Death over San Diego

A freakish collision kills 150 -- even when everybody is following the rules

"Tower, we're going down. This is PSA." That terse message from Pacific Southwest Airlines Captain James McFeron was delivered in the flat, cool tones cultivated by professional pilots. It conveyed no more emotion than McFeron had expressed a few moments before in asking for clearance to land. Yet now his 66-ton Boeing 727 jetliner with 135 "souls on board," according to the jargon of the aviation industry, was hurtling out of control at 280 m.p.h. toward San Diego's residential North Park neighborhood. It was already on fire.

"We'll call equipment for you," replied the tower controller at Lindbergh Field in that same business-as-usual manner. The final word from Pilot McFeron: "Roger."

Seconds later, an air traffic control specialist at the airport peered into his radarscope and got his first glimpse of what was happening. As his screen displayed the falling and fragmenting wreckage of two aircraft that had collided at 2,650 ft. three miles northeast of Lindbergh Field, he muttered, "Jesus Christ, an aluminum shower."

The hellish orange flames and oily black smoke that rose quickly into San Diego's sunny but smoggy skies one morning last week signaled the worst air tragedy in U.S. aviation history. At least 150 people died, the first fatalities on PSA's record. They included all 135 aboard the PSA airliner, the two occupants of a tiny 2,100-lb. Cessna 172 that had collided with it, and at least 13 residents struck by aircraft debris or engulfed by the flames that destroyed ten houses.

The accident immediately revived and intensified the concern among aviation safety experts over the rapidly rising number of aircraft now swarming around the most heavily used air routes in the U.S. While scheduled airlines have increased flights by some 6% to meet added business spurred by lower fares, the growth in general aviation has been far more spectacular (see chart, page 20). The newcomers range from business executives flying to conferences aboard $3 million corporate jets, to affluent ranchers surveying their lands, to various weekend wanderers seeking relaxation or adventure. Last week there naturally rose urgent demands for greater separation of the commercial air giants and the pygmies, higher proficiency requirements for private pilots entering major airports and a speed-up in the use of new electronic systems to warn pilots automatically when they are on collision course.

The San Diego collision particularly dramatized the haphazard nature of midair collisions. The evidence collected so far indicates that the veteran pilots in both planes appeared to have been following all proper safety procedures, watchful controllers on the ground had alerted both aircraft by radio of their dangerous proximity--and yet they collided. Nearly 100 investigators probed the scattered wreckage and began interviewing some 221 witnesses in an effort to determine just why. So far, this was what they were learning about the San Diego catastrophe:

Many passengers arose as early as 5:30 a.m. in the Sacramento area to catch PSA Flight 182, a popular 7 a.m. commuter run for state officials and businessmen with errands in the California capital, Los Angeles or San Diego. With Captain McFeron, 45, a 17-year veteran PSA pilot with 14,382 flying hours in his log, at the controls, the flight landed uneventfully in Los Angeles with its 130 passengers. There 102 lucky travelers got off, but an unfortunate 100 boarded the plane for its 35-minute southward leg to San Diego. In addition to a crew of three officers and four flight attendants, the flight carried 31 other PSA employees, some with business at PSA's San Diego headquarters, others returning to their homes there from earlier flights.

While PSA 182 was on the ground in Los Angeles, Martin Kazy Jr., 32, a flight instructor with 5,000 hours of experience, got into a yellow-striped Cessna 172 owned by Gibbs Flite Center at Montgomery Field, eleven miles northeast of Lindbergh Field. Kazy, who had moved to California last year from Youngstown, Ohio, had just obtained a new job flying charter aircraft throughout the West and had asked his fianceee, Jennifer Lefler, 25, also a flyer, to travel with him as copilot. One of his last scheduled assignments as an instructor was last week's flight. With him was Marine Sergeant David Lee Boswell, 35, who held a commercial pilot's license but wanted to upgrade his certificate by meeting the requirements for instrument flight training. He had already spent 48 hours in flying under instrument rules, as well as more than 400 under visible flight rules. Boswell's friends believe he had hoped to pursue a flying career, perhaps after retiring from the Marines in 1982 with 20 years of service.

The two took off at 8:15 a.m., warmed by the bright sun. Hazy visibility was a welcome ten miles. As the plane headed for Lindbergh Field, Instructor Kazy sat in the right front seat of the four-seater, Boswell in the left. They received permission from the Lindbergh tower to make a practice approach under instrument conditions, since Lindbergh is the only airport in the area with the sophisticated electronics for guiding instrument flights. As they circled to await the assigned time for their training maneuver, a mild Santa Ana wind was blowing off the hot, dry desert out of the east, contrary to the normal prevailing winds off the Pacific. To aid the light craft, the tower gave approval for it to use Runway 9 (the designation for a runway heading of 90DEG, or due east). Commercial flights, not affected by the light wind, were using the same runway but in the opposite direction (designated Runway 27, short for 270DEG). For the practice run, Boswell put on special goggles, obstructing his view of the sky but permitting him to see his lighted instrument panel. Kazy had full visibility and sat at dual controls so he could take over the Cessna at any sign of danger.

