Blind Descent

By Robert Hess

TERROR IN THE ANTACRTIC WASTELAND

After regaining consciousness and crawling from the twisted wreckage of the plane, Robert Hess surveyed the landscape around him: the icy desert of Antarctica stared back, a white emptiness as far as he could see. Then, from inside the plane came the screams of his mangled friend and the keening of frightened sled dogs.

Only a year earlier, Hess had been a retired flight engineer working for the phone company when an old friend made him an intriguing proposition: help fly supplies to Antarctica as part of famous explorer Norman Vaughan's expedition to climb Mt. Vaughan. It was a job Hess couldn t pass up, and he worked tirelessly with his friends to make it happen.

But now, he and his comrades found themselves fighting desperately to stay alive.

Blind Descent is a gripping insider s account of an adventure gone horribly wrong and what really happened on a plane crash that made headlines around the world.

About the Author
A Vietnam veteran, Robert Hess served in the Air Force as an aircraft and missile maintenance technician. After leaving the military he became a flight engineer and currently works as an aircraft maintenance technician in the private sector. A cancer survivor since 2006, he currently lives in Texas with his wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Hess
• Release date: Jul 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452494531

Robert Hess

A Vietnam veteran, Robert Hess served in the Air Force as an aircraft and missile maintenance technician. After leaving the military he became a flight engineer and currently works as an aircraft maintenance technician in the private sector. A cancer survivor since 2006, he lives in Texas with his wife.

Book preview

Foreword

I don’t mention to a lot of people I meet that I survived a plane crash in Antarctica. Somehow, it’s just something that doesn’t seem to come up a lot in casual conversation!

In fact, recently, I went for a follow-up visit to my oncologist, Dr. Eduardo Miranda, whom I’ve known for years—since the spring of 2006, to be exact. During the appointment, he mentioned how well I had recovered from my cancer and chemo, and the conversation continued around the theme of survival. I asked him if I had ever told him of my adventure in Antarctica. Turns out, I hadn’t.

Up until then, Dr. Miranda didn’t realize that the powers- that-be had watched over me and helped me survive on at least three occasions: when I served in the Vietnam War, when I was onboard a transport-category aircraft that crashed in Antarctica and yet again when I was spared after having been diagnosed with stage-3 cancer.

With the excellent guidance and treatment of Dr. Miranda, Dr. David Garza (my physician) and their staff, I overcame the effects of heavy-duty chemotherapy. Together, we destroyed a tumor the size of a grapefruit that had been growing in my abdomen for who knows how long. It was discovered by sheer coincidence (if you believe in such a thing) since I had absolutely no symptoms. My wife stayed by my side during all of my treatments and also helped out with other patients whenever possible.

I have now been cancer-free for four years and have one year to go before I can officially be classified as a cancer survivor.

Assuming the nine lives theory holds true, I’d have to say that I’m on my fourth one. But since we really never know, I figured it was time to tell my story because no one else would be able to do so once I’m gone. The adventure in Antarctica would have been left to speculation and wonder—and I wanted to set the record straight, at least from my own point of view.

After I told Dr. Miranda about the crash and the book I’d been working on, he said he’d like to buy some copies to have for his patients to read as they went through their infusions of chemo. He perhaps thought it would be of some inspiration to them to read an adventure and survival story from another cancer survivor. Antarctic exploration is, after all, a testament to the human spirit. The same can be said about battling cancer.

Dr. Miranda will not be buying copies of this book. I will donate as many as he thinks he needs to be shared by his patients as they continue their fight.

In every struggle, there’s a story. In every challenge, there’s hope. And in every dream, there’s the belief that nothing is impossible.

Above Patriot Hills, Antarctica

November 25, 1993, Thanksgiving Day

We were beginning a blind descent: 500 feet above Antarctica and coming in too low.

The fog bank outside our windows and the snow on the ground blended into one. Everything was pure white—indistinct, without shape. The horizon had disappeared completely.

Our heating system wouldn’t turn back on and the plane’s windshield was covered with a sheet of ice. It was minus ten degrees Celsius outside and not much warmer onboard The Ice Princess II. The crew was freezing despite the winter gear we had on, but the cold wasn’t the worst of it. No cabin heat meant no windshield heat. The ice wouldn’t melt. Visibility was zero.

The landing lights of the Douglas DC-6 were turned on, extended out from the wing, and we had already dropped the landing gear down to slow the speed of the aircraft. It still wasn’t enough. We were at 160 knots and only fifteen miles out from the frozen runway on the glacier where we were to land.

Altitude, I warned the pilot, Bruce Allcorn. We’re too low.

Due to inaccurate barometric pressure reports, the plane’s main altimeter had been giving us false readings all along. The radar returns didn’t bounce off the Antarctic snow like they did with solid land. They penetrated the snow pack instead, getting swallowed up and absorbed partly into it instead of indicating where the actual surface was.

The higher the barometric pressure setting in the altimeter, the higher the reading as well. So we were closer to the ground than the numbers showed. Way too close.

There were no control towers anywhere in the area to tell us our true position. To get a general idea of our altitude, we had to guess at it.

