Also traded a patch for one of these 
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Leg 9: SCBA Balmaceda, Chile to SAWE Rio Grande, Argentina
Over and down the remaining portion of South America, at no more than 2,000 feet AGL…
We continue our low 'n slow flight following river basins…
An unusual surface …is it a salt pan? Apparently, Argentina has two of the most amazing of them in the world, but I don’t think this representation in XP v10.51 is one of those.
We didn’t have to stop (we were “only” airborne for four hours), but then thought it would be nice to stretch our legs one last time on the relatively warm southern continent.
While we had no remarkable aerial or bureaucratic incidents during our transit of South America, we did discover that simple candy can be a stronger negotiating tool than U.S. greenbacks.
Leg 10 is in progress as we post this entry! In fact, we’ve just sighted a coastline in the distance!
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Hey guys…Been following all of your great trip posts and it got me excited to jump in on this. After some testing, it’s looking like the JARDesigns A320 Neo is working in XP11 ! I did a quick test of powering on the aircraft, so far everything is working 
Here is my route down to the south:
Going to attempt the first leg from Salt Lake to Phoenix with the 320 this afternoon.
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Leg 10 / Antarctic Stop 1: SAWE Rio Grande, Argentina to SCRM Tiente Rodolfo Mars
Bidding the South American continent Adiós…
Four hours later and we’re on short final into our first Antarctic airport…
We must be early, because there was no one to greet us. Did we cross a time zone?
Break out the parkas, 'cause it’s -1 degree Celsius…
Before long, the welcoming committee arrived to greet us. We offloaded a portion of our sweet cargo for their holiday enjoyment, and then immediately prepared to depart for our next stop …EGAR Rothera Research Station.
P.S. SCRM is actually named Teniente R. Marsh Airport per Wikipedia. “It is the only airport in Antarctica which has an IATA code.”
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South America is well and truly behind us, and we have entered the Tomcat’s natural habitat: open ocean.
We radioed a (mostly) correct report back to the Peruvians with regards to their mystery jet, and are now on a more or less direct course for Easter Island which is some 1,800 nautical miles distant. As is now the the routine, the tanker is some miles ahead of us, on the same track.
Gibbo and I make small talk to pass the time. We’re both in agreement the F-4 is a studly aircraft, though we both think Klar should have grabbed an F-4J or S, then he could have tagged along with us. I ask Gibbs what the situation between he and tanker co-pilot is, and I swear I can feel the blush radiating off of him through three feet of avionics, an ejection seat, and my survival suit. He’s got it bad.
Eventually our mighty AWG finds the tanker, on course and sixty or so miles ahead of us. I climb to allow us a faster speed for less fuel spent so we can catch up, and we’re both eager to catch up for a few reasons.
Most glaringly is that without gas, we’ll obviously be in for an extended cruise of the South Pacific Ocean, I didn’t sign up for that. Gibbo wants to make flirty eyes with the tanker co-pilot, which I respect as annoying, but essentially valid. I however, through meticulous intelligence gathering techniques and the sneakiest of recon (i.e. overhearing tanker co-pilot tell Gibbs about it), have discovered that the tanker crew has amassed a collection of Milton Bradley’s finest board games.
I’m going to dominate these suckers at Trivial Pursuit.
Rejoin and tanking proceed as you’ve seen every time before. Compared to the nightmare murder house that was the Andes, refueling over the relatively peaceful Pacific (tautology!) Ocean is a sedate affair. The deed done, I set the plane in a loose formation off their right size and engage the autopilot. We’ve got 1400 miles to go, and I’ve got four ANG sucka’s to school board games.
#1200 Miles
Boom Operator: What is the name of the clock tower london
Me: Elizabeth Tower
Tanker Jock: It’s Big Ben, mook.
Boom Operator: It’s Elizabeth Tower, Pie Slice for you
Me: Big Ben is the clock, and who says mook anymore?
#1000 Miles
Tanker Jock: I’m telling you Batman would win!
