Simviation

DC-10: A Pilot's Perspective

by Wayne Brown

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Sitting over twenty feet above the pavement, surrounded on three sides by the massive, sweeping windscreen, the view is spectacular. It is quiet, the distant hum of the three General Electric CF6 engines barely audible above the hiss of air emanating from the air conditioning vents and the muffled drumbeat of tires over the rippled surface of the taxiway as you slowly rumble to the threshold of Honolulu International's Runway 8R. It's a long drive out from your gate at the main terminal, past the Inter-Island Terminal, past the assorted fighters, tankers and trash haulers parked on neighboring Hickam Air Force Base's big apron, over the bridge crossing Hickam's manicured Mamala Bay golf course where coconut palms sway in a silent dance to the rhythm of the gentle northeasterly trade winds, to the two-mile stretch of grooved concrete and asphalt built on a man-made reef on the southern shore of Oahu. Beyond the thick glass, the glittering waters of the cool Pacific seem to stretch to infinity, the late afternoon sun reflecting from the waves in a dazzling blend of blue and gold. The airport is situated between the approaches to Pearl Harbor and Honolulu Harbor, and an ever-present flotilla of windsurfers, warships, sailboats and submarines can be seen navigating the busy waters offshore. Far to your left as you near the runway hold lines, the familiar profile of Diamond Head can be seen extending seaward, flanked on one side by the urban tropical paradise of famed Waikiki Beach.

Facing a large panel full of switches, lights and dials on the right wall of the cockpit, the flight engineer is clearly the busiest member of the crew on the way to the runway. He sets his panel for takeoff, checking that all switches and controls governing a myriad of systems are configured properly for takeoff. Having received the final "numbers" from the company, showing passenger and cargo counts, takeoff weights and flap and trim settings, he recites the familiar litany of the Before Takeoff checklist, crosschecking the captain and first officer to ensure that final adjustments have been made and that all is as it should be for departure. As the navigators and radio operators of times past, he is of a dying breed, replaced on newer jetliners by increasingly automated systems and advanced technology. Checklists complete, he swivels his seat to face forward for takeoff.

From the pilot's position 21 feet ahead of the nose wheels and 93 feet ahead of the mains, care must be taken when maneuvering on the ground to ensure that all tires stay on the pavement. Cutting a corner too close can result in wheels or wingtips ending up where they don't belong, and a constant awareness of how much airplane is behind the cockpit door is essential to avoiding a board of inquiry. The nosewheel steering tiller, just forward and outboard of the captain's left knee, is used for guiding the plane to and from the runway. Once on the runway, either pilot may steer the aircraft for takeoff or landing using rudder pedal steering. While not capable of the tight turns required for ground maneuvering, pedal authority is more than adequate to track the runway centerline.

Lined up and cleared for takeoff, you advance the throttles to approximately takeoff thrust and call "Align N1s." At this, the engineer leans forward and adjusts power to the exact computed thrust setting for takeoff. From the cockpit, the distinctive growl of the powerful high-bypass turbofans rising to maximum power can be heard. You are reminded that you are in a big airplane as you feel the power of 159,000 pounds of thrust unleashed, pushing over half a million pounds of aluminum, kerosene and people down the runway. Light but assertive pressure on the pedals keeps the nose pointed in the right direction, and within seconds you hear the "80 knots" call from the other pilot, a cue to crosscheck airspeed indications for reasonable agreement. Engine instruments and annunciators are scanned for clues to impending trouble. Amid the almost prop-like buzz of the engines, a rising crescendo of rattles, squeaks, bumps and windnoise can be heard as the jet trundles heavily down the runway. You hear "Vee one"...no turning back now- you are committed to fly! Any problems from this point, including an engine failure or fire, must be handled in the air, for any attempt at aborting the takeoff now would doubtless end in disaster. At the call "Rotate," you pull the nose smoothly up with light back pressure on the control column. The earth falls away below the nose, and your seat rises through a height of about 35 feet before the mains break ground contact. Although consciously you are focusing on the job at hand--- i.e., the numerous technical aspects of correctly performing the takeoff maneuver--- it is at this point that you subconsciously have "an aviation moment": a moment in which you realize, again, how blessed you are to be sitting here doing this. As the aircraft lifts off and the gear comes up, it gets noticeably quieter and smoother. The craft has transformed from fully laden dumptruck careening down the highway at racecar velocity, to graceful airborne Cadillac smoothly cruising as if on a freshly poured asphalt road, the crisp power steering seemingly an extension of your thoughts. The DC-10 is a pilot's airplane; a work of art in a world of science.

