nonplussedpilot

As I see John approaching our aircraft, I rise out of my seat. There is only space to stand in a 737 cockpit if Logan moves out of the way. He does so, backing into the forward galley. Hearing John’s shoes skipping up the portable metal stairway leading to the open front door, I lean out of the now fully warmed cockpit and peer into the doorway.

“What’s the news?” I inquire.

John doesn’t answer me. Instead he motions me to join him in First Class. That’s where Becky, Joann and Heath are seated. Each is slumped in one of the wide, navy blue leather-trimmed seats absentmindedly poking at their smartphone. Unlike last night when we arrived, cellphone service seems to have been miraculously restored at the Kenai airport. Logan follows behind me after I follow John.

John looks at all of us to make sure he has our attention. Joann is last to put her phone down.

“The company doesn’t want to do the bus thing.” He exhales with a sigh. John is referring to my suggestion of chartering a handful of buses to deliver our ‘non-secure’ passengers to Anchorage.

He goes on. “They said that the single road between Kenai and Anchorage has just recently reopened after last night’s snowfall. And the buses would have to come from Anchorage anyway. Company reports there are no buses for us to use here in Kenai.”

In my mind I picture that solitary two-lane ribbon of pavement winding through the remote wilderness connecting Kenai to Anchorage. There are mountains between here and there. It’s probably not an easy drive either, especially after last night’s snowstorm. Avalanches are common around here.

John tells us it is 158 miles to drive from Kenai to Anchorage. But only 52 miles by 737—a mere 20 minute flight. Fickle weather notwithstanding, travel by air is easily the most convenient way to go from one place to another. I once read that there are more pilots per capita in the state of Alaska than any other state. No wonder.

“Am I going to get fired?” Logan suddenly blurts out.

“What? No!” John stammers.

It’s obvious that John wasn’t expecting this question.

Now, other than the distant whine of the APU, there’s a pronounced silence in the cabin. The echo of Logan’s query and John’s reflexive answer hangs in the air. Until now, I sensed a certain nonchalant regard toward the whole predicament by Heath and Joann. When John is caught off guard by Logan’s question, even they now look alarmed.

I look up at John. I expect him to provide some supporting information as to why Logan, Becky, Heath and Joann should not fear for their jobs. But he doesn’t say anything. Perhaps he’s formulating a response, but with each second that passes the tension in the cabin rises.

Well, if he’s not going to speak, I will.

“No one’s going to fire you.” I begin.

Still vitalized after reaching the same conclusion that Logan and Becky have, my head shakes at the thought of any flight crewmember losing their job over trying to protect the safety of themselves, their passengers, fellow crewmembers and their aircraft—let alone the reputation of the airline. To me, it’s an absurdity.

Words come fast for me now. “You’re just doing your job. The one the company had you spend almost three months in training for. Where you learned the ‘CUS’ words. You know, ‘concern’, ‘safety’, ‘uncomfortable’…”

That’s a reference back to our company mandatory crew resource management training given to all pilots and flight attendants. Each word is a gradual escalation of the perceived threat.

“…And I’ve heard you use every one of these today,” I add. “Correctly, too.”

It appears that John has been mulling over what to say, given his delay in saying something—acting like a Captain—what leaders are supposed to be doing. When he does I will shut the hell up. I practically feel like I’m speaking for him already. But I’m not the captain here.

As if resigned to play the role of leader, he finally speaks—weakly. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

That’s all he says. John’s statement falls gracelessly through the air and lands with a thud.

I blink twice. He’s just rehashed what I’ve already said. The tone is gutless. He’s not going to convince anyone. No support for Logan and Becky and the courageous stance they’re taking.

Frankly, I don’t know if the jobs of Logan and Becky are safe. And neither does John. The tension remains.

–

Up until this point, I have not mentioned much of John or his background. But it is common for pilots who share the snug confines of a cockpit to quietly size up each other. The question “What were you doing prior to us?” is often posed upon first meeting. It’s a deceptively open-ended query that basically asks, “Given that we are at the top of the commercial aviation food chain here, what kind of flying were you doing to get to this level?” Translation: Tell me your flying chops, mister.

In other words, “What the hell do you know?” Or think you know.

Sometimes my captains are older than I, possibly near retirement age, with thousands and thousands of airline flying hours in their logbooks. Or perhaps a military veteran with scores of missions over territory hostile and friendly in addition to his “civilian” time. Maybe the captain was the lucky beneficiary of timing, blessed by the fickle, meandering gods of fortune with a hire date provided after only a few years of light general aviation flight instruction or charter work.  “Right place, right time,” we say.

Whatever the background is, each and every pilot must rise to a certain position on the company seniority list to even bid for a captain vacancy. Once awarded, this pilot must first pass a rigorous flight training regime and checkout. Any non-hackers are typically sent back to the right seat, where us first officers reside in our “apprentice” role with the hope that this seasoning will eventually allow a successful upgrade.

At this level, those that are awarded a coveted opportunity for captain upgrade seldom fail in their attempt. At our line, these promotions usually take many years in coming—at least 10 to 15 years on average. However, expansion by the company into new markets, the acquisition of more aircraft or, in John’s case, the pending merger of two airlines into one allowed him the chance to become a captain. At 40, John is five years younger than me. Though not unheard of, that’s relatively young to be a captain at a major airline.

From what little we touched on our mutual pasts during the course of our one leg flight to Kenai yesterday, John told me that he had been hired by our soon-to-be-merged partner airline back in 2005. Prior to that, John had been with one of our regional affiliate airlines, plying the skies over North America in 50 seat regional jets. Total time on the regional roster about five years, two of that as captain.

This is good seasoning, yes. As far as I can tell, John was not the beneficiary of any preferential hiring schemes sometimes concocted by human resource departments far removed from the flight line. His experience that led him into this Boeing 737 cockpit here in Kenai, Alaska is, at least, relevant and true.

Mine is also. I’ve been flying for over 27 years. My present employer (and hopefully my final airline) is actually my fourth major airline. I’ve also flown air freight, turboprop airliners and business jets big and small. I have specific type ratings in nine separate turbine aircraft. And prior to all of these jobs, I spent four years as a noble but lowly flight instructor helping to mint new aviators.

I’ve been a captain, too. Not in a Boeing aircraft, but in smaller jets. My five flight logbooks and the inked contents carefully scribed within are one of my most proud accomplishments. I have no doubt in my mind I could command this aircraft if given the opportunity.

But right now, that honor and responsibility has been bestowed to John. He retreats to the cockpit to stow his suitcase. His attempt to mollify our flight attendants has failed. Like a good wingman, I follow him. I feel he needs my support.

“You know the company’s gonna try to force them to fly,” John levels with me, his voice is just louder than a whisper. “If they don’t, they will get fired.”

I fall into my seat and sigh in agreement. We silently share a nod.  John and I may have different viewpoints on the risks associated with flying from Kenai to Anchorage this morning, but we do agree on a few things.

First, our jobs are safe. Specifically, my job is safe. After all, I am the only pilot here that has sided with Logan and Kelly regarding the risk associated with attempting our flight. I am sticking my proverbial neck out by doing so, however, because I may have to justify it well after this issue has been resolved. My pilot union membership provides me with robust legal council in the event of punitive action against me. Our company standard operating procedures, regulations and past precedence are firmly on my side. Additionally, the company has provided me with hundreds of thousands of dollars in training me to be as skilled as possible while flying the 737. They have a lot of money invested in me. If either of us got fired, it would be very costly to replace us.

Second, Logan and Kelly’s jobs are not safe. Neither are Heath and Joann’s. Although I just stated flatly to Logan that his job is safe to his face, the reality of the matter is I have no guarantee. Here’s why: to the company, a flight attendant is a relatively inexpensive-to-train, abundant commodity. For every flight attendant we have, there are scores that would love to do this work. Compared to a pilot, no specific prior experience as a flight attendant is necessary to be thusly employed for a major airline. And although our flight attendants enjoy the formal membership in a union, including legal support when necessary, both John and I know their attorneys are much weaker than ours. In other words, flight attendants are relatively expendable.