Power was back to twenty-five inches then, flaps at twenty degrees, RPM increased to 2,400.

Mixtures rich.

I had already made the call for maximum fuel flow in preparation for landing, in case optimum engine power was needed. Only flaps, cowl flaps and ADI were left to go on the checklist.

We were almost there, just ten miles out from the runway now. No more than 350 feet above the fabled White Continent.

Don King, our copilot, tried again. Bruce, if we don’t pull up, we’ll never make the glacier.

In a last-ditch effort, Bruce turned to the right to take us out of the fog bank and gain some visibility. But the fog didn’t ever seem to end and the iced-over windshield wouldn’t clear.

Don and I decided to try windshield alcohol to melt the ice. It was the only choice we had.

It normally makes things worse…makes it even harder to see, Bruce told us. But what could be worse than absolute-zero visibility?

Don opened the valve and I turned on the pump. Alcohol began flowing from the base of the windshield, and the outside air stream pushed it upward toward the top.

Bruce was right. It didn’t make anything better. But it certainly wasn’t any worse.

The radar altimeter was now registering 120 AGL. My eyes never left the instruments; I didn’t even try to look out the side windows to verify the reading.

I knew we were much closer to the ground than that. I couldn’t see it, but I could somehow sense it. I braced myself for the worst.

A split second later, the plane hit the hard, snow-packed ground of Antarctica.

The next day, news sources around the world reported the crash, since the story was part of the historical and well-publicized Vaughan expedition. The headline of one Chilean newspaper said it most succinctly: De Ocho, Seis Murieron.

Six out of eight dead.

Laredo, Texas

February 1993

I first met pilot Bruce Allcorn back in February 1993, when he and his crew were returning to the States after spending the austral summer flying private passengers from Punta Arenas, Chile, to the Antarctic on adventure travel excursions.

It was a relatively new arena but had become Bruce’s main business of late. And it was one hell of a way to earn a paycheck.

On their way back to Laredo, where his company, Allcair Air Transport, was located, Bruce and the crew made a fuel stop with their DC-6 (N1597F) at Guayaquil, Ecuador. That was when I got a phone call from my friend and fellow flight engineer Frank Lipinski, who had been flying with Bruce for about a year by then.

Bob? Frank here, he said, as usual sounding more like he was reporting for duty than making a phone call. You think you can help us out by making some arrangements for our arrival in Laredo? We’re about twelve hours out, in Guayaquil.

Frank was a retired Navy chief petty officer who had doggedly acted as my flight engineer instructor for American Air Freight from January to August 1989. He was a hard-nosed type, more military than civilian no matter how many years he’d been out of the service.

He was the one who first pushed me into the role when AAF was looking to grow a flight engineer from within the company. Frank approached me one day and told me they wanted someone to fill the position. He didn’t say anything further, which was pretty uncharacteristic for him. Frank was usually a talker.

I’ll put the word out, I replied.

A week later, when I couldn’t find any takers for the flight engineer position, I told Frank, No one’s interested.

Are you sure? he asked, raising one eyebrow. Ask again.

So I did.

Same results. Not surprisingly, no one was jumping at the job offer. It was an unsteady schedule and you had to fly all over the place for about the same salary you’d get with a comfortable nine-to-five at the company. It would take somebody with equal senses of responsibility and adventure to want to do it.

Nope, no takers, I said flatly, reporting back to Frank once again.

He stood there with his arms folded, staring at me like a seasoned drill sergeant stares down a new recruit. He was obviously waiting for something to dawn on me.

It didn’t.

Finally, he sighed and said, Bob, you dumb shit, I was talking about you the whole time.

That was a huge compliment coming from Frank, who wasn’t the kind to hand out too many. Not the dumb shit part, of course, but his certainty that I’d be the right fit for the tough job.

Frank respected the fact that I had served in the U.S. Air Force from 1966 to 1988, when I retired as a master sergeant. He knew the only thing I loved more than being around planes was being in them. And once he eventually talked me into the flight engineer’s seat, he liked that I took my training seriously.

So I supposed that his call to come meet them on their way back from Ecuador wasn’t simply a favor he was asking; it was Frank’s way of wanting to introduce me to the crew of Allcair. He had put the team together, for the most part, and probably figured they could use a guy like me, at least for short transport flights from Texas.

Of course, Frank, I told him over the crackling Ecuadorian phone line. I’d be happy to arrange things on this end.

As we spoke, I flipped open my wallet, where I still kept my well-worn flight engineer’s license. I’d been working for the telephone company and hadn’t had a chance to use it in some time. But I had a strong feeling that was about to change.

Fine by me. I’d been grounded long enough and was looking for a little adventure. Best place to find it was in the sky.

Laredo International Airport, Laredo, Texas

February 1993

There aren’t many landmarks in Laredo. Nothing much to look at as I made my way to Laredo International Airport from my job at Southwestern Bell. I passed the usual strip malls and fast- food joints, a few industrial complexes on the side of the road, a lot of flat land and dry brush.

The route was a familiar one anyway. Laredo International Airport was formerly Laredo Air Force Base, where I had