Chapter Sixteen

It was a lash-up if I ever saw one!

The DC-4 sky hook was about ten feet long and was bolted through the floor directly to the fuselage structure over the aircraft's center of gravity in the cavernous cabin.

Carl had done a magnificent job of miniaturizing the electronics. The hundreds of pounds of electrical equipment that had accompanied the original sky hook had been reduced to about forty pounds of solid-state electronics whose major weight was in the aluminum framework that held it all together.

The superbatteries were Len's department. I wanted to know more about them, but Len just told me, "Look, we're working around the clock to put each one together by hand. Someday, I'll have the time to go into the most minute detail with you. But not now!"

I persisted. I like to know what's in the airplanes I fly.

"Briefly, they use high energy density chemical couples with a solid ionic conductor as an electrolyte. They're good for a little over a megajoule per kilo, which is many times what's available from any other low-temperature primary battery. Now, please let me out. I have to get back to the lab and build another one!"

The fuselage of Seven-Eleven was getting crowded with wiring, plastic tubs that contained superbatteries, and the liquid oxygen system that Wimpy was installing for the pressure suits. I was weighing everything as it was installed, and Tammy kept up with the weight and balance calculations.

There were nights when we didn't go back to Morse Manor. We worked until we got tired, then tried to find someplace to sleep. "Look," I told everyone, "Tammy has first call on the crew bunk up forward. She has to help me fly this thing."

I didn't get the chance to read Sanatella's marketing report. I might get that chance later if the Twenty-Two Thruster project was successful. Otherwise, it would make little difference. Osbourne was spending his time up at corporate headquarters running interference. He showed up from time to time to report progress or lack of it.

On one such visit, Tammy and I confronted him. "Bill, we must test fly this plane before we commit to the all-out operation," I told him.

"We've got enough superbatteries aboard now to cruise with aerodynamic lift," Tammy pointed out.

"Will it set back the schedule?" Osbourne wanted to know.

"It may set it forward," I said. "We need to tune, and we can't do that on the ramp ... only in the air."

Osbourne thought a moment. "If it fails ..."

"Then we'll just have more time to either correct it or start looking for new jobs," I said.

"I was thinking of what might happen if you dropped her into Long Island Sound on takeoff."

"Don't worry," Tammy told him. "We could climb out with only two engines. We're not switching to sky hook power until we have lots of altitude."

"When do you want to go?" Osbourne wanted to know.

"As soon as Len gets that next cell in place. That'll be tonight. Let's make it dramatic: Dawn tomorrow morning, if the weather's okay."

Bill grinned. "Okay, dawn it is, right out of the old test-pilot movies!"

I didn't go home that night. Neither did Tammy. We were too busy. We decided we wouldn't exceed 36,000 feet during the test flight, and therefore wouldn't wear the pressure suits. But we'd wear seat pack parachutes not only for safety but because they eliminated the need for both of us to use seat cushions to see over the instrument panel.

The nights were cold and clammy on the ramp at Sikorski with the damp air from the Sound forming little pockets of fog on the ground where it was wetter than elsewhere. I checked the outside of the aircraft. About eleven o'clock, Wimpy lumbered over to me. "Mike, are you an Authorized Inspector?" He was referring to the special authorization on my airframe and power-plant mechanic's license which permitted me to certify the airworthiness of an aircraft.

"Sure am, Wimpy."

"Well, I didn't want to take any chances. I noted you don't think that the sky hook installation is a 'major alteration' according to Federal Air Regulation Forty-three."

"We made no changes to the airframe, powerplants, controls, weight-and-balance, or performance. I went over those regulations pretty carefully." I looked at him. "You've been at this longer than I have. What do you think?"

"Waall," Wimpy drawled, "some pass-gauge FAA inspectors might feel we were stretching those regs if they claim the sky hook's an auxiliary powerplant."

"We bolted something to the basic fuselage structure that doesn't affect the basic performance of the ship. She'll still fly according to the book," I pointed out. "I'm willing to sign it off on the logs. I've made more serious modifications than this to ag planes. Most of the time, the alterations were overlooked in any accident investigation because the engine quit and caused the crash ... so the FAA and National Transportation Safety Board never bothered to look any further."

