by Tim LaHaye
“Tell me about it,” Smith said. “Wind doesn’t affect ’em much, does it?”
“Got to love a stable approach,” Rayford said. “The downside is you can’t maneuver quickly. It’s no fighter jet.”
Rayford reached behind his seat for the maintenance logbook. He was to read all the past write-ups before pushing back from the gate. He was about halfway through when Janet interrupted with the credentials of a jump-seater—a pilot from another airline catching a free ride. By the time Rayford studied the document and signed off on it, it was time to go.
Once in the air, First Officer Smith split his time between reading the Chicago Tribune, monitoring the instruments, and answering all radio calls from traffic control. Rayford was a stickler for rules and would not have read recreationally while in the air, but since Smith seemed an old hand and didn’t miss a thing, he didn’t say anything.
The sun hung just below Rayford’s glare shield, making him squint even behind his dark gray lenses. The next time Chris Smith looked up, he said, “Oops, how long has that been there?”
“What?”
“That message,” Smith said, pointing. He tossed his paper on the jump seat and sat up straighter.
Rayford shielded his eyes and found the message screen reading “ENGINE #1 OIL FILT.”
His lower monitor, normally blank, now displayed engine readings. Oil pressure was normal, even on the engine in question, the one farthest to his left. “Engine number one oil-filter checklist, please,” he said.
“Roger,” Chris said, digging into the right side pocket for the emergency manual. Rayford did not recall this procedure on his last simulator ride and so assumed it was not a big deal. On the other hand, neither had he finished checking the maintenance log.
While Chris was finding the right section, Rayford grabbed the log and speed-read. Sure enough, engine number one had required an oil-filter change in Miami before the leg to O’Hare, and metal chips had been detected on the used filter. They must have been within acceptable limits, however, as the mechanic had signed off on the note. And the plane had made it to Chicago without incident.
“‘Retard thrust level slowly until message no longer displayed,’” Chris read.
Rayford followed the procedure and watched the message screen. The throttle reached idle, but the message still shone. After a minute he said, “It’s not going out. What next?”
“‘If ENG OIL FILT message remains displayed with thrust lever closed: FUEL CONTROL SWITCH . . . CUTOFF.’”
Rayford grabbed the control cutoff switch and said, “Confirm number one cutoff switch?”
“Confirmed.”
Rayford pulled out and down in one smooth motion while increasing pressure on the right rudder pedal. Engine number one shut down and the auto throttle increased power on the other three. Airspeed slowly decreased, and Rayford doubted anyone but Janet would even notice. And she knew enough not to bother the pilots right then.
He and Chris determined a new altitude, and he instructed Chris to call air-traffic control at Albuquerque to get clearance to descend to 32,000 feet. They then positioned a transponder to warn other traffic that they might be unable to climb or maneuver properly if there was a conflict.
Rayford had no question they could reach Los Angeles without incident now. He called Janet. “You probably noticed we descended awhile back.”
“I did. Seemed a little early for step-down into LAX.”
“Right. I shut down number one due to a minor oil problem. I’ll make an announcement shortly.”
Rayford became aware of the strain on his right foot and remembered he had to increase pressure to compensate for the uneven thrust of the remaining engines. C’mon, Rayford. Fly the airplane.
“Mind taking the controls for a minute, Chris? I should call the company.”
“I have the airplane,” Chris said.
Following protocol, Rayford confirmed, “You have the airplane.”
After Rayford informed Pan-Con of the situation, the dispatcher told him of low visibility at LAX. “You’ll want to check weather as you get closer.”
“We have plenty of fuel if we have to divert,” Rayford said. “In fact, I wish we had less. We’re going to land a little heavy.”
“Roger.”
Rayford made his announcement, telling passengers he had shut down the number one engine but that he didn’t expect anything but a routine landing at LAX. The lower the plane flew, however, the more he could tell that the power margin had increased. He did not want to have to go around, because going from near idle to full power on three engines would require a lot of rudder to counteract the thrust differential.
