by Jake Aaron
Many of those seated were praying. There were dozens of rosary beads in the hands of passengers. Strangers hugged. A college student proposed to the young lady next to him, someone he had just met. Some were crying. One man was the most vociferous and panicky. The hysterical man screamed, “What aren’t you telling us?” A small swelling chorus of voices began to echo his fears.
The Polynesian tackle with Keala walked near the rabble-rouser. Keala illuminated the football player with her flashlight. The 300-pound football player put his gam-of-an-arm around the man’s shoulder. In his soft, breathy islander voice, he said, “Bruddah, everything’s gonna be all right. Are you with me, friend?”
Silence returned to the passenger compartment.
Keala noted a lull in activity that gave passengers time to worry. The outside air temperature being -35 degrees F, she knew the engines were no longer heating the cabin. She directed her flight attendants to manage the passengers’ retrieval of coats from the overhead compartments. They followed with the distribution of thermal blankets. The activity was a timely distraction. Then Hap appeared again in the crew door. In the dark fuselage, he indicated level wings first as he held out his arms to the sides with a flashlight in each hand. He bellowed, “Bank right, bank right, bank right!” He repeated the gesture and words.
In response, Mark directed, “Keala, move the eight over-the-wing passengers across the aisle toward the right wing. Double up in seats! I’ll watch for the nose indication.”
Hap gestured upward quickly and kept both lights up. He repeated the gesture with less vigor than his earlier nose-down directive. He hollered, “Nose up a tad! Nose up a tad! Nose up a tad!” He repeated his words.
Mark directed six of the twelve passengers standing forward of the wing to now stand over the wing in the aisle. He helped Keala finish doubling up passengers on the right side of aircraft around the wing area. The crew ensured no small or infirm individuals were hurt in the crowding on the starboard side of the craft.
Mark began a chant: “Surf! Surf! Surf!” It was a calming distraction that caught on. He doubted many understood what it was about, but it was a wonder to see endangered people respond positively to the crisis.
Knowing the bank-angle correction might need to be taken out to achieve level wings, Mark eyed the moonlit horizon from a window on the left side of the aircraft. At just the right time, he had the doubled-up passengers return to the aisle forward of the wing.
*****
The CF 520 was now two miles above the Bitterroot Valley of Montana, descending.
On Hap’s next correction around the center of gravity, he tried to ignore passengers singing, “Hap-py birthday to you! Hap-py birthday to you …” Keala must have told them, he mused. He thought of the contrast: tiptoeing on the razor edge of eternity and wonderful Keala having the imperiled folks singing.
As Hap returned to his seat up front, he speculated Keala was inspired by scenes from Titanic, where passengers in rowboats sang to divert themselves from their dire circumstances. He made more marks on the windshield to chart the aircraft’s angle of attack and time-stamped them.
On Hap’s next-to-last visit to the passenger compartment, he was greeted with a chorus singing “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” He lost his captain’s bearing and laughed while he indicated the wing-level position with his flashlights. “Small left bank, small left bank, small left bank!” he called out. He repeated his words.
After that, Mark reacted with the shift of three passengers over the wing to the portside. Again Keala put them in the laps of passengers. He asked her to have them stay that way until he gauged the attitude was right. Then he had the three tripled-up passengers return to stand in the aisle.
As if keyed by the Mark’s last adjustment, Hap emerged from the flight deck for the last time. He sighed to himself, this is the money-maker. He made big gestures for nose-up with appropriate commands. Then he summoned Mark.
While Mark worked his way forward, Hap yelled out, “Thanks, folks. You did it! You did it! We’re going to make it!” Hap sensed the trepidation in his passengers, despite his words of encouragement. Who could blame them for their seesawing emotions?
With his copilot standing next to him, Hap spoke just loud enough for Mark to hear. “Mark, everyone not seated to the rear of the aircraft. Also send four aisle passengers now seat over the wing. Those who can’t strap in, fetal position on the laps of those strapped in. Use that great voice to command everyone to prepare for a crash landing. Godspeed, buddy!”
Returning to his seat, Hap could hear a voice behind him sounding like James Earl Jones preparing the passengers for what was next.
*****
The Sapphire Air Lines craft was now one mile above its final resting place, still descending.
The flight crew thought of their many duties that needed to be accomplished, occupied with getting them done without showing panic. Passengers not involved in relocating felt amorphous inevitability sneak back into their psyches, but the crisp professionalism of the crew tamped down their welling anxiety.
Mark headed to the back of the plane behind the displaced passengers returning to their original seats. He assured that tail section passengers were braced for impact. As he dutifully curled up in the laps of two businessmen, one, a former Marine, said, “It’s okay, dude. We practiced huddling in the cold at Quantico!”
Mark laughed, “I appreciate it. Semper fi, man!” At that moment, he realized the primary reason Hap had sent him to the back. He was a symbol of the crew. Hap knew he would take whatever on-scene action that was required to keep calm and order.
Mark reflected on the events since midnight. He was in awe that the crew had managed to keep the inner terror of passengers in check. He expected no less of Hap and himself, but he was astounded by the courage and composure of Keala.