"Tell you, Mike, I'll sign off the log book as A&P for NEMECO ... and because I've got something you don't have. I'm an FAA Designated Engineering Representative, and I don't think you've made any changes requiring a Form Three-thirty-seven to be filed and approved. How about that!"

"Thank you, Wimpy. You don't need to take the responsibility for this pile of junk. I'll do it."

"Well, let me ... because if anybody asks, I'll tell them I knew what you were doing ... because you do. Chances are that the FAA will never question it anyway unless you prang the airplane ... in which case, you'll have other things to worry about."

"Wimpy, thanks."

"Just bring it back. Jake Stock'll have my hide for a door mat if you don't."

Carl clambered down the temporary boarding stairs rigged against the rear cargo door and stumbled up to me. He was nearly exhausted. "Mike, she's tuned the best I can do it on the ramp. It'll be different in the air. You may have to make some adjustments to the load compensating circuit."

"Go home and get some sleep, Carl."

"No, Wilding will have questions if I do. He's been bugging me to find out what's going on out here. I'll just sack out in the hangar. I want to be around tomorrow morning." He stumbled off across the ramp.

It was cold. I finished the external inspection, climbed up the stairs, and threaded my way down the littered cabin toward the flight deck.

I tried to sneak, quietly through the crew compartment where Tammy was stretched out on the lower bunk, clad in the duly coveralls we now all sported because we had been working too hard to do more than take a shower in the hangar from time to time. But a little voice came to me. "Mike?" She rolled over to face me.

"Sorry, I was trying to get through without waking you."

"I wasn't sleeping, just resting."

"I thought I'd try to get some shut-eye up in the left seat."

"Everything okay outside?"

"Best I can tell, it ought to fly."

"Come here," she told me. "It's too cold in here tonight for you to sleep in that seat. Keep me warm, hon."

We kept each other warm. The bunk in a DC-4 isn't very big, but we weren't big people.

After much exchanged warmth, she said in her whispery voice, "Mike, suppose it doesn't work?"

"It'll work okay," I tried to reassure her. "This your first real flight as a test pilot?"

"Yes. I'm a little scared."

"Don't be. Or don't be too much scared. If anything goes wrong, you go out that cockpit side window as fast as you can just the way I showed you. And don't wait for me because I'll be holding things together long enough for you to clear before I go out my own window."

"I've never jumped before."

"You've done something comparable to it."

"Huh?"

"That first night you came into my room in the dark. I think that was probably harder for you to do than make a parachute jump."

"I'm ready to make that kind of a jump again anytime ..."

"Tammy, my dear, I know that." The conversation was not proceeding as quickly as this; it was interrupted for long periods at random moments when our lips were doing other things that prevented talking. "When this is over, I want to take a bigger jump. I don't want to lose you ... ever."

"The same, Mike. But there will be some things that I have to do first so that you don't become upset ..."

"Why, Tammy? Nothing in your past makes the slightest difference to me now."

"Oh, Mike, just hold me! Dawn is coming too soon. And we'll work all this out when this is over. I'm glad I'll be with you, because if you didn't come back ..."

"But we're coming back!"

"Shush! And keep me warm!"

Light broke through the cockpit windows. I realized it was dawn. I got to my feet. Tammy was asleep. I crawled through the cabin and clambered down the steep temporary stairs to see Bill Osbourne driving up in his TR-7. He got out with a picnic basket, grinning as he said, "Hot pilots ain't worth a damn without a hot breakfast!"

Both Tammy and I felt better after orange juice, a couple of sweet rolls, ham and scrambled eggs, and lots of hot coffee. We ate in the crew compartment just aft of the flight deck.

"Thank your wife for this," I told Bill.

"I will. She wants us all to get together soon. We haven't gotten to know one another socially."

"We've been busy," Tammy remarked.

"That we have. Maybe there will be some time ..."

"There's never enough time," I said.

The wan disk of the sun was well above the horizon when we closed the cargo door, buckled ourselves into our parachute harnesses, fastened our safety harnesses, and went through the prestart check list. I pushed back my cockpit window. Wimpy was standing on the ramp next to the fire cart, giving us the "all clear." He then pointed to an engine and rotated his hand.

