; would I have learned anything from it? I sure learned a lesson or two from the absence of a personal black box. For example; if an event is not recorded in some way, it's anyone's guess what really took place. I also learned that guessing never helps. 

I think it was sometime in March in the late Seventies and the day was starting off badly. I knew we'd have to stay 'on our toes' during this shift, never imagining we would end up on our ass instead. Clouds, just a couple of hundred feet above the treetops, rolled across the area; dumping what seemed to be an interminable rainfall on the city. Wind gusts jabbed at my old Ford Fairlane from the left and right as me and my two other carpool fools made our way down the Interstate toward Big Time.

We were still miles from the airport but I could already smell the noxious odor of a rotten day. There were no thunderstorms out there but I knew this would be a day marked by high winds, low ceilings, heavy rain and headaches. It was the kind of day when some guys I knew might climb out of bed, peek outside, pick up the phone and call in sick. One of our teammates did just that. No surprise there. It happened to be our carpool buddy Joe; who was chronically averse to a mixture of bad weather and air traffic control.

On days like this, one less controller was like having a missing molar. We could still take a bite out of the traffic but chewing it up like we usually did was difficult and even a bit painful. To begin with; we had a facility management who guarded their overtime budget like it was the family jewels. This meant there probably wouldn't be anyone called in to replace Joe. Most of our trainees were only tower qualified and nearly useless in the radar room. That left the journeymen controllers to spend the entire shift rotating endlessly through busiest radar sectors. Like a match head; we'd burn brightly at first but, as the shift ground on, we would eventually fade and fizzle. Essential tools like awareness, efficiency, judgment and patience would dissipate like the smoke from Bobby's cigar (you could still smoke 'em at work). In their absence, intolerance and irritability might seep in to fill the void and things could get a little sloppy. Delays would grow, tempers would rise and we'd start bitching about everything. All combined; it left us fighting the foul weather, both outside and inside the facility.

We were pretty sure our carpool buddy Joe wasn't physically ill. He was known for occasionally sparing himself the stress of a bad weather day. We referred to his particular malady as "Ceiling Sickness." Me and my riders did wonder what his official excuse was this time. I mean; if your going to take a mental health day, you should, at least, try to be a little creative when you call in. On becoming a Supervisor, I'd sometimes hear a truly epic excuse that I would buy like half price beer. Other times, the excuses were so prosaic that I'd sooner buy paper napkins made from recycled toilet tissue. Joe was never a very imaginative guy. We all figured he was home, watching daytime TV with his usual "headache" or "upset stomach." I wondered; why stay home and deal with such things by yourself when you can go to work and deal with them along with fifteen other guys?

I punched in the combination to our security door and we went to work. It turned out the airport had been below landing minimums for the last two hours, so 7:00 AM in the TRACON seemed more like 5:00 PM. Arrivals were spinning at the outer fixes, phones were ringing, strip bays overflowed and worried Supervisors paced around nervously behind the radar sectors. Today; everything in the air would be on instrument flight plans; including those planes trying to get into or out of the many uncontrolled airports scattered around the region. Normally, we have little awareness of what goes on at those small airfields situated in hidden valleys, behind hillsides and other areas that our radar's eye would never see. Air traffic usually comes and goes from those places under VFR conditions. We don't even know they're out there unless they call us for traffic advisories. IFR days are different. If the pilots needed to fly and had an instrument rating, they'd call us.

This morning they were phoning relentlessly, looking for IFR clearances. There were a couple of VFR towers in our area and they too had to call us to get clearances for their departures. All these calls came in at our TRACON Data position  On days like this, the two controllers working there would most likely be going through Hell. TRACON Data wasn't actually Hell but, after an hour or so, any noticeable differences seemed unimportant. It was like trying to determine the significant difference between slipping off a roof as opposed to being thrown off. The pain is the same.

Working the Data position on days like this always made me feel like I was being chased by a mob of angry clocks; waving their hands wildly and making me run like I was out of time. Everything was urgent and everyone impatient. I could barely keep up with the demands. The constant chaos could wear you down. Data was the most "physical" of all TRACON positions. It would be a couple hours spent tearing flight strips off the printers and running them to the radar sectors, answering phone calls from everywhere, coordinating IFR releases for satellite departures and, of course, complaining about everything.

Today's Flight Data staff included two trainees who were only certified in the tower and TRACON data. Unfamiliar with how the radar room actually functioned, they got by on a superficial knowledge and a narrowly defined set of duties. These were like the guys holding those revolving "Slow" or "Stop" sign you see guiding traffic at road construction sites. They knew nothing of highway engineering, heavy equipment operation or line painting.  Just "Slow" and "Stop." It's a simple job but the consequences for failure can be serious.

A fellow teammate named Min Yan sat at his radar sector. Min had been raised in the city's "China Town" section and was the only controller I ever knew who had a Masters Degree in music. Always cool and fully focused; Min worked his traffic with the consistency of a metronome. His operating initials were "MY"and he terminated every landline call with them. Not by properly stating "Mike Yankee" but with "Mellow Yellow" - a sobriquet we all referred to him as. Keep in mind; these were the days before the blight of political correctness infected the Federal Government. We could call an Asian guy Mellow Yellow without fear of being sanctioned. Whenever we did, Min would usually smile, nod his head in time with whatever song was currently playing inside it and reply "Quite rightly."

