* * *
Chapter 4
The screams in the passenger cabin of the doomed LTS450 airliner grew quieter. Chief flight attendant, Julie Roberts, felt the hollowness in the pit of her stomach. As if a fateful resolve had settled over the plane. Fright crawled its way up Julie’s spine into her throat and pulled all the moisture from her mouth. There must be something to do for the passengers. And those two F-16s on each wing aren’t helping things. They’ll shoot the plane down before we crash into any densely populated areas. The government always limits the death toll. Better to lose a few hundred or less in the plane than thousands on the ground.
Julie grabbed a few bottles of water and stepped to the group of three men standing at the front of the airliner, just outside the reinforced flight deck door. They’d been there ever since news reports came from the ground of the ghost plane flying on autopilot with a dead flight crew at the controls. They tried everything to break down that armored door. Three fire extinguishers used as battering rams didn’t even bend the doorknob. Two oxygen bottles had a similar effect—nothing. Even crashing the heavy beverage cart into the reinforced cockpit door from a running start just scratched the paint. The hinges were set into the doorframe and deliberately protected the door against tampering.
Now the men were standing outside the flight deck in the galley, hands on knees, and gasping from their exertions. The rest of the passengers were sobbing or quietly saying their goodbyes to loved ones over cell phones. Down the aisle in first class, some silently looked out the windows at the fighter jets and the deadly missiles hanging under each wing.
Julie walked the aisle yet again. Kind words and drinks were all she could offer. Peering down at one boy’s tablet computer, she saw a map tracking the jet’s progress across the country. “We’re now over Southern California?” she asked.
He looked up and simply nodded.
The distraught passengers within hearing distance all turned in their seats and looked out their windows as freeways came into view. They led straight to Ontario, Chino, and Santa Ana. The Los Angeles area rolled by beneath a jet that was supposed to be descending to land but wasn’t.
* * *
Chapter 5
Jack looked around Primary Flight Control. Men and women of all ranks worked quickly, in an orderly ballet around radar screens, writing on clear grease boards and on the miniature simulated flight deck that showed where each aircraft was four long stories below.
“Jack,” said Admiral David “Joker” Chang, extending his hand. The former Super Hornet pilot still used his call sign of Joker with some of the senior officers.
“Sir, you’ve already spoken to him?” Jack asked.
Admiral Joker nodded. “The President called me an hour ago.”
“He’s a Marine, sir. Moves quickly.” Jack’s gaze focused on two female lieutenants. Both wore working khakis and had their regulation short hair pinned up tightly. They sat side-by-side at a group of ten screens of varying sizes set above what appeared to be cockpit flight controls at their workstation. They were both speaking intensely into their headsets. Along with them, four electronics and communications technicians raced around the back and sides of the workstation, pressing buttons, connecting cables.
“That’s just what it looks like,” Joker said.
“An unmanned aerial vehicle control station. For an MQ-1?” Jack had seen Predator drone pilot stations during his seven years working in the teams. “What’s going on?”
“Jack, we have a chance to save these 147 souls aboard the InterTrans jet. It’s just a chance. Turns out Flight 3361 is no ordinary airliner. LTS fitted this new jet with a remote control aircraft takeover system. It’s just now entering the test phase. No airliner carrying commercial passengers has ever been flown and landed by a remotely located pilot. No one but us, the President, and just a few people at LTS and InterTrans know anything about this—”
“How about the FAA and NTSB?” Jack asked.
“They’ll eventually have something to say. Just not yet. The techs you see are working with the French communications engineers at Le Trajectoire Systemes trying to link my Predator workstation with the flight controller suite in the aircraft.”
“Why not just use the French engineer’s workstation?” Jack asked. “They certainly have one. Then bounce the signal off a satellite?”
Joker shook his bald head. “Right this instant, the French don’t have any qualified UAV pilots within 500 miles of their fancy pilot workstation made for exactly this purpose.”