Meanwhile, Keala insisted on staying forward to mind her flock, in spite of Hap’s instructions. An authoritative presence never hurts, she reasoned. For this I came! echoed in her mind. She ensured everyone was strapped in and properly braced for a crash landing. As the last in the forward section to strap in, she was haunted by Mark’s earlier words: The lights on the ground went out at the same time we lost power. Then she mentally kicked herself for getting off task. The oldest sibling in a family with two daughters and three sons, she knew better. Recovering, she put on a smile and tucked two remaining airline blankets around herself mummy-style. Her skin was clammy, and she felt light-headed. She knew she was going into shock. She forced a smile from her rearward facing seat and gave a thumbs-up to her fellow flight attendants, despite her now-ashen appearance. For this I came! For this I came! For this I came!
Also strapped in for a change, Hap checked the horizon. The wings were level. The angle of attack was where he wanted it, which he extrapolated from the green-fluorescing marks on the windshield. The aircraft attitude reminded him of what he had seen scores of times before while instructing pilots on no-flap landings in this aircraft. Early on he had realized there was no way to power the flaps down.
Hap’s mind brought a flashback of one of his Pensacola instructors describing what he would do if he lost all power in a trainer aircraft flying low-level over a canopy of trees. The instructor said he would stall his aircraft out inches above the seemingly level deciduous treetops. Not such a good option here with the irregularly-spaced and sized ponderosa pines of the Bitterroot Valley, Hap chuckled to himself as he came back to reality.
Although his mind had been in a state of flow for minutes, he judged that it had been hours of dealing with the emergency. Solving the problem had become the essence of his being: Hap against the tsunami of fate.
Time slowed again for Hap. The CF 520 aircraft continued descending and broke through a patch of dispersed, moonlit gossamer clouds at 1000 feet above the ground. Hap’s left hand reached for the sidestick as his right hand moved toward the throttles. His feet went to the rudder pedals. Nonsense, I have no control, he reminded himself
. Before he pulled his members back, he decided to leave them in place. It just felt wrong to not have them in their customary positions for landing. Muscle memory!
Lower, he saw a glint of moonlight reflecting off water, then more mirrored light. There it was: the majestic Bitterroot River laying down a silvery welcome mat before him. Damn! He cursed himself. In the emergency, I forgot my flotation gear. I saw Keala had properly prepared everyone in back. Earlier he predicted his touchdown zone: 90% chance of a densely treed area, 9.9% chance of a field or meadow, 0.1% other. Other included a major highway, dirt road, or water.
A river landing was easily a one-in-a-thousand possibility. God’s gift to avoid the immediate sheering of the wings and wrenching squeals of snapping aluminum, he thought. It is my birthday!
At 500 feet above ground, Hap felt the warmth of coming home — that wonderful feeling of everything in the universe being all right. The aircraft was in the sweet spot. He sensed it was on glide slope and on airspeed for an approach to land — more familiar even than the driver view of guiding the Ferrari into his home’s garage.
At 200 feet, thin moonlit freezing fog danced delicately on the jet’s windshield. It gave him a deja vu of the northern lights he had seen flying in Alaska in the winter. The surreal swirling sight made every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Having flirted with the abyss and survived so far, he felt triumph against all odds. It was a transcendent moment. He could not contain himself. He shouted out loud what might be his final words, “Sully Sullenberger, you magnificent bastard, I read your book! Now you read mine!”
CALM BEFORE …
December 22
(Ten Days Before the Water Landing)
Bill Marshall’s new bride saw him staring out the spotless thermal window by the kitchen table. “What are you looking at, Marsh?”
“Just surveying witness protection country. We’re too far north to be called flyover country.”
Bill sipped his Bushmills 15-year single-malt Irish whiskey from a shot glass. He looked out over the picturesque Bitterroot Valley of Montana toward the snow-capped, teepee-like peaks of the Central Bitterroot Range. He concentrated so hard on one wispy cloud that he felt he could control it. Montana born and raised, he never tired of the long views and big sky. The man of few words was even more quiet than usual.
With sincere concern his wife said, “I don’t have to worry about you, do I?”
“Honey, if you’re worried about me becoming an alcoholic, don’t. I have a double once a week on Monday morning after breakfast now that I’m out of work. Medicinal, you know. If I have it in the morning, I sleep better at night. And, if you’re concerned about me holding a grudge over being forced out as sheriff, I am still angry about that. It just happened a week ago for Pete’s sake. I’ll get over it in a decade … or three.” He prided himself on being a master of wry humor. He paused, then added, “But I appreciate your good thoughts.”
Ex-sheriff “Marsh,” as everyone called him, had been accused of favoritism in recently promoting Jenny Walker over three other sergeants. As the politically-motivated investigation looked deeper, it turned out Sergeant Walker had higher test scores, was a better shot, performed better on the physical conditioning evaluation, and had a better overall record. She was the most qualified of the four candidates by any standard.
However, the investigation also found that Marsh had questioned candidate Walker’s physical capabilities three years ago just before she was hired, even though she was an ex-Marine. He had challenged her to run up to St. Mary’s Peak and back, a 7.2-mile round trip. Jenny handled the 2,493-foot elevation ascent and descent well, smoking Marsh going up and coming back. He hired her on the spot.
