by Les Abend
“No, no other injuries that I know of.”
“I guess we can be thankful for small favors,” Jim responded.
“I guess…” Jackie replied, thinking about her last glimpse of Row 19. She paused for a moment. “Captain, I had a comment from a passenger. It’s probably not important, but I thought I’d pass it along anyhow. The man didn’t seem crazy, although he was intense.”
“Go ahead.”
“He asked if you guys had considered this whole thing an act of terrorism.”
“Hmm…hadn’t really had time to think about that one.” Jim sighed. “I guess that’s up to the accident investigators when they tear the engine apart.”
“Gotcha. That’s kinda what I thought.”
Jim cleared his throat. “Although, it might be wise for us to advise the local authorities. They may want to detain passengers who have questionable credentials. If you observe anything suspicious, let us know. Perhaps we should have the authorities query the passenger making the remark about terrorists.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks, Jackie. I’ll see you in Bermuda.”
The intercom clicked and then went silent.
08:35 EDT
As Jim descended the airplane through ten thousand feet, he took a deep breath. The checklists were done. The flight attendants had the cabin under control. And the airplane was performing without issues. No pilot ever develops a complete comfort level operating a two-engine airliner on one engine. It’s just not natural.
Had anything been forgotten? They had reached that awkward period of time between the initial rush of adrenalin and when it just became a matter of flying the airplane to its destination. The checklists were complete. The procedures for the approach had been briefed. Nothing else remained.
Jim’s copilot didn’t appear to be affected with the same anxiety. Although Mike had been a professional during the heat of the battle, he now appeared withdrawn and detached. Mike’s stare out the windscreen was unfocused. He hadn’t uttered a word since they had stowed their oxygen masks other than to respond to the instructions of the air traffic controller. The copilot was once again preoccupied with his own thoughts.
The fire bell punctured the barely noticeable white noise of air flowing through the cockpit ducts. The EICAS screen displayed an all too familiar message: “R ENGINE FIRE.” This time Mike was the first to press the master warning light in order to silence the heart thumping ring of the fire bell.
“You’ve got to be kidding!?” Jim said with an incredulous tone. “Can’t we freeze the simulator? I could have sworn I heard our check airman say, ‘Nice job guys.’” He glanced down at the center pedestal. The right fire handle glowed red. He looked at Mike. “Something in the engine must have re-ignited. Maybe a greater concentration of O2 at the lower altitudes? Doesn’t make sense. What’s left to burn?”
Mike nodded and grasped the illuminated fire handle. He rotated the handle to the right.
“Let’s hope that the last Halon bottle does the trick,” Jim said. “Otherwise we’re in deep doo-doo.”
After taking note that the Halon discharge light was on, the two pilots lapsed into silence. Both Mike and Jim took turns glancing at the red fire handle in the center pedestal. It continued to remain illuminated. Six minutes passed.
The flight attendant call chime sounded. Because of his intense focus, Mike was momentarily startled. He snatched the intercom phone off its cradle at the back of the center pedestal and put it to his ear. He knew exactly what he was going to hear.
In an anxious tone Jackie said, “The fire is back on the right engine.”
Mike didn’t know quite what to say. He asked, “How bad?”
“We see flames extending out from underneath the back of the wing.”
Mike grimaced and looked at Jim.
Jim didn’t need to hear the other end of the conversation. He nodded and shook his head saying, “Tell her to brief for a possible evacuation. She’s got about ten minutes…but tell her not to throw people onto the slides until I turn on the evac horn. The rescue guys may be able to put out the fire.”
Mike nodded and repeated the instruction to Jackie. He re-seated the intercom phone and looked forward out the windscreen. The island of Bermuda was starting to appear through the scattered layer of cotton clouds. Mike glanced at his altimeter. The airplane was descending through six thousand feet.
Mike keyed the transmit button on his control wheel. “New York Center, Patriot Sixty-Three has an engine fire that will not extinguish. We may have to evacuate the airplane.”