But we don’t say that to them.

Logan and Kelly and I have a point. Boarding up a bunch of weary, disgruntled and possibly inebriated passengers—all of whom had access to not one but two stores where they could purchase items prohibited from being carried onto a commercial airliner—then sending them off into the sky without being properly screened for these items (like they would be at any other commercial airport in our service network) is just too big of a risk to take.

“Well, I’m going to go back inside and tell them what’s going on,” John rises out of his seat to walk back outside to the terminal building where our passengers wait expectantly. It’s been at least 45 minutes since we arrived back at the airport this morning. I watch John dial his phone and hold it to his ear as he walks away. He’s probably calling the FODM again.

Logan waits until John leaves to speak.  “Is he pissed?” I hear Logan call to me from first class. I rise out of my seat again and head back to answer him.

“No. Just frustrated,” I start. “We’re just stuck, that’s all.”

I break out my vocal highlighter.  “Listen, I feel strongly about this. You feel strongly about this. Kelly feels strongly about this. But the company doesn’t agree with us.” I sum it up again. “We are stuck. But—“ I pause for effect and look straight at Logan. “None of this is your fault.”

Logan looks away and exhales in disgust. “That’s not the way it looks to me,” He says.

“But that’s the way it looks to me. And I’ll back you up on it.” And I will, too. If anyone from the company asks me what happened, I will back my flight attendants up for standing up for what they believe to be the safest, lowest-risk course of action here.

Suddenly, within my uniform coat pocket, my cell phone rings. Up until this point, my cell phone has shown zero service connectivity at the airport in Kenai. Although the phone worked fine at the hotel in Soldotna earlier, I haven’t tried to place any calls on it since.

I pull it out and look at the caller ID. The same South Bend, Indiana number appears just like it had while I was eating breakfast with John this morning. I know no one from South Bend except for one person—Cam, from the Chief Pilot’s office in Chicago. He’s the boss of me and almost 2000 pilots there.

I tap the screen to pick up the call and hold the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Dave…this is Cam,” Cam’s tone of voice is low and forceful. It is markedly different from the relatively ebullient timbre of our earlier conversation. “I hear you’re having a problem flying to Anchorage up there. Care to tell me what’s going on?”

There is no mistaking his tone. Cam’s upset. He’s even leaned on the word ‘problem’. Knowing the following conversation will reflect greatly on my immediate future both here in Kenai and long term as an employee of the airline, I step quickly down the aisle towards the back of the plane. I need the privacy.

“Sure, Cam…” I clear my throat to begin. “I’m concerned about this plan of ours to take these people for a flight without screening them. It’s full of holes…”

Cam challenges me on my definition of the word ‘holes’.  I hear a mixture of skepticism and distrust.

I take a deep breath and go on to carefully describe to Cam our odyssey at Kenai ever since we landed here last night. In chronicalogical order I rattle it off.

No ACARS radio to communicate. The single cell phone that we had to rely on. The deicing we had to get. No jetway. No TSA. The airstairs someone from Era had to find for us. The toilets that showed full. The majority of our customers that were more than 8 hours without food. Even the pizza guy wouldn’t help us. Plus, only one jet fuel truck on the whole airport. Then, even after getting the proper amount, discovering that the fueler had pumped it into the wrong tanks.

We run out of duty time and the flight cancels. Then the passengers wanted their bags back. Then we had to empty the water system and rescue four dogs from the aft baggage compartment in sub-zero windchills. Then we get surrounded by half of our pissed-off passengers when they find out that there are not enough hotel rooms for everybody in Kenai.

Which brings me to today, where we find the company has done little more than provide food and blankets for our hapless customers. Nothing regarding security of the aircraft. No passenger screening. Just the assumption that we pilots and flight attendants are going to be a-okay with the idea of loading up our poorly-treated customers, some of who have been drinking all night—and all of whom had access to two stores where they could have purchased weapons or other prohibited materials. And other than us, there is no one who can help us screen them. No ground security coordinator. It’s all on us.

And when two of our flight attendants tell John and I their concerns, how uncomfortable they are, and how they think safety is now being compromised, I reach the same conclusion they do. That is—their fears are valid. I don’t want to go flying either.

“Cam, I was hired by the company back in 2000—almost 14 years ago. Recall back then that each and every pilot and flight attendant had to participate in several days of cockpit resource management training—together? You remember that, right?”

There’s a noticeable pause before Cam replies, “Yes.”

“Well, one of the things that stuck with me the most from that class was the use of the ‘CUS’ words, Cam. Remember those?”

My throat is getting dry and tight. I feel my pulse throbbing in my temples.

“Every one of those CUS words have been used this morning, Cam. And we as pilots were trained in that CRM course to listen for them,” My voice rises slightly and I slow my tempo of speech to put emphasis on each word. “I’ve been listening, Cam.”

Maybe that’s my ‘problem’, Cam.  I’ve been doing what I was taught to do.

But he doesn’t hear that last quip.  It’s just my inside voice yelling.

My soliloquy concluded, I hold my breath until my Chief Pilot says something back. “So what do you suggest we do then?” he asks finally.

The response is at the tip of my tongue. I put on my best salesman’s voice and try to sell it.

“Charter however many buses it takes to accommodate everyone and drive them up to Anchorage. We will be more than happy to fly the airplane empty up there.” Sounds like a workable plan to us. I hold my breath again.

Another pause. “Nah. The company doesn’t want to do that.” Cam slams the door closed in my face.

“Listen Dave,” Cam fires back at me. “You gotta understand how hard we’ve been working on this issue ever since you guys diverted there last night.”

I press the phone as hard as I can against my right ear and use my left hand to jab a finger into my left ear to block out all ambient sound nearby. My right index finger mashes the Volume Up button on my cellphone.  I don’t want to miss a word he says.

“We have had our System Operations supervisor working with the Corporate Security desk. They have been working with TSOC in Washington DC…” Cam intones.

I’ve heard this before, I think to myself.

“…and they have taken our passenger manifest and carefully vetted everyone on the list against the national No-Fly database. And no one has come up as a security risk! No one!” Cam’s voice sounds like a barking dog.

“That’s fine, Cam,” I retort. “But none of those people who say it’s safe for us to fly are on the airplane with us.”

I gratuitously borrow this line uttered so succinctly by Logan just a little while ago.

I imagine this statement has caused steam to shoot out of Cam’s ears, because I only hear silence in mine.

Regretting it now, I try to tone down my swagger. “Listen Cam, my job as a pilot is to help identify risk and lower that risk level as much as I can for each situation. And to me, busing the people up to Anchorage is the least-risk scenario of our choices here.”

What Cam says to me next astonishes me.

“Dave, if we tried to lower the risk level in everything we do in our lives, we would never get out of bed in the morning.”

Whoa. My mind wrestles with this image Cam describes and I’m sent reeling. To think that my efforts thus far to lower the risks posed by this flight today are likened to someone so obsessed by it as to be paralyzed by fear is stupefying. In fact, it is preposterous. Cam has just insulted me, whether he realizes it or not.

I’m now standing in the corner of the aircraft rear galley, as far away from everyone else as I can be. My restless feet have carried me back here.  It’s still pretty chilly, but I feel my neck radiating heat. I pull at my tie to loosen it.

I know little about Cam other than seeing him a time or two while passing through the Flight Operations office at O’Hare. He’s at least 15 years older than I and has been a senior captain on our largest widebody aircraft for quite a few years. It’s a lofty position. Until today, I’ve never personally spoken to him.

“Cam,” I measure my voice as best I can. My body is shaking now. “This is my fourth major airline I’ve worked for. I’m not a spring chicken. This is not my first rodeo.”

