I had been flying Lears for some time at this point, and had a good working relationship with E_____. We were primarily hauling boxes, part of the just-in-time freight network that the automotive industry developed in the ’80s to reduce the amount of parts they needed to warehouse. Instead they had an intricate logistics network of tractor-trailers, trains, ships probably, and us: small jet aircraft that did not haul much freight but it was enough to keep the assembly line moving until the truck could arrive a day or two later. The old wisdom was that if the line shut down for even a minute, it would cost the company big money ($10,000/minute? can that even be right?); hence they paid us to fly as fast as the regulations allowed, and so we did.
The Lear 25 has a Vmo (Velocity, maximum operating) of 306 knots indicated, and Mmo (Mach, maximum operating) of M0.82, and we were encouraged to fly as near this as possible. My company at the time even paid by the mile — so you see, the more miles we flew at higher velocity, the more we were rewarded. The General Electric CJ610-6 powerplants (single-stage turbojets) were horrendously inefficient at low altitudes, burning 600 pounds per hour per side at idle thrust on the ground, so it was also in our best interest to make the flight path as trapezoidal as possible: rapid climb to service ceiling, fly right on the bleeding edge, and descend like 4 tons of aluminum bricks to the destination.
So E_____ and I would play energy games. Upon reflection, perhaps not the safest of things to do at one’s work flying airplanes; fortunately here I am still. One of my favorites was “Make That Descent,” loosely based on the ’70s game show Name That Tune, in which the two of us would bid in nautical miles how long it would take one or the other of us to make the descent from the lower stratosphere. Normally an aircraft makes a 3-to-1 descent profile, descending 1000 feet for every three nautical miles of forward progress, which makes for a smooth comfortable transitions between the flight levels and pattern altitude. In Make That Descent we would routinely bid aggressively, getting into a 2-to-1 ratio or even lower, making the destination end of the trapezoid ridiculously steep, though all within the capabilities and limitations of the aircraft. You could not touch the thrust levers — that meant you lost — and anyway you had all the potential energy you needed in the aircraft from altitude. In lower bids you would have to configure the aircraft for landing rather late (the end of the game was the final approach fix, at which you should be fully configured and on speed), pitching to level to lose speed but then would you make it? It was good fun, and the boxes, they did not seem to care.
The game was also automatically called off if we were to get some clearance that did not allow us to complete it, no foul, we would play some other time, and here is where this story starts:
It was a clear Spring day in El Paso, neither too cold nor warm, either. We had likely come from the Detroit area, that was most common, as the factories were still mostly clustered there at that time. Coming over southeastern New Mexico, the coffee-and-cream colored landscape was cut by arrow-straight roads that occasionally had to divert around large rock outcroppings. Little sleepy whistle-stop towns that might have one traffic light here and there lay, clusters of houses and what might have been called a downtown before the Walmart fifty miles away dried that up like the desert surround. We were cruising at 41000 feet (in those days a westbound altitude), fairly light, maybe a 9500 pound airplane, and I was looking forward to another rousing game of Make That Descent. But Albuquerque Center called up and told us they needed us down early. Really. Early. Like 50 miles out at 12000 feet early. But of course we complied, not asking the reason, even getting down earlier than they wanted, spoilers out full, riding the barber pole.
[The barber pole is a hand on the airspeed indicator that shows the maximum speed of the aircraft for current atmospheric conditions. It indicates Mmo in the Mach regime and Vmo in the airspeed regime, and is crucial to follow at all times, but particularly in steep descents.]
And then there we were, some 75 miles from the airport and 12000 feet MSL (Mean Sea Level), more like 8000 feet above the high desert, and then they asked us to slow. Normally we would level off and just indicate 306 knots, but they requested we slow to 250 knots. Then 220, then 200. We contacted El Paso approach about 40 miles from the airport and checked in with our speed, and they asked us to slow to 180. We complied, though we were wondering aloud why they would have us do this, and I started to consider configuring for landing even though we had so far to run. Adding the first notch of flaps would help bring the nose down a bit; with no flaps nor gear out at 180 in a Learjet things were just beginning to get a little mushy. I was just on the point of asking E_____ for the first notch and querying approach why the speed reduction when approach called and told us “[Callsign], normal speed.” I looked at E_____ and he at me and he said “Hit it.” And I smoothly but swiftly brought the thrust levers from basically idle to full forward, nearly 6000 pounds of thrust just–unleashed. The aircraft shot forward like a gazelle, planing out level and pushing us back in our seats. We both grinned like maniacs; we were at 306 knots in the span of several seconds. This was about as much fun as I had ever yet had in an airplane.
Mind, we had to descend in another minute or two, and again pull the speed back below 250, and back further still for the approach and landing. However, I will not soon forget the awe and childlike wonder that E_____ and I shared that bright sunny day east of El Paso, that day E_____ told me to hit it.
Peregrinations 