Today's Flight Data staff included Ed and George; two trainees who were excellent tower controllers but at TRACON data they were like fugitives on foreign soil - lost and running for their lives. Nearly under water but struggling in a most mettlesome manner to stay afloat, they rushed across the floor; stepping over headset wires and dodging Supervisors to deliver their strips. One of the strips was for Min. It was a satellite departure waiting for his IFR release from one of our small, uncontrolled satellite airports. George set it down next to Min, who was too busy handling a flurry of Big Time arrivals to even look at the departure's flight plan. Without taking his eye off the radar scope, he apparently muttered "Hold for release." Min couldn't let the guy go because he'd already cleared an arrival for the VOR Approach into that airport, terminated radar service and was now waiting for the pilot to cancel his IFR flight plan. What George heard among the cacophony of a busy TRACON was not recorded and therefore unverifiable.

As Min's arrival descended into that unseen void below our radar coverage; George returned to the Flight Data position, picked up the phone and did what he thought he heard Min instruct. He released the waiting departure. The first fix on that flight's route was a VOR that sat about ten miles from the airport. Unfortunately, this was the same VOR from which another flight was now commencing an approach. Both pilots were probably caught up in the clouds and heavy rain. Although our radar's eye could see neither; they were both well within radio reception. Then Min received a completely unexpected call from the departing flight, reporting; "We're out of two thousand for three."

From where I sat in the radar room, I could only see "Mellow Yellow" suddenly stand up at his sector; arms raised like an orchestra conductor. Now red-faced, he looked as though he was trying to swallow a sponge.  I couldn't hear what he was saying but clearly he was upset; which, until this moment, was something we'd never seen. He tried to call the arriving flight but it was too late.  The pilot had already switched his radio to the airport's Unicom frequency.

Only later did the rest of the team learn what had happened and that somehow, the two planes, on collision courses, had passed each other without suffering so much as a paint scrape.  It truly is, as they say, a very big sky.  We all figured the guy on the approach must have descended to his minimum descent altitude (MDA) as soon as he could (a good move in any case) and the departure must have climbed like a homesick angel to get out of the bad weather.  We'll never know for sure.

We'll also never know for sure exactly what was said between "MY" and George the Flight data guy. Their verbal exchange, critical as it was, had not been recorded. Nearly everything a controller says while working is recorded. Whether it's to another controller via landline or to pilots; it's all retrievable. But one thing that wasn't recorded back then was the open verbal exchanges between control room personnel. Normally, this was considered a good thing because much of what we said was either scurrilous, inflammatory or insensitive and could easily have gotten us fired. In this particular case though, would a recording have been as helpful as the little black box found among the ruins of a fallen airplane? Would it have provided a learning opportunity? I say "Quite rightly."

© NLA Factor, 2014

Speed Reduction

Any pilot who's flown into an airport where the arrivals are radar vectored to a final approach course would be familiar with the controller's use of speed control. It's ATC's tool of choice to keep one aircraft from overtaking another. Oh I know it's a hassle. You've got to start messing with power settings, flaps, the trim tabs and who knows what else. Sure; slowing up is a drag (unworthy pun) but if you don't, there could be a loss of required spacing between your trusty craft and the plane ahead. For the controller involved, that would mean paperwork, long reports and possibly a little remedial training. There's also that annoying wake turbulence thing. It could end up spilling the coffee all over your pre-landing checklist. So you slow. Either that or you could get a vector or two for spacing. Maybe a simple "S" turn will do. If not, the controller might ask you to sky-write another letter; the letter "O" - better known as a left or right "three-sixty." Stick, rudder and roll Cap'n.

I've also been thinking about another kind of speed reduction that's common among controllers . . .

I began my career the way a cork ejects from a Champagne bottle; loud, messy, full of effervescence and fast. None of it lasted though. I learned that being loud isn't as effective as quiet determination. I found that air traffic control is about order (we try) and that "messy" is unacceptable. The youthful effervescence that thrust me into this career went flat over time. But how about the "fast" part? What happened to that?

At some point along the road to retirement, I began noticing how the FAA and ATC had their way of incrementally reducing my speed. Advancing age, accompanied by normal occupational wear and tear can do it. One too many bad days while working heavy traffic surely slowed me some but there would be more speed reductions ahead. The most significant one hit me when an overwhelming majority of the controller workforce left for a strike in 1981. It was energizing at first but eventually the 'drag' from all those 'flaps' that took place before, during and after "Poli's Charge" reduced me to near stall speed. Then came the years of "S" turning through different management positions and running in circles for the various egomaniacal potentates in our Regional Office. The day finally arrived when my on-the-job enthusiasm, having frequently accused me of arrant neglect, finally packed its bags and left. I never saw it again until I retired.

The first noticeable speed reduction came in the early Eighties, while I was still out in the traffic pattern somewhere; hoping to eventually land in a management position. That's when I was selected for a specialist job in the facility's Training Department. It might have put me closer to my goal but getting into staff work definitely reduced my speed in the control rooms. No surprise there. Working airplanes became secondary to writing lesson plans, teaching and testing trainees, going to meetings and doing other things that seemed important at the time. Whenever I tried keeping current in the operation, I could tell I was getting rusty in the radar room and a bit tentative in the tower. I was slowing up.