“Where’s Sully when you need him?” Jack muttered, referring to the pilot of US Airways flight 1549 who executed a perfect dead stick landing of his A320 on the Hudson River, saving 155 passengers.
“Actually, Jack, he’s right here. My two pilots—the Lieutenants at the Predator controls—are talking to Captain Sullenberger right now.”
“Great,” Jack exclaimed.
“Not so great.” Joker summarized the mismatch between the French communications interface and the Predator’s. “Devil of a time getting them to talk to one another.”
“Can you make this work?” Jack asked.
“We have an idea. Establish the line-of-site data link. But it won’t work any closer than when the LTS450 is ten miles out. We’ll have a precious few minutes to configure that airliner for landing. All my ships are positioned at the projected landing site.”
Jack looked up at the video monitor. The live feed from fighter’s gun sight camera jiggled behind the airliner’s turbulence. Still, it captured everything the pilot saw and shot it back to Reagan in real time. “Looks stable,” Jack said.
“For now,” Admiral Joker answered. “That could change once the engines flame out.”
* * *
Chapter 6
Julie looked out the window of the LTS450. Both F-16’s were waggling their wings to get her attention. What the hell? she asked herself. He’s telling us something?
The fighter pilot had slid his jet right up beside them. No more than thirty feet now separated the two planes. “Buckle up,” she almost shouted. “He’s telling us to buckle up!” She snatched up the intercom phone and told the other two members of her cabin crew to get the passengers strapped in pronto. Then she returned the clasped hand gesture to the pilot. She saw him nod back emphatically. She guessed they had no more than 20 minutes before the engine flamed out. Then what?
Julie Roberts made chief cabin attendant after just five years on the job. She was smart, resourceful and projected an air of total confidence. She was determined to put those qualities to use. She grabbed a black marker and a piece of paper. On it, she wrote, Ditch? Brace? Then she held it against the glass window. She watched as the pilot nodded back.
She grabbed the intercom a second time and pressed the All Cabin button. “Attention ladies and gentlemen. That F-16 pilot off our port side seems to know something we don’t. So we’re going to do exactly as he says. And I mean exactly. When I tell you all to do something, think of it as if that young lieutenant in that jet is telling you. Do it, don’t ask questions, just do it. And do it now.”
Julie looked out over her 147 passengers. All heads nodded. “Good. Now, everyone is buckled up. I want you to assume the brace position. This time is just for practice.” The two flight attendants showed everyone what to do. “Good. Excellent. The brace is the best possible position to survive a crash landing. When I tell you to brace, brace, brace, assume that position and hang on. Our F-16 pilot sees a water landing in our immediate future. Ladies and gentlemen, that is more future than any of us thought we had. Right?” Silence. “Am I right?” she shouted into the mic.
“Right!” came a much louder chorus from her passengers.
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Now everybody, get ready.”
“Status, Lieutenant?” asked Joker.
“Admiral, the satellite band links up with the airliner for a few seconds, then dies. Totally unreliable, sir.”
“Got it again,
” said the co-pilot. “Flight level 7,000, speed 1-7-0 knots, fuel at 50 pounds. Almost empty.”
“How long until they come within line of sight?” Admiral Joker asked.
“Two minutes thirty, sir,” the Commander, Air Group said. “But that 50 pounds of fuel will carry them just another minute, maybe a little more.”
Jack stepped in beside Admiral Joker. “Start continuously pinging them. It’ll make the connection the instant that plane clears the horizon.”
“Do it,” the Admiral ordered.
“Pinging initiated,” said the technician. “I’m pinging the connection request to the aircraft takeover system every half second.”
“Ms. Roberts?” whispered a woman passenger in the first class section, “I’m an aeronautical engineer at Northrup Grumman. I understand how this is going to play out—”
Julie bent down and lowered her voice. She bit off her words, “If you have a brain in your head, you will keep that knowledge to yourself.”