"Starting Number Three!" I called. Tammy engaged the starter.

"Four blades ... six ... seven . . , nine ... twelve! Ignition both! Boost pump low!" she called back. I flipped the magneto switch and hit the primer. "Auto rich!" she called and I moved the mixture control accordingly. Engine Number 3 coughed, shuddered, blew a cloud of white smoke, and settled down to run. Fuel, oil, hydraulic pressures ... all normal. We got the other three engines started without trouble.

"External power?"

"Removed!"

"Radios?"

"On!"

"Vacuum?"

"Within limits!"

"Gyros?"

"Set and uncaged!"

"Flaps?"

"Down!"

"Bridgeport Ground Control, Douglas November one three seven eleven at NEMECO ramp, taxi for takeoff!"

"November Seven-Eleven, Ground. Good morning, Mike! Taxi to runway Two Four. Wind two three zero at five. Altimeter two niner seven seven. Where you and Tammy going today?"

It may sound coolly professional and technical, but there are times on the radio when there is some warmth. And this morning we needed it.

"We'd like a right turn out after takeoff. Going up over Pawling, Albany, and Hartford to check some new equipment," I told the voice from the control tower.

"Worked kind of late last night, didn't you?"

"Airlines have schedules, and we've got deadlines."

We did our pre-takeoff engine run-up at the approach end of runway 24, and Number 4 engine was rough as hell. Tammy looked worried. "Forget it," I told her. "Wimpy said we fouled the plugs on that last low-power approach. It's got new plugs in it. Valve may be sticking. It'll burn the lead out under takeoff power."

"Well, we're light enough to climb out on three engines," she observed.

We got takeoff clearance from a female voice from the tower, wheeled out onto runway 24, and lined up with the center line. Those four throttles are a handful, and I inched them forward as Tammy steadied the control yoke.

"Vee-One!" Tammy called over the roar of four engines. We were past the critical engine failure speed. We could now continue the takeoff on three engines if necessary.

"Vee-Two!" I eased back on the big wheel, and Seven-Eleven broke with the Earth. "Gear up!"

"Gear coming up! Three lights!"

"Climb power!" I felt Tammy reduce power to 2300 rpm and 33 inches of manifold pressure. I reached over and hit the flap switch. "Flaps coming up, five degrees at a time!"

"November Seven-Eleven, Bridgeport Tower. Right turn on course approved! Contact Westchester Approach on one two zero point five five. Have a nice flight!"

"See ya later!" I replied and settled down to making the ship fly. "Tammy, switch to Approach and then turn on the multicom frequency so we can talk with Wimpy and Bill."

I took up a heading toward Pawling, contacted West-Chester Approach, told them we were VFR out of two going to 10,500 and would be maneuvering at that altitude on a test flight. A definite New Yorker told us to "maintain VFR on your own navigation!" In other words, he saw our radar transponder blip on his screen, but he didn't want to be bothered with us.

We leveled off at 10,500 feet and set up cruise power—1600 rpm and 24 inches. "NEMECO Bridgeport, this is NEMECO Seven-Eleven on multicom frequency one two two point nine. How do you read?"

Osbourne's voice crackled back, "Loud and clear, Seven-Eleven!"

"We're level at ten-five, pulling sixteen hundred and twenty-four, one ninety one indicated," I told him. "Warming up the unit now!"

We had a separate check list for the sky hook, and we'd changed the terminology so that nobody would suspect that we were trying a new propulsion system. Carl had rigged up a "kilowatt-hours remaining" digital count-down indicator on the drive control panel so we could keep track of the superbattery power. It wasn't critical on this flight because we also had the capability of recharging the superbatteries from the aircraft electrical system.

We powered-up the drive. Plasma voltage on ... and I could see the flickering glow in the cabin through the aft doorway. Phasing on. Drive voltage on. Load compensator on. Slowly, I turned the knob that advanced power to the unit.

There was a slight bucking of the airplane that I detected through the parachute pack and the seat. "Out of phase slightly!" I said. "Tammy, take it! I'm going back to make an adjustment!"

