Blackout
The following narrative was recorded by my father, Gary Savage, for an FAA incident report. Dad wasn’t much of a writer, so I gave it a title and tried to make it a little more readable, but the facts are all still there.
It was Sunday, December 11. (1988) My copilot Jim Davis and I met at 4 PM to flight plan and ready N571L, a 1966 Beechcraft King Air A90, for a 5 PM departure from Don Scott Field in Columbus, Ohio. The planned route took us to Napoleon, Ohio, and Saginaw, Michigan, where we would pick up company personnel and then deliver them to Champaign, Illinois. The weather was poor at Napoleon, bad at Saginaw, and worse at Champaign. (A low pressure system located near the central Mississippi River was pulling moist air from the Gulf of Mexico into the cold Great Lakes and Ohio River Valley regions. Low overcast clouds, freezing rain, and mist prevailed across the midwest.) Toledo was slightly better and barely met the requirements to be our alternate destination. The chief pilot inquired about the weather and I commented, “It could prove to be a very interesting evening.”
I called Line Service to have the aircraft pulled out of Hangar 4, and asked to have the main fuel tanks topped off. The extra fuel would give us another thirty gallons and another 20 minutes flying time. I felt sorry for the lineman that had to work out in the rain on such a miserable night. Adding fuel delayed our departure by 15 minutes, but I knew the tailwind from the south would reduce our flight time to the first two stops.
The stop at Napoleon went smoothly and we were off to Saginaw. The forecast at Saginaw was as bad as we expected, and we flew the instrument landing system (ILS) approach all the way down to the 200 feet minimum height. On the ramp, I could see the cars in the parking lot were covered with ice. Our aircraft seemed all right, but we couldn’t stay long or it would be iced in, too. We made a quick trip to the Flight Service Station for updated weather and loaded our passengers. Toledo was still ok for an alternate destination, Decatur, Illinois was just good enough for an ILS approach, and the destination, Champaign, was forecast to improve just enough to get in, but it wasn’t there yet.
Departing Saginaw, we climbed through the cloud layers, picking up some light ice along the way. Passing South Bend, Indiana, we leveled off at 20,000 feet. Jim checked with Flight Service again and I let the passengers know that we might have to land at Decatur and find ground transportation. Flight Service reported back that the weather wasn’t getting better. If we couldn’t land at Champaign, the best option was beginning to look like Terra Haute, Indiana, and maybe back to Toledo for fuel.
Continuing southwest at 200 knots, we were 20 minutes flying time from Champaign and finally on top of the clouds for the first time that night. From our vantage point on top of the overcast, I could see the main part of the low pressure weather system off to the south, and a lower, flat overcast to the west and northwest. Soon, the air route traffic control center cleared us to descend back into the dark icy clouds below.
We turned on the anti-ice equipment and extended the engine protecting ice vanes in the air intakes and started down. Passing 17,200 feet, the cockpit lights dimmed unexpectedly. I asked Jim if he meant to dim the lights, he responded he didn’t do anything. We started reducing our electric load in case there was an electrical problem, but weren’t fast enough. The airplane went dark as the air traffic controller’s voice faded from the radio, “5-7-1 Lima we just lost your transponder…”
The controller would expect us to continue down to the last assigned altitude, but my first reaction was climb. A lower altitude meant ice, higher fuel consumption and potential spacial disorientation in the gray clouds. Getting back in the clear air above the overcast made more sense. As pilot in command, I was the final authority, so I decided to climb. Back on top of the cloud deck, it wasn’t pitch black and it bought time and space to think this through. We tried contacting the controller on the battery powered hand-held emergency radio. Nobody answers.
At first it seemed hopeless. No communication with air traffic control. None of the electronic instruments on the left side of the panel worked, no radio navigation or autopilot, and then there was the 17,000 feet of overcast clouds, ripe for forming fatal flight ending ice. I pointed the airplane west and had Jim write down the last known position and time. 6:25 PM. Jim scanned the paper copy of the weather we’d picked up in the Saginaw Flight Service Station. St. Louis was the best option. We could navigate the by dead-reckoning and at least get close.
As we flew west, the top of the overcast was getting higher. We were forced up to 24,500 feet to stay in the clear, but at least we could see other aircraft in the clear night sky. Jim asked if I would try to do the navigation calculations while he flew the airplane. I agreed, taking the charts and a flashlight. I began figuring out the direction and distance while Jim flew by shining a flashlight on the mechanical and air powered instruments on the right side of the cockpit. I was glad Jim had brought an extra flashlight, and was beginning to feel like we were in some kind of control of the situation, but that didn’t last long. A hissing sound became audible in the cockpit and soon the pressurization was gone!