I’m certainly no cowboy, nor am I nuts. I’m just some suburbanite twerp first officer who likes what he does, takes pride in his job and tries the best he can when he’s on the clock.

“With all due respect to you, Sir, now you’re disrespecting me.” I finish.

Thus far in my decorously long and somewhat tumultuous aviation career, I’ve never had to tell my boss that he’s treating me like shit. But that’s pretty much what I’ve just told Cam. I have no idea how he’s going to take it. (To be continued.)

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Note:  Thank you, all readers of my little blog.  Interest in this true story of mine, along with other topics on which I blather, has humbled me.

I know many of you wish to hear the rest of my diversion to Kenai, Alaska from last year.  I have not forgotten you.

Alas, a perfect storm of writers block, family concerns and distractions with work have kept me away from the keyboard.  I apologize.  I will attempt to finish telling this tale as soon as I possibly can.

D.

During the course of the workday, one of the most pressing concerns of an airline pilot are the concepts of threats. What’s a threat?   Here are a few examples: Racing a line of thunderstorms to the runway. Or dealing with a mechanical anomaly that could be indicative of a greater problem. Or threading your aircraft around mountains shrouded in cloud. Or grappling with customers who boarded the aircraft with sound intentions, only to sour when the combination of ill fate, personality and perhaps alcohol has made them obstinate, cantankerous—or worse. Usually the latter threat is handled deftly on the ground—before departure, and typically by ground staff well versed in the art of removing troublemakers simply by stating “the aircraft isn’t moving until you leave”. Works like a charm.

All of these hazards require our attention. Years of experience in the pursuit of my career have proven that the occurrences of most threats are low. They can be minimized but they cannot be completely eliminated. The very act of strapping onto an eighty-ton machine filled with 3,000 gallons of jet fuel and then launching one’s self at fatal airspeeds and altitudes has in itself formidable risk. This risk can and must be minimized. That is where tact becomes important.

My airline has two processes in place for flight crews to use in order to combat these threats. One process is called Threat/Error Management. The other is called Crew Resource Management. No, these are not classes taught at some business school somewhere. I do not have a collegiate degree in either. But I am reasonably educated in these nonetheless, so I may use these appropriately.

These processes did not occur with the advent of commercial air travel. Rather, they are borne from the smoldering wrecks of shattered aircraft, spilt blood and ruined lives. Aircraft accidents seem to have many disparate causes, but deep beneath the surface, most do have a common thread: human error. Therefore, it is important for a pilot to pay close attention to what tends to be the weakest link in what accident investigators call the “error chain”—people. People can make mistakes. People can cause trouble just because, well, they are human.

Threat/Error Management (T/EM) is an active filter our pilots use to analyze all of our threats and actions done in the course of our duties of flying airplanes. Crew Resource Management (CRM) is the ‘tact’ that all of our pilots and flight attendants try to use.

I’ve been an airline pilot now for over 20 years. During that time, I have sat through many, many hours of classroom discussions about CRM, about perceiving threats and how to handle them. Even prior to my flying career, I would study old accident reports in an attempt to familiarize myself with any causes that might have been quelled with effective use of CRM. I find the topic fascinating.

Often, to help underscore the discussion, a classroom instructor might use a prior accident to help illuminate a certain thorny issue. But other than the fallout from 9/11 (which was understandably extensive), rarely are passenger issues discussed.

Today, on this bright morning here in Kenai, we have passenger issues. I am now being asked to assess our predicament by John, our Captain.

The very fact that John has asked me my opinion means he has paid attention to the T/EM and CRM courses our company has presented. And although we were strangers to each other until just yesterday—and have only flown one flight leg together—John knows that I have a wide breadth of experience. My opinions are valid. He knows that I know this, and I appreciate it.

And right now I know the exchange rate for my two cents is pretty high. John, Logan, Kelly, Heath and Joann each await my reply.

I look down at my boots, then off towards the light streaming in from the opened passenger door. Beyond this portal, still inside the diminutive airport terminal await our passengers anxiously. They have now been marooned in Kenai with us for over 15 hours.

I deeply want to get our customers to Anchorage. I know full well that revenue from their airfare pays my salary. In this day and age, the passage from one city to another via airliner is so commonplace, so routine, so safe—that anything other than swift passage is downright shocking. I also remember that half of our customers just spent the night sleeping on the terminal floor.

I cough slightly and swallow so I may be clearly heard. All of my training, reading, research and experience culminate in my utterance. “I am not comfortable either.”

Without me, John cannot go anywhere. This 737, like all Boeing 737s, requires two pilots to fly. John cannot order me to fly. Although the pecking order established in commercial aviation requires me, the First Officer, to report to the Captain, I am not obliged to blindly follow his every wish. He cannot make me fly if I don’t think it’s a good idea to do so.

In fact, it’s one of the reasons two pilots are required in cockpits of all large commercial aircraft. These ‘checks and balances’ between two skilled professionals are robust and tend to catch all threats with great success and positive outcomes.

John and I look at each other in silence for just a second. Processing what I’ve said, he lowers his hands, still clutching the flight’s paperwork and speaks. “Okay, so what do you think we should do?”

A fine question. In other words, what options do I think we have for getting our customers safely to Anchorage today. I rattle off one as a review.

“Well, getting TSA security down here from Anchorage would be the best. But as we all know, that hasn’t happened thus far. And from what we know, it won’t happen any time soon.” I say flatly. “So that’s out.” Logan and Becky nod their heads in assent.

“So what I think is the least risk scenario for everyone is simple,” I continue. “Just have the company charter three buses and drive everyone up to Anchorage. And we will just fly the airplane empty up there. Easy and done.”

Now Joann and Heath nod their heads. Logan follows with a strong “Yeah! How difficult could that be?”

I’m hoping my solution is as effortless to do as it seems.

Ever calm and unflustered, John raises the rolled up flight plan to his mouth in contemplation. “I have no idea. But one of the station people here said it’s about a three and a half hour drive from here to Anchorage. And I don’t know if any buses are available here.” He lowers his arm, leans against the first class seat and turns to me.

“You really think there’s a threat here?” His eyebrows are raised as if to say, “I’m surprised that you would think so.”

I don’t take his question as an affront because he’s using his CRM skills, too. He’s challenging me. During difficult times, difficult questions need to be asked. These are challenges.

“I do.” My voice is clear and even. “And frankly the threat is not to you or me, the threat is to you guys.” I hold up my hand and point at our flight attendants.

“You guys are the ones that will have to deal with any unruly passengers. We’ve got an armored, locked door to hide behind.”

I don’t say this to brag. It’s just the fact of the matter.

Ultimately, if our flight attendants are not safe, neither are any of our passengers.

Echoing a passage from the Security chapter of our Flight Operations Manual, I finish making my point. “There’s no ground security coordinator in place here in Kenai. We are it. And we are not equipped to do this job.” My head moves from side to side.

Again, several seconds of silence. John turns back to Logan and shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll call our dispatcher back and see what the company has to say.”

There is a faint but unmistakable tone of resignation in his voice. Still fully dressed for the cold air, John steps past me and back out of the airplane towards the terminal building.

Once inside, John will dial the dispatcher assigned to our flight on the telephone. He will then describe to him what has just been discussed among his crew. Our dispatcher, knowing he has no authority in matters such as this, will then transfer John to the Flight Operations Duty Manager (FODM). Unlike our dispatchers, each FODM is a captain-qualified pilot. Each FODM works a 12-hour shift at our Network Operations Center (NOC). Each is carefully chosen and specially trained for this position.  Operationally speaking, FODMs put out fires.

One of the primary duties of the FODM is fielding calls from pilots systemwide with all kinds of operational issues. These FODMs have great resources at their disposal, be it customer service, dispatch supervisors, flight attendant supervisors or even corporate security supervisors. Each of these individuals sits at desks literally right next to each other in the NOC. Other subject experts on all manner of airline related issues are available too, another telephone call away.