LAX tower was informed of the engine issue and cleared the Pan-Con heavy for initial landing sequence. At 10,000 feet Rayford began checking descent figures.
Chris said, “Auto brakes.”
Rayford responded, “Three set.”
That configured the plane to brake itself at a medium rate unless Rayford intervened manually. LAX approach control turned Rayford and Chris over to the tower, which cleared them to land on runway 25 left and informed them of wind speed and RVR (runway visual range).
Rayford flipped on the taxi lights and directed Chris to zero the rudder trim. Rayford felt the pressure increase under his foot. He would have to keep up with the auto throttles as the power changed and adjust the rudder pressure to match. He was as busy as he had ever been on a landing, and the weather was not cooperating. Low cloud cover blocked his view of the runway.
“Glide slope’s alive,” Chris said.
“Gear down,” Rayford said. “Flaps 20.”
Rayford worked with Chris, setting the speed to match the flap settings and feeling the auto throttles respond by reducing power to slow the plane. “Glide slope intercept,” he said, “flaps 30, landing check.” He set the speed indicator at 148, final speed for a flaps-30 approach with that much weight.
Chris followed orders and grabbed the checklist from the glare shield. “Landing gear,” he said.
“Down,” Rayford said.
“Flaps.”
“Thirty.”
“Speed brakes.”
“Armed.”
“Landing check complete,” Chris said.
The plane could land itself, but Rayford wanted to be in control just in case. It was a lot easier to be flying than to have to take over if the autopilot had to be suddenly switched off.
“Final approach fix,” Chris said.
A loud horn sounded when Rayford clicked off both the autopilot and throttles. “Autopilot disengaged,” he said.
“One thousand feet,” Chris said.
“Roger.”
They were in the middle of clouds and would not likely see the ground until just before touchdown.
A mechanical voice announced, “Five hundred feet.” It would announce again at fifty, thirty, twenty, and ten feet. They were ninety seconds from touchdown.
Suddenly Rayford overheard a transmission. “Negative, US Air 21,” the tower said, “you are not cleared for takeoff.”
“Roger, tower,” came the answer. “You were broken. Understand US Air 21 is cleared for takeoff.”
“Negative!” the tower responded. “Negative, US Air 21! You are not cleared to take the runway!”
“Fifty feet,” the auto announcer called out. “Thirty.”
Rayford broke through the clouds.
“Go around, Cap!” Chris shouted. “A ’57 is pulling onto the runway! Go around! Go around!”
Rayford could not imagine missing the 757. Time slowed, and he saw Irene, Chloe, and Raymie clearly in his mind, imagined them grieving, felt guilty about leaving them. And all the people on the plane. The crew. The passengers. And those on the US Air.
In slow motion he noticed a red dot on the center screen of the instrument console with a minus 2 next to it. The auto announcer was sounding, Chris screaming, the tower shouting on the radio, “Pull up! Pull up! Pull up!”
Rayf
ord mashed the go-around buttons on the throttles twice for maximum power and called out, “God, help me!”
Chris Smith whined, “Amen! Now fly!”
Rayford felt the descent arresting, but it didn’t appear it would be enough. Rayford imagined the wide eyes of the US Air passengers on the ground. “Flaps 20!” he barked. “Positive rate. Gear up.” Smith’s hands were flying, but the gap was closing. I’ll never miss another Sunday at church as long as I live. And I’ll pray every day.
The plane suddenly dipped left, the three good engines causing the slight roll. Rayford had not added enough rudder to counteract them. If he didn’t adjust, the wingtip would hit the ground. They were a split second from the 757’s tail—standing nearly four stories—and about to bottom out. Rayford closed his eyes and braced for impact. He heard swearing in the tower and from Chris. What a way to go.
The Pan-Con heavy could not have missed the US Air by more than inches, and the left wingtip missed the ground by less than that. Climbing slowly now, Rayford was drenched and, he was sure, ashen. “How did we miss them, Chris?”
