Fly along the pattern, recheck defrosters and pitot heat on, a quick review of the penetration: heading 047 degrees outbound from the holding pattern, left descending turn to heading 197 degrees, level at 3,500 feet and in to the 12-mile gate.
I level now at 20,000 feet, power at 85 percent rpm and ready in my mind for the letdown.
“. . . measured nine hundred feet overcast, visibility five miles in light rain, altimeter two niner eight five.”
I have never had a more capricious radio. Hard down on the plastic button. “Chaumont Approach, Zero Five leaving flight level Two Zero Zero present time, requesting GCA frequency.” Stick forward, nose down, and I am through 19,000 feet, through 18,000 feet, through 17,000 feet, with airspeed smooth at 350 knots.
“. . . ive, your radar frequency will be three four four point six, local channel one five.”
“Roj, Approach, leaving your frequency.” In the left bank of the turn, I click the channel selector to one five. And back to the instruments. Look out for vertigo. “He went into the weather in a bank, and he came out of it upside down.” But not me and not tonight; I have come through worse than vertigo, and I have been warned. “Chaumont Radar, Jet Four Zero Five, how do you read on three four four point six.” A pause, and time to doubt the errant radio.
“Read you five square, Zero Five, how do you read Radar?” So the radio becomes better as I descend. Interesting.
“Five by.”
“Roger, Zero Five, we have you in positive radar contact one eight miles north of Chaumont. Continue your left turn to heading one three five degrees, level at two thousand five hundred feet. This will be a precision approach to runway one niner; length eight thousand fifty feet, width one hundred fifty feet, touchdown elevation one thousand seventy five feet. If you lose communication with Radar for any one minute in the pattern or any thirty seconds on final approach . . .”
I am gratefully absorbed in familiar detail. Continue the turn, let the nose down a little more to speed the descent, recheck engine screens retracted and pneumatic compressor off and oxygen 100 percent and engine instruments in the green and hook again the lanyard to the D-ring of the parachute ripcord. My little world rushes obediently down as I direct it. Concentrating on my instruments, I do not notice when I again enter the cloud.
The voice continues, directing me through the black with the assurance of a voice that has done this many times. The man behind the voice is an enlisted man, to whom I speak only on official business. But now I give myself and my airplane wholly to his voice and rank is a pompous thing. Microphone button down.
“Zero Five is level . . .” No sidetone. I am not transmitting. Microphone button down hard and rocking in its little mount under the left thumb. “Zero Five is level, two thousand five hundred feet, steady one three five degrees.” Flaps down. Airspeed slows through 220 knots. Left glove on the clear plastic wheel-shaped handle of the landing gear lever. A mechanical movement: pull the handle out a quarter-inch and push it down six inches. At the instant that the lever slams down into its slot, the tall hard wheels of my airplane break from their hidden wells and press down, shuddering, into the rush of cloud. Three bright green lights flare at the left of the instrument panel. Speed brake switch forward.
“Zero Five has three green, pressure and brakes.” Tap the brakes.
“Roger, Zero Five, you are now one zero miles from touchdown, recheck your gear, the tower has cleared you for a full-stop landing. Turn heading one seven five, stand by this frequency for final controller.” Inside the rain-spattered red-checkered Ground Control Approach van at the side of Chaumont’s only runway, the search controller looks across to his companion, framed dimly in the green light of his own radar screen. “He’s all yours, Tommy.” Tommy nods.
“Jet Zero Five, this is your final controller, how do you read?” He already knows that I can hear him very well. The procedure is part of a time-honored ritual.
“Zero Five reads you five by.” And I say with him to myself his next words, the lines assigned to him in the script for his role as GCA Final Approach Controller.
“Roger, Zero Five,” we say. “You need not acknowledge any further transmissions, however there will be periodic transmission breaks on final approach which will be identified.” Fuel aboard shows just under 2,000 pounds on the big tank gage. At my airplane’s present weight, I should fly down final approach at 165 knots. “Repeat the tower has cleared you for a full-stop . . .”
When I am under the direction of a good GCA operator, I might just as well be on the ramp and shutting down my engine, for my landing is absolutely certain.
“. . . you are thirty seconds from the glide path, correcting left to right on the centerline. Turn heading one eight zero. One eight zero. Transmission break.” He lifts his foot from the microphone pedal on the floor under his screen, giving me a few seconds to speak. I have nothing to say to fill his silence, and his foot comes down again. “One eight zero is bringing you out on centerline, drifting slightly from left to right. Ten seconds to glide path. Turn one seven niner. One seven niner . . .” That is a little compliment for me. One-degree corrections are very small, very precise, and require smooth aircraft control from the pilot. I hear one-degree corrections only in still air, only when I am flying well. A smile under the oxygen mask. He should have seen me thirty minutes ago.
“On glide path, begin descent. Suggest an initial rate of descent of seven hundred fifty feet per minute for your aircraft . . .” What could be simpler than flying a GCA through the weather to the runway? There are the cross-barred pointers of the Instrument Landing System to accomplish the same job, but the ILS is not human. Technically, an ILS approach is more consistently accurate than a GCA, but I would much rather work with a good man behind a good radar, in any weather. Speed brakes out with left thumb aft on sawtooth switch. I lower the nose, visualizing as I do the long slide of the invisible glide slope in front of me. The rate of climb needle points on the down side of its scale to 1,000 feet per minute, then moves back to 800 feet per minute.
“Rolled out nicely on glide path . . . on centerline . . . drifting now slightly left of centerline, turn heading one eight three degrees, one eight three. On glide path . . .” Airspeed is 170 knots, back on the throttle for a second, then up again. Airspeed 168. Back again and up again. 165.
“Going five feet low on glide path, adjust your rate of descent slightly . . . on centerline . . . transmission break.” I think the stick back a little, think it very slightly forward again.
“Up and on glide path, resume normal rate of descent. On centerline . . . on glide path . . . on centerline . . . an excellent rate of descent . . .” Sometimes, I would bet, a GCA operator runs out of things to say. But he is required to give continuous direction to aircraft on final approach. What a boring life he must lead. But bored or not, I am very glad to hear him.
“On glide path . . . doing a nice job of it, lieutenant . . . on centerline . . . tower reports breaking action good . . .” How does he know that I am a lieutenant? I could be a major or a colonel out in the night weather to check on the standardization of GCA operators. But I am not, I am just a man happy to be through a storm and grateful to hear again a voice on my long-silent radio.
“. . . you are two miles from touchdown, on glide path, going ten feet left of centerline, turn right heading one eight four degrees . . . one eight four. On glide path correcting back to centerline . . . one eight four . . . a mile and a half from touchdown . . .”