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Most FAA inspectors are good people trying to do the job required of them in a difficult system. But a few of them are “airline wannabes” who want to show real airline pilots just how knowledgeable they are—and see if they can’t violate you in the process.
The following story is true and epitomizes my dislike for the “wannabes.”
It was January 1989. I was the Director of Operations at Air Berlin in Berlin, Germany. As an FAR 121 U.S.-chartered airline, we flew a single Boeing 737-300 in scheduled charter service from Berlin, taking German nationals from the gray, cold skies of Berlin to the sun. We took them anywhere they could go and get a tan. We served Tenerife Sur, Gran Canaria, Lanzarote, the Spanish Sun Coast, Palma de Mallorca, Monastir, Naples, Corfu, Athens, Thessaloniki, Istanbul, Izmir, Antalya, Rhodes, Crete, Israel—anywhere they could find a resort that would allow them their worship of a suntan.
Air Berlin Boeing 737-300, D-ADIG@DUS,13.01.2008-492gm” by Aero Icarus is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0. Source: Wikimedia Commons
We flew our single airplane day in and day out and treated it with kid gloves. If it broke down, we were out of business. Twelve American pilots and fifty Germans would be out of work instantly if the airplane went inoperative for any reason, so we were exceedingly conscientious in our treatment of it.
On this particular evening, I was to act as captain for a ferry flight to East Midlands, England. My first officer would be the chief pilot. In the back of the airplane were at least twenty other pilots, employees, mechanics—and even the owner. We were all headed to East Midlands to get the airplane in the hangar for a “C check,” a major teardown and inspection required by the Federal Aviation Regulations and our maintenance manuals.
Since the airplane was coming in from a revenue flight full of passengers and their bags, it was going to be a big deal to get it turned at the gate and on its way to EMA in the fifty minutes we had before Flughafen Tegel closed for the night at 2200 hours.
Earlier in the week, I had been told that our new PMI (Principal Maintenance Inspector) would be riding with us to EMA so he could inspect the facilities and get familiar with our operation. He was based in the FAA Flight Standards District Office (FSDO) in Frankfurt, Germany.
After the airplane blocked in, we jumped into the cockpit as quickly as we could get the outgoing crew out, in order to get ready. The ramp crew was working furiously to offload the bags, the mechanics were checking the airplane’s condition while waiting to load their toolboxes and supplies, the fuelers were busy topping off the tanks, and all the pilots, employees, and dignitaries (including the owner) boarded as the cabin cleaners finished up.
There was a flurry of activity all over the airplane—into which strode Mr. Federal Aviation Inspector Extraordinaire. He proceeded to come into the cockpit and inform me, in no uncertain terms, that this was going to be a “line check” to East Midlands.
I asked if he was qualified on the 737, to which he huffily replied, “I certainly am. I am type-rated on the 737.”
I told him that if he was going to sit in the cockpit, he was to consider himself a member of the crew. As such, if he saw a problem developing or didn’t understand something, he should speak up loud and clear. I also told him he would be required to take out a headset from its stowage hole and wear it while in the cockpit. He was a member of the crew, and I expected him to be fully involved in the flight in every respect.
Capt. Mike Early
Mr. Inspector’s attitude was less than exemplary. He informed me he would not wear a headset. I told him twice more to do so, and he refused. He then started telling me I was in violation of the FARs because I didn’t have flight attendants on board. I told him all the passengers were company personnel, trained on the airplane, and that we were operating under FAR Part 91 as a ferry flight, which negated the need for flight attendants.
I then informed him that if he was to remain in the cockpit, he would have to hold any further remarks, as we were in danger of missing our departure slot. If we missed it, it would be eight hours before we could leave.
At some point during our preparations for departure, I noticed the inspector madly scribbling in his little notebook. I ignored him, and we departed the gate just in time to take off before the curfew took effect.
As we taxied out, the tower modified our clearance and gave us Flight Level 35 (3,500 feet MSL) for our route through the Center Corridor that led us to West German airspace, 110 nautical miles west of Berlin.