“I was going to suggest that we position the biggest, meanest looking man you can find to stand guard at the tail door. If anyone tries opening that door, it’ll sink the plane when we land in the ocean.”
Julie looked up and down the cabin aisle. It seemed surprisingly normal. People were busily talking on their cell phones, sending emails and texts. She could only guess the tearful goodbyes being said. More people than usual had drinks in their hands. It was cool in the cabin with the air conditioning still going. Seat 17B. “How about him?”
The aerospace engineer followed Julie’s stare. She whispered, “He’s the biggest guy on board. Looks like a line backer turned biker. Beard and hair down past his shoulders. Looks pretty scary to me.”
“I’ll put Scary Man on the tail door,” said Julie. “I’m putting you on the starboard over-wing door. Change seats now with the grandmother sitting there. My senior flight attendant will be opposite you on the port side over-wing door.”
The starboard engine coughed once. Twice. Then flamed out. The port side engine went next. It didn’t even cough—just suddenly went silent. The only sound in the airliner now was the wind rushing past. Julie knew they had limited glide time. It all depended on the air turbulence and how it affected the plane’s trim.
“Line of sight connection established,” said the Lieutenant serving as co-pilot at the Predator drone station. “Both engines off line. Descending at 300 feet per minute. Altitude 6200 feet.”
Not so bad, thought Jack.
Then a new voice came over the speaker, “Keep her level, Lieutenant. Watch your artificial horizon.”
“Roger, Sulley. But it’s a dead stick.” The drone pilot had her right hand on the base of the side stick making gentle corrections according to the blue and white artificial horizon indicator on her instrument panel. She needed to quickly get the feel of how the LTS450 reacted to her command inputs.
“Doing great, Lieutenant,” encouraged Sullenberger. “The key is controlling your glide slope while you maintain your wings perfectly level. You can do this.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“When this is over, you and I will be the only two who accomplished a perfect dead stick landing on water.”
Jack looked over the lieutenant’s shoulder at the instruments on her cockpit display. The artificial horizon wobbled first left, then less to the right. Now once again level.
She continued flying the airliner down its glide slope. Then she called, “Connection lost. I have a blank instrument panel.”
Jack stood right there beside the Predator flight control station. The technicians dived behind it again, reaching into the electronics.
“Pinging the remote flight controller,” said one technician.
Precious seconds melted away. By now, Jack could just make out the black dot in the sky as the airliner. He could see the seven ships in Reagan’s battle group were estimating its touchdown point and were clearing a wide path between them.
“Still pinging.”
“Got it,” cried the Lieutenant. “Com link re-established!”
Jack looked over the lieutenant’s shoulder again. The altitude had dropped from 6200 feet to just 3700 feet now. And the video image looked wobbly.
“Steady there, Lieutenant,” came Sullenberger’s confident voice over the squawk box. “Recover your glide slope first. Gooood. Now level the wings. Peeerrrfect. Now just fly the damn plane. Stick and rudder stuff.”
Jack watched the airliner continue to lose altitude.
“Lieutenant, it’s time to land this bird while we still can,” came Sulley’s voice from the speaker. “We’re going to aim for a point a quarter of the way down the line of ships stationed there to help. You’ll impact dead center between them. Okay?”
“Roger that, Sulley,” said the Lieutenant.
“Push your nose down to steepen the glide slope another five degrees. When we get her to within a hundred feet off the deck, things will happen fast. I’ll tell you when to flare to bleed off unwanted speed. If we do this right, Lieutenant—and we will do this right—she’ll just settle onto the water, aft one-third of the aircraft first, then gradually, the rest of the fuselage until finally, the nose comes gently down.”
“You make it sound almost easy,” said the pilot.
“Tell me how easy it was after we save 147 lives, Lieutenant,” said Sullenberger.
