"and...Practice..."

I was fifteen minutes into Advanced Handling Test (AHT) on the Royal Australian Air Force's (RAAF) Advanced Flying Training School (2FTS) course, flying the Pilatus PC-9/A. Preparation and takeoff went smoothly, and we were climbing from RAAF Base Pearce to RAAF Gingin, an airfield for dedicated circuit practice only twenty miles north of Pearce.

For me, pilot training was an exercise in stress and time management; with plenty of the former and a scarcity of the latter. Having a vastly more experienced instructor in the back seat of a PC-9/A was hard enough for every instructed flight. For AHT, I was assigned an even more seasoned instructing and testing officer, adding to my stress. But, that was ops normal on pilot course.

As we climbed through 4,000 feet, in the back of my mind I had a rough plan and expectation for how the test would proceed: the basics would be scrutinised, from process checks to airmanship; I would fly a few circuits at Gingin, carry out advanced handling & aerobatics, and, deal with a likely simulated engine failure, requiring a practice forced landing (PFL). There would be some variety to that combination, but based on the curriculum and coursemates' feedback, those were the common themes.

During the climb I spotted the emergency airstrip near Moondah, beyond Pearce and Gingin. It was a short, dirt strip that would have been suitable for a forced landing in an emergency. It had always been there, a safety net in the training area, near the two major airfields, that was highlighted by instructors as an important one, not widely published or known about, to consider in the event of an engine failure, and if an ejection was not required. It was hard to see, and I was pleased to have sighted it on this flight, making a note that it would serve as my emergency airfield in the event of an in-flight event.

Carrying out my aircraft's periodic checks, climbing to 5,000 feet, I started to consider entering Gingin's circuit for that expected first phase of testing.

Over the intercom, as I simultaneously felt the power control lever (PCL) under my left hand move rearwards, I heard, "...Practice," spoken from the rear seat.

"Practice" is the in-flight term used by an instructor to indicate a simulated engine failure. It is a succinct term that is pre-briefed, to avoid extraneous explanations in the air, and also to provide verbal context that the PCL being moved to idle was indeed a simulated exercise, rather than an aircraft issue. The word, generally spoken calmly and with an edge of anticipation, is guaranteed to elicit a response from a student pilot, of varying parts trained reaction, cold sweats, and adrenalin.

I went into my immediate actions for an engine failure / loss of power: trading speed for height, running through the engine fire / mechanical failure checklists, and coming to the conclusion that a (simulated) forced landing was required.

"If you're faced with a forced landing, fly the thing as far into the crash as possible." - Bob Hoover 

Lesson 1: Plan B

I was at about 5,300 feet above ground level, with my aircraft's attitude set for a glide speed of 125 knots, as I entered a right turn back to the emergency airfield between Gingin and Pearce. Gingin was several miles to my left, I could see it, but my preference was to land at the nearest airfield that I had spotted minutes earlier, rather than track to another one, losing height.

My plan was simple: turn back to where the airfield was, and conduct a forced landing at the airfield as per my training. As I turned, holding my speed and attitude while scanning the ground for that small, brown, square of safe haven, I felt my respiration increase. I could not see the airstrip. I was not able to identify the airfield I had flown past just moments prior. But, because I knew it was practically beneath me, flying straight meant I would be flying away from the airfield, and that attitude would limit my visibility downwards. I continued to descend in a banked turn, looking for that elusive airfield.

Each complete gliding turn in the PC-9 loses between 1,000 to 2,000 feet of altitude, depending on bank angle. The forced landing required sequencing two critical milestones, or 'key' gates, before a forced landing could be carried out. If not at the required height, speed, and position at those keys, a modified PFL may be achievable, or an ejection may be required. This method is taught as the most reliable, practical, and flexible means of carrying out a forced landing, and these milestones are termed high key, and low key.

• High Key. A point 2,500' AGL, 4,000 feet (0.75 miles) abeam of the upwind runway threshold.
• Low Key. A point 1,500' AGL, 4,000' abeam of the final runway threshold.