“Your prayer musta been answered, Cap. Praise the Lord and pass the diapers.”
The tower was still shouting, interrupted by the US Air cockpit. Rayford’s knuckles were white, and, finally persuaded he was alive, he set about getting control of the plane. All he wanted was for the flight to be over. When the tower gave a final vector, Rayford announced an auto land.
“I second that!” Chris said.
The pilots configured the plane again and ran the landing checklist. The screen read LAND 3, indicating that all three autopilots were functioning normally. They touched down without incident.
Rayford heard applause from the cabin, but no one was as relieved as he was. He knew messages would be waiting from the ground agent to call operations and the tower. That was all he needed, to rehash the nightmare.
Had God answered his prayer by making him err on the rudder and cause the slight turn that allowed the right wing to miss the US Air? Strange kind of intervention, Rayford thought, but he had made a bargain. This time he might just have to make good on it.
TWENTY-SIX
NICOLAE CARPATHIA was awakened from a sound sleep. At least he thought he was awakened. Maybe he was still dreaming. There had been no noise, no light. His eyes had simply popped open.
As was his custom when a dream seemed too real, he reached under his silk pajamas and pinched himself. Hard. He was awake. Just like that, on full alert. He sat up in the dark bedroom and peered out the window.
What was that? A figure sitting on the roof? There was no way up there without a serious ladder. Another ten feet and the figure would have reached Aunt Viv’s level. Nicolae was tempted to direct it that way. If the figure had an ill motive, better her than him, and he would have time to escape.
But the figure wasn’t moving. Holding his breath, Nicolae slipped slowly out of bed, quietly drew open the drawer of his bedside stand, and pulled out a massive Glock handgun. As he crept toward the window, the figure turned to look at him, and Nicolae froze, though there was no light in the room, no way for the figure to see him.
He lifted the Glock to eye level, hands shaking. But before he could pull back the firing mechanism, the figure lifted a finger and shook its head, as if to say he wouldn’t need that. “I am not here to harm you,” Nicolae heard, though not audibly. “Put down your weapon.”
Nicolae set the Glock on the bureau and stared. His heart rate slowed, but he didn’t know what to do. Unlock and raise the window? Invite the figure in? In the next instant he was transported outside, still in his pajamas, and now he and the figure, a male, stood in a desolate wasteland. Nicolae tensed at the growls and howls and whines of animals. He pinched himself again. This was real.
The figure was draped head to toe in a hooded black robe, his face and hands and feet hidden. “Wait here,” the man said. “I shall return for you in forty days.”
“I cannot survive here! What will I eat?”
“You shall not eat.”
“Where will I stay? There is no shelter!”
“Forty days.”
“Wait! My people—”
“Your people will be informed.” And with that the figure was gone.
Nicolae wished the time would speed as it had when he had moved from the bedroom to this place. But it did not. He was aware of every crawling second, the heat of the day, the bone chill of the night. Nicolae had grown accustomed to creature comforts. He was not used to hunger, to fear, to darkness. He might have tried to walk home, had he any idea which direction it was. All he saw was nothingness on every side.
Irene Steele tried to fight off a niggling restlessness by telling herself that hers was the lot of many young mothers. She had a daughter in school and a prekindergarten son, not to mention a traveling husband. Her days were long and hard and anything but boring. Money was an issue, of course, but she couldn’t deny she had been fully aware of Rayford’s materialistic bent from the beginning. Maybe he was trying to fill some hole too. Nothing ever seemed enough. The luster of a new gadget or toy seemed to quickly fade.
Irene fought to inject deeper meaning into their lives. But Rayford seemed restless at family picnics, bored with walks that ended with keeping the kids from fighting or running too far ahead. Rayford was good enough with Chloe and Raymie, but his days off were filled with golf and television.
Just about the time Irene contented herself with a diagnosis of sleep deprivation, one of the other young mothers in the neighborhood raised a curtain for her that Irene hadn’t even realized existed. She and Jackie—a cute, athletic brunette—sat chatting while their preschoolers played in the park. They had met nearly a year before but had never been to each other’s home or socialized outside the park.