It can be a humbling and sometimes embarrassing experience. When I was working traffic full time with my team, we'd often become impatient when a staff guy came into the operation for an hour or two of proficiency time. They didn't do this stuff every day, so their controller reflexes began to suffer. They'd start lagging behind the tempo of things and could eventually become more of an impediment than an asset. Now I was suddenly that guy. I had other things on my mind, which made it difficult to fully immerse myself in the currents that ran through the control room. Spending time working airplanes was putting me behind on my desk work deadlines but I had to do it. Those appearances in the control room were vital to maintaining some small modicum of credibility but they weren't enough to keep me proficient. This is the curse of any controller who takes a staff job.

I checked in with the Area Manager one afternoon; hoping to get a little radar time. He said I could relieve the Final controller. Great! Final was always one of my favorite positions. With lots of vectoring, altitude play and speed control in a relatively small sector; Final represented the pinnacle of the radar controller's art. It was a sector where you had two masters; the approach controllers (we'll count them as one) who expected you to keep taking their handoffs, no matter what. To that, add the Local controller in the tower who, based on weather, runway configurations and departure load, could dictate the arrival interval you provided. This was stated in terms of required miles in trail between landing flights. In theory, the specified arrival interval would provide the tower with enough space to get departures out between landings. Final was fast paced, challenging and almost like flying a dozen airplanes at once. But there was a small problem that day.

I should have checked the work schedule before leaving my desk because the team on duty included a guy named Richard. He was one controller I never liked much because of his frequent complaining. He was a good controller but there was a heavy price to pay for working with him. You had to listen to his bitching about everything and everyone; especially the staff people. As a loyal PATCO acolyte; Richard was naturally averse to anyone who, like me had "sold out" to management. He rarely had a good thing to say about anyone else either. Richard thrived on his sarcasm and mistrust. This was a guy who'd complain if he found a whole cashew nut in the can labeled "Halves and Pieces." Fortunately, Richard was never on my team - but he was on this team.

Crossing the TRACON, I saw that Eddie was signed on at the Final Sector. I plugged in my headset and we went through the position relief checklist. Visibility was good. The tower must not have had many departures to go because Eddie was jamming visual approaches in with his ILS traffic; handing the tower about three miles and decreasing between landing planes. The approach controllers were happy, which made the Center sectors that fed our arrival fixes happy. Big Time's mid-afternoon rush was running well. It looked like fun and I couldn't wait to get into the picture. I relieved Eddie and was quickly absorbed into the rhythm of turning, descending, slowing and clearing airplanes for the approach. I'd soon learn that Richard was working Local Control.

Traffic was still running pretty much as Eddie had left it. Approach controllers still had plenty of airplanes left and they kept them coming. When arrival demand is this high; the Final controller has to work fast. I took the planes, turned and tucked them onto the final as tightly as I dared; keeping pressure on the landing runway and hoping the tower wouldn't complain. So far, so good.

Along came one of those bad-ass Boeing 727s I loved so much. I took the handoff as it descended onto the tail end of my left downwind leg. The line of planes on final stretched out to the far limits of the sector, while more were filling up the right downwind. There was a turboprop commuter about a mile from the threshold, with a DC-9 about six miles behind and closing. My 727 had reported the field in sight and was just about abeam the landing runway. I saw an opportunity, took a few seconds to consider my plan, then went for it. Six miles was a nice sized gap that I could fill with that "three holer" (a term of endearment for the B-727, with its three engines on the tail) and I was going for it.

I gave the Boeing a turn to base leg, cleared 'em for the visual approach and asked that he keep it in tight. After exchanging traffic information between the 727 and the DC-9 (now approaching the outer marker), I switched him to the tower frequency. The DC-9 was maintaining visual separation but I kept it on my frequency for a moment - just in case. My Boeing rolled into a tight turn, lowered his landing gear and went into a free-fall toward the runway. Here was a pilot who clearly understood the controller's definition of a "short approach." Unfortunately, the DC-9 seemed to be closing the gap more quickly than I had anticipated. I asked the pilot if he could reduce speed any further. That's when I heard Richard's voice in my headset. All he said was; "It's not gonna work." He was right. By now, the 727 was rolling out on a one mile final and the DC-9 was closing the gap. There wouldn't be enough time for the three-holer to get to a taxiway before the 'nine' touched down. I had to get him out of there.

Think of your most treasured expletives. Chances are good I uttered them to myself at that moment. Oh, and if you don't have a treasured expletive, I can send you a starter kit.

Issuing a climb clearance to the 'nine,' I turned him back toward the downwind.  The approach guys, now not so happy, went about the challenge of making extra room in their already nicely spaced traffic patterns. There were still several other planes in my sector looking forward to landing, which meant I didn't have time to dwell on how poor my judgement had been in trying to make that 'three holer' fit where it couldn't. Another jet I had vectored onto the localizer just moments before was approaching the outer marker. I issued an approach clearance and sent him over to the tower frequency.

Courtesy of my former associate Richard . . .

I knew what had gone wrong. It was an error in judgment befitting any first-year radar trainee - but it was me. Those "few seconds" I wasted trying to decide whether to go for the gap or not was what cost the DC-9 another trip around the traffic pattern and more work for the arrival controllers.