Then and there, John and the FODM will discuss the situation, Captain to Captain.

I suddenly feel a surge of energy. I have put my foot down with my decision. We are stuck in Kenai. Knowing that my analysis of our situation will be scrutinized by every aforementioned person in the NOC—and perhaps even people above them within our airline—I retreat to my seat in the cockpit, subconsciously going there because that’s where I’m most at home.  I feel safest here.

Logan follows me. He’s got one more question. “Do you think we’re going to get fired for this?”

Just then, I see John exit the terminal building and briskly walk towards our plane.

I smile wanly.  “I guess we’ll know in a minute when John gets back here.”

Neither of us know the answer to this question.  (To be continued.)

Our beat-up minivan taxi rumbles to a halt astride the curb outside the Kenai airport terminal building. There appears to be a beehive of activity going on this morning, and it strikes me. Dozens of people stream in and out of the building, tripping the sensor for the sliding glass door at the entrance. The result is a vacuum-like gush of frigid air sweeping inside the mostly open passageway. For just a moment, the scene resembles the airport terminal at Rochester, Grand Rapids or Peoria—much larger cities in the lower 48 with much more passenger traffic. I pause momentarily and look around to get my bearings. The March morning sun is still low in the sky, but its’ angle is blinding. At least I know where East is.

As if on cue, our four flight attendants walk up, each pulling along their black rollaboard luggage. Their timing is perfect. I greet the closest, Kelly. She still looks as youthful and spritely as when I met her yesterday, but there is weariness on her face. All four of them look haggard, for that matter.

“How’d you sleep? Was the hotel okay?”

Kelly responds carefully with a sheepish grin. “I guess…” her voice trails off, then she adds. “I just want to get to Anchorage so I can really get to sleep.” She offers no other details. Perhaps she sums up what we all feel like at the moment. John and I lead the pack as the six of us walk through the sliding glass doors of the terminal building. Cold air rushes in behind us.

It’s darker inside than out. Once our eyes adjust, we realize that conversations have ceased. Everyone is looking directly at us. From the appearance of the terminal, it is evident how many of our unfortunate passengers have spent the night. Most stand with pillows and blankets under their arms, many still in their packaging, like they had just returned from Bed, Bath and Beyond. Some folks are still curled up against walls and in corners, as if someone hosted a giant slumber party at the airport. Nearby, haphazardly scattered on folding conference tables is the detritus of breakfast–cans of soda, cases of bottled water and orange juice, bunches of bananas, bags of apples, assorted bagels and plastic-wrapped pastries—each well picked over. At least everyone has something in their stomachs, I think. I can only image how their backs feel after a night of sleeping on the tile floor, blankets or no blankets.

Someone yells. “Hey! The crew is here!”

“Are we glad to see you!” calls a middle-aged man to me as I pull my black crew bag. My sincerity/sarcasm meter is not fully warmed-up just yet, so I attempt to navigate this possibly loaded social exchange with as much politeness and professionalism as I can muster. “Glad to be here, too.” I respond guardedly. My eyes look down while I speak, not wishing for eye contact. I remember the tense exchange I had with one of our passengers in about the same spot just 10 or so hours ago. John doesn’t stop to acknowledge anyone. He says nothing and walks briskly toward the Era Air ticket counter.

Our crew luggage trailing us, we all make our way into a small office behind the ticket counter. Other than twin desks, chairs, a fax machine and some shelves, there’s not much back here. Here, we again meet up with Karen, the Era Air station manager at Kenai.

“Well, we’ve been trying our best to make everyone as comfortable as possible…” she begins with a sigh. “Your company gave us authorization to buy pillows and blankets for everyone that didn’t get a hotel room.” She goes on to describe her staff descending upon the local Wal-Mart and buying up all the soft bedding they could find on the shelves. They also purchased and distributed the food and drinks we saw as we walked in.

Karen tells us she has been up most of the night. “I got about two hours of sleep, I think.” Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Her face looks red and weathered. She’s still wearing the same dark blue coveralls she was last night when she came aboard our airplane for the first time. Still, she seems to have command over what has become a refugee operation in her little town. From the looks of things, her staff has labored extensively. We are greatly appreciative.

“So, what’s the plan?” asks John.

“Well, the company just wants you to load up the folks and go. They will park you at a non-sterile gate in Anchorage, where all the passengers and their carry-ons will be screened. We’ll be loading the four dog kennels and bringing you your flight paperwork once we receive it.” Karen says all of this matter-of-factly, as if she’s done this before. We haven’t, of course.

All that she says is essentially a repeat of what I heard from John during the taxi ride to the airport. Nothing new except the information regarding the loading of the dog kennels. I ask one of Karen’s coverall-clad coworkers standing closest to me how the pooches did during the night. They were shipped as cargo on this flight, so their owners did not claim them at the terminal here in Kenai.

“Oh, they were good. We fed them, gave them fresh water, allowed them to run around in the back room a while.” He’s smiling when he tells me this. The little dogs must have provided the staff a bit of warmth and levity during a challenging night. “They’re good.” He says again.

I’m relieved to hear this, having a dog of my own at home. I tell John that I’m going to head out to the airplane to wake it up from its’ cold slumber and get it warmed and ready. I’m hoping for no mechanical issues. After every unique issue that has presented itself in the past day, I am wary. I will appreciate the soft, quiet rest waiting in Anchorage today, too. When we get there.

Logan, one of the three younger flight attendants, catches up to me as I walk across the asphalt ramp toward our plane. He comes up close to my side and leans in to speak to me, as if he doesn’t want anyone else but me to hear what he’s about to say.

“So…did I hear correctly? There is no TSA security here this morning?”

I was expecting this question from somebody. “Yep, sounds like it. Kinda disappointing, if you ask me.” I sigh, inhale again and continue to walk toward the jet. “They had all night to figure this out and set something up.” I speak flatly.

“But…how do we do this?” Logan responds. It’s an honest question. Even though our flight is supposed to be a quick 20 minutes, it is not a typical airline flight.

“Well, like the station manager said. We just load ‘em up and go. They’ll park us at a non-secure gate when we get there. Believe it or not, I’ve actually done this before…” I add this in an attempt to instill some confidence in the plan as I perceive it. I go on describing how I did this as matter of course when I flew with my first airline back in the 1990s.

Logan says nothing after I finish my spiel. He looks unconvinced. But he doesn’t ask me any more questions.

From a distance, our airplane looks stately and handsome. By far it is the largest aircraft on the ramp here at Kenai. Silhouetted against the clear Alaskan sky in the morning sun, its’ paint shimmers. Her tail alone is taller than the control tower on the field. Logan helps me push the portable stairs against the left entrance door of the plane. I clamber up the steps.

The door has been closed since last night. It is not locked however, nor is it equipped as such. There is no guarantee that anyone hasn’t illicitly “inspected” the interior of our plane since then. A possible threat, intentional tampering, rests in the back of my mind. More caution is advised.

Pilots rarely get to open large commercial aircraft doors, especially from the outside, so I’m actually looking forward to this. Besides, no ground personnel from my company is there to do it. I pull out and twist the thick aluminum handle in my leather gloved hands. The door responds by pivoting inward slightly, then outward. It’s heavy, like a bank safe. A forceful pull and a shove and the door swings wide left and locks open with a metallic thud and click.

Inside the entryway is a stack of empty pizza boxes and trash bags leftover from last night’s impromptu meal service. The smell of cardboard and pizza have mixed with the omnipresent odor of jet fuel and leather seats. The cabin is bathed in natural light from the windows. Logan and I can see our breath. It’s cold.