That’s why Irene was taken aback when Jackie seemed nervous. “I want to ask you something, Eye,” she said, using her unique nickname for Irene.
Raymie was at the top of the monkey bars, so Irene couldn’t look away. “Sure, shoot.”
“You happy with your church?”
My church? Irene didn’t know what to say. She shrugged. “I guess. Yeah. It’s big. Lots of stuff for the kids.”
“You and your husband real involved?”
“No. We just go Sunday mornings. Rafe has been on some outings with the men. Fishing. A Bears game. A golf tournament.”
“And you?”
“The women have a circle something-or-other,” Irene said. “We collect stuff for inner-city moms.” Raymie was on the ground now, so Irene stole a glance at Jackie, who still seemed self-conscious. “Why, Jackie?”
“Oh, nothing. I just thought if you weren’t happy at your church, if you were looking for something more or different, you might want to try ours. It’s called New Hope.”
Interesting name, Irene thought.
“It’s smallish,” Jackie said. “Just a couple of hundred people is all. Nondenominational. Just a bunch of born-again Christians trying to get other people to heaven.”
Aha, there it was. No wonder Jackie had been ill at ease. She said her church was nondenominational, but she was sure sounding like a Baptist.
“Nope,” Irene said. “We’re happy. But I’m glad you like your church.”
Jackie seemed to relax, as if she had fulfilled an obligation and could get back to being a friend. Oh, she was still on a religious riff, but she must have been in more of a comfort zone now. She went on and on about how she had finally found peace of mind, a reason for living, knew why she had been “put on this earth. I know why I’m here, what my purpose is, and where I’m going.”
Irene didn’t want to pursue it, despite the fact that she was dying for her own answers to those very questions.
After several days Nicolae thought he would go mad. He tried to mark the time by gouging the ground with a stick every sunrise. His hair and beard grew; his pajamas became tattered. He feared he was wasting away. Time and again he called out for the figure, f
inally screaming maniacally for hours, “I will die of hunger!”
Nicolae lost all track of time, not sure whether he had missed a day or two or added marks too often. At the end of a month he lay in a fetal position, his bones protruding, his teeth filmy. He rocked and wept, willing himself to die.
Hours and days passed long after he believed the forty days were up, until he despaired of ever being rescued. He slept for long periods, waking miserable, filthy, trembling, utterly surrendered to his fate. He had had a good run, he told himself. At twenty-four he was already one of the most promising, revered men in the world. He didn’t deserve this.
Irene had to admit that her relationship with Jackie—limited as it was to the park, anyway—had begun to fray. Jackie was nice enough, and there was no question she was earnest. But she was now raising spiritual issues every day, and it was only Irene’s politeness that seemed to encourage Jackie and convince her this was okay.
But it wasn’t okay. She was meddling now, invading Irene’s comfort zone. Yes, some of the things Jackie said nearly reached Irene’s core. But mostly she felt threatened, insulted. That was the trouble with people who took this stuff too seriously. It was as if their way was the only way. It wasn’t good enough for them that you were a Christian and a churchgoer. You had to be their kind of believer. Next thing you knew, you’d be rolling in the aisles, speaking in tongues, and getting healed.
Irene began to clam up when Jackie broached the subject, and finally—finally—Jackie must have noticed. “You don’t have to come to my church, Eye,” she said. “Just know you’re welcome. Our pastor preaches and teaches straight out of the Bible. Your church teaches salvation, doesn’t it?”
Irene shrugged, not hiding her pique. “We’re going to church because we believe in God and want to go to heaven.”
“But that’s not how you qualify for heaven,” Jackie said. “It’s not something you earn. It’s a gift.”
Here we go again. Irene changed the subject. And Jackie backed off, at least temporarily. At home though, during those few minutes she had to herself, Irene could think of nothing else. Could it be? Heaven as a gift and not something you earned? It made no sense, but if it was true . . .