Upon learning that Marsh never required male candidates to run like this, the county board of commissioners determined he was guilty of sexual discrimination. Unsaid was the fact that Marsh had not ever caved to the wishes of two commissioners who had previously sought preferential treatment for cronies who had broken the law. Last week the board terminated Marsh, a nineteen-year veteran of the department, for cause. One small step back for mankind, one giant step back for Marsh. In any case, everyone in the sheriff’s office, including the passed-over sergeants, hated to see him go.
The day after being fired, Marsh decided his stress level from significant life events wasn’t high enough. That day, he proposed to and married a lady he had never dated.
*****
As his wife prepared to head off to work, she said, “You know we haven’t celebrated our marriage properly. I know we have to wait until summer for our honeymoon. Given that, I want to get you something now. What would you like?”
“I’d like a bottle of 50-year old scotch, as I’ve told you before — so I can just look at it!” He grinned.
She laughed, “You know that’s not going to happen. That’s not fair. It’s way beyond our budget!” She appreciated that he smiled for her. She knew he had seldom showed much emotion at work.
“Okay, honey, you tell me what you want.”
“Marsh,” she teased, “I’d like a purple diamond dinner ring — as I have told you many times. Perhaps when we’re both rich and famous. We can’t afford that either. Turnabout is fair play!”
He grabbed her and kissed her tenderly.
She broke off the long kiss, “I’m going to be late. Read a good book. You’ve earned the downtime. Enjoy it. You have a great day!”
“Good to have at least one income to keep us in vittles. You have a great day yourself, honey.” He walked her to the door and kissed her goodbye.
December 23
At 9:23 AM, the doorbell of the Marshall’s 2000-square foot log cabin chimed. A white, purple, and orange van sat idling on the apron of the driveway. The uniformed Federal Express driver said, “Good morning, sir. Please sign for each of two packages.”
Marsh said, “How you doing? I’m not sure what I’m signing for. We haven’t ordered anything.”
“You don’t have to worry, sir. I’m not collecting, just delivering.”
Six-foot-three Marsh bent down to sign for the packages on the digital pad. “Thank you, I think. Have a good day!”
Marsh took the two packages to the breakfast table. He opened the one with his name on it using a Leatherman tool from his jeans pocket. He slowly pulled a case from a customized hard-foam casing inside the box. Beautiful leather enveloped the mysterious gift. He was so stunned by the contents he had to sit down. He wondered whether he should be angry?
He rechecked the address on the package he opened. It was indeed for him. He reached for the other box, which was much smaller. It had his wife’s name on it and also had the correct address. He debated with himself. He would let his wife open this one.
*****
When his wife came through the front door at 5:38 PM, Marsh was curt. “Honey, we’ve got to talk …”
“What, no hello for your glowing bride?” As she processed Marsh’s words and tone, she knew better than to keep joking. “What’s up?”
“Two packages came today — Federal Express. That’s what I got, on the table. That beautiful bottle with silver accents and a waxed, engraved medallion is a bottle of Glenfiddich 50-year-old scotch. Only 50 of these are released a year. Worth over $20,000. Honey, we can’t afford that! I hope you can return it …”
“Hey, Marsh, don’t be upset,” she interrupted. “I didn’t buy it!”
“Then, who did? There’s only a Sotheby’s return address — nothing else.”
“Well, Marsh, I guess it’s just your day. I’m happy for you. Did you read the nice card that came with it?”
“Yeah, ‘Don't just save it or look at it. Enjoy every sip!"
“Marsh, I hope you’ll do that, not just lock it away or look at it on the mantle.”
“Honey, the box for you has the same Sotheby’s return address. Please open it.”
She pulled out her Swiss Army knife to cut through the tape on the shipping box. Inside was a smaller b
ox surrounded by packing peanuts.
“Oh! It’s beautiful. Looks like a purple diamond dinner ring, set in white gold. The card says it’s 1.03 carats. Oh, my gosh! You did this, didn’t you … with that smoke screen about the scotch? Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She kissed him multiple times.
Marsh broke it off.
Before he could speak, his wife gushed, “It’s worth $100K easily! Did you rob a bank?”
“Honey, I like the kissy-face, but I swear I did not do this. I’ll call Sotheby’s tomorrow to see who ordered it. The Brits don’t celebrate Christmas Eve, you know. On second thought, Jenny, why don’t you call as Lieutenant Marshall?”
December 29
Milton Kendrick readied the exam room for the doctor’s next patient. Milt was grateful to get to challenging work here. If nothing else, he was developing new skills. It beat the hell out of the previous assignments he had been given, like cooking and washing clothes. He didn’t really belong here, but all inmates said that.
The Montana State Prison was situated just over four miles west of Deer Lodge. Milt was serving a ten-year sentence for embezzling the city of Hamilton, Montana, out of $400,000. He really did not commit the crime; but the conviction cost him his marriage, the confinement, and a debt of the amount of money that went missing from the treasury.