With two airplanes heading toward each other, even though slightly offset (one on final and one on the downwind), you have to consider the rate of closure. My DC-9 was traveling at a ground speed of about 150 knots, while the B-727 was moving at 190 knots. That means they were closing on each other at a rate of about 340 knots. There was no time to deliberate - even for a "few seconds." I needed to see that gap coming, trust my judgment and go for it. Either that or decide just as quickly that it wouldn't work. My staff time was starting to show. I was beginning to slow and air traffic control is no place for that kind of speed reduction.

Knowing Richard's unvarying contempt for staff specialists; I was surprised that he didn't break my balls the next time we saw each other in the locker room. I guess he'd already achieved maximum mileage out of the incident with the other controllers in the tower that day. As for me; the reduction in speed of my analysis and decision making skills gave me pause to think. Such problems could lead me to "paperwork, long reports and and possibly a trip to the front office for a little remedial training." Like a prodigal son, I was thinking I'd better get back home; home to working airplanes for a living. Conveniently, PATCO would soon show me the way.

Unlike the movies; real life happy endings can be a long time coming. It took a while but this story eventually ended well. At one point, I was finally able to resume normal speed. That point was what I fondly refer to as "retirement." All previously imposed restrictions were canceled when I left the FAA. Now I can finally push my throttle fully forward and, for the first time in over 25 years, feel the wind in my hair. 

There are at least two pieces of good news for me in all that. I still have plenty of thrust left and I still have my hair. Life is good!

© NLA Factor, 2013

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

Viewing Life Through A Skylight

I recently drove to a little town, several state lines away from home, for a distant cousin's wedding. Apparently I just wasn't clever enough to figure a way out of it. So, after seven or eight hours on the road, I was unpacking the car in a part of the country I hadn't seen in decades. Returning to that area and surveying the familiar southern countryside was somehow comforting. It still seemed to fit me as well as my old Air Force fatigue jacket. 

And speaking of fatigue - I was exhausted from driving all day. The road left me smelling a little like fast food fryer grease and a lot like a high school locker room. I opened the door to my hotel room, dropped the bags on a chair then stretched out across the bed; putting myself to sleep by recalling some of the many memories made nearby - over 45 years ago. They were still fresh as snowflakes and nearly as numerous. Early the next morning, one of them joined me for coffee.

I was sitting on a bench outside the hotel lobby, chatting with another guest, when a sudden, thunderous blast literally stopped our conversation mid-sentence. It was a familiar sound to me, almost like what you'd get by putting a couple bowling balls in the dryer to tumble a while. I listened; smiling inside at something I had not heard in decades. Back then, I wouldn't have paid much attention to it but on this warm, sunny morning, it was like hearing a song that was number one on the charts when I enlisted. It was a blast from my past.

Looking up when I heard an airplane was a reflex acquired through the years but there was nothing to see beyond a hazy morning sky. Still, the unmistakable sound persisted. My fellow early riser looked puzzled. Not me though. I recognized the sound as that of a jet fighter's afterburners - ripping through the serene morning air and echoing off every building between me and the airport. I could even feel the bench vibrating.

I wondered what the rest of this small, southern town though of the noise. There was no military base here - only a civil airport that hosted a dozen or so commercial flights each day. Still, a fighter jet had clearly come calling.

The noise evoked memories of the first time I watched a flight of F-100 "Super Sabers" taking off. It was at an Air Force Base about 75 miles from here. Flame from their after burners was immediately visible. Then, about a second later, the sound reached us in the tower and rattled the windows. It was deafening - even from behind all that glass. The jets rolled forward, slowly at first but rapidly gaining speed as those Pratt & Whitney engines inhaled the cool morning air and exhaled pure fire and thrust. Pilots referred to F-100s by their nickname; "Huns." The planes were also known, less fondly, as "lead sleds." This term was a wry reference to their engine-out glide ratio which, according to them, was slightly better than an anvil, dropped from 28,000 feet. 

In those days there was very little wear on my Air Force uniform and just one stripe on the sleeves. I'd only had the uniform since checking into basic training a few months earlier. Now, fresh out of tech school, I was beginning my career as an Air Force air traffic controller. It was incredible! Assigned to the tower, I worked with several other new recruits and a few senior enlisted men. Some of them had already been to Vietnam at least once. Their professional wisdom, wardship and war stories quickly made me realize this was no ordinary career field I'd gotten into. It was a career that would catapult me across several decades and land me here in this sultry southern town.

As I climbed the tower steps toward my first day in an Air Force air traffic control facility, my pulse rate climbed along with me. It wasn't so much from the exercise but from the increasing weight of insecurity and anxiety over what awaited me. There were three airmen working the control positions and one sergeant watching everything from the center of the cab. His name was Dunton and he seemed to have an angry expression on his face. I soon learned that was the way he always looked. It was rumored to be the after-effect of something that happened while he was stationed at Da Nang but Dunton never talked about it.

I scanned my new world. Below me, the ramp was crowded with jet fighters, transient cargo planes and a handful of helicopters. There were several planes in the traffic pattern and a couple more waiting to go. The atmosphere was nothing like I expected. Tech school left me believing controllers heard one voice at a time and made their uninterrupted response. The reality I had just climbed into was a cacophony of overlapping voices. Everyone worked with hand-held microphones rather than headsets. Each control position had its own speakers; one for each frequency they used. Even calls from the radar unit blared from speakers mounted in the consoles.