PSA Flight 182 left Los Angeles at 8:30 a.m., flying southward along the Pacific, tracked first by radar controllers at Los Angeles, then by similar Federal Aviation Administration controllers at Miramar Naval Air Station near San Diego. A couple of miles after the PSA plane turned east over Mission Bay, the controllers at Miramar passed control to the Lindbergh tower. The tower assigned Runway 27 for landing. That would require the 727 to continue eastward, flying parallel to the runway, then turn south and finally back toward the west for the touchdown.

In the Cessna at 8:55 a.m., Boswell was cleared to make his instrument approach on Runway 9. He did so, then pulled up instead of landing, just as planned. At 8:58, the Cessna asked the Miramar center, which had taken over control of the small plane, for permission to circle for a second, similar practice pass. Permission was granted. The. Cessna was to head east-northeast (70DEG) for about ten miles and climb to 3,500 ft. before circling west. The Cessna pilots followed instructions, heading directly into the glare of the morning sun.

The big 727 was still heading east as First Officer Robert E. Fox lowered the craft's wing flaps to slow it to 170 m.p.h. He dropped the landing gear and pulled the plane's nose up, in preparation for banking sharply to the right.

Then came a crucial series of radio communications on two separate channels. The PSA cockpit crew could monitor both the Miramar frequency and that of the Lindbergh tower. The Cessna pilots were tuned only to Miramar. Miramar clearly warned the airliner about the Cessna. The sequence:

08:59:30. Miramar to PSA: "Traffic 12 o'clock [dead ahead]. One mile, northbound."

PSA: "We're looking." 08:59:40. Miramar to PSA: "Additional traffic 12 o'clock three miles north of field, northeast-bound Cessna 172 climbing out of 1400 [altitude in feet]."

PSA: "O.K., we got that one."

09:00:15. Miramar to PSA: "Traffic 12 o'clock three miles out of 1700."

PSA: "Traffic in sight."

09:00:30. Miramar to Cessna: "Traffic 6 o'clock [directly to rear of Cessna] two miles eastbound. PSA jet inbound to Lindbergh out of 3200. Has you in sight."

Cessna: Response unintelligible.

09:00:40. Lindbergh to PSA: "Traffic 12 o'clock one mile. A Cessna."

PSA: "O.K. We had him a minute ago."

Lindbergh: "Roger."

PSA: "I think he passed off to our right."

09:01:45. Miramar to Cessna: "Traffic in your vicinity is a PSA jet. Has you in sight. He is descending toward Lindbergh."

Cessna: No response.

The planes had just collided.

The airliner, descending and beginning to turn, had overtaken the small, ascending craft from the rear. The 727's nose wheel hooked the Cessna and flipped the light plane against the airliner's lowered right wing. Both planes plunged toward the earth.

What had gone wrong? Unless contrary evidence is found, it appears that the pilots in both planes failed to see each other, despite the puzzling PSA report about "traffic in sight." Investigators have not dismissed the possibility that the 727 sighted a plane other than the one it struck, although a second Cessna some twelve miles away at the time should not have confused the PSA pilots. There were other hazards. Both crews were facing a glaring sun. Worse, each craft appeared to have entered a blind spot in the other's field of vision. The 727 crew, with the plane's nose up, had limited vision down toward the Cessna; in the Cessna, the high wing above the cockpit obstructed the view upward and to the rear.

On the ground, chaos spread through a neighborhood of neat small homes and tall palm trees. The bulk of the airliner smashed into houses near Nile and Dwight streets, the more intact remnant of the Cessna about six blocks away. The terrified PSA passengers trapped in the plummeting craft died instantly on impact with the earth. "It was a nonsurvival crash," one investigator said. Indeed, the carnage left in the wake of the fireballing metal fuselage gave mute testimony to that. Scraps of clothing hung from telephone poles. Parts of a briefcase were found here, fragments of computer printout papers there, a pair of shattered glasses elsewhere. At St. Augustine High School, Father Anthony J. Wasko feared that the falling plane would plow into his school and the 575 boys attending it. When the airliner missed, he ordered his students to prepare the gymnasium as a first aid center. It became a temporary morgue instead.

Mary Fuller of Lakeside, Calif, was driving with her infant son when the body of a passenger smashed through the windshield of her car. Police Officer P.L. Thornton rushed up. "The glass just exploded with bits of glass and blood. We thought everyone was dead," he recalled. Lackily, Mrs. Fuller and her baby suffered only minor cuts. Police Sergeant Ken Hargrove told of a headless and legless male torso still strapped to an aircraft seat, with shirt and tie intact. An eIderly woman trembled as she recalled seeing "a man's hand and another part of a body lying on my street."

Police poking through the debris found few pieces of blackened scrap larger than two feet long or wide. An exception was an aircraft sign saying WELCOME. Near by two scorched dogs lay dead on their backs. All the coroner's crews could do was pick up parts of bodies and put them into yellow plastic bags. Said Deputy San Diego County Coroner Warren Chambers: "It may be many days before we will be able to match parts or even determine how many bodies we have."