I stow my luggage in the cockpit, then perch atop one of the sheepskin covered pilot seats. My left hand traces a few arcs on the overhead panel as my eyes inspect the correct position of all switches and levers. This well-choreographed movement of my hand is specifically described in our aircraft flight manual, and one of the first procedures that crews memorize when they transition to this airplane. We call this act a “flow”. I do this flow to insure that when I do turn on the battery master switch, only the devices that need to be powered receive this electrical current, lest any of our onboard battery power gets squandered before our auxiliary power unit can be started. Batteries have a notorious reputation for poor performance exactly when the demand for them is greatest—when it’s cold. And any mechanical issue at this point would be very detrimental to our hopes of departing Kenai today. It would be the last thing we need. But sometimes an unwary pilot, acting in haste, can cause problems that he never meant to cause. Knowing this, my eyes move slowly, my hands carefully follow them.

A few flicks of switches thrown in the proper sequence brings the battery online to power the most basic of systems on the plane. Control panel lights flash, displays flicker and various electronic tones sound. A couple of more toggles and the APU surges to life. Soon, warm air and electricity are flowing inside our airplane. So far, our aircraft has successfully been coaxed awake from a cold sleep with no issues.

The rest of our flight attendants, Kelly, Heath and Joann, stow their own luggage and commence in tidying up the cabin. It has been left in relative disarray after last nights’ ordeal. Usually a dedicated staff of aircraft cleaners descend upon each jet after our passengers deplane to remove trash, wipe up tray tables and lavatories and vacuum the carpet. Given the absence of company support personnel here in Kenai, our flight attendants are pressed into duty.

It’s not hard, crossing seatbelts and picking up empty water bottles and coffee cups, but it’s not terribly pleasurable either. If a presentable cabin is what is necessary to begin the boarding process and expedite our departure to Anchorage, they are working to make that happen.

Logan enters the cockpit. He’s a young man; trim, about five and a half feet tall with scruffy facial hair, a trendy look.

“Can I talk to you again…out here?” He motions for me to join him in the first class cabin. I was in the midst of my cockpit setup duties and don’t normally like to be interrupted. I’m trying to do as much of my job—and John’s, too—before he boards the plane. But Logan’s choice of words and his gesture to speak in the forward cabin indicates that he has something more than a typical flight attendant preflight request.

I lift my body over the center console in the cockpit and walk the ten steps toward first class. There, Kelly joins Logan and me. She’s a short girl who can easily stand upright in the row of wide leather seats and still not hit her head on the overhead compartments.

Logan starts out. “Um…” His voice is hesitant as he searches for words. “I was talking with Kelly here about our plan to load up everybody and go…” He looks at Kelly, then back at me, and then swallows hard. “We aren’t comfortable with it.” He says finally, shaking his head.

My head tilts down and I ponder what I’ve just heard.

As equipped with 16 first class seats and 138 coach seats, our Boeing 737-800 is required by regulation to be staffed with four flight attendants. This is a minimum number. It has nothing to do with precisely how many passengers we are carrying this day. It is based on the FAA-derived certificated carrying capacity. Any less than four able-bodied flight attendants and we can’t even begin boarding passengers, let alone fly.

“So you don’t want to go?” I ask Logan. Even if one of our four flight attendants decline, we would be in a pickle. We have no “reserve” flight attendants on call. Our airline hub locations do, but we are over 1400 miles from the nearest one of those.

Footsteps are heard climbing up the stairway to the airplane. The three of us turn and see John appear in the doorway. He’s carrying a stack of white paper which holds our flight plan and other associated documents. His timing is perfect, too.   Because my normal preflight activity would find me up in the cockpit, he seems a bit surprised that I’m back in the first class cabin. He glances at Logan and Kelly, then at me. “What’s up?” he asks.

Logan beats me to the point. “I don’t think it’s safe just boarding the people and going…” he begins. John calmly steps past me to more clearly hear what he has to say. He stands in the middle of the aisle abeam row 2, only a few feet from Logan. Logan continues.

“I mean…I’ve never done this before. There is nothing in our Flight Attendant Operations Manual that covers this.” Logan speaks crisply. He’s not pushy sounding nor whiny, though his voice quivers ever so slightly, as if he’s nervous about what he’s saying. John and I pick up on this and lean closer to make sure we hear him clearly.

“Plus, did you guys see what was right across the street from our hotel?” This question hangs in the air.

What, indeed? All John and I know is there’s a hotel right across the street from the airport. This is where Logan, Kelly, Heath and Joann spent the night. We didn’t pay much attention to the other local sights as we drove to Soldotna last night.

“I’ll tell you what’s across the street. A Wal-Mart. And a Home Depot. And they were both open.” There’s chagrin in Logan’s tone. John and I exchange glances as we process this tidbit of information.

Logan continues. “And what does Wal-Mart sell? Guns. Knives. Ammo. “

I can picture the Sporting Goods department at the Wal-Mart in my mind. Vertical racks of rifles and shotguns in glass cases. Rows of hunting knives. Boxes of shotgun shells and small arms bullets on the shelves. All under bright flourescent lights.  My head nod imperceptibly.

“And Home Depot? Box cutters. Flammable liquids.” Logan connects the dots and makes his point. “And now we have no way of telling if something like that has been smuggled on the airplane.” He crosses his arms for non-verbal reinforcement of his stance.

“I’m not comfortable with it, either.” Kelly’s voice, much softer, intones. She looks at John and I. Her face is still youthful, but her lips are pursed. She and Logan are standing tall.

“Okay…lemme tell you what I know about this operation we’re planning to do here…” John replies quickly. “Joann, Heath…can you guys come up front here?” Until now, they have been outside earshot of this conversation. John raises his voice because both of them are standing well in the back of the cabin—just forward of the last row of seats. Still, John’s tone is measured. If he’s affected by what he’s just heard from Logan and Kelly, he hasn’t told his face or vocal cords yet.

Joann makes her way up front to the last row of first class. Heath follows behind and stands abeam the divider between first class and coach. Now that we are all together to hear, John proceeds to fill us in on what he might have learned since we boarded the aircraft.

“First off, the flight time is 20 minutes. The weather in Anchorage is clear, pretty much like it is here in Kenai, so getting up there shouldn’t be a problem.”

I’m not quite sure I understand what constitutes a problem in John’s mind, but I do know that Logan has just described one here in Kenai. And we cannot ignore it. But I don’t say anything.

“Now, this is the story on the security issue.” John gets to the heart of the matter.

“Our Operations Manager, working with the dispatcher, Flight Operations Duty Manager, the Inflight supervisor and the company Corporate Security department have informed the U.S. Transportation Safety Administration Operational Control Center—or what they call ‘TSOC’ for short—what our requirements are to get this plane and our passengers up to Anchorage today.” Says John.

“And I was told that the plan is ‘acceptable’ to the TSOC. They know exactly what we’re trying to do.  They say it’s safe.”  John concludes flatly.

“But why didn’t they just get TSA down here this morning? They’ve had all night.” Joann asks a question all of us have been asking in our minds.

“Apparently Anchorage got somewhere like fourteen to sixteen inches of snow last night when the forecast called for four to six. And the only road between Anchorage and Kenai was impassible until only a few hours ago. “ John sighs then he completes the briefing. “That’s why there’s no TSA down here this morning.”

This news is allowed to settle in for a few seconds to allow everyone to comprehend.

“Still feel like it’s not safe now?” John asks, looking straight towards Kelly and Logan.  His tone is sincere, but I sense the direction John’s leaning.

Logan’s rebuttal is fast and quite literal. “I don’t care. TSOC or whatever they’re called…Corporate Security…. they aren’t on this airplane. We are.” His voice trembles a little.

His point is simple: if there truly are guns or knives or box cutters or flammable liquids on the airplane, brought aboard by one of our unscreened passengers or possibly stowed away on the aircraft somewhere while it sat overnight—these are all threats.  Threats to all of us.

