Pilots log: Russ Hubermun, Vanir-97a planetary date: 1600, September 42nd, year 500 / Earth Year 5030
“Niran ground this is Alpha one, pan pan pan. Final approach Rnav two-zero. please ready fire rescue. Overloaded Element 430 on board”
The conditions couldn’t have been worse, the stakes too high. The liquid nitrogen cooling pods inside the canisters of the extremely efficient but volatile generator fuel named Element 430 started sizzling, clearly needing replacement. I have heard stories about the explosive end pilots who don’t pay attention to this warning meet, but I had run out of cooling pods, and my mind was elsewhere.
“Alpha one, fire rescue on standby, say number of sentient creatures on board and intentions.”
They would have to figure that out themselves. The ceiling of what I suppose we could call this worlds version of a cumulus cloud was 100 ft above the touchdown elevation of Settlement Niran’s only runway. I was coming in on the Rnav two-zero approach, the only direction the howling winds of Vanir-97a (known locally as Delpha) would allow. If that wasn’t enough the rough, muddy runway was sloped 10 degrees up the mountain side, those damn corporation board members were a bunch of a cheap idiots.
“Alpha one do you read me.”
I silently cursed the outdated approach. I was the only man in the company that would be willing to put up with these conditions, hell I was probably the only one who could! that’s why they paid me the big bucks. Vio-Corp has chosen that instead of scanning Delpha into the company’s Nexrad Planetary Terrain Avoidance Database or NPTAD, they would rather waste money on a three-thousand-year-old aircraft design, satellite constellation and approach systems. They say if it isn’t broken don’t fix it, that doesn’t really translate to aviation very well though. The Type-172, an old high wing tricycle aircraft design which originated from as far back as the 1950s swayed violently in the 50-knot wind gusts.
Threatening to blind me from my instruments, the smoke from the cooling pods started creeping into the cockpit. This approach would take 3 minutes from the final approach fix which I was now passing at 1100ft AGL. As I watched my vertical navigation come alive, and I thanked God the Galactic Aerospace Authority hadn’t reviewed this approach yet. I would no doubt be busting minimums if they existed here. The wind grew tiresome of my existence and bellowed angrily against my aircraft, as I tried my hardest to keep a stable approach.
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I took my eyes off the instruments for a second to try to vent some of the steam by opening a window when the headwind sheared to a quartering tailwind suddenly, causing the stall horn to wail. I pushed forward on the yoke as hard as I could manage and increased power to full. My attempt at saving the approach yielded a nice view between the broken yellow clouds. The crimson red trees hung silently unmoved by the wind, daring me to continue. Who was I to deny them a chunky silver meal. Thankfully my airspeed increased, and I had only lost about 200ft, a scary amount being only 500ft from the ground. I believe right about now would’ve been the time I would usually decide this approach wasn’t possible, but I didn’t have a choice.
I started counting my descent speed. “300ft, 200ft, 100ft…” glaring through the smoke-filled windscreen I made visual with the runway lights. “Flaps full.” I mumbled through grit teeth. Decreasing power as I started my flare over the barely visible runway making sure I made a mental note of the runway illusion I would be facing here. I could make out the rusted-out firetruck this small settlement had no doubt been using for the past millennium, as its bright red lights shone brilliantly through the haze. The large slope of the runway had caused the far end to disappear back into the clouds, making my flare much more difficult. “Left wheel down” I mumbled as I started to take out my extreme crosswind correction. As my right wheel lowered itself onto the runway, I took out all my flaps and pulled hard back on the yoke while pressing down on the brakes in order to stop the plane before the runway ascended back into the clouds.
After I came to a complete stop I pulled and locked the parking brake, slapped the mixture control to shut off the aircraft and jumped out onto the runway, making and mad dash for the welcoming crimson trees which had been so threatening not seconds before.
I watched from my place behind a tree as the fire truck wailed toward the aircraft that I had mixed feelings for, and as two men each carrying two cooling pods emerged from the protective but obviously weak force-field that covered their place on the truck wearing the bulkiest blast protective suits I had ever seen. I'm just glad there was only three canisters I had forgotten to tell them how much I had on board. They disappeared into my plane.
End Log