It’s 23:30, the night is dark and the skies are lovely and clear, perfect conditions for what should be an easy run to Dublin. I got the phone call two hours ago, there’s a terrible Irn Bru shortage in Ireland and as their number one customer and resident nutter with a pilots license Barr had asked I make an immediate run across the Irish Sea to rectify the situation. I agreed of course, for a reasonable fee of 1000 bottles of the sweet orange juice.
My heavy footsteps echo across the tarmac as I approach my baby, a Learjet 45 proudly coated in a strange imitation of the X-Wing’s colouring, her door open and several pissed off looking baggage handlers loading in the last few cases. “Is she ready?” I ask, a low grunt my only reply as the last cases is hefted on board. “If you guys have damaged the seating I’ll kill you, fixing that shit ain’t cheap.” Her usual cargo of passengers strangely absent as I ascend the steps, on the plus side this meant I didn’t have to wear pants for this flight, trust me, there is no greater thrill in this world than flying in your boxers.
A short conversation later and I’m in the air, the lights of Blackpool quickly disappearing from view as I pitch up and head to my assigned flight level, 10,000 feet, for those of you that like details. For some reason the towers really want to bounce me around today, so I spend the first 20 or so minutes talking to various controllers over and over, eventually I get some peace just north of the Welsh coast, the song and dance of opposing airspace lost into the vast emptiness of any sea. I fiddle with my MP3 player, music breaking the silence as I settle into the routine, scan my instruments, scan the horizon and enjoy the view.
No more than ten minutes later, this routine is broken by a loud beeping noise, shit, that’s not good…. My eyes jump straight to the Master Warn as I punch it off, silencing the alarm and giving myself room to think, my eyes immediately follow down, looking for the warning lights, Engine Two seems to have low pressure, why on earth is it going so nuts about that? I finish processing the list, my stomach sinks. There’s a fire in Engine Two, and the fuel gauge is rapidly spinning down. It’s times like these you’re thankful for the training, with little more than a few choice words to the endless dark outside I grab my checklists, thumbing the thick tome to quickly find the right page. “Engine Fire Procedure”, got it!
Now, remember how I mentioned it was Engine Two not too long ago? In the panic of the moment I did something that is a classic example of why TWO pilots are usually needed. In my attempt to fire through the list and save myself from this damn mess I slip, I get the engines back to front in my mind, and my finger jabs at the wrong fuel cut off. A few seconds later, as I’m checking what I think is my working engine’s temperatures and pressures I see something is wrong. My working engine is flying through fuel and not providing thrust? That’s not right…
Never have I felt like more of an idiot, as my fingers quickly kill the right engine, and  activate the fire suppression system, hopefully that should stop me from exploding in mid air. I glance at my altimeter, wanting to see just how bad my sink rate is… It’s frozen still, great an instrument failure too, thank god there’s a second one, but I don’t have time right now. It’s around now I did something entirely stupid as I’m doing all of this, my mind focused on stopping engine 2 from burning, my subconscious decides to help out. My other hand comes off the stick, causing the plane to lurch forwards slightly, as the effects of drag begin to take their toll and pull the nose down, my fingers punch desperately at two buttons they’re all too familiar with, the ignition and the starter motor.
The silence ends, the relatively loud woosh of the jet resumes and I can’t help but sigh, confirming the fire is out as my hand returns to the control yolk, crisis averted, lives saved. Well my life, and that of the Irn Bru in the back. My eyes finally return to the Altimeter, just north of 9000 ft, that was one hell of a glide, good job I have that spare engine. I announce my PAN-PAN to ATC, and after a quick scan of my charts find Liverpool is the nearest airport equipped to deal with the situation, the nice long runway should help given I’m down a reverse.
Apart from the longer stopping distance, and the waiting fire crews the landing is uneventful. I’d always planned on flying into or out of my home town, I just never thought it would be in such a damaged shape. They tow me clear of the runway, and usual service returns within the hour. Such a small delay for a non-routine landing.