It started as a great flight from Naval Air Station (NAS) Patuxent River, Maryland, to Naval Air Facility (NAF) Lakehurst, New Jersey. We were flying north to work with an old diesel submarine that was pulled out of mothballs so we could test a new torpedo. I was assigned to a squadron tasked with the operational testing and evaluation of new equipment and weapon systems for the SH-60B Sea Hawk. An aviation antisubmarine warfare operator second-class petty officer working on my second shore tour in a Naval Air Training and Operating Procedures Standardization (NATOPS) department, I had 2,000 flight hours and three long cruises under my belt.
The flight crew consisted of two lieutenants in the cockpit and me in the back of the aircraft. The lieutenants were friends who previously had served together in the same fleet squadron. The aircraft commander was assigned to our command; the other lieutenant was an admiral's aide who occasionally came to NAS Patuxent River to get much-needed flight time and escape briefly from inside the Washington beltway.
We launched on a typical fall day in the Northeast: cool, with a little cloudiness throughout the area. We were tasked to fly to NAF Lakehurst, refuel, and then fly another 175 miles to rendezvous with the submarine. The mission required an auxiliary fuel tank. (At that time, the SH60B community had little experience using auxiliary fuel systems—and many times the systems simply did not work.) After refueling, we checked the fuel transfer system to ensure that the 120 gallons of fuel on the left side of the aircraft could be used for the upcoming launch to the over-water operating area. The fuel system failed to transfer, and we began troubleshooting by referring to the aircraft's NATOPS manual. I read the applicable system troubleshooting steps aloud to the pilots, but their actions had no effect on the malfunction. We had no fault lights at the time, so the system should have been working properly.
The aircraft commander said he had heard you could "trick the system" into transferring by conducting a fuel dump—just a "little one." The admiral's aide agreed it should work, and before you know it, we were dumping fuel. The published dump rate at the time was 836 pounds per minute. We must have dumped for about three seconds, equating to somewhere between six and eight gallons of JP-5 aviation fuel. The only problem was that we were still on NAF Lakehurst's tarmac. The tower noticed the ever-widening spot under the helicopter and rolled out the fire trucks to take care of the mess. The aircraft commander told the tower that we had a malfunctioning fuel transfer system and had secured it.
Earlier, as I sat in the back of the aircraft and listened to the pilots discuss dumping fuel, it struck me that dumping was an odd procedure while on the deck. I vaguely recalled something out of a Chief of Naval Operations directive about fuel dumping—and 6,000 feet of altitude came to mind. A split second passed and I thought about bringing it up to the pilots. Then I thought about their flying experience and background with auxiliary tanks; this being my first trip with them, I decided to be quiet. That was my first mistake of the flight. To this day, I believe that keeping my mouth shut also led me to remain a passive crewmember for the rest of this nearly fatal flight.
We all agreed that, given the failure of the fuel transfer system, we would have only ten minutes on-station time with the submarine, which meant no useful work could be done. Thus, we decided to head home. The flight seemed uneventful as we transited back to our home base. I stayed up on radar, providing limited weather and navigational information. Previously, I had been stationed at NAS North Island, California, where the weather seldom caused problems. Weather build-ups there never seemed to affect flight operations.
I watched the weather build along our flight path. I told the pilots that the weather was looking less than desirable and Andrews Air Force Base (AFB), Maryland, was ahead for a divert if we needed it. We talked a little bit about it as a crew, looked at the radar picture, and decided to push on. The pilots tuned up Andrews AFB on the radio, and I asked for current conditions at NAS Patuxent River. Andrews passed nothing to us out of the ordinary for Maryland weather; we pressed on. Our visual approach path took us over the Eastern Shore of Maryland and would orient us over the water for final line up on the active runway. The thunder cells on the radar continued to build as we got the closer to home. I could make out a path that looked like a canyon on the radar screen.
I heard over the intercommunication system, " I think we can make it." I instinctively turned on my radios and caught the Air Terminal Information System forecasting nasty weather, although the field still reported visual-flight-rule (VFR) conditions. At that point, we were coming up on our last possible divert airfield. When I mentioned this to the pilots, they took it aboard and asked what I thought. I told them to look at the radar and noted that the storm was closing in; we might not make the field before the weather surrounded us completely. We could see lightning in two large distinct cells ahead of the aircraft. If they thought they could make it, I told them we should push on.
Because I had never flown in bad weather before and the pilots had much more flight experience, I relied on them to make the right decision. We contacted the NAS Patuxent tower, which reported VFR conditions at the field but recommended we delay because of rapidly worsening conditions. The pilots could make out the field boundary and the tower. They radioed that they were commencing a descent on approach and commented on storm progression over the field as we continued the approach. When the tower no longer was visible, they started getting more worried about our situation.
Shortly after the tower disappeared from view, it reported half-mile visibility and half-inch hail. I saw thunder cells and lightning all around and thought, "Half-inch hail—are their visors down?" I unlocked my seat, leaned over to look up to the cockpit, and saw that both pilots had their visors down. Then it hit. It felt like we had entered autorotation as I began to float in my seat. I tried to get upright but was unable to do so for a few seconds. Still staring into the cockpit, I could see that the collective (which controls the amount of lift produced by the main rotor system) was buried in the pilot's left armpit and I started to get worried—with full power applied, we were falling at more than 2,500 feet per minute.
I managed to pull myself upright in my seat and quickly pulled up the navigational parameters. They read approximately 500 feet above ground level (AGL), which did not leave much time to to spare in our extremely rapid descent. Both pilots were talking, one asking if the other had it and the other yelling "yes," reminding me of Little League baseball, when two outfielders bear down on the same fly ball. Passing through 100 feet AGL, I looked to the cockpit to see what was going on. A whole lot of lights were flashing and the collective remained buried in the pilot's armpit. Thankfully, he regained control of the helicopter and the light show ended. We recovered at about 60 feet AGL but still could not see the airfield and had to climb to spot the runway lights. Once they were in sight, we began to air taxi until over the runway threshold and continued to do so—getting buffeted violently—until I asked why we were not ground taxiing. The pilot agreed, and we ground taxied the rest of the way to the line, shut down the aircraft, and all heaved a huge sigh of relief.
I learned many lessons that day:
- Above all, know your aircraft. No matter what position you occupy, you could be the one who determines the outcome of any situation.
- If it is not right and you do not say anything, you are guilty by association. This is the crew concept, and it is an iron law.
Professionals share thoughts and sometimes agree to disagree. If you do not state your thoughts and opinions, no one will know—and silence often is misconstrued as consent. I might have prevented the fuel spill if I had said something, but I did not speak up. I could have raised my level of concern to the pilots and urged them to return to the last divert to wait out the storm, but I did not speak up. People are fallible, and they make mistakes. Just make sure you are not contributing to them.
Lieutenant Mullins is assigned to Light Helicopter Anti-Submarine Squadron 51 as Detachment Three’s maintenance officer. The detachment is deployed to the Sea of Japan.