After takeoff, I leveled at FL 35 and told the F/O to call the out and off times back to operations, as we would soon leave Berlin over the radio horizon at 320 knots and 3,500 feet. Of course, we were below 10,000 feet—the normal altitude below which we cannot break “sterile cockpit” procedures (unless level in cruise flight) to call in departure times. And I was certainly exceeding the 250-knot airspeed limit applied below 10,000 feet in U.S. airspace. The Corridor, however, was not U.S. airspace.
I looked over my shoulder about the time ATC cleared us to FL 85, and the inspector was still writing madly. I ignored him again.
By the time we were halfway out the Center Corridor, our dispatcher called us over company frequency.
“Mike,” she said. “If you can hear me, slow down, turn around, or otherwise delay your departure.”
I replied, “What’s going on?”
She said that British Midland Airlines had just crashed a Boeing 737-400 at East Midlands Airport and the airport was closed. I immediately spun the airspeed command bug back to 210 knots and told the F/O to advise ATC we were going to circle in the Corridor until we figured out our next course of action.
Of course, the sudden flurry of activity and the dramatic slowing of the airplane clued the inspector that something was up, but since he had never put on a headset, as I had directed, he wasn’t in the information loop.
I turned around and told him, “Inspector, get out of my cockpit and go get the Director of Maintenance. Tell him to get up here—now.”
The inspector spluttered and demanded to know what was going on, and I told him even more sternly to get the hell out of my cockpit. He wouldn’t cooperate, and I didn’t have time to give him a blow-by-blow description of the problem when he couldn’t help anyway. He finally went and got our chief mechanic.
We discussed the situation with the dispatcher, who was in contact with the British authorities. The Brits agreed to allow us to modify our flight plan and land at Birmingham, where we would wait for East Midlands to reopen. We would be the first to land since we had been en route there when it closed.
We rolled out westbound, left the Center Corridor behind, and climbed to FL 350 for the short hop to Birmingham. I locked the cockpit door and did not let Mr. Maintenance Inspector Extraordinaire back into the cockpit.
After landing, the F/O and I shut the airplane down and secured the systems for a delay of several hours while the mechanics and other employees deplaned to board a bus and load a lorry that would take our spares to EMA.
I left the cockpit and went down the airstairs to where the inspector was standing on the ramp, right at the foot of the stairs. I intentionally stayed on the second step up from the ground to speak to him—because he was short anyway and my added height would only piss him off some more.
“Inspector,” I said, “I understand you think you have a problem with me.”
He replied, “I do have a problem with you. You violated Federal Aviation Regulations in at least three instances, and I intend to violate you.”
I calmly told him, “I do not carry my little golden book of rules in my hip pocket like you do, but you are wrong in every respect. If you think you can violate me, go right ahead.”
With that, I went back up into the airplane and retracted the airstairs so the inspector had to ride the bus to East Midlands. The F/O and I slept on the airplane for about four hours before ATC told us we could fly over to EMA. We left about 6:00 a.m. and landed over the crash site on about a quarter-mile final to the runway—which was sobering, to say the least.
We got rooms at the motel on the airport and rested for the three days it took to finish the C check. About two hours before we were due to report back to the airplane, my telephone rang.
“Hello, Captain Early speaking.”
It was Mr. FAA Inspector Extraordinaire on the other end. He identified himself and said, “Captain Early, I am calling to inform you that we will not pursue the violations I filed against you earlier this week.”
I kind of snarled, “I understand you didn’t have any violations to file,” and hung up on him.
About three minutes later, the phone rang again. “Hello?” I said.
It was the inspector’s boss in Frankfurt. “Captain Early, I’m the manager of the Flight Standards District Office in Frankfurt. I understand you spoke with our inspector a few minutes ago and he informed you we will not be pursuing those violations he filed this week. Is that correct?”
I told him, “I understand you don’t have any violations to file,” to which he had no reply.
His next remark was telling, though. “I just wanted to let you know that the inspector you dealt with this week will no longer be your Principal Maintenance Inspector. He will be returning to the United States next week.”
I thanked him for the call and hung up. Then I had to grin like a Cheshire cat—because it’s not every day you can pull the teeth of a federal jackass.
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