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I was flying for a check hauling company (which will remain anonymous), upgrading from Beech Barons to the AC680W Turbo Commander. The aircraft training consisted of a week (Monday through Friday) flying my normal route from Atlanta to Charlotte, North Carolina, and back to Atlanta.
Friday evening, with a blessing from the company instructor, I was released to fly as PIC. The evening of Saturday, November 20, 1983, I would take my first flight as PIC in the Turbo Commander and single pilot.
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The weather in Atlanta was starting to deteriorate—reduced visibility, low clouds, and light drizzle. The flight to Charlotte was a nonevent. Great weather there. I had a mechanic who was employed by my company on board flying in the copilot’s seat to troubleshoot a problem with the Janitrol heater.
We took on fuel in KCLT for our flight back to KATL. I essentially topped off the tanks based on the weather in Atlanta and our alternate of Tallahassee, Florida. After a weather briefing, we departed for the return to Atlanta with a flight time of just over an hour.
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Saturday evening is one of the busiest times in Atlanta, with numerous arrivals and departures.
Cruising at 16,000 feet, the flight was smooth, and I confidently felt in command as a new turboprop pilot. But then I took notice of the low fuel indicator light that had just illuminated and was baffled since the fuel gauge showed plenty remaining.
I was going to contact ATC and advise them of a possible low fuel situation that would require priority handling. The frequency was littered with Delta this and Eastern that. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Then, without warning, the right engine quit. It was followed shortly by the left engine quitting. Here I am, not sure of my distance from Atlanta due to the DME being inop.
I was now a glider pilot.
Being that the Turbo Commander is a twin-engine aircraft, the flight training handbook doesn’t list a glide speed. I decided to shoot for L/D max. With the silence of a pressurized beefy fuselage, and no engine noise, it was deathly quiet.
My mechanic and I struggled to restart the engines. He commented in a bit of a shaky voice, “We have zero fuel pressure!” I thought to myself, apparently, we were out of fuel. No restart was possible. We were now heading to the airport that was rapidly developing a thick and dense layer of fog. There could be no go-around.
The one thing that wasn’t quiet was the approach control frequency for my arrival into KATL. I finally was able to make contact and issued a mayday. I first asked for the nearest suitable airport, and that turned out to be KATL at just under 20 nm.
Not having a reliable DME was problematic. Having been with these sketch operators for a few years, I was used to flying with less than required working equipment, and not having a reliable DME would be a huge factor. The first controller I made contact with responded, “Descend and maintain” 4,000 feet. I reiterated that I have lost both engines and didn’t have any to spare.
I was then switched to a different frequency with a controller who I assumed was a supervisor. The aircraft was gliding incredibly well—actually too well. More on that to come.
The controller informed me of my distance to Atlanta and asked if I wanted to make a straight-in approach to Runway 26. At this point, with the exceptional gliding capability of the aircraft, I elected to fly a north downwind leg and attempt an ILS to a landing on Runway 08. At the time, KATL had only one east-west runway on the north side of the field.
Downwind at approximately midfield, I decided it was time to lower the landing gear. Without operating engines, they would extend using a nitrogen bottle as an emergency backup system. Just another issue to be dealt with.
The operating manual stated it could take up to three and a half minutes for the gear to extend and lock. I figured I had time for the extension based on my position. The right landing gear was down and locked as well as the nose gear. With the Turbo Commander being a high-wing airplane, I could visually see the left main landing gear had extended no more than halfway. Oh, boy.
Having no working DME, I directed the controller to vector me to final 1 mile outside the outer marker. With approximately 6 miles distance to the runway, I judged that would be adequate for me to slow the aircraft, extend the flaps, and perform a successful ILS and landing to Runway 08.
The controller instead vectored me 1 mile inside the outer marker. Now I was high and hot. The flaps would not extend due to lack of hydraulic pressure, and having no backup system it was incredibly difficult to get the airplane slowed.
On approach, I must have been 40 knots over recommended VREF speed, as well as being one dot high on the glideslope. As they say in aviation, “speed is life.”
Now for the kicker. The weather was 100 feet overcast and quarter-mile visibility. I was about halfway into the approach when I heard an Eastern Airlines jet commence a missed approach due to the visibility being below minimums. That option was unavailable to me, a glorified glider pilot.