Cleared via the Molokai Four Standard Instrument Departure, you make an immediate right turn to maintain the required one-nautical mile distance offshore. Power is reduced to climb thrust, the nose is lowered slightly, and flaps and slats are retracted as the aircraft accelerates through the "bug" speeds for cleanup. You cross the 240° radial of the Koko Head VOR well above the required 2500 feet, the only crossing restriction noted on the plate. Acceleration continues to the last bug, where you again raise the nose slightly to hold Clean Min Maneuver Speed. The Koolau Mountains, separating windward from central Oahu, provide a magnificent backdrop for weary vacationers in the cabin as they crane for parting glimpses of this island oasis. Waikiki, Diamond Head and Makapuu Point slide past on the left as you are vectored for the climb.

Molokai is visible ahead as you cross the 26-mile wide Kaiwi (pronounced kah-EE-vee) Channel between the neighboring islands. The setting sun casts a warm pink-orange glow on the billowy cumulus falling farther and farther below. The island of Maui is seen to the right, the barren summit of Haleakala rising above the blanket of clouds covering the lower half of the dormant volcano. You are cleared direct to CLUTS intersection, starting point for your filed oceanic track, R465. The trijet begins its eastward journey across the vast Pacific, 2243 nautical miles of water to be crossed before "coasting in" over California.

Darkness descends quickly when flying in this direction, and lights are dimmed further as the jet slips into the night sky. Levelling at your assigned altitude of Flight Level 330 (33,000 feet) just eighteen minutes after takeoff, the subdued roar of the engines becomes even quieter as cruise power is set. Reluctantly, you reach for one of the two dual-channel autopilot levers on the glareshield-mounted Flight Guidance Panel, flipping it to CMD. The DC-10 is a delight to fly by hand, eager to go where its master commands, and many pilots prefer not to use the autopilot for climbs and descents. The system is capable of automatic landings at certain airports, but in practice these are seldom done unless required by extremely poor visibility. A light touch is required on the wheel to avoid over-controlling, and like most transport category jets it requires a certain amount of anticipation to fly it smoothly. Having engaged the autopilot, you check to see that it is coupled to track the inertial or satellite nav system. Annunciators in front of each pilot indicate the modes of the engaged flight directors or autopilot, and must be closely monitored to ensure that what you asked for is what you got. At the snap of a switch on the overhead panel, a chime sounds and the seat belt signs in the cabin blink off, for the ride tonight is as smooth as glass. A flight attendant soon brings dinner. You slide your electrically-powered seat back a bit, prop your feet on the non-slip metal foot bar at the base of your instrument panel and enjoy the first of several cups of strong, flavorful Kona Blend. Life is good. Six miles below, scattered low clouds cast ghostly shadows on the ocean's tranquil surface under the light of a full moon. Beyond the range of Honolulu Center's radar, control of your flight is handed off to the oceanic controller in Oakland. Exact assigned Mach number must be maintained to ensure proper separation from other traffic in this non-radar environment. Position is plotted and reported at routine intervals, systems are monitored, fuel consumption carefully tracked, there being just enough workload during the long cruise phase to maintain a relaxed but steady pace, a rhythm to fight the onset of fatigue or complacency. The cockpit is bathed in the bluish, luminous glow of moonlight, the only other light source the dim incandescent panel background and instrument lights. Few words are spoken, and you find your eyes drawn to the scenic majesty of nocturnal sea and sky. "It's good to be in the air again," you think. You are having another aviation moment.