It was perhaps the strangest sight I'd ever seen in an airplane: those banks of plastic bucket shapes, a maze of heavy cables, and that glowing drive unit bolted to the floor. I got rid of the bucking by a slight adjustment to the load compensating circuit and a readjustment of the driving wave shape. I went back to the cockpit and strapped in.

"Next time, wear your parachute!" Tammy snapped. "I don't want to lose you!"

"Next time," I told her, "don't make personal comments over an open microphone! You're so up-tight you've got your thumb clamped down on the push-to-talk switch!"

"Oops!"

"Never mind, Seven-Eleven!" Bill's voice came back. "You're just adding a little spice ..."

"Easy, hon! She's running smooth now. Let's see if it'll push this bird!" I gently advanced the sky hook power controls.

I got an immediate increasing indication on airspeed, rate of climb, and altimeter. "Unit's on and adjusted," I reported over the multicom radio to Bridgeport. "Reducing as planned." I turned to Tammy. "Kill the outboard engines and feather the props!" She pulled the mixture controls to "Idle Cut Off" and killed the ignition on engines One and Four.

The nose dropped slightly and airspeed reduced to 190 miles per hour. But the altitude held. "NEMECO Bridgeport, Seven-Eleven! One and Four are shut down. We're holding airspeed and altitude as anticipated with the calculated power settings on the unit!"

"Roger, Seven-Eleven! Sounds good! Will it steer?"

"Stand by!" I did a gentle fifteen-degree bank to the left, then to the right, and then turned to a due-north heading. "Bridgeport, Seven-Eleven. Flies like a dream. We're going to Procedure Number Two!"

I increased the sky hook power again. The glow from the drive unit was bright now. I watched altitude, air-speed, and rate of climb increase. "Cut Two and Three and feather them, Tam!"

N13711 continued to fly, the props on all four engines stationary and feathered. Airspeed settled in at 195. Altitude held at 10,500 feet. I called, "Bill, are you recording this?"

"Roger!"

"We should make another profound historical statement. We've got four shut down and a DC-4 flying normally!" I released the mike button, leaned across the center throttle pedestal, and kissed Tammy.

The ship was just as maneuverable as ever. I reached down, picked up the flight manual, thumbed through it, and found that at this weight I could safely pull about three gee's acceleration. "Hang on, Tam," I told her, "and don't get shook up. This isn't in the flight plan."

I slow-rolled the DC-4 with four dead engines.

It was kind of sloppy, and I let the nose fall off a little bit as we came around. But, since I had never rolled a DC-4 before, I thought it was passable performance.

Tammy had gone dead white. "Don't ever do that again with a ship this big!"

"No problem! Tex Johnson rolled the Boeing 707 prototype at five hundred feet in front of a crowd of airline presidents!"

"This is no 707! Just don't do that again!"

I didn't report it to Bridgeport. I called New York Center and requested an IFR clearance to 30,000 feet direct to Albany, then via Victor 2 airway to Gardner, Victor 229 to Hartford, and Victor 99 to Bridgeport. New York Center came back with the approval.

"Roger, Center, Douglas Seven-Eleven leaving ten five for Flight Level three zero zero!" To Tammy I said, "Let's start 'em up!"

I shut down the sky hook once we had all four engines set for climb power. At 12,000 feet, Tammy and I donned oxygen masks. New York Center handed us off to Boston Center, transferring control and surveillance to the other Air Traffic Control Center. We were outbound on Victor 2 airway from Albany before we got altitude, and I called Bridgeport again on multicom. "Bill, we're level at thirty indicating two fifty. Proceeding with Procedure Three."

Again, I turned on the drive, brought it on line, had a slight tuning problem because we had burned off several hundred pounds of fuel during our climb, then shut down all four engines.

High in the cloudless blue sky of the stratosphere, we sailed along with all four engines dead and no sound in the cabin except the boundary layer whispering past the windshield at more than two hundred miles per hour.

"Boston Center, Douglas Seven-Eleven requesting Flight Level three six zero for test purposes."

"Douglas Seven-Eleven, Center. Climb and maintain Flight Level three six zero. Report reaching. That's close to your absolute altitude, isn't it?"

"Roger, Center. We won't be up there long."

"Okay, let me know when you want to come back down."

