John O'Brien - Chaos

Sitting back in my seat, I look ahead to get a visual indication of where the major thunderheads are and mark them in my head to maintain situational awareness. This is a pretty big squall line and, looking both north and south, it is apparent we would have to travel several hundred miles off our route in order to divert around it; if we could at all. I hate thunderstorms and have an immense appreciation and respect for them. In jets, we could just pop above them for the most part and maneuver around the highest buildups. My memory flashes to one anxious moment when I was caught in one over Texas in a T-38….

A large squall line had marched across most of northeastern Texas cutting off our route home. Traffic control was overwhelmed due to the large number of weather diverts going on and we were being vectored all over the place in order to sequence us into the divert base. Well, I was given a vector to the northwest which would take me directly into the squall line. I requested an easterly heading letting the controllers know the heading they gave me was into the weather and that my preference was to avoid being immersed in a paint shaker. They came back that they didn’t show any weather along my vectored flight path. I told them I was staring right at some and that heading would merge me with it. I think their care factor was pretty low at that point as they repeated that they didn’t show any in that area and repeated the heading. Huh, I must be imaging things then , I thought and turned northwest figuring that continued requests might be met with an even worse heading. I was at 10,000 feet and was enveloped in clouds immediately. The turbulence wasn’t too bad initially but being small and relatively light, I was bounced around a bit. Then, the sky turned dark; I mean black dark. At the same time, it felt like a giant hand had punched the jet. It wasn’t just rough turbulence; it was like being repeatedly slammed into the ground by my ankles. I was all over the sky. The altimeter went anywhere from 16,000 to 6,000. Approach control came on at one point, “Otter 57, we show you several thousand feet off your altitude, maintain one zero thousand.”

Want to know what my thought bubble said at the time — Fuck you!!! You are the ones who sent me into this god-awful mess! What actually came out was, “Otter 57, unable.” They then came back and said, “Otter 57, you are cleared maneuvering airspace from six to one six thousand.” Yeah, right, Maneuver! Are you kidding me! If I only could . My ability to ‘maneuver’ had ceased long ago and the aircraft had lost any functional aspect of the term ‘flying’ and became more like a high speed puppet; pulled this way and pushed that. Oh yeah, did I mention it was raining. I mean, raining inside the cockpit. It was raining so hard, it was coming into the cockpit through the canopy seal, dripping, no, pouring onto my lap and side consoles. Yay me!

After a three hour battle — okay, more like five or ten minutes — and aging twenty years, I was finally given an easterly vector and eventually flew out of the cell. After landing, I crawled out of the cockpit furious. Seems that happened a time or two. One of my buds that had just parked next to me came over and asked me what happened. I was absolutely soaked. “Never mind,” I told him.

“I mean with that,” he said pointing at my jet. I looked back and my heart froze. Every bit of paint from all of the leading edges of the aircraft was gone leaving only the gleaming metal showing. The rain had been so intense that it had stripped the paint off. Yes, I respect thunderstorms!

Other stories flash around in my head, such as the one where my wingman was struck by lightning, but the line of thunderstorms is looming large ahead so I focus on the coming penetration. In the 130, we will maneuver through them as best as we could. I know the aircraft can take just about anything but I hate them nonetheless. After all, the weather chasers would fly 130’s through hurricanes into the eye to get telemetry data so I knew the aircraft could take it. I wouldn’t want to be one of those pilots though and there was one thing I could never understand about them; how they could fit their balls inside the cockpit.

As the sun sinks below the horizon behind us, the Great Lakes appear ahead on our route and slightly south of it; the line of thunderstorms is rising to incredible heights above them. Large cumulus clouds rise above our altitude with even larger, imbedded cells within. Lightning strikes downward against the earth’s surface in a continuous light show. Flashes of light show within and between the clouds; their strobes, in almost continuous intervals, highlight the rising mass.

“Everyone buckle in tight,” I say slowing the aircraft down to 180 knots. “Robert, give me a heading around that monster,” I say pointing directly ahead.

We have turned on the instrument and outside lights and I dimmed my instrument lighting enough to read them clearly. I look over at the NDB — non-directional beacon — and see the needle swing left and right. Another lesson learned from thunderstorms, the beacon needle will point to lightning. One night, I threaded my way under a squall line at low level and at night using the NDB and my mark-one eyeball to show the imbedded cells. That was another time I had to have the seat cushion removed via a surgical procedure.

“Come left thirty degrees,” he replies as I bank the aircraft and we enter the outlying clouds; the sudden turbulence within the billowing clouds bounces us and welcomes us to their domain.

Rolling out, I notice the NDB needle is now swinging to the right with occasional trips to other parts of the compass row. The outside of the aircraft is dark with the exception of flashes of light off to our right. With each flash of light, the outside environment is shown to us like a Polaroid; the propellers caught in mid revolution and the rain frozen in time, each drop stark still yet giving the indication of movement. I turn on the wing lights and check for icing. None. Good .

We are being bounced around inside, feeling an updraft for a moment only to be dropped downward, the downward motion stopping with an abrupt slam before we are propelled upward once again. My hands are in constant motion making adjustments to the control wheel countering the constant changes in the aircraft’s attitude. It’s very much like riding a high speed roller coaster except the corners, hills, and valleys are squared instead of rounded. I look at the NDB again and see the needle fluctuating between our immediate right and dead ahead. I glance over at Robert and see him silhouetted by the instrument lights, his widened eyes staring outside.

“Robert, the radar!”

He shakes his head and looks down to the scope. “Um, turn right here shortly. There’s a red cell to our right and one ahead. I see some more on the edges of the screen around us,” he says refocusing on his task.

“Okay, let me know when we have enough clearance to cut between the one on the right and the one ahead.”

“Okay.”

A minute or two passes before he says, “Turn right 60 degrees.”

“60 degrees! Are you sure about that?” I ask thinking that will take us too close to the one on the right.

“Yeah, the two are pretty close to each another but there’s yellow in between.”

Oh great, here we go , I think banking to the new heading. The bank is hard to control as the 130 is being tossed about. I try to anticipate the forces and apply corrections. That is one thing having a few hours of flying time will give you and knowing your aircraft, the ability to tell, almost in advance, what the aircraft is going to do and applying a correction before or just as it happens, negating the opposing force.