Me: Are you insane? Superman can fly super sonic, has the ability to manipulate time, could destroy everything on the planet in like an hour and shoots freaking laser beams from his freaking eyes!
Tanker Jock: But he’s, at best, like moderately intelligent. Batman’s a genius! He’d be able to out plan Superman, lure him into a trap, and kill him with, like, a Kryptonite Batterang
Me: Which he has to throw at a man sized target moving fast enough to manipulate space time!
Tanker Jock: Can’t move that fast if you’re trapped in Kryptonite!
Me: And you couldn’t make a trap if your brain just got scrambled from space with a laser
Boom Operator: It’s moot! Both would never fight because they represent two sides of the same fascistic ideology of circumventing established rule of law, and creating a society ruled by marshal force and extra judiciary executions and punishment. Also the answer is clearly Iron Man
Tanker Jock, Me: Shut up!
#800 Miles
All: “You’re my Laaaaaaaday! pause Lady of the mooooo ooooooo rning!”
#600 Miles
Tanker Jock: How the hell am I supposed to know that?
Boom Operator: I didn’t write the card, sir.
Tanker Jock: I dunno, 1983
Boom Operator: Incorrect
Me: You think we invented the internet in 1983?
Tanker Jock: Damnit Sarah, why did you tell them we had this!
Tanker Co-Pilot: Because this is hilarious
#500 Miles
Me: So was that good for you?
Tanker Co-Pilot: Giggles
Tanker Jock: That joke’s older than my parents, and it was unfunny then too.
Me: But still effective
Gibbs: So immature
#300 Miles
Tanker Co-Pilot: So then we had to dodge out the back of this bar, and the owner was so mad!
Gibbs: Oh really? that’s so interesting!
Me: That’s it, hey Sarah, want to see Gibbs puke?
Gibbs, Tanker Co-Pilot: What?
Me: Hold my beer!
Me: [Maniacal Laughter]
Gibbs: You suck!
At 120 Miles, it’s time to say good by once more. I give the tanker driver a one fingered salute, then push the throttles all the way forward, rocketing away.
I weave my way through the clouds as I bust through the Mach. The feeling is immense.
Easter Island apparatus out of the haze, and I’m intent on giving the islanders a show they won’t soon forget. Then disaster strikes
Remember when I promised danger? Here is danger.
I’ve either exhausted the feed tanks with excessive use of afterburner at low level, or a ramp scheduling bug has given me a fan stall. The result is the same: simultaneous double engine failure. Fuuuuuuuuuudge
I’ve flown the A Model tomcat, so while this is excessively rare for the B, I’m well rehearsed with the engine restart procedure. However I can’t engage it until I drop below the mach. For now I’m flying the worlds heaviest supersonic glider as I pass over the southern point of Easter Island.
We decelerate sufficiently that I can unstow the engine ramp without fearing that aerodynamic forces will shred my engines. I Immediately start cranking the left engine. Time is a factor here, right now the jet is being powered by the windmilling fan blades, if they drop too low I’m going to be dead sticking a Tomcat, which isn’t a survivable prospect.
Engine one comes back to life, but engine two’s EGT rises into the red zone. I can’t restart it without risking an engine fire. I’m down to one engine for this landing. I roll right for an expedited landing at Isla de Pascua.
As I line up with the runway, I’m forced to throttle up the engine. The wide spacing between the engines on the F-14 causes huge yaw forces that I have to correct with full left rudder. I’m lucky the jet is light, otherwise this has a habit in ending in an aggravated flat spin.
Besides being a bit off laterally and very crab-y, the landing goes surprisingly well.
What are the odds there’s a General Electric sales man on this island? We might be stuck here for a bit pending inspection of my starboard engine. I expect the island’s bars to profit greatly, and it’s liqueur supply to suffer horrendously in the mean time.