Across the airfield, an F-4's left wing dipped slightly just before touching down. It rolled about two thousand feet down the runway then lifted off again. Two of the 'Huns' began taxiing into takeoff position as another pilot called the tower from somewhere in the traffic pattern, I had no idea what was going on but, like other 'first time' experiences, it was memorable. Everyone in the cab was looking in different directions and talking. I stood in the back and took it all in. It seemed no one knew I was there; not even the angry looking sergeant. I was 'there' though and would be there for nearly 35 years.

I recognized Jimmy; one of the guys from my barracks. He was working the Ground Control position. Jimmy turned, gave me a smile of recognition and was about to say something when a flight of four on the ramp called ready to taxi. He turned and looked at me, held his mic out and said; "Do you want to give 'em taxi instructions?" I stared at his outstretched hand like it was a rattlesnake. Talk to a real airplane? I could already feel the rush of panic setting in. This was not tech school and these were not other students posing as pilots. They were real pilots seated in real airplanes and they were waiting for instructions. My throat was closing up. Talk? I couldn't even swallow. In an instant, everything they'd taught me back at Keesler was gone. I took the microphone, along with a very deep breath, and stammered through my first transmission. Dunton looked down at the floor and slowly shook his head. Jimmy grinned as the four jets began moving off the ramp in tandem.   

Moments later, I learned another lesson about ATC that no one ever mentioned in Tech School. Controllers will witness things they may never be able to forget. 

Standing to my left, the Local controller was responding to a call from a flight of F-100s. The tone and tempo of his voice changed abruptly. Moments earlier, they had checked in on a long 'initial' (explained below). They appeared as specks in the sky, some 10 miles from the runway and were instructed to "Report break." A few seconds later I heard one of them exclaim that his engine had just flamed out. Far too low to attempt an air start, the flight leader told his wing man to eject. The reply was that he thought he could glide his plane straight to the runway. "Negative! Eject, eject!" The flight leader's voice smacked of urgency. Both jets were clearly visible now. One was much lower than the other and was descending fairly rapidly. Every eye in the tower was fixed on it. I had no idea what would happen next but noticed Sergeant Dunton lunge toward a red phone on the console. He looked like he'd just bitten his tongue. I saw the plane's cockpit canopy tumble off into the sky, followed by an ejection seat. By the time its parachute deployed, the F-100 had disappeared below a distant treeline. No smoke, no fire; just a plume of dust about two miles from the runway. Above it all, a parachute settled slowly toward the ground; its cargo swinging gracefully below. Everything happened within a minute. 

An HH-43 Huskie helicopter, callsign "Pedro One," was soon airborne and heading toward the crash scene. I listened as the flight leader directed "Pedro" to the spot where his wing man had come down. Maybe 15 minutes later, the 'copter called for clearance to the base hospital. I watched it dart across the airfield; knowing they had the luckless pilot on board. It wasn't until the following day that we learned he'd died from injuries incurred during the ejection. 

Learning I had seen the last moments of this guy's life had a profound effect on me. I couldn't erase the voice that said he could make it to the runway. I couldn't forget the sight of his parachute against the powder blue sky. I was a kid in a grownup's world and had never been exposed to sudden tragedy. There would be more in the ensuing years but the first one made an indelible mark on my memory.

Looking around, I realized I'd spent 18 years knowing nothing of what was going on in the world around me. Even worse was that, at 19, I still didn't. It was as though I'd been viewing life through a small skylight - a sliver of reality where things moved across my narrow field of vision on their way to unseen and completely unimagined horizons. Who knows? An airplane might even have flown by. If so, I'm sure it was going somewhere. But me? I'd been going nowhere. My life, to date, had been self-centered, cloistered and meaningless. So much was happening in the world that I might never have experienced. That was changing though. 

Lost in the good old daze, I hadn't even noticed the guy I'd been talking to was gone. So was the sound of those afterburners; just as 'gone' as those long gone, guileless days of my life. 

"Three-Sixty Overhead" approaches are mainly used by the military. The aircraft makes its "initial ' approach to the runway, at least five miles out, remaining at traffic pattern altitude until over the threshold. At that point, the plane "breaks" left or right, beginning a 360 degree descending turn toward the runway. 


  © NLA Factor, 2013

To Square One And Back

High school left me with very little education and a whole lot of bad memories. When the time came, I hurried through my graduation ceremony then ran off to find the most menial and low paying job a substandard grade average might qualify me for. I got lucky! The job I landed not only met my servility standards and apparent desire for a pitiable pay scale; it was also pretty disgusting work. So this was it; square one of my working life. 

Something happened though. After a few months I began to realize that "disgusting" wasn't as satisfying as it's reputed to be. Quite the opposite. Thus, the arrival of my Pre-induction Notice from the Draft Board actually came as a welcome relief. With my usual low expectations in tow, I traipsed off in search of the nearest Air Force Recruiter.

Volunteer day at Barber's College? Nope.

A few months later, on a sweltering Spring afternoon, I stepped off a bus at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. I couldn't know at the time but Basic Training would be the prelude to my rebirth from callow youth to air traffic controller.

