CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER 4 STEPHEN KREKELBERG
B Company, 6th Battalion, 52nd Aviation Regiment
U.S. Army Reserve
Fort McCoy, Wisconsin
Thursday, Aug. 23, 2001, marked four months since I had departed active duty to pursue a career as an airline pilot. I’d been an Army aviator for 12 years, all rotary-wing time. That summer, I’d enrolled in an airline career pilot training program with a nationally recognized flight school and had earned my fixed-wing, multi-engine, instrument and commercial ratings. I was in the process of preparing for my multi-engine flight instructor rating check ride, which was scheduled for the following week.
That morning, I flew a Piper Seminole from Jacksonville, Florida, to Fort Lauderdale/Hollywood International Airport (KFLL) to drop off two student pilots from our school who had check rides scheduled there that afternoon. My co-pilot, Chris, was another student at the school who was also in the airline career program. While our colleagues flew their check rides, Chris and I found some friends in the coffee shop at the FBO and joined them for lunch.
We were introduced to another pilot, Luis, who had a job as pilot for a private airplane owner flying a Piper Seneca under Part 91 rules. He informed us this was his last day because he was beginning a new job as a Part 135 Cessna 402/404 charter pilot with Blackhawk International Airways. As we finished lunch, Luis said he had the use of his boss’ Seneca for one last day and asked if we wanted to join him on a final flight up the south Florida coastline. Chris and I agreed to go and the three of us walked directly out on the ramp and over to the Seneca. I asked Luis if he needed to file a flight plan or check weather. He just smiled, pointed to the sunny skies and asked, “Why?”
Luis unlocked the plane and we boarded, with Chris in the right seat and me in the back seat. I expected to see Luis do a preflight check, but he simply got in the plane without even a walk-around. I asked him about a preflight and he told me he’d already flown the plane that morning. Without using a checklist, Luis started the engines and called ground for taxi. We received a taxi clearance for runway 9R. As we taxied toward the runway, Chris asked Luis if he wanted him to read the checklist. Luis replied, “No thanks, bro. I’ve got it memorized.” He did some cursory procedures, which I presumed to be taxi and before-takeoff checks, as we taxied.
Upon reaching the runway, tower issued us a clearance to take off on Runway 9R, maintain a heading of 090 and remain below 500 feet on initial climb out. At KFLL, there are two parallel runways, 9L and 9R. Runway 9L is on the north and is the larger of the two, accommodating the big commercial aircraft. When we took off, Luis continued to climb through 500 feet AGL and turned 90 degrees to the left, following the beach to the north. He also turned into the path of departing traffic from 9L.
As we climbed through 1,000 feet, the tower immediately transmitted, “Seneca, I cleared you for heading 090 and 500 feet! Descend now! Maintain 360 heading!” The tower controller was female, and Luis replied, “I am descending. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
I was astonished when tower did not reply with instructions to call an FAA phone number upon landing. Instead, she gave a frequency for Miami approach for flight following. Luis read back the frequency, but did not check in.
At that point, we were flying parallel to the beach, about 100 yards out from the shoreline. Luis initiated a descent, but did not level off at 500 feet altitude. We continued to descend all the way down to 100 feet AGL, basically buzzing the beach at Fort Lauderdale. By this time, I had seen enough and just wanted to get out of the plane alive and not under investigation. I told Luis he was in violation of Part 91, minimum safe altitude of 500 feet over water, and told him to climb. He smiled and said, “I thought you wanted a ride.”
I replied I was an Army Black Hawk pilot and familiar with low-level flight performed correctly. I told him to turn around, climb and take us back to KFLL. Luis executed a low-level 55-degree bank turn back to the south and climbed to 500 feet altitude. He contacted tower and was cleared to return to the airport and land on Runway 9R.
As we taxied back to the ramp, I scanned the vicinity for FAA sedans or a police car. We parked and I told Luis it had been a hair-raising experience. Chris and I then walked away from the plane as fast as we could. I remember turning to Chris and saying, “Luis is going to kill somebody one day.”
Two days later, on Saturday, Aug. 25, 2001, R&B singer Aaliyah, her entourage of seven and all of their equipment loaded onto a Cessna 402 in the Bahamas. Immediately after takeoff, the plane crashed into a marsh adjacent the runway. There were no survivors. Luis was the pilot.
The National Transportation Safety Board investigation determined the aircraft was mechanically sound at the time of the accident, but was “substantially overloaded and well outside weight and balance limits.” It also found Luis had falsified his logbooks to get the charter job and had traces of alcohol and cocaine in his blood.
Luis was the most extreme example of indiscipline in aviation I have ever encountered. The consequences of his indiscipline were predictable and tragic. When I confronted him on his indiscipline that day, I was concerned for my own hide. Whether I could have prevented the accident that happened two days later, I’ll never know. In hindsight, I should have called the FSDO that afternoon and reported him as a reckless pilot. As a professional aviator, that was my duty.
Eighteen months later, I was an instructor at the same flight school in Jacksonville. I heard rumors that one of my colleagues had a habit of performing aileron rolls, a prohibited aerobatic maneuver, with his students in the Seminole. I approached one of his students and she confirmed it was true. I was on the phone with our chief pilot in less than five minutes. My colleague was fired and the FAA was notified. A few of my other colleagues were furious with me and accused me of being a snitch. I never gave it a second thought. I wasn’t about to have another crash on my conscience.
Our passengers trust us and put their lives in our hands every time they get on our aircraft. Safety is a duty that goes beyond just our own conduct. Every aviator has a duty to intervene and interrupt the accident chain. We owe it to our profession and to the passengers who put their faith in us.