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Antarctic Stop 2: EGAR Rothera Research Station
Skyvector lacks a few (probably more like many) Antarctic destinations, so our flight plan requires some superfluous entries to generate a usable plot…
It felt as if we were on another world…
A fly-over of EGAR Rothera is in order to give the residences notice of our imminent landing…
Shortly after this picture was taken (shot by a sailor who shared it with us later), an undesirable bounce forced us to push hard on the wheel brakes to get her stopped…
Local time was 1828, making it well over a 12-hour long day for crew and passengers. We’re all looking forward to a hot cup of tea and a good night’s rest. The Rotherians can’t wait to raid our pantry in the morning.
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This trip is costing us all a fortune in engines! So far I count one GE F110, one P&W PT-6, and one P&W 150A.
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This is called job security in the engine bizzzz 
Now, it looks like @BeachAV8R is going to need a fan and LPC boroscope inspection to see how far the damage has propagated, and @near_blind was just being a pantsy with not restarting! He could have licked some ceramic material of that sexy turbine easily! I guess that says a lot about F-14 drivers ;).
I believe…we’ve found…our saboteur…
- If @TheAlmightySnark meets us in Antarctica with a planeload full of engine parts for sale at x3 the price…we’ll know for sure!
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Not full off parts no, I shall also be the prime shovel dealer there and manager of the party-jet during business hours! let the vodka flow freely!
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I wouldn’t call pilots saboteurs really, I cannot blame them for barely understanding the ''lever forwards, plane go" method
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OK…but if you’ve trained the flock of birds to respond to your will…I will also be suspicious!
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If there is no placard with a diagram…we are hopeless…!
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The only way I know how to respond to that!
I wonder what would happen if I switched some of the writings in the cockpit…
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“Hey Stan…TOGA mode sounds so quiet today. Very odd. Pass the fresh fruit…”
Fruit?! See, this is why I cannot relate to species that doesn’t thrive and survive on coffee yet lives in the same aviation circles…
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My life is not that exotic unfortunately. I’m more likely to get something out of the 24 Hour Vend-O-Meal machine at the FBO. Hmm…Ramen or Hot Pocket…tonight? Decisions, decisions.
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I’m actually nervous. I’m about 2 minutes away from putting a filet on the grill…and I’m on call tonight. Usually a bad idea.
Fingers crossed.
I stand on the tarmac enjoying the moderate temperature and cool ocean breeze. I’m watching an airbus lazily make its way down onto the runway.
GE called about an hour ago and said they’d managed to find and put an expert on a jet, but warned he was a bit… eccentric. Gibbo should be here too, but he and the lady tanker pilot have disappeared into the tropic night together in a show of Air Force / Navy camaraderie. I didn’t even bother to ask Tanker Jock, though I did liberate a bottle of his spiced rum from his table.
The Airbus touches down without hassle, and I wince as I’m uncomfortably reminded with my own troubles with landings this excursion. This thought elicits another pull of the Rum. The jet taxi’s to a halt near mine, and I see the ground crew roll up a flight of stairs. One last pull before the stewardess opens the door, and then I slip it into my pocket and begin to stroll towards the ramp and the now silent Airbus.
Before I can reach the area however, I see a figure shoulder his way through the door, and stomp down the stairs, oblivious to the bewildered look of the ground crew. He takes a scan of the tarmac, identifying my stricken aircraft, and stalks towards it. His shoulders are set forward, his jaw locked, and I’m suddenly reminded uncomfortably of my Uncle the Gunny posturing before laying down the law.
Without breaking stride the rep pops the inspection panels on the engine and is swarming over it. I’ve moved closer, and I swear I can hear dutch twinged english muttering about “verdammt fly boys, breaking jets”, “disgusting swing wings”,“ugly jet’s no lightning”,“screw F-104s”. I’m extremely confused.
After a few minutes he sharply slams the panels shut, and paces towards me.
“The engine is fine, don’t be such a bloody pansy next time” He says sternly, tossing me a clipboard before walking passed me and disappearing into the night behind me.
I stand there, alone on the tarmac once more, and stare at the bottle of Rum.
I shrug and take another pull before heading back into town.
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