Within the first 24 hours, we were required to memorize our eight-digit service number. If you don't know; this is the military's "personal identification number." It gets stamped into every GI's dog tags, so that anyone could figure out who we were - just in case we were unable to say. But memorizing numbers was no easy task for a guy who'd eventually have to quickly memorize a traffic pattern sized dose of tactical callsigns and aircraft  registration numbers.

Everybody got the haircut. Then, after the issuing of uniforms, we all began sweating our way through the ensuing weeks of verbal abuse, physical training, close order drill, shooting at things and other stuff contrived to make us appear almost military. But we were still just kids; only now with guns and no hair.

Somewhere along the way, we were all asked to pick from a list of jobs we'd like to spend the next four years doing. I wondered which one required the least amount of skill - like, for example, shaving the heads of basic trainees. I studied the list methodically, as though I actually understood what I was looking at, while never really correlating my eventual choice with a post-military career or its earning  potential. As I saw it, being asked to choose a job was like asking me to choose which color of bus I'd like to drive over a cliff. It simply didn't matter. I just knew the end result would be the same - a long fall onto the rocks. Bewildered, I finally settled on ATC, although I had no inkling as to what the job entailed. It didn't sound too disgusting though. In fact, it sounded interesting.

After selecting the career we hoped to get and after working through a series of aptitude tests and interviews; someone would make a decision on our fate. There were no guarantees. Assignments were based mainly on the needs of the Air Force.

Basic training plodded along. Then, in the final few days before leaving Lackland, our big moment came. All graduating Airmen were marched into an auditorium, where a sergeant stood holding a clipboard full of papers. As names were called, someone in the crowd would yell "Here!" and the sergeant barked out their next duty assignment. His papers were arranged alphabetically, so I had time to appreciate the queasiness in my stomach. I watched him flip through them, one by one, never looking up. Finally, in his very military, staccato voice; "Factor! Air Traffic Control - Keesler Air Force Base, Biloxi, Mississippi!"

The sense of elation I felt at that moment was misguided and premature. There'd be trouble ahead, and plenty of it. Nonetheless, here I was; about to begin my Air Traffic Control technical training. Here I was; about to land on square one again.

Biloxi in those days was a sad looking town; worn away by years of Gulf hurricanes and off duty GIs. Not originally from the deep South, I didn't know what to make of it. I was now in a place where black folks stepped off the sidewalk to let me pass - neither of us ever making eye contact. It was a place where nearly every bar in town was on the Base's list of off-limits establishments. Everyone carried that list because off-limits establishments were the only bright spots in a Biloxi night. The beaches were the only bright spots during daylight hours; when you could appreciate how dreary the town looked. Littered with broken glass and the aluminum pull tabs from countless beer cans, you either wore flip-flops on your feet or you wore bandages. The only other places to be were in the barracks or attending class. But that was no fun.

When I arrived in Biloxi, our involvement in the Vietnam War was on the upswing. The Air Force needed lots of air traffic controllers. In response, Keesler ran the ATC school in three shifts. Mine was the 6:00 PM till midnight shift. At the appointed time, my class would meet up in front of our barracks and march across the airfield to a converted hanger that housed the classrooms. There were several courses; each one lasting about a week and acquainting us with certain aspects of the job. As I recall, the first block was titled "Weather." From there, we went through instructional blocks on aircraft recognition and flight characteristics, Federal Air Regulations, Airport Traffic Control, Mobile radar units (known as GCA Units) and Approach Control. I may have forgotten some but it's been a lot of years since then.

GCA Units at ATC School, Keesler AFB

One day, sometime around my fourth week of class, the trouble caught up with me. I was called into the lead instructor's office. My grades were a perfect reflection of my off duty activities, which never included studying. That's because one of my barracks buddies had a car and that car was our means of touring the off-limits bars after class. We had to be careful though. Bed check occurred around 1:30 AM. So, after some guy with a flashlight came around and peeked into our rooms, we all tiptoed out of the barracks, met up at the car and headed for town. I should have noticed my ATC career disappearing in the rear view mirror of that big Chevy Impala but was always too caught up in the excitement of what might happen next.

The lead instructor was a chubby, red faced Tech Sergeant who didn't look much older than I was. He could turn a phrase though; describing a sad mental picture of my future. It was a bleak picture that included failure and peremptory reassignment to one of the Air Force's more servile and, very likely, disgusting jobs. There, I'd serve out the remainder of my enlistment with no hope of promotion. In other words; back to square one again.

I had indeed driven the bus over a cliff. Or maybe I was the second steer in line at a slaughterhouse and suddenly realized I was about to become dead meat. I gulped, groveled and grew penitent. I pleaded and promised. For an 18 year old kid with low self-esteem, very little sense of responsibility and no vision for the future, the threat of a long fall from a short career was just what I needed. Staring, once again, into the face of failure was a strong motivator. I went back to my barracks and began studying for the next test; knowing I wouldn't be seeing much more of my drinking buddies and even less of those buxom Biloxi barflies. I wouldn't be seeing much more of those nauseating, daily hangovers either.

Graduation from ATC school brought more anxiety.Where to next? Vietnam? I wondered; would they send a controller with no actual ATC experience to Vietnam? Then I realized that most of the people over there, the ones pulling triggers and dropping bombs, had no prior experience either.