Firemen fought blazes in the neighborhood for two hours before putting them out. The authorities also had to fight scavengers. Police arrested 28 people, mostly youngsters, for refusing to follow orders to leave the area. Some of them were caught stealing watches and wallets from the fallen bodies.

The devastation on the ground renewed a controversy in San Diego about such a busy airport's being situated in a heavily populated area. Yet San Diego is hardly alone in its worries: aircraft approaching Chicago's much busier O'Hare, Washington's National and New York's La Guardia and Kennedy airports regularly do so over densely populated areas.

But the broader problem of the sheer increase in the number of aircraft in the skies--and the mixing of planes so different in speed, size and sophistication of equipment--is more and more troublesome. This is true despite the fact that as the planes in use have multiplied the number of accidents has by no means risen proportionately. It is a testament to the effectiveness of tougher federal safety standards that there were 4,968 accidents in general aviation service in 1968 (when there were 124,000 planes in use) and only 4,286 accidents in 1977 (when there were 185,000 such aircraft). The decrease in the number of fatalities for each mile flown in such private traffic is also impressive: fatal accidents averaged .204 per 100,000 hrs. flown in 1967 and only .076 per 100,000 hrs. last year. Private pilots argue, quite accurately, that more Americans die each year in boating and swimming accidents than in light aircraft mishaps.

That record, however, is no reason for complacency. The number of reported "near misses" of aircraft in flight has been increasing sharply, to 384 last year--and the safety experts believe that only a small portion of such perilous passings are reported. The overwhelming majority do not involve commercial airliners. But as the San Diego crash illustrates, the loss of life is large when the near miss involving a big passenger jet turns into an actual collision.

To avoid that, a few Congressmen have in the past vainly proposed legislation banning light aircraft from major airfields. It now seems likely that there will be more such bills, and they may get more serious consideration. Some safety experts support such a segregation of aircraft. "You just can't have complete freedom of movement for all and total safety," contends James Gannett, a senior engineer test pilot for Boeing. "You've got to put the big guys in one place and the little guys in another." Most airline pilots, unwilling to bully their lesser brothers, are not necessarily in favor of an outright ban, but they do want the private pilots to pay a higher admission price, in the form of better equipment and training, for the use of congested major fields. "It's not that we want to exclude them from airspace," says United Airlines Captain Bay Lahr. "It's just that we don't want to crash into them."

In fact, the cost of operating at many of the larger airports has become almost prohibitive for the middle-income private pilot. The safety equipment he must have can cost as much as or more than his plane. At the biggest airports this now includes updated two-way radio equipment capable of handling more than 360 channels (typical cost: $2,000); a transponder, which automatically enlarges the small plane's radar blip on a controller's screen ($1,500); an encoding altimeter, which projects the craft's altitude on the radarscope ($3,500). Even some private pilots concede that special training for those wishing to enter the high-pressure "bird cages" around major airports should be required. But the problem is how this experience can be obtained without posing the very danger it is meant to prevent --as at San Diego, where the special training available only at Lindbergh Field drew the Cessna into the area.

Considerable bitterness erupted in the aviation community last week when the president of the Air Line Pilots Association, Captain JJ. O'Donnell, charged at a congressional hearing that the FAA has been dangerously delaying the use of a practical system for automatically warning pilots of a possible collision. The need for such a device has been conceded by most aviation experts for years; yet none are in general use. Asked Eastern Air Lines Pilot Jack Howell: "I wonder how many more San Diegos we will have before we get an efficient system?"

The pilots contend that the technology for such a system is at hand, and they cite one "black box" device used successfully by the McDonnell Douglas Corp. on the F4 Phantom jets it produces and tests near St. Louis. The airborne box sounds a Klaxon when a Phantom pilot is on a collision course with another plane and even tells him whether to go up, down, left or right. Simultaneous and opposite orders go to the other approaching pilot. But the device is expensive (up to $15,000 by one estimate).

FAA Administrator Langhorne Bond argued at the same hearing that no warning device is yet practical in a heavy traffic area. "There would be whistles and buzzers going off constantly in the cockpit," he told the committee, "and this would not serve the interests of air safety." He said that no system is yet reliable enough for general use. Florida Democrat Dante Fascell was unconvinced. He said he would introduce legislation making such devices mandatory on all large aircraft.

Coincidentally, the FAA issued new safety regulations last week for the various unscheduled small-plane commuter lines, chartered aircraft and "air taxis" that are adding to major-airport congestion. Their pilots will henceforth have to maintain full airline-transport-pilot certificates, and their planes must carry a ground-proximity warning system, cockpit voice recorder and either thunderstorm detection equipment or weather radar.

Yet there is no way, of course, for any system of sophisticated electronics or rigid regulations to keep a foolhardy private pilot from endangering his own or other lives by flying in an alcoholic haze or breaking a safety rule. For that matter taped cockpit conversations have demonstrated all too much inattention to duty among commercial airline pilots as well And as last week's disaster shows so graphically, the element of mere chance in course, timing and speed can doom even the most experienced pilots, as well as the many "souls on board" whose lives ended so innocently on a sunny morning over San Diego.

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