An even-toned anonymous voice replied, “We’ve advised Bermuda. The equipment is standing by. I’ll be handing you off to the tower in one minute.”
“Roger. Thanks,” Mike responded.
Jim’s eyes were focused on the instrument panel. His left hand was gripped around the control wheel. His right hand rested on top of the left power lever--the only one that operated a good engine. He took a deep breath. He had never evacuated an airplane before. An evacuation sometimes created more problems than the actual emergency. The slides could be a nightmare. Broken arms and legs. Cuts and bruises.
Jim clenched his teeth and glanced at the airspeed indicator. He scanned the rest of the instrument panel. The distance readout on the HSI display showed them fifteen miles from the airport.
“Flaps one,” Jim commanded.
Mike slid the flap lever on the center pedestal to the one-degree notch. The needle on the round flap gauge jiggled for a moment and then moved to the appropriate position. The airplane buffeted slightly and then began to slow.
Jim glanced at the airspeed indicator again and ordered, “Flaps five.”
Mike moved the flap lever to the five degree notch. The needle began to point toward the number five but then abruptly stopped. The electronic beeper blurted. A new message was displayed on the EICAS screen: “TE FLAP ASYM.”
“Shit,” Jim said at a barely audible volume. “We’ve got a trailing edge flap asymmetry. Do you think this would be a bad time to ask for another cup of coffee?”
The latest problem was an indication that the flaps on one wing had deployed at less of an angle than they had on the other wing. The problem had the potential to create control issues rolling the wings level, but an automatic system senses the malfunction and stops all flap movement. Unfortunately, the flaps had stopped at a degree that was a far distance from the normal landing configuration.
Mike said, “I bet a part of the engine came apart into the flaps and jammed them on the right side. I’ll start the checklist.”
Jim nodded and said, “I’ve got the radio.” He cleared his throat and keyed his mic switch. “New York, Patriot Sixty-Three. We’ve got another problem. Our flaps will only extend partially. We’ll be landing at a higher speed and using more runway.”
“Understood, Patriot Sixty-Three. We’ll advise Bermuda again. Do you have the airport in sight?”
Jim peered above the instrument panel. The white concrete of Runway 30 was just becoming visible. He responded, “Affirm. Airport in sight.”
“Patriot Sixty-Three, cleared for the visual, Runway Three-Zero. Contact the tower on one-eighteen decimal one.”
“Eighteen-one. Patriot Sixty-Three. Thanks for your help.”
“Good luck, sir.”
“Thanks.” Jim changed the frequency on his radio control panel and pushed the transfer switch to the right. “Bermuda tower, Patriot Sixty-Three on the visual for Three-Zero.”
A voice with a cheery tone responded. “Roger, Patriot Sixty-Three. Cleared to land. The equipment is standing by.”
Jim responded, “Roger. Cleared to land.”
Almost muttering, Mike read the checklist for the trailing edge flap asymmetry. He pressed the appropriate switches and made the appropriate responses. The checklist didn’t involve much. The primary task was computing the appropriate reference bug on the airspeed indicator. They would be landing at almost one hundred eighty miles per hou
r, at least thirty miles per hour above the normal speed. The rollout would involve three-fourths of the runway.
08:45 EDT
Strapped into the jumpseat nearest the forward entry door, Jackie was relieved that she couldn’t see the engine fire from her position. Her anxiety level was at an all-time personal high. Her energies would be better spent focusing on the possibility that her next task would be to get people off the airplane in a major hurry. She was ready.
Despite the drawn faces on the other eight flight attendants, she was confident that they would all perform. They had no choice.
During the two-minute briefing she had given, Jackie had locked eyes with each flight attendant. Not one of them had moisture in their eyes. Not one of them had shaky hands. Not one of them had the thousand-yard stare. It was as if they had pushed their own personal autopilot buttons. They would need that mindset to activate the lessons of their training.