Marched into another auditorium with another hard-assed sergeant holding a clipboard, I was about to get an answer. Wherever I ended up; I would arrive there as a new kid, with only a superficial understanding of what air traffic control was all about. I knew I'd be working in a real control tower though, with a crew of real controllers. Everyone would watch me carefully, train me candidly and eventually evaluate my fitness for the work. On the day I picked ATC off the Air Force jobs list, I had no idea what I was getting into - but things were a little different now. Now, at least I was smart enough to know how little I knew. I had also passed the ATC course; a fact that boosted my self-confidence level from zero-sum up to some. This would be another beginning for me; another step back to square one and another step in my long adventure.

I've since made a lot of trips to square one and back. By now, I know the way without some guy with a clipboard shouting orders. Just don't ask me for directions. Eventually, we all find our own way.

© NLA Factor, 2013

A Good Shift

It was the drug of choice for most controllers and could actually make us pretty high. It induced an undiluted euphoria and served as an effective antidote for it's ugly antipode. I'll call this drug "the normal day." It was one of those seldom seen shifts when little to nothing went wrong. Everything seemed to click into place like the tumblers inside a combination lock. Kind of like the "Seinfeld" show, it was a shift about nothing ~ nothing broke, nothing happened we would regret or be chided for and there was nothing to complain about. There was nothing to it. Sweet nothing. Those were the shifts that reminded us why we loved being air traffic controllers. 

It was just past shift change and I was already busy on Local Control. My first choice would have been a TRACON assignment but Pete sent me upstairs. He said I "needed some tower time." Since most of my shifts were spent working radar, I suppose I was a little rusty. As it turned out, I was glad to be in the tower.  It was one of those 'Ray-Ban' kind of afternoons when you could see forever. A steady wind kept the city smog at bay and Big Time International seemed to glitter under the setting sun. The last song I heard on the car radio was still spinning in my head as I scanned the airport, one runway at a time ~ trying to keep up with everything that was happening at once. Airplanes, like cars lined up at an Interstate toll booth, moved incrementally along the parallel taxiways; hoping to get out of town on time. It was the afternoon rush and there were a lot of planes waiting to go. I'm sure the pilots queued up in line gazed envyingly out their cockpit windows whenever a departure rolled by, lifted off and vanished with a receding rumble.

The guys in the radar room were doing a hell of a job, jamming the localizers with airplanes. Jets were whistling down the glide slopes, squeaking onto runways, slowing up and ducking into the high-speed turnoffs. My farewell transmission of "Ground point nine." was always cheerfully responded to. I was doing what every busy tower controller does; making cold calculations, bold predictions and decisive moves ~ squeezing departures out between landings as fast as I could without pissing off the Departure Sectors. It was all part of the grand spectacle of an unencumbered airport running at peak performance. Well ~ almost peak. One of the main arrival runways had been closed for rubber removal on the thresholds. Not a big issue today. Weather was good enough that doing the 'mixed use' runway thing wasn't worth whining about. Tower and TRACON Supervisors, who usually tried to match the strongest controllers with the most challenging positions, were standing back to enjoy the show. They knew the show would only be as good as the actors in it.

Winds had been forecast to change direction sometime before 6:00 PM. That's exactly what happened but it happened a bit more abruptly than anticipated. In just a few minutes, the wind direction moved about 130 degrees clockwise. A few pilots started complaining of tailwinds on final, making the decision to turn the operation around appear unavoidable. Although timing couldn't have been worse, the odds of something happening to screw up a perfect day couldn't have been better. You learn to expect it. Pessimism isn't just part of the controller's genetic make-up; it's also a built in safety feature. Problems should never come as a complete surprise.

Winds don't often change direction so quickly. They usually worked their way around a few degrees at a time; giving us a chance to see a trend and take action before there was an unavoidable crisis. Changing runways right now was going to be ugly. I figured Pete was already on the phone to the center's weather unit - looking for a fresh wind forecast. Pete was always way ahead of the game. The TRACON Supervisor would be making calls to every tower we had a line to - asking what their surface winds were doing. Nobody wanted to cause delay and dismay based on a short lived quirk. From what we heard, it appeared a cool front was moving in sooner than expected. Pete made his decision to turn the ship around.

Changing the landing direction and moving all the active traffic  from here to there can become an epic exercise in patience. Planes waiting to go, eight to ten deep at the runways and more taxiing out of the ramp areas, would have to be moved or redirected to the other end of the airport. The trick was to make sure the original departure sequence didn't change ~ or at least not change too much. Whoever was number one to go now would expect to be number one after the turn-around or there'd be some bitching. Down in the TRACON, approach controllers had dozens of flights on vectors to final approaches that would soon turn into departure corridors. They'd all have to be delayed somehow.

The tower Supervisor got a call from his TRACON counterpart. "How many yah got to go?" was the question. After a quick look around, the reply was; "Looks like about twenty or so." Negotiations began immediately over which aircraft in the pattern would be the last to land and who would be the last to take off. The rest would have to be taken for a tour of the area while the Ground Control guy went nuts trying to move all his traffic to the other end of the airport. It was a little past sunset and dusk was settling in.