"Appreciate your cooperation, Center."

On drive power alone, we climbed Seven-Eleven to 36,000 feet. I kept an eye on the remaining battery power. It was dropping rapidly, but we still had plenty to get us back to Bridgeport. We stayed up there where no DC-4 with dead engines should rightfully be until we approached Hartford on the southbound leg. I requested a lower altitude, got permission to descend "at pilot's discretion," and left

36,000 feet for 17,000 feet.

Over Hartford, we ran into trouble, and I should have anticipated it.

We couldn't get engines One, Three, and Four to start. They'd gotten too cold at minus 70 degrees Fahrenheit up in the stratosphere, and the oil had congealed. Number Two started reluctantly.

Tammy was a cool number. "Knock off trying to start them, Mike! We're so light we can make it back on one with the drive helping! Cancel IFR clearance and get us down where we've got some lift and some warmth!"

I didn't report the trouble to Center or to Bill. I didn't want the fire trucks waiting along the runway at Sikorski. I got us below controlled airspace, cancelled our IFR clearance, and let Seven-Eleven drift down. We stabilized at 4,000 feet with full power on Number Two and the drive unit pulling the rest of the load. "No sweat, Tammy! There's Bridgeport!"

"Roger! No emergency, Mike!"

"It'll look strange making a landing with only one engine," I remarked, "but we won't declare an emergency."

"Better let them know," she advised.

"Bridgeport Tower, NEMECO Seven-Eleven with you, ten miles northeast on Victor Ninety-nine! Request straight-in approach to runway Two Four. We have an engine problem, but no emergency."

"NEMECO Seven-Eleven, Bridgeport Tower. You're cleared for straight-in approach to runway Two Four. Wind calm, altimeter two niner seven five. Need the fire trucks?"

"Ah, negative! Couple dead engines, but we're runnin' light!" I replied in my best professional, calm, and bored airline captain's voice with just the slight drawl they all affected.

"Seven-Eleven, advise when you have the airport in sight. Show us a landing light, please." Tammy flipped the two landing light switches on the overhead panel.

I picked up the localizer back course radio signal. Then I saw the bright strobe lights of the runway end identifiers. "Bridgeport Tower, Seven-Eleven has runway in sight."

"Roger, Seven-Eleven. Cleared to land!"

We kept the wheels and flaps up until the last possible moment to reduce drag and power requirements. As soon as the tires touched the concrete, I turned off the sky hook so we could stop Seven-Eleven.

"NEMECO Seven-Eleven, Bridgeport Tower! Need any help getting back to NEMECO ramp?"

"Thanks, Tower. We can taxi okay on one engine."

"Roger. Contact Ground point nine leaving the runway

There was concern and worry on everyone's faces as we calmly taxied up to the NEMECO ramp and shut down the one operating engine.

Tammy grinned at me. "Nice work!"

"Easy, with your help. Think we'd make a good team?"

"I think we already have it made!" she grinned back at me. "Except you've got to learn not to sweat those engine-out approaches!"

I discovered that I was wringing wet with perspiration. "Well, you ain't no antiperspirant ad yourself!" I slid my cockpit window open and yelled down to Wimpy, "No sweat, Wimpy! The oil congealed and we couldn't get 'em started again! Everything else is copasetic!"

We started back through the cabin. In the privacy of the crew compartment, Tammy turned around, grabbed me by the ears, and kissed me soundly. "And that is for aerobatics in a DC-4 at ten thousand feet without any engines!"

"Would you like to review inverted flying procedures tonight?" I asked her.

Once on the ground, my first thought was to get that airplane into the hangar and locked away as quickly as possible. The tower people had seen us working last night. Who else had been watching? Bill agreed. But he wanted a full debriefing.

"We'll give you a full report at Mama's. I'm hungry! Then I want to sleep for about a week," I told Bill.

"I used to feel that way after a mission over Hanoi. But we need your verbal reports while it's fresh in your minds ... particularly what happened after you started to descend."

It wasn't as historic as that day in 1903 when the first powered airplane flew, but we'd flown an airplane with a totally new form of propulsion system that might take that old DC-4 into orbit around the Earth. The sky hook was more than a laboratory experiment now.