Jackie leaned forward against the shoulder harnesses on the jumpseat. She glanced to her right and then through the galley to her left. Her attention was focused on the L1 and R1 doors. She closed her eyes for a moment and concentrated. She visualized the movement of the handles and how she would position herself. She imagined the hiss of the evacuation slides inflating. She rehearsed the commands that she would bellow to her passengers. She was certain that the other flight attendants were doing the same.
Jackie knew that the worst part of the emergency would be the long few seconds between the time the airplane touched down and the time it took to stop. And when the airplane did stop, she would have to make an immediate assessment. Would the condition of the airplane require her to initiate an evacuation on her own or would she be able to wait for the captain’s command?
Jackie glanced out the round viewing port window in the forward entry door. The whitecaps were visible enough to contrast against the intense blue of the ocean. They were nearing the airport.
09:05 EDT
“One thousand,” the robotic voice stated, indicating their altitude above the ground.
“Checklist complete. Cleared to land,” Mike announced.
The copilot raised his head and looked out the windscreen at Bermuda. The large white stripes of the airport’s Runway 30 filled the view. It was a welcome sight.
Mike glanced at his captain. The man’s face was pure focus. Although Jim’s left hand was firmly attached to the control wheel and the right hand to the operating power lever, there was a relaxed fluency to his subtle movements. It was a fluency born of years manipulating the same machine over thousands of hours.
Jim made a quick crosscheck of his instrument panel. He peered out the windscreen at the runway. He glanced down at the center console. The right fire handle still glowed an ominous red. Although it was impossible to see the engine from the cockpit, he visualized orange flames and black smoke.
“Five hundred,” stated the unemotional male voice of the automatic altitude call-out.
“Sinking at eight hundred. On speed,” Mike called out.
The eyes of both pilots danced between their instrument panels and the outside. Fire trucks and emergency vehicles were visible on the parallel taxi to the north. The flashing lights accented the urgency of the situation. It felt as if the whole world awaited their arrival.
Chapter Three
Friday
09:05 EDT
Hart Lindy perched himself at the end of the exercise bench and then lay down with a pair of dumbbells poised on each side of his chest. When he was flat on his back he sucked in a deep breath and began to push the weights upward. Before he had completely extended his arms, an image on the flat screen TV caught his attention. Hart exhaled, the escaping air from his lungs emitting a sound like a deflating air mattress. He allowed the dumbbells to descend back to his chest in a controlled motion. He rose back to an upright position and released his grip.
The rubber-coated weights dropped to the padded floor with a muffled thud. The gym was quiet except for the clang of a barbell being re-racked on a nearby bench press machine.
As Hart stared at the TV mounted high in the corner of the room, he felt his stomach start to tighten. CNN was broadcasting a disturbing video. The video footage was of a large airplane landing on a runway. The aft portion of the airplane’s right engine was engulfed in flames. The airplane was a Boeing 767. A large furled American flag was painted on the tail. The flag was the recognizable logo for Patriot Airlines. Patriot Airlines was Hart’s employer. He took a deep breath. This wasn’t good.
Although the image was slightly erratic, the detail was sufficient. The picture was being filmed from a camera that must have been located at the far end of the runway. The angle was almost head-on from slightly above. The upper right hand corner of the TV screen displayed the printed words, “LIVE.” The video feed had to be coming from a news helicopter.
The 767’s main gear trucks were only a handful of feet from the concrete. Hart gritted his teeth. The closed-caption words rolled across the bottom of the TV screen. The captions frustrated Hart. The words moved at a snail’s pace.
A wisp of white smoke blossomed from underneath the tires as the airplane touched down. The smoke dissipated like the after-effects of a magician’s trick. The nose of the 767 lowered toward the ground. Emergency vehicles of all sizes began to chase the airplane, lights flashing. In a few moments, the image of the bulky airliner filled the screen. All movement stopped.