Billy K. was a decent Ground Controller, as long as everything clicked along normally. Like me, he spent most of his time in the radar room, so working tower positions during peak traffic was more than a little challenging. But Billy ~ on Ground after dark, during a peak hour? That was like firing a gun on the ski slopes. All it took was a small shock wave, like maybe a pilot turning onto the wrong taxiway, and Billy would soon be buried in an avalanche of confusion. In the time it took him to straighten one problem out, there'd be another mess somewhere else. Worse was the fact the airport was changing from an array of discernible airplanes, taxiways and runways into a huge black hole adorned with dark silhouettes and colored lights ~ some moving and some not. Billy looked tense. Nobody was landing or taking off right now, so I did what I could to help him out.

Tampa, our Supe of the day, knew what was coming and took quick preemptive action. He called the TRACON and, within minutes, we saw Eddie bounding up the tower steps. Good news for the flying public. "Relieve Billy on Ground." was all Tampa said ~ but with an undertone of urgency.  There were lines of planes taxiing down the runways toward the new departure lineup. A few arrivals, the last to land with a tailwind, were stopped at intersections to let the departures roll by. Seemingly forgotten flights sat on their ramps, waiting for taxi instructions. Potential conflicts in traffic flows were brewing all over the place and the Ground Control frequency squealed with the sounds of frustration.  Billy K. gave Eddie the position relief briefing like a burglar listening to police sirens. As soon as he was done, he made a hasty exit from the tower.

Eddie was probably the best tower controller I ever saw. Chattering away non-stop, pointing at planes, waving his hands and bouncing up and down on his tiptoes, he marshaled the traffic with aggressive efficiency. Still; Billy had left him with a mess on Ground and sorting it out would take some doing. Eddie didn't mind. He had the finesse to fix this. Although bold and confident, he maintained a delicate touch. Watching Eddie, I imagined he could have written his name on a soap bubble; even dotting the I's. He also knew how to keep the traffic picture at night ~ a tricky exercise in planning, shuffling departure strips around and getting the eyes on the ground (a.k.a. the pilots) involved.  Soon after Eddie took control, the departures were repositioned to the new runway configuration with a minimum of complaining from the cockpits.

I glanced up at the tower's BRITE radar display. It appeared the Approach controllers had pretty much reorganized their arrival flows. The sky was full of airplanes and a few were close to turning toward the airport. In the back of the tower cab, Tampa spoke quietly to the TRACON Supervisor. Yes, there was a new ATIS. Yes, the approach lights and ILS systems had been switched around, etc. The conversation over, he said simply; "Release the departures." The entire turn-around had taken less than 20 minutes. There were a few reportable delays but nothing out of the ordinary. Soon the airport was again running at a full gait. For the remainder of our shift, all we had to do was keep the 'planes in - planes out' pressure on our runways. There must have been a meal break in there somewhere but during times like this, eating was the last thing on my mind. Tampa pulled his usual sandwich and banana out of the brown bag he carried whenever he came to the tower.

The remainder of our shift was high volume happiness. 'Strings of pearls' ~ long lines of landing lights strung out across the night sky, moved in an endless pageant toward the airport. The ground shaking grumble of jets taking off was barely audible from the tower cab but we could see their lights racing along the runways then vanishing against the city backdrop.

An hour after shift change, me and my carpool buddies joined a few other crew members who were already leaning on the bar at our favorite watering hole. Eddie wasn't there but Billy K. was. Unlike the hours after a bad shift, when we'd each be citing the calamities, casting blame around and wishing we'd taken sick leave ~ tonight there was hardly a word spoken about the past eight hours. There simply wasn't much to say about nothing, so we drank beer, told jokes and surveyed the place for any flight attendants who might have stopped in on their way to one of the nearby hotels. What the hell. After such a shift; anything seemed possible.

Carpool Carl, our driver, said something to Billy K. as we left the bar for home. Billy was assigned to the Final Control sector that afternoon after leaving the tower. There, he dealt with an impatient backlog of arrivals that had been spinning in holding patterns or riding out delay vectors while the runway change took place. The TRACON Supervisor knew Billy was a guy who could always meet or beat our hourly arrival rate, no matter what.

Billy ran the Final Sector like Eddie ran Ground. It was instinctive. He attributed his skills to the year spent in a mobile radar unit (GCA), recovering fighters at one of South Vietnam's busiest air bases. In that time, he provided radar approaches to thousands of jets returning from missions in monsoon weather conditions. Many of them were down to "Minimum" or "Emergency" fuel status, which meant he had just one chance to get these guys onto the runway. Every vector had to be on target. Sloppy or unnecessary turns caused delays that could mean losing an airplane and possibly it's crew to fuel exhaustion. Billy had developed a good vectoring eye and perfect timing long before entering the FAA. Carl slapped him on the back and said; "Nice job with the finals, man!" We all shook his shoulder gently as we passed behind. Billy smiled but I don't think he ever looked up from his beer.

Nobody mentioned the tangle he had created earlier in the shift while working Ground. That's because a functional team of controllers compensates for their member's weaknesses and capitalizes on their strengths. Criticizing controller deficiencies was someone else's job and they usually did it well. We always passed out the praise when warranted though. It was a rare occasion when someone else did that.

The next afternoon, as our crew checked in for the evening shift, we all stopped at a small bulletin board outside the TRACON. Early each morning, the previous day's airport traffic count was posted there and everyone wanted to know how we did. Although not a record setter, the arrival and departure numbers were high, while reportable delays were low. There was nothing else to say. It had been a good shift!

© NLA Factor, 2013