Ironically, in the aftermath of 9/11, all airline cockpits are isolated from the rest of the aircraft by an armored, bulletproof, locked door. So, the pilots are least likely to be harmed—at least directly, and only as long as the cockpit door is kept closed. And even if a violent disturbance occurs, our strict protocol requires that the door stay shut at all times. We cannot play airborne heroes. The Captain and I will be protected on the flight deck. In essence, everyone in the cabin behind us will need to fend for him or herself while we attempt to land the aircraft as soon as we can. It is a cruel, potentially gruesome scenario, but one that could play out. Even today. Here, between Kenai and Anchorage.

John keeps his cool. I feel my heart thumping in my chest so I force myself to inhale deeply and exhale as slowly as I can. He asks Kelly if she feels the same. Kelly silently nods.

“What about you guys? Joann?” asks John.

“I don’t care. I mean…it’s such a short flight.” To underscore her opinion, Joann shrugs her shoulders.

“How about you Heath? John turns his head to face him. Heath is bookish looking, soft spoken and thin. He was the one who forgot a winter coat last night. He might be a neophyte logistically but I’m not a psychologist on how he might perceive our situation here.

Heath merely states “It’s alright by me if we go. No big deal.”

The cabin crew total: two for going and two for not, regardless the flight length or TSOC approval.

John turns to me. I’m not sure if he wants me to break the tie.  At least he asks me.

“What do you think Dave?” (To be continued.)

The sound of my cellphone alarm clock rattles me awake. My body jolts beneath the covers as my right hand reaches toward the sound on the bedside table. I fumble to silence the bell. I look around in the darkened room, my eyes focusing on what shadowy shapes I can make out. Nothing looks familiar.

For about 5 seconds I have absolutely no idea where I am.

Then my brain puts it together, peers through the mist and things become clear again. I’m stuck somewhere outside of Kenai, Alaska. At some no-name hotel with a design ethos apparently focused on and inspired by the magnificent color beige. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige furniture, beige bathroom, beige towels. Even the little wrapped bars of soap are beige.

I look at the little placard above the telephone keypad, also beige. It lists the hotel address as someplace in Alaska called Soldotna. I’ve never heard of it. Before yesterday I had scarcely heard of the town of Kenai, either. But, due to a long string of bad luck requiring us to divert and cancel our flight to Anchorage, ultimately culminating with a lack of hotel space in Kenai, John and I have been banished here to rest.

I grab the edge of the window curtain and stick my head into the light. Instantly I’m blinded by the glare of the sun reflected off of dirty glass. I squint across an open field to the road that likely runs back to Kenai. Beyond that, not much more than a nondescript strip mall and a fast food restaurant of indistinct lineage. Blue sky, though. It still looks cold. Probably typical of weather in Alaska in March, I think to myself.

It takes a few moments for my fuzzy brain to convert local time to Central Time and my family, but I come up with somewhere around noon there. That means it’s about 8am here in Soldotna. I figure I’ve slept about 7 hours. This total is typical for me after a normal day. But probably on the low side of the scale after being up for 23 hours straight, like I was yesterday.

A hot shower in the beige bathroom wakes me up more. I pull on some jeans and attempt to call my wife. Surprisingly, the call goes through. My cell phone works here—unlike back on the airplane in Kenai. The Missus picks up the phone and I regale her with my Awesome Alaskan Adventure still in progress. Like a good spouse, she offers compassion and tells me that she’s just glad I’m safe. I tell her I wish I were back home.

“Tough day.” I mumble, summing it up. She says she wishes I were home, too. I explain the time difference to her and she lets me go with the admonition to get some breakfast. It occurs to me that I haven’t eaten anything in almost 18 hours.

I meet John downstairs at the little beige breakfast bar adjacent to the hotel lobby. Over soggy beige corn flakes and poorly reconstituted orange juice, John and I catch up.

“Hear anything from the company yet?” I ask John. He looks a little tired, although better than he did last night.

“Nope. I haven’t spoken to anybody since last night, after I got to my room.” He says between sips of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “I told them I was going to call them back in nine hours…” This 9-hour reference is a contractually mandated minimum rest requirement ‘free from duty’ including work-related phone calls, of which we are well aware, and have taken full advantage of. “Have you heard from anyone?” John asks.

I shake my head. There’s a brief silence as we finish our meal and clear the table. We both wonder aloud at what the plan is for us, our crew and our airplane today. Noting the clear blue sky outside the window, we are guessing that the weather will not be the impediment it was for us yesterday. Then again, we are not in Anchorage yet, nor do we know what the weather is doing there. We shall find out soon enough.

Suddenly, my phone rings—now irrefutable proof that the thing actually works better than it did all night at the airport in Kenai. It startles me. John and I both look at the caller ID on the screen. It displays a telephone number from South Bend, Indiana. I don’t know anyone from there but I answer it anyway, curious to know who might be trying to call me in Soldotna, Alaska. Maybe it’s just a wrong number.

“Is this Dave?” a male voice asks. “Yeah, this is. Who’s this?” I reply. Doesn’t sound like a wrong number now.

“Dave, this is Cam. I’m one of the Assistant Chief Pilots here in Chicago. Given it’s the weekend, I’m the guy on call here today, which explains the funny number you see on your phone. I understand you and your crew had an eventful night in Kenai last night…” He begins. ‘Eventful’ is right, I think.  Cam’s tone sounds engaging, maybe a little boisterous, but still cordial.

Each pilot base has a Chief Pilot and several Assistant Chief Pilot positions. They are our supervisors at the base level. If I am one of thousands of anonymous pilots at our company just doing his or her job without any drama or fanfare, my phone won’t ring with one of these guys on the other end. It is evident now with this phone call that John and I are no longer anonymous.

Knowing what one of our “chiefs” is doing calling me piques my curiosity. Word must have gotten around from our FODM and dispatcher last night to our mutual supervisors. They either have kudos or concerns. Usually the latter.

The timbre of Cam’s voice indicates he’s trying to establish a rapport with me.

I answer his question briefly in the affirmative, though I am hesitant to go into further detail. I look up at John. It strikes me that the company has chosen to call me first. Usually the captain of the flight should get the first call from the company, not me. But that’s my logic.

“Listen, I’m going to call the captain here in a minute. But I called you first because you’re a Chicago-based pilot and you guys took off from Chicago. I understand he’s Houston-based.” I verified that for him, looking across the table at John while I say it. I ask him if he knew what the plan was for us today.

“I’m not sure, actually. I’ve just begun to follow your flight this morning. I just wanted to call each of your first thing today to see if you were doing okay. And, if there is anything you need, just ask. Now you have my number!” Cam sounds downright chipper from way off there in South Bend or wherever he is.

It would have been redundant for him to answer the same specific questions that John might have, so I just thank him for his concern, say good-bye and hang up. I’ll let John get the details, I reckon.

I put my phone back down on the table. “Some assistant chief pilot from Chicago—I don’t know him from Adam.” I shrug my shoulders, feigning any association. “Said he doesn’t yet know what the plan is but that he’d be calling you in a minute. Sounded nice enough, though…” I add.

John shrugs his shoulders back at me. “My phone’s up in my room charging” He states flatly. “How about we meet back down here ready to go in 15 minutes? I’ll have the front desk call us a cab.” John motions toward the stairway going up. I nod, follow him up the stairs and tell him I will be ready. I can hear his phone ringing as he opens the door to his room.

Now fully attired in our midnight blue and gold uniforms exactly 15 minutes later, John and I board the same dilapidated minivan taxi that dropped us off at the hotel last night. As we leave the hotel, John shares with me his conversation with the company.

“Well, I spoke to Cam, that assistant chief pilot. Also our dispatcher. And the FODM—a new guy today. The weather’s fine in Anchorage…” As he speaks, I peer out at the wilderness. Everything I see is new to me in the light of day. Deep evergreen forests and patches of brown scrub line the two-lane road, which gives the landscape a stark, austere beauty. Not a trace of snow, ironically.

