As the previous arrival clears the runway, I transmit, “November 11 Alpha, cleared for the option” per his request. I’m moderately busy at the local control (Tower) position with several VFR aircraft doing pattern work interspersed with occasional itinerant arrivals and departures. 

I work the VFR traffic around the IFR arrivals and into the flow. It’s a sunny spring afternoon, a good day for flying. I focus on the arrival, making sure all looks well with the aircraft, and double-check the runway and departure path as he approaches for what I expect to be a touch-and-go or stop-and-go.

This Article First Appeared in FLYING Magazine

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At 40 feet agl or so the pilot begins to raise the nose. He makes a slow and smooth roundout to level at 20 feet agl and allows the airspeed to bleed off. It’s a nice approach for a
Boeing 737, but this is a PA-28 Cherokee with what sounds like a fairly inexperienced pilot on the radio. Still at 15 feet or so agl, the nose is up, the airplane stalls, and literally drops and plops to the runway, pancaking to the asphalt.

My heart is in my throat, and I start toward the crash phone, as there’s no way this will turn out well. 

Airspeed is very low since the aircraft’s trajectory is mostly downward. He hits the runway in a mostly level attitude and bounces at 3-4 feet back into the air. After smacking down for a second time, he loses directional control, skitters off the runway, and bobbles across the grass. He soon comes to a stop on the intersecting taxiway nearby, somehow missing the runway and taxiway lights along the way.

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The whole sequence uses no more than 200 feet. I fully expect to see wheel struts protruding through the top of the wings and a bent prop, but no—they sure build those Cherokees tough. For a few seconds I’m mostly speechless but manage a “Cherokee 11A, say intentions?”

He requests taxi clearance to the FBO ramp as the airplane is part of its rental/instruction fleet. Taxiing isn’t one of the options I had considered with my last clearance, but with a quick approval from the semi-stupefied ground controller, I send him on his way, monitoring ground. All in the tower cab agree that his first stop once back at the FBO will be the restroom. We request an airport ops inspection of the area, which amazingly yields no stray parts or broken bits, so airport ops move along normally.

Throughout my shift the image of the incident is a bit hard to shake. As a pilot and airplane co-owner, I’m concerned about the safety of the next pilots and passengers. I can’t help but wonder: Did the pilot say anything to the FBO when he returned the keys? Are we the only others aware of what happened?

My shift ends soon, and I’ve been stewing about what, if anything, to do. I have to be careful. I’m an FAA guy here but won’t act in any official capacity. The agency’s preference would likely be that I avoid any involvement. 

If I seek guidance from my (non-pilot) supervisors and they say no, what will I do? What if something happens later and I hadn’t said anything? Better to ask forgiveness.

So, I call the FBO. “Can I please speak with one of your instructors? This is one of the tower controllers—not an official call from the FAA— just from a concerned pilot. Did the last pilot of Cherokee 11A mention anything about his last landing?” 

No one at the FBO is aware, so I provide a brief explanation, express my concerns, and suggest the airplane be inspected before it flies again. I feel better after making the call.

Just before I leave the tower, I look to the FBO ramp with the binoculars and can see the airplane in the distance. Someone is obviously looking around and under it, but after a cursory inspection, walks away after what is at best a brief preflight effort. No wheel pants are installed, but still… I’m not sure what I expected, but that wasn’t it. Maybe they will check more later. I did what I could, and the operator is now aware. I hope I didn’t overreact and put the incident behind me.

Several days later, I’m again at the local position on another nice VFR afternoon, and Cherokee 11A (with a different pilot) is calling ready for takeoff. I had heard from my co-workers that it had been flying during my days off. I clear 11A for takeoff and to proceed on course. 

Minutes later, while my attention is more focused on the approach path, I hear, “Mayday! Mayday! Cherokee 11A has an emergency.” I spin around and see the Cherokee about 2 miles out, returning toward the airport, and hear: “There’s a loud banging noise under the airplane.” 

The pilot is understandably shaken but is communicating well and maintaining his composure. Something doesn’t look right. I grab the binoculars and almost can’t believe what I see. The right landing gear has separated, and the wheel, tire, and brake assembly dangled at the end of a 3-foot length of hydraulic brake cable. I immediately knew why. The wheel assembly, driven by the air stream, was swinging wildly back and forth, slamming up against the bottom of the wing and flap.

How scary and unnerving that must be.

I’m no metallurgist, but I know that cable won’t last long, and that wheel assembly will soon become a lethal projectile. After describing the situation, I ask the pilot to consider, and he agrees to some 360s over a smallish field east of the airport, the only open space in the area, instead of an immediate landing, while we sort things out. 

I call “Supervisor to the tower” over the intercom, and “stop departures” to ground control. There’s lots to sort out in a hurry—move all inbound traffic to another runway, brief another tower controller, and switch traffic to him so I can focus my attention on the situation. Everyone is in go mode, advising adjacent facilities, coordinating fire/rescue, airport operations, and preparing for the inevitable runway closure. 

The pilot is wondering aloud about how to best proceed. Being a pilot, I must walk a fine line between being helpful and “staying out of the cockpit” while helping him maintain confidence. I’ll do whatever it takes if the chips are down, but this is not yet a critical situation. 

Many concerns come to mind—control issues, fuel leaks, asymmetrical flap deployment. Then suddenly the brake cable fails in a dramatic display of gravitational acceleration from 1,000 feet agl, and we are transfixed by the sight of the wheel assembly plummeting to the ground. Thankfully, it smashes onto the field and not through someone’s roof. 

Things calm down considerably. We get the pilot and an FBO instructor on a frequency to discuss options, and they advise us of their plan to land the two-wheeled Cherokee. After several minutes, with air and ground traffic clear of the area, and fire/rescue and ambulance on station, the Cherokee flies a normal pattern for a landing on the runway.

The pilot keeps his cool, does a fantastic job, and turns the emergency landing into a nonevent. At touchdown, full opposite aileron, a slight turn toward the missing wheel, then the wing and remains of the strut settle nicely to the asphalt, the wingtip just above. The airplane slides 200 feet or so on the strut, makes a quarter turn to the right, and comes to a gentle stop while still on the runway surface.

No fire, no drama. Pilot and passenger exit the airplane unharmed.

Later, we marvel at how well this event turned out given the ugly possibilities. Wheel separation at an inopportune time, such as takeoff roll just before rotation, may have caused a catastrophic outcome. The plummeting wheel assembly could have easily caused serious damage, injury, or worse.

While I’m thrilled with the positive outcome, I’m also irked. Irked at the pilot who didn’t tell the FBO. Irked at the FBO since the gear inspection was clearly inadequate. Perhaps it was an undetectable defect, or did they just not take me seriously? 

The answer is unknown. But when situations like this arise, and I’m unsure about a course of action, I try to consider it from the PIC perspective. If I were in that seat, would I want to be aware of the condition or situation? And if I’m not sure, I try not to assume. 

That mindset makes it easier to speak up confidently when something doesn’t seem quite right. My responsibility is simply to share what I observed and provide the information I have. Those with the appropriate knowledge and authority can then determine its significance. 

An adverse outcome is less likely if too much, rather than not enough, is communicated. 

This column first appeared in the August Issue 973 of the FLYING print edition.