Hart held his breath. Would he see the white tentacles of the slide rafts deploy from the doors? If smoke from the engine had not infiltrated the bleed system, the cabin should still be habitable. Hart slid his hands to his hips and shifted his weight to the other foot. His muscles tensed. He crossed his fingers. He stared into the darkened windows of the cockpit. Don’t rush, Captain. Wait.
A steady stream of foamy, white spray flowed from a fire truck and onto the fiery orange glow of the right engine. Black smoke rose above the top of the fuselage and then disappeared. The white stream stopped. Water and foam dripped around the entire perimeter of the gaping engine nacelle. The only colors that remained were black and grey. The glow of orange was no longer visible. No flames. A short burst of spray was directed back into the engine.
A man wearing a bulky silver jumpsuit appeared in front of the nose. The man focused his attention on the cockpit. He held a portable radio to one ear. The man dropped the radio to his side and held up a gloved hand. He positioned his fingers to form an awkward OK sign. Emergency vehicles began to roll away from the airplane.
A blocky, blue tug with painted red, white, and blue stars banded along its sides positioned itself in front of the nose. Two men were seated on the tug. The man in the passenger seat stepped to the pavement. The man scurried to the nosewheel and began to connect a tow bar. A few moments later, the man walked out from underneath the nose and gestured a thumbs-up at the tug driver. The 767 lumbered forward.
Cool! No evacuation. No injuries. Good deal. But what the hell happened…? Hart read the captions. “Bermuda. Airplane departed Port of Spain, Trinidad...175 passengers...possibly two fatalities.” Two fatalities…? Shit! How…?
Hart reached to his hip for the cell phone that was normally clipped to his waist band. It wasn’t there. Damn! The phone was in his truck. He looked at the dumbbells that he had dropped to the floor. Should he…? Hart hesitated. If he didn’t finish his workout now, he would never finish it. Exercise would help him think straight.
As the pilots union safety investigation chairman, Hart’s phone would be ringing all day. How many beers had he knocked back when he relented and finally let Sam volunteer him for the position? PAPA had other qualified people. He didn’t really have the time.
With the chemotherapy and radiation treatments intensifying, his father needed Hart more and more. No matter how many times Dad had claimed that he was managing just fine, Hart began to notice a creeping deterioration. The family airport, Dad’s livelihood, was taking incremental steps backwards. Bills not being pai
d. Hangar customers leaving because of leaks and decay. The maintenance shop sitting idle more frequently. The little paved strip out in the boonies of upstate New York had become a burden even before Dad got sick. The place squeaked out barely enough of a profit to pay for groceries.
But Dad was emphatic about Hart accepting the chairman position. It was important work. And Hart had the credentials and the qualifications. The fact that the president of the pilots union considered Hart a valuable asset was an honor. Besides, giving back was a quality that his father insisted upon.
Giving back to what though? Hart grunted to himself. The majority of his contemporaries did nothing. They criticized and bitched, complaining about the ineffectiveness of their leadership. But at the end of the day they went home to their families and collected their paychecks, never once volunteering to assist in union business.
For some, PAPA had become an acronym for necessary evil. The Patriot Airlines Pilots Association had been unable to conclude a contract settlement with the company for the last four years of negotiations. The National Mediation Board hadn’t helped to advance the process either. It was the same old crap. Politics. Infighting. Contentious management. Employee morale at all-time lows.
None of that mattered. Hart had volunteered for the assignment. He had made a commitment. Plain and simple. The Bermuda event he had just witnessed on TV was now on his watch. Well…only if the British government granted the NTSB authority to conduct the investigation. They had no reason not to. Bermuda had limited resources. And the airplane was registered in the U.S. to a U.S. airline. The government wouldn’t want to spend time and effort on an accident that probably didn’t involve British citizens.
Hart twisted his neck from side to side until he felt a satisfying crack. He could feel the tension starting to build. He looked away from the TV.
