Captain Dave, where are you?

Position: 40 east of KMCI (Kansas City)
Altitude: 36,000 feet
Groundspeed: 445 knots (511 mph)
Equipment: A321 V2500 A5 Enhanced New Metal
Pax-on-Board: 183 + 3 jumpers

Airborne... I am here.

That would be in the front of a pressurized tube; long enough that the rear galley is in another zip code. I am working a heavy flight schedule with few days home between trips... Barely enough to keep up with the honey-do lists. My blog posting is falling further behind than its usual six o'clock position and ten miles.

The crew meal from the forward galley food replicator is on the floor behind the center jumpseat... Silverware is rattling on the tray from the light chop at 36,000 feet. I am too nervous to eat... KSEA is still a long way over the dark horizon. Our fuel load is 800 pounds below the flight plan estimate at the last checkpoint. One hundred miles to the right... Level Six storms towering into the night sky. The end of the storm line is one o'clock and 150 miles.

Thirty miles ahead, a company 319.  Below, in our two o'clock... A pair of Navy boys from ATL in a Mad Dog ninety. Also, below and behind, two Longhorns crewed by cowboys from DAL.

And in PPOS (present position), three old silver-haired pre-geezers and a young female co-pilot sitting in the torture jumpseat (left-hand corner of the cockpit). In the center jumpseat, one of our senior captains riding home. The co-pilot is a double re-tread, about my age and has resigned himself to his fate... Never sitting in the captain's seat again. It is a black hole known only in the airline industry. But, that is a can of worms I will not open here.

Twenty prior to push...

Captain... May I ask for a ride home, sir?

Who dares talk to me like that? Twisting in my seat, I see a kid in a pilot's uniform. A pretty little female, shiny brown eyes, about 15 years old. I began to tell her she has to ride in her assigned seat in the back... The pilot outfit is kind of weird, but in today's society, nothing surprises me.

Sir, here is my stuff.

She hands me her airline ID, and other pertinent paperwork. Date-of-birth is 1990. As my British friend Trevor is fond of saying, hang about... I have shoes older than that. I tell her to quit calling me sir and then ask her a few questions about her aircraft (Dash 8-Q400). She gives all the correct answers. Obviously a smart kid to be co-piloting, at her age, a large turbo-prop for a regional carrier. She is small and petite, the perfect size for the torture jumpseat. Plus, she will add some badly needed class to this flight-deck.

On the downside, the rest of us will need to behave and act like gentlemen, if that is possible.

Radar returns...

The digital multi-scan radar is in MAN mode, antenna tilted a quarter degree down as I look at slices of the storms. They bubbled up fast, changing from rising columns of moist air to planetary scale atmospheric water pumps, complete with their own power source... Fearsome creatures of the night. Their tops punched the tropopause with ease and are spreading out in the stratosphere.

Over at two o'clock and 100 miles, a sucker hole... About 30 miles across. But, there is a reason they are called sucker holes. When I was a young night-freight pilot, I found out the hard way. That's a story for another post... Maybe.

Turning the end of the line...


The lightning flashes are intense and continuous as we five high-flying metal birds turn the end of the line. Bluish-white, spherical explosions of electric light illuminate the storm clouds and our flight-decks. The storm's outer skins are covered with brilliant electric webs that undulate in the thin, high velocity winds of altitude. It is a sight that few see in their lifetimes. There are no words...

Back lighting...


Finally, west of the line, smooth conditions and visibility unlimited ahead. The flight-deck windscreen posts are being back lit by electric flashing from our six. Our little covey of 600 plus souls breaks up as new data is entered into the nav computers and courselines diverge. It was fun while it lasted...

Twenty minutes of hold fuel...


I figure we will be arriving KSEA with twenty minutes of holding fuel on top of minimum arrival fuel. That is acceptable with the current KSEA weather forecast. Navigating south of the storms cost 1,000 pounds of Jet-A.

My stomach starts growling over KDEN... When I think of the chicken breast, one each, lowest bidder, cold, on the cockpit floor, I reconsider. I have emergency rations in my crew-bag, so I ask the Dash 8 co-pilot to dig them out of the coat closet for me.

I can make KSEA with a peanut butter energy bar...

Life on the Line continues...