How low can you go?! - flight safety - Brief Article

Combat Edge, Dec, 2001 by David Hagginbothom

As a former Bone driver (B-1), I used to have "FLY LOW" vanity license plates on my Corvette. Much to my chagrin, I had to explain to more than one state police officer that this only referred to B-1 Terrain Following Radar (TFR) operations. As we all know, flight safety statistics show that the lower you fly, the higher your chances of a reportable mishap. Since we still train for low-level combat employment, it's imperative you always know the answer to the title question.

To illustrate my point, I offer two "There I was ..." stories. Both of these had the potential to be written by Class A safety investigation board teams. Happily, I am around to write them myself!

Flashback to 1989, a year when the average, present-day jet jockey was in about sixth grade. The B-1's radar software allowing night TFR was on the verge of being released. In anticipation of this, we were scheduled to overfly a low-level route a couple of states away, all at Instrument Flight Rules (IFR) altitude. Sure sounds easy, and pretty safe too, right? It might have been, if it had not been for a chain of events, which could have cost us our lives.

Luckily for us, the route was considered "mountainous" in parts. This meant we had a 2,000-foot buffer between the Kevlar bomb doors and terra firma, instead of the usual 1,000 feet. It was a moonless night, flying over sparsely populated terrain with few ground lights. As a result, there was practically no sensation of speed or altitude, just our cockpit instrument readouts.

The autopilot was on altitude hold, and all were comfortably confident that we were at a carefully computed safe altitude. However, the saying "complacency kills" should have put a double shot of Crew Resource Management or "CRM" in our coffees. Unbeknownst to us, one of our knees must have biased the stick just enough to insidiously disengage the autopilot (there is no audible disconnect tone like other autopilot systems). Since we were almost perfectly trimmed for level flight, there was no "seat of the parts" feel for the ever-so-slight descent that had commenced.

The tape instruments in the B-1 cockpit take a little getting used to, but are very practical; with one critical exception -- the altimeter. It is way too easy to misread it and be of by 1,000 feet; something I'd dare say almost every Bone driver has seen at least once or twice especially if you ask them anonymously). As a "young" copilot, I thought, at first, that I was simply misreading the altimeter. My second thought was that I had misheard or misremembered the announced IFR altitude. A quick query over the intercom "awakened" everyone's situational awareness and an abrupt climb back up to "safe" altitude was made. We had descended almost exactly 1,000 feet! The knowledge that the radar altimeter said there was still another 1,000 feet below us was little consolation to the sobering reality that we could just as easily have been cutting down corn or plowing wheat fields in Kansas.

Fast-forward a little bit to 1993, when today's fighter drivers were just learning to drive the family car. During the high-level cruise back to "home drome," after exiting that very same low-level route, the cockpit began filling with very strong and instantly irritating electrical fumes. As we pre-briefed, the Weapons System Officer (WSO) slewed the nay cursor to the nearest suitable emergency field, which happened to be Kirtland AFB, on the south side of Albuquerque, N.M.

While descending as rapidly as possible to get below 18,000 feet where we could safely depressurize without technically becoming "physies," we declared an In Flight Emergency (IFE) with center who handed us off to approach. Approach cleared us to descend to 8,000 feet and instructed us to report turning base with our gear down and choose one of their several 10,000-plus foot- long runways. Depressurized; ears popping; cabin now clear of fumes; eyes, nose, and throat still offended despite the blast of 100 percent oxygen; adrenaline pumping; and emergency checklists and the flight information publications kit torn open, we continued descending through 13,000 feet.

Just then the other WSO announced the Minimum Safe Altitude (MSA) for Albuquerque was 12,000 feet on account of cumulogranite known as Sandia Peak, which crests at 10,852 feet. This timely call prompted an abrupt level off and a simultaneous radio call to approach requesting clarification of assigned altitude. Their response was not an answer, but rather two questions. They asked us for our radial and distance measuring equipment from the VORTAC or Very High Frequency (VHF), Omni-directional Radio, Tactical Air Navigation (TACAN), and to confirm whether or not we had the field in sight. Upon learning we were still northeast of town, with the mountain range between us and the base, and that we did not have the field nor even city lights in sight, they excitedly instructed us to climb and maintain 12,000 feet. That was already done, thanks to great crew coordination that we now call CRM.