“They want us to meet up with the flight attendants, get the plane ready, load everybody up and go.” comes John’s distilled summation.

Well, no kidding, I think sarcastically.

“But what about screening our passengers? Have they set up TSA security?” I inquire.

“Nope.” John says simply. “They want us to board up and fly to Anchorage. There, we will park at an ‘unsecure’ gate where the passengers will deplane, enter the terminal, get re-screened, and then go on their way.” Simple as that.

I am surprised to hear this. Our ordeal yesterday was made immeasurably more difficult because of the lack of TSA security screening at the Kenai airport. Everyone had to stay on the airplane while we waited for fuel and food, waited to be deiced, waited for the weather to improve—just waited. Almost three hours total time waiting after we touched down on the runway at Kenai stuck inside the cabin of a Boeing 737-800.

All because a U.S. mandate states that everyone aboard a scheduled commercial air carrier operating across state or federal borders must first be screened for weapons, explosives or other dangerous goods. Kenai Airport, tucked a scant 56 flying miles from Anchorage and not privy to scheduled flights from other states or countries, did not have this capability last night. Apparently, they do not have this capability this morning either.

“Why didn’t they just send TSA agents down from Anchorage to Kenai to screen our passengers?” I wonder aloud.

John merely shakes his head. “I dunno.”

Although I am vaguely familiar with the concept of flying unscreened passengers aboard an airliner, I haven’t done it in almost 20 years—long before 9/11 changed everything and created a new paradigm in aviation security. At the time I was flying small turboprop commuter airplanes with 19 seats and no flight attendant. Back then, the prevailing belief was someone might try to smuggle a weapon on a small plane to get to a big aircraft—then hijack that plane. Not us little planes. The rules were much more general—even cursory—and so was the security screening.

I tell this to John. Although he also has flown smaller regional aircraft, he has never personally flown an airliner with passengers in this manner. But in the spirit of the moment, under this cerulean Alaskan sky, after the night we had last night—we are both energized with the prospect of leaving Kenai and all this unpleasantness behind. It is to be a 20-minute flight.

(to be continued)

Row 21 is an exit row aboard our plane. Along with the obvious benefit of a convenient hatch with which to leave the jetliner post-haste, it also offers a corporeal benefit: more legroom from the seat row staring one in the face. Frequent customers desire these slightly more spacious accommodations, as does pretty much anyone who wants a little more room, especially if you’re taller than 5’6”. Or if you’re going to be seated there for 6+ hours on your way to Alaska.

Perpetually in search of more revenue, marketing types at airlines have been charging a not-insignificant tariff for the privilege of sitting in these rows. Depending on the flight, these seats can be the first snatched up by customers, or not—presumably if someone doesn’t wish to pay the extra cost.

Today, this row is pretty much empty. Except for one rather tall, middle-aged gentleman who poked his head into our cockpit before we left O’Hare. Also a professional pilot, the identification badge he holds in his hand indicates he flies for a global small package delivery carrier. In short, he’s a cargo pilot. His name is Rex.

Rex is our jumpseater. A jumpseat is the extra seat in the cockpit used on an irregular basis to accommodate observers to the flight deck proceedings. If not used in an official capacity for company flight checks or such, this seat is open for almost any airline pilot, our line or others, who might not otherwise get a ‘space available’ seat in the cabin. It is first come-first served.

On our Boeing 737, this seat is not very comfortable. It actually swings out of the sidewall of the cockpit like a Murphy bed and locks bolt upright into place in the only space left to stand while the cockpit door is closed. When someone occupies this seat, the cockpit interior resembles a sardine can.

Rex introduces himself to John and I before departure at O’Hare. It’s a matter of courtesy—a way of saying ‘thanks’ for the ride. Rex explains that he is actually commuting to work this day. He is technically based in Anchorage, but he does not live there—quite common for pilots to live somewhere, yet work many miles away. Jumpseating makes this life possible. But this commute is fraught with peril. As one of the former, I always try to be gracious to anyone wishing for a ‘free ride’ on one of our airplanes. It’s just a small way for me to show my gratitude for all the jumpseats I’ve had the fortune in which to sit.

After we both shake Rex’s hand, I ask him if he has to sit up here with us. Given our relatively light passenger count this day, he replies in the negative. “I’ve got a comfy seat in the exit row…”

“Great. Make yourself at home.” John says cordially. He’ll be much more comfortable there for the long flight to Anchorage. Actually, having Rex seated in the exit row tends to guarantee that if the overwing exit needs to be utilized for emergency egress, it will be likely done correctly. We are both glad he has been assigned this seat.

John and I silently exhale; selfishly knowing we will not have to share any of our limited space up here for the flight northwest bound. Seeing that the overhead luggage compartments appear to be filling rapidly, and to not delay the boarding of the aircraft, Rex hands his roll-aboard bag to an O’Hare ramper in the jetway before he heads back to his seat. The ramp worker will place his bag in one of the two cargo compartments beneath the plane.

In the flurry of activity before departure, this friendly, routine interaction is quickly forgotten.

Now, as darkness completely envelops our refugee operation, Rex rises from his seat and steps up front to the cockpit to speak with us. Simultaneously, John and I are distracted by the sudden appearance of a Jeep just to the left of the aircraft airstair. We are both startled to remember that there is yet another professional pilot aboard sharing in this great adventure.

We both recognize him by his uniform pants and shirt, though not presently emblazoned with his company insignia—he’s traveling in relative anonymity for his own privacy—no one wants to be bombarded with insipid questions about airlines and flying when one is just trying to commute to work. We offer him a bemused smile and a half-hearted “Hey…”

“Hey!” Rex responds. “How’s it looking at Anchorage?” A fair question, but also a loaded one.

Knowing he is probably familiar with the pickle we have all found ourselves in, I am not concerned.  I offer a brief summation of our travails, but with much more technical detail than either of us have relayed over the PA. Sometimes too much ‘tech talk’ can confuse our customers, leading to stress for everyone. We don’t have to dumb it down for Rex. He might even offer us some sympathy.

“The winds are screaming up there.” I start to rattle off. “230 at 25, gusts to 38. Only shot for us is the ILS to 15, but the mins for that approach are 4000 RVR. And it’s been sitting at 3500 now for over an hour…” Rex slowly nods his head in acknowledgement as he pieces together our collective dilemma.

“There’s no TSA for the pax here, so we are stuck.” John summarizes before I can add any other color. He shakes his head for emphasis. “And now I’m up on my duty time.”

Rex groans. He knows how that works, too. “Why did you guys divert to Kenai anyway? Couldn’t you have gone to Fairbanks?”

This is a question John and I have mulled over ever since we entered the hold outside of Anchorage. Fairbanks is a much larger city than Kenai. They have TSA there. It is also many miles away on the other side of Anchorage.

I beat John to the punch. “Once we started our descent into Anchorage, we were committed to either Anchorage or Kenai. We no longer had the gas to climb back up and fly to Fairbanks.” John nods. It’s the truth.

It all sounds like an inquisition on a superficial level, but we know Rex is prying this information out of us for a reason.

“I’ve got a morning show. I’m supposed to fly one leg to Narita…” John and I both look up at him, our weak smiles replaced by winces and slow shakes of the head. With all the logistical hurdles we are facing at the moment, this plan seems just as dubious as those of our other 109 passengers, whatever they are.

“The pizzas are here!” chirps the excited voice of Kelly in the forward galley. Rex steps aside as we turn our focus to something possibly pleasant for a change.

Cold air rushes in when the forward left cabin door is opened. But this time it carries the aroma of warm bread and Italian spices. Plates, napkins and bottles of water arrive too. Our cabin crew fan out along the plane’s single aisle to dispense this manna from Kenai.