What else could go wrong? I told Jim to descent to 16,500 feet while I worked on my oxygen mask. I knew that we didn’t have any time to waste. We were already getting hypoxic. In the dark I couldn’t see to get the storage bag open, and ended up tearing out the side of the container. When I got it working, the head straps were so big I had to tie a knot in the elastic. More time wasted! Finally, I took the controls from Jim and pointed my flashlight across the cockpit at the right side instruments. “I’ve got the aircraft. Jim get your mask on.” Jim struggled with his mask like I did, so I talked him though it at the same time I was trying to keep the wings level. Jim wasn’t sure his mask was working even though the flow indicator was green. The oxygen gauge showed 800 pounds in the system. I assured him he’ll be ok in a little while.
It was time to reassess our situation. The loss of electric had disabled the transfer pumps, trapping 56 gallons of fuel in the auxiliary tanks. That meant 45 minutes less flying time. The passengers were feeling ill from altitude hypoxia, but we needed to stay as high as possible. Turbine engines are thirsty at low altitudes and the worst of the ice was below us. Jim was feeling better now, so I gave him the controls and set back to work on the navigation problem. I figured we were now 100 nautical miles west of our last known position, and had to find the next chart to plot our position. When I looked up, Jim said, “Look at the whiskey compass!” It indicated our heading was 150 degrees, not the desired 270! The right heading indicator must have failed as well, and we had followed the dying instrument’s curve to the southeast. We corrected our course back to west, but now our straight line from the last known position was meaningless. We’re lost and St. Louis was probably out of range. I decided to try the radio again. “Mayday, mayday, mayday. 5-7-1 Lima. Does anybody hear?”
Through the static and noise, I heard another aircraft. “Chicago requests 5-7-1 Lima turn to heading 3-5-0. Maintain 7000 feet for Rockford.”
“Roger, 5-7-1 Lima,” I replied and gave Jim the instructions. In the descent there didn’t seem to be any ice. Maybe we had gone far enough west to miss the worst of it. It seemed like we might still have a chance, if we had enough fuel. What time did we take off? How much fuel had we burned? It wasn’t possible to know exactly. The only functioning engine instruments were the propeller tachometers and turbine temps. The fuel gauges were electric powered and showed empty. I guessed the fuel flow must be up to 90 gallons an hour at this altitude, but those gauges were dead, too. The tanks were getting low and we were running out of time. I leaned over close to Jim and told him our status without disturbing the passengers. Compounding the low fuel situation, flying without full instruments was taking a toll on us. Twice, Jim and I had saved each other from an inadvertent spiral dive or loss of control. We knew that if we made one mistake, that would be it. Jim and I both had a sinking feeling about the situation.
I’d been to Rockford just two days before. It was a frequent stop, so I knew the layout of the airport and the surrounding terrain. The area north and east were populated. The south and west was mostly flat farm land. I said to Jim, “If we have to put it down, we try for the airport or south of it. 110 knots and wings level into a corn field- if we’re lucky.” We wanted to avoid taking out anybody on the ground. He took the news quietly. We knew we didn’t stand much of a chance up front, but maybe we could save the five souls in the cabin. I didn’t want to say anything to them until we knew what was coming, and I was sure they were already praying for all they were worth.
Approaching Rockford, I heard a call on the hand-held radio. “5-7-1 Lima. Do you read?” With the radio closer to my ear I could make out, “5-7-1 Lima. Are you still at 7000 feet?” It was another aircraft relaying transmissions from air traffic control. There was a glimmer of hope and I thought, “Please Lord, someone give us a heading.”
I transmitted, “Aircraft calling 5-7-1 Lima. We hear you. We need radar vectors to the runway. Fuel is low.”
The reply came in from Approach Control, “5-7-1 Lima, you are 30 miles south of the field.”
Rockford can hear us! I tell Jim to start easing us down at 1000 feet per minute and started the manual landing gear extension.
I moved the landing gear switch to “down,” and pumped and pumped the gear extension lever located under my seat. I wondered if the gear would lock down or would they collapse on touchdown? While I was pumping, Jim flew as steady as he could. When I stopped pumping for a moment, I noticed he’d drifted left of course. I re-centered the flashlight on the instruments for him and coaxed him back on course before resuming pumping. It was then I noticed a slight red glow in the landing gear switch, indicating the gear were in transit. There must still be a little something in the batteries!
Another coaxing back on course, and we began seeing lights on the ground. Too soon! I coached Jim back up, away from the ground, and got him settled again. The controller’s voice came over the radio saying, “One and half miles to go. On Course.”
Almost there.
I resumed pumping the gear lever and looked up just as Jim called out, “Runway lights!” I pumped a few more strokes and to my surprise, three dim green lights flickered on next to the landing gear switch.
“I’ve got the aircraft, Jim. We’ll make it,” and eased the wheels onto the pavement.
The tower didn’t see us land, and the approach controller was still giving missed approach instructions when we chimed in that we were safe. The tower controller welcomed us back to Rockford and cleared us to taxi to parking.
Looking back on that flight, I am thankful for the fortunes that came our way. Without them, the flight would have ended very differently. Thank you to the the guy who stood out in the rain and pumped the extra fuel. Thank you to the two flight crews that heard our weak radio call and relayed the vectors, and thank you to the controllers who guided us to Rockford, one of the few airports with a high enough ceiling and a tailwind all the way.