I successfully navigated the ILS all the way to the touchdown zone. The issue I had was needing to bleed off excess speed before that. I was concerned that with the left landing gear not being extended it could possibly cause the left wing to scrape the runway and cartwheel the airplane. I let the airplane get as slow as possible as I held in right aileron to keep the weight on the right main.
When I could see the hazy, red glow off to my right of the “Fly Delta Jets” sign of its maintenance facility, I knew I did not have much runway left to stop. I then committed to setting down the airplane on its belly and hoping the wingtip wouldn’t hit the runway. Turns out there was at least 4 feet of clearance from tip to concrete.
Still, with excess speed and the braking almost nil, I departed the end of Runway 08. With the agonizing sound of metal crunching, I careened through the many layers of approach lights. The aircraft finally came to a stop approximately 300 feet from a downsloping, steep embankment. Had I not stopped, I would have ended up on the Interstate 75 highway, having to deal with eight lanes of traffic on a dark and foggy night. Not good.
Ironically, the aircraft struck and destroyed the CAT II box and slowed the airplane, which saved my life as well as my mechanic’s.
Being in shock, and unaware of how badly I was injured, I jumped out of my seat and attempted unsuccessfully to open the main entry door. It was jammed. So with almost cat-like agility, I dove through the emergency exit window, which had popped open on impact. If I couldn’t save the plane, my God I was going to save the checks.
Running around to the left side of the aircraft and with a mighty pull, I was able to get the entry door open. I then proceeded to start throwing the white canvas bags containing the canceled checks out and somewhat clear of the plane, dripping blood on each bag I touched. At some point, I passed out, falling onto the bags of checks I had saved.
A little later, I came to, hearing the crash fire rescue folks approaching the plane. They maneuvered me onto the back board and attempted to carry me to the waiting ambulance on the service road below. With the drizzle and fog, and the ground being wet, slick, and muddy, they dropped me. I careened sled-like down the 20-foot embankment, nearly hitting the waiting ambulance below.
Both the mechanic and I were transported to Grady Memorial Hospital in downtown Atlanta. My mechanic’s back was broken. My back and neck were injured but not broken. I had a large gash on my left shin that required surgery. It was a fairly routine and quick procedure. Some time passed as I lay in my hospital bed contemplating what the heck happened.
Then came a knock on the door. Turns out to be most of my Atlanta-based colleagues and their wives/girlfriends. I noticed my best friend and fellow pilot was carrying a clipboard. He exclaimed loudly that I did a great job: “You took out all the approach lights and antennas right down the centerline! But you did make one small mistake.” He handed me the clipboard with the flight log attached and said, “You didn’t record your block in time.”
From that day forward, I had earned the call sign “Save the Checks.”
Mechanically, the accident was caused by the single point refueling port located just inside the left wing root. The fuel cap used what is called a flapper valve. When securing the cap after refueling, one quarter turn would latch the cap to the flapper valve. A visual inspection indicated that if the cap was flush, it was secure. The problem was, this being an older airframe (1963 model) and not the best maintained, the rubber seal on the flapper valve had deteriorated over time.
This design had a fail safe in the event the top filler cap came off. The flapper valve would seal and prevent fuel from leaking out. Not in my case. A corroded, ineffective seal was enough to allow the fuel siphon out as I was en route to KATL. The low pressure was just enough to lift the float in the fuel bladder and gave me a false sense of security. The ramp folks in Charlotte found the top fuel cap not too far from where the airplane was parked and refueled.
The takeaway from all this is to remember that one can’t do it alone. You need a team of competent professionals around you.
I performed the preflight as the aircraft manual stated. One quarter turn of the fuel cap mechanism would connect to the flapper valve and create a seal, in theory. I did not know the rubber gasket to prohibit fuel siphoning was deteriorated and would not create an effective seal.
As a newly acquired aircraft to my airline, the AC680W was 20 years old. Had maintenance done a thorough pre-buy inspection, I believe the flapper valve issue would have been discovered and this accident could have been prevented. However, after the incident, all AC680W aircraft underwent immediate inspection for similar faults as well as several AD’s.
When I recovered from my injuries, a few months later I returned to flying. Three years later, I was hired by FedEx and enjoyed an accident-free career of nearly 40 years. I will be retiring in August 2026 as a Boeing 777 captain and No. 1 on the seniority list. This is Save the Checks wishing all fair winds and following seas.
This column first appeared in the December Issue 965 of the FLYING print edition.