Is someone flying this aircraft? Julie wondered. Just after flameout, the wings wobbled horribly. Her stomach leaped into her throat. Then the nose of the aircraft dropped. This is what being weightless is like. Could be it. A death spiral straight into the ocean. Then as if God Himself miraculously reached down from the heavens, the port wing jerked back up and set the aircraft back on its glide slope.
Julie glanced out the window toward the F-16 flying a mere 30 feet away. The fighter pilot caught her eye and made a theatrical gesture of wiping sweat from his brow. He unsnapped his mask and gave her a grin, then flashed her the OK sign with his gloved hand.
* * *
Chapter 7
“Five hundred feet and a half mile from touchdown point,” the co-pilot called out to the pilot sitting beside her at the Predator flight station.
Jack saw the Lieutenant flying the LTS450 didn’t take her eyes off the video monitor showing the ocean rushing up to the plane or the artificial horizon indicator showing that she was now flying level.
“Doing great, Lieutenant,” came Sullenberger’s encouraging voice. “Deploy the flaps and slats into landing position. I don’t suppose you have controls on that drone station that activate the spoilers and speed brakes, do you?”
“Three hundred feet,” called the co-pilot.
“Didn’t think so,” said Sullenberger.
“One hundred feet,” said the co-pilot. “Speed 1-7-0 knots.”
“Flare!” Sullenberger ordered.
The Lieutenant gently pulled back on the side stick with her right hand. The video image showed the nose rising. The artificial horizon indicator came up, showing more blue above the brown midpoint.
“Fifty feet…forty feet,” said the co-pilot. “Twenty…ten.”
Julie Roberts watched out the port side window. Too fast. Too damn fast. She rubbed her damp hands on her pants and thought once more of her husband and daughter. The ocean raced up to them as the LTS450 glided the last few hundred feet.
Julie tore her eyes away from the window and looked down the length of the cramped cabin at her passengers. All were braced with their heads down in their laps. Stony silence enveloped the stuffy cabin originally built to hold 120 but now redesigned with 147 seats, all occupied.
Jack stood at the starboard side windows with the rest of Reagan’s Primary Flight crew. “Pull up,” he couldn’t help saying as his stomach knotted itself in frustration that there was nothing he could do to help save these people. Then Jack saw the white feather on the dark blue surface as the aft third of the fuselage skimmed the water. “Wings level,” he urged out loud to the plane.
His hands finally unclenched and his stomach relaxed.
Faster than Julie thought possible the ocean kissed the belly of the fuselage. Then she felt the jet hit for real. It made a god-awful loud BANG accompanied by a hard whack. She imagined the fillings in her teeth jarring loose. The plane bounced just a few feet off the surface. Another BANG as it hit the water again. The impact pulled Julie’s three-point harness tight across her chest, knocking some wind from her lungs.
The plane skidded across the water, bleeding off speed. Water splashed over the windows. She spotted two Navy ships as the plane skimmed by them. The airliner decelerated rapidly as more of its fuselage settled on the water. Finally, Julie felt the nose flop onto the surface.
“Welcome to Los Angeles, ladies and gentlemen!” Julie called through her megaphone. The passengers cheered and clapped.
The exit doors deployed. California’s late afternoon sunshine flooded inside. Outside was clear blue sky and a vast expanse of ocean. Emergency slides automatically blew out, unrolled, and inflated. They turned into large yellow and orange life rafts.
Jack saw the helicopters were already in the air. The rigid hull inflatables were on their way too. Jack watched as they raced to the downed plane, churning white water in their wakes. Passengers were already crowding out of the airliner’s doors.
“Lieutenant, what do you see?” came Sullenberger’s voice over the squawk box.
The famous US Air captain was the only pilot who had ever successfully landed an airliner on water. Until today. Jack watched the young Navy Lieutenant finally take her hand off the side stick and flex her stiff fingers. She leaned back in her chair, exhausted. She pulled her uniform blouse away from her back, stood, and looked out PriFly’s wall of glass for the first time.
Man of Honor Page 3