I had completed two complete 360 degree turns, and was still unable to locate the emergency strip I planned to land at, despite it being beneath me. My altitude was now just over 3,000' AGL, and I made a decision to abort my airfield search and track to the still-visible Gingin airfield. The problem now was that I was losing about 1,200 feet per minute and was going to miss my high-key mark by at least 500 feet.

In hindsight, I should have permitted myself only one gliding turn to locate the airfield, being my Plan A, before abandoning that plan for Gingin Airfield, Plan B. And, I should have imposed this limit after sighting the emergency strip and continuing my flight. But, I did not expect to be unable to regain sight of the airfield. I had a loose plan for diverting to Gingin Airfield, but it was not structured enough to rely on in an emergency like this. A basic and flexible plan, that is adapted throughout, is important.

Lesson 2: Adapt & Focus on the Objective

I reached Gingin's displaced Hi-Key point at about 1,800' AGL, 700 feet below the required limit. 2FTS had a standing order for student pilots that permitted Hi-Key to be missed, providing Lo-Key of 1,500 feet was guaranteed, or the (simulated or real) forced landing was to be aborted, and an ejection was required.

The greatest safety net of the PC-9/A was the Martin-Baker Mk.11 ejection seat. If I encountered a bird strike, mid-air collision, engine fire, other emergency, or simply elected to abandon a forced landing; the yellow and black handle between my legs that initiated the rockets that ejected me to safety, was a wonderful lifeline. I didn't need to complete this particular forced landing for any reason except to (simulated) save the aircraft and meet the test criteria. In an emergency, I could always rely on the bang seat. However, being able to fly a forced landing is an important and necessary skill for aviators, in the event of a real emergency. In the case of a practice forced landing that was unable to be continued, the procedure of carrying out a simulated ejection was was to state over the intercom "simulate abandoning aircraft," or words to that effect. The word "Eject" was never to be uttered, except when a real ejection was imminent.

The circuit was very rushed as I tried to minimise my height loss, while maximising my chances of successfully reaching Lo-Key (accepting that I would be low), and communicating my intentions to air traffic control (ATC). In order to reduce drag and height loss, I elected to keep my landing gear and flaps retracted past the standard points.

I reached Lo-Key at about 1,000 or 1,100 feet, with ATC buzzing in my ear about my intentions and to confirm that my landing gear was down. Throughout this PFL, I was constantly aware that I was outside the Hi- and Lo-Key go/no-go criteria, but was comfortable that I had a reasonable chance of successfully landing the aircraft. I opted to continue.

I executed a tight, and low turn onto base leg, confident that I was capable of a successful, if somewhat squeezed, forced landing. I would not have to eject and scrap a $9 million aircraft.

Turning from base to final, I selected flaps LAND, gear down and locked, and confirmed with ATC, followed moments later with a successful touch-and-go landing. Were this a real forced landing, I cut it fine, but was within ejection parameters throughout the flight, and would have avoided a costly and potentially injury-inducing ejection. I was sweating, hot, breathing heavily, and task-saturated; but I had landed the aircraft after a costly miscalculation and inability to find an airfield I had initially planned for.

I achieved the objective.

"Nine-tenths confidence, and one-tenth common sense equals (a) successful aviator. - John B. Moisant, How to Fly: The Flyer's Manual, 1917

Lesson 3: Communicate

But I failed the test.

I broke a few standard operating procedures, and busted several go-around criteria in landing the aircraft. In a real emergency, this would likely be forgiven, for I was OK and the aircraft was saved.

While I recognised I was outside of limits at Hi- and Lo-Keys, I elected to continue, but I did not verbalise this given my workload. In the debrief, my instructor explained that he could not see what I was thinking, and did not understand my thought process and problem solving. Believing that I did not have adequate situational awareness, he fairly failed me. Had I clearly communicated my awareness and intentions, both in the cockpit and during the debrief, I may have passed.

"It helps no one if you follow every rule and you don't survive." - Richard de Crespigny

Next Time

I went on to pass the Advanced Handling Test after a remedial flight and a nerve-wracking re-test, although I failed Advanced Pilots Course about a dozen flights later. Ten years on, and those lessons on contingency planning, adapting to a changing environment, and communicating, have stayed with me in and out of the cockpit.