Other ground workers scurry up the airstairs, too. We are personally informed that our deice crew is ready to begin the ice removal regimen. I reach down and to the left of my left knee and grab the deicing checklist. Reading aloud, I carefully complete the steps, resting my fingers on each switch for confirmation before I move them. John follows my every action. In less than 30 seconds the plane is ready to be deiced. John tells the lead deice crewmember to commence.

John’s phone rings. Tethered to the wall charger above my head after its’ strenuous usage, John leans over to my side of the cockpit to answer it. It’s the flight operations duty manager, or FODM. He’s our on-call worldwide pilot liaison at our network operations center. Like our dispatcher, he has a host of resources available at his fingertips, including telephone lines to the Senior Vice President of Flight Operations, who reports directly to our CEO.

He also has flown the line as a Captain, so his ability to provide empathy and offer assistance is usually present. I say usually, because his primary role is that of a firefighter—that is, he puts out ‘operational fires.’ Ours is not quite a conflagration, but we hope for our sake it is producing enough smoke to be seen clearly from where he sits. If he can help facilitate our expedited departure, we want him to do so. Our 60 minute duty time clock is down to less than 45.

Surprisingly, the FODM relays the news that permission has been granted to allow any passenger to leave the aircraft to use the restroom contained in one small brick outbuilding immediately adjacent to our left wing. Just one condition—each passenger wishing to do so must be personally escorted by a local Kenai airport employee to and from this oasis. They will not be allowed to deviate from that path between the aircraft and the restroom. Sounds cumbersome to us, but whatever. Any stipulation is better than overflowing toilets on an aircraft that is to be used to transport people expecting a minimum level of communal hygiene.

A fresh weather report arrives via yet another phone call, this one from our dispatcher. Anchorage weather is now exactly at 4000 RVR—literally our legal minimum for attempting an approach and landing. We can depart once we have the correct fuel load and accompanying paperwork.

These puzzle pieces appear to be falling into place. But John and I are wary. Any detail that is left unchecked by us could act as a Siren’s song, singing us to shipwreck. Our final dispatch release arrives in a thick raft of freshly printed paper. Just as John dives in to the stack of information, the long-awaited fuel truck arrives.

We know the fueler has boarded the aircraft before we even see him standing in our doorway. The distinctive musk of kerosene soaked coveralls replaces any lingering scent of pizza.

“How much fuel do you want?” asks the burly, bearded man standing at least 6’3”. He looks like someone from Central Casting sent to play the role of an Alaskan aircraft refueler.

“Hang on, we’re figuring it out now.” I tell him. John is hunched over trying to read in the shadowy light.

“Sixteen-seven.” John says, finally. That’s a total of 16,700 pounds of jet fuel. We turn and look at the refueler to confirm he understands.

I point to the three fuel gauges in the center of our control panel. “See here? Left wing, Center and Right wing tank.” I show him the three places the fuel can go. “Just fill the wings. Are you comfortable refueling a 737?” I raise my eyebrows and look him in the eyes.

“Yeah, sure. I just finished fueling Alaska…” he shrugs with palpable confidence.

He is referring to the Alaska Airlines 737 that diverted to Kenai a few minutes before we did. A 737 is a 737, right? Good enough. We tell him we only have about 30 minutes left before we time out of duty. Before he leaves the cockpit, he mentions he’s going to need a credit card number before we go.  With this fueling company, we apparently have the carte blanche of a West German Cessna making a pit stop in Red Square.

“We’ll get the company credit card number for you, I promise…” says John, emphatically. I shrug my shoulders and shake my head for the umpteenth time at all of the little crap we are having to do tonight to get the hell out of Dodge, I mean, Kenai.

Satisfied with our response, the fueler trundles down the airstairs as fast as his large frame can take him. I bet he’s tired. He tells us he’s been working alone all night.

“Okay.” I remark after the fueler leaves. “We might just get there.” I add, trying to sound optimistic.  I sense John would appreciate any show of buoyancy I might provide.

We both hope that the fuel now finally available to us will be the key to our imminent departure to Anchorage. John calls Dispatch again, this time for a company credit card number. John is not paying for the gas with his own credit card. Neither am I. We work for a big company.

Kelly pokes her brunette head into the cockpit. “We ever get permission to have the passengers use the bathrooms inside?” She asks.

“As a matter of fact, yes. But it’s too late now. We should have our fuel in a couple of more minutes.” John explains to her. “Don’t tell anybody.”

Her eyes widen, she nods quickly, almost imperceptively, and retreats into the forward galley without saying a word.  She understands the crush of time, too.

We’re not trying to be cruel.  The toilets are mercifully still flushing, indicative that ‘Full’ on the cabin gage does not yet correlate to ‘full’ in the toilet holding tanks. And having a passenger leave the aircraft to use the facilities inside would waste precious minutes of John’s remaining duty time. It is only a 20-minute flight to Anchorage, assuming the weather holds.

I glance at the fuel totalizer below the three fuel gauges. It conveniently sums up the quantity in all three tanks. “16.7” It shows. Just what we ordered—16,700 pounds of fuel. “We are out of here!” my mind yells.

Then I notice something.  It doesn’t look right.  There is a problem.

My instructions of “Just fill the wings…” to our fueler have not been followed. Instead, 3100 pounds of fuel now resides in our center fuel tank, between both of the wings. The rest of the fuel is where it should be.

This center tank fuel quantity exceeds a Boeing 737 aircraft limitation. One determined by structural engineers, steeped in the metallurgy and physics that designed the airplane. Essentially, this limitation prohibits more than 1000 pounds of fuel to be carried in the center tank if the wing tanks are not filled. Sounds counterintuitive given the symmetrical fuel loading, but a limitation is a limitation. John and I know this number. And our fueler has exceeded it by over 2000 pounds. This is potentially very bad news.

“John, look…” I point to the center tank quantity.

“Holy shit.”  Up until this point, I have not heard John utter any profanity.  But John knows this aircraft limitation too.

“Call maintenance. Maybe we can transfer it out of the center tank and into the wings.” I offer quickly. “They do it all the time. We can hopefully talk him through it.”

I’m grasping at straws, and I know it. Transferring fuel is going to take time. We are almost out of it. John calls Dispatch and has them patch him through to our maintenance department.

Our fueler reboards the plane. His husky form blocks the cockpit doorway. He has no idea what trouble he has just caused us.

“My boss says we’re gonna need a credit card number.”  Of course he does, I think.  “Fuel look okay?” he says in a gravelly voice.  John looks up momentarily, annoyed, then squeezes his hands over his ears to hear the voice at the other end of the phone.

I am left with the delicate task of telling our fueler that he has not followed our instructions. I am hoping that John merely hands the fueler his phone to speak directly to our maintenance controller in Chicago. He doesn’t.  John’s phone remains jammed against his ear.

“Um…it looks like the number’s okay” I remark in as cool a tone of voice as I can muster. “But I told you to only put the fuel in the wing tanks.” These last two words hiss as I speak them.

My sarcasm hits the target.  “I just…threw the switches, just like I did on that Alaska plane” retorts the fueler, his voice rising an octave in defense. “This is a 737-400, isn’t it?”

I reply, sighing, “No. This is a 737-800.” I have no earthly idea what the difference is between the fueling of a 737-400 and a 737-800. All I know is this guy got it wrong.

John looks up at me, cupping the receiver of his phone with his hand. “We can transfer gas, but not with passengers on the plane.” he blurts.  Yet another limitation—this one not widely known, but not typically an issue for us anywhere—except Kenai.

Our passengers have no place else to go.

We are left with only 15 minutes of time on John’s duty period to solve this last conundrum.  The weather gods have momentarily relented.  And after arranging airstairs, deicing, pizza, water, permission to potty, reams of paperwork and fuel (as ignominious as that has become), we must face a fact that is as cold as the air outside our plane.  Legally transporting 109 men, women and children, one jumpseater and our four frazzled flight attendants up to Anchorage tonight is now impossible. (To be continued.)