Oof! His body was pressed into the seat as if he weighed a ton. G-forces. Like in tight turns. The kind that make you want to barf.
“Level the wings, Rex!” came the voice.
Level the wings? What was wrong with the wings? He pressed his radio talk button and asked, “Uh, which way?”
“You’re spiraling to the left, Rex! Roll out to the right!”
Jay cranked the yoke to the right.
Oof! G-forces again. I’m going to barf, I just know it!
Chuck saw the Skylane snap out of the turn and then swoop skyward like a barn swallow, climbing, slowing, climbing, slowing more, hanging from the propeller.
“Get the nose down, Rex! You’re going to stall!”
Jay shoved the yoke forward. Ooooohh, he felt like his stomach was in his throat.
The plane went over the top of the climb and nosed down, going into the same sickening left spiral. Sweat was trickling down Chuck’s face. He felt he was watching the death of Rex Kramer being played out before his very eyes. “Level the wings, Rex, you’re spiraling!”
“Which way?” came a voice through Chuck’s headphones.
Suddenly Chuck realized it wasn’t Rex Kramer’s voice. It must be Rex’s nephew! “Level the wings, get the plane level!”
“Which way?” the nephew asked again.
“Right. Bank to the right—NOT TOO MUCH!”
The Skylane teetered to the right and swooped upward again the moment the wings were level.
“Full throttle! Ease the yoke forward, get the nose down!”
The Skylane went into a dive again. No, no, no! Can’t this kid see what he’s doing?
This was just like a ride on the world’s biggest roller coaster, and Jay was getting sicker and sicker. His stomach was churning. He could feel that awfultingling around his jaws that usually came just before the sudden loss of a meal. He drew in some deep breaths and rubbed his eyes with a free hand. If only he could see! Something kept blocking his vision— sweat, or blood, or his hair or something. All around him, The Yank’s frame, skin, and engine were roaring, vibrating, screaming louder and louder.
“Pull back the power,” came the voice through his headset. “You’re going to overspeed!”
He reached out blindly, groping for the throttle knob somewhere down to his left. He found a knob and yanked it out as far as it would go.
The engine calmed, the noise settled.
On what was usually a quiet street in a neighborhood south of Seattle, a retired mailman and his wife were enjoying a lemonade in their backyard when they heard an aircraft engine come closer, closer, closer, and then suddenly quit, leaving only a rushing, windy sound.
The man rose from his lawn chair and looked up at the sky through the tops of his fruit trees.
WHOOOOSH! An airplane swooped so low over their yard the wind from its wings made the fruit trees tremble.
“Get the nose up! Ease it back slowly. . . .”
Jay pulled. He could feel himself pressed into hisseat again. The roller coaster was going up another hill.
The retired mailman fell to the ground, scared out of his wits. His wife screamed. The airplane just missed the roof of their house and soared upward into the sky again, the engine still quiet.
Jay tried to relax. He was overdoing everything and he knew it, torturing this airplane and his own body. He was climbing again, he was sure of it.
But it was strangely, frighteningly quiet. There was no sound but the wind rushing over the airplane’s wings and skin, and now that was getting quieter too. He felt like he was slowing down.
“Okay,” came the voice. “Add some power now and ease the nose down.”
He reached for the throttle and this time found several knobs all side by side. Which one was the throttle? He pushed on one. Nothing happened.
What happened to the engine? Why isn’t it running?
Quiet. Nothing but the wind outside.
“You’re starting to drop again,” came the voice.
“Get that power in.”
Jay felt a stab in his stomach. The mixture! I’ve starved the engine! His mind was a blank. He groped for the correct knob. He couldn’t think.
“Which one is it?” he asked desperately.
“Just shove everything forward. Everything!”
He groped again, put the palm of his hand across all the knobs, and shoved them all in as far as they would go.
The engine came to life with a roar that surged through the whole airplane. He could feel the nose lurch skyward. That was what was happening, wasn’t it?
He rubbed his eyes. He still couldn’t see where he was going.
He could feel the airplane turning to the right. He turned the yoke left.
“Level those wings,” came the voice. “You’re going into a spiral again.”
“Which way should I turn?” Jay asked.
Chuck answered, “To the right, just a little.” The Skylane’s left wing came up and it leveled out of the spiral. “That’s it, that’s it. Now hold the yoke neutral. Don’t turn anymore.”
“But I’m turning now!” the lad responded.
“No you aren’t. I can see you from here and you’re—” A thought hit Chuck like the world’s worst news: Maybe this kid really can’t see. “You’re not turning. You only think you are.”
“I’m turning!”
“Son, what’s your name?”
“Jay Cooper.” He sounded scared.
“Can you see out the window?”
“No. I can’t see anything.”
“Can you see the controls in front of you?”
“No.”
Oh no. Oh no, Chuck thought. “Jay, are you blind?”
Jay rubbed his eyes again, blinked several times, and strained to see something, anything. Sometimes he could sense light coming through the windshield, but that was all. He felt his face again in case a sheet or hat or some other object was blocking his eyes. He found nothing in front of his face, but could feel something wet and sticky running down his forehead. It had to be blood.
“No, I’m not blind. I mean, not usually. I just can’t see right now. I think I hit my head.” He could hear Eight Yankee Tango roaring from nose to tail. He felt the airplane was going somewhere in a big, powerful hurry. “What’s happening? What’s the airplane doing?”
Oh Lord. He is blind. Now Chuck was scared but tried to speak in a calm voice. “Jay, right now you’re climbing, and that’s good, but you need to be careful to keep those wings level. I’ll tell you how, all right? You hear me, Jay?”
“I hear you.”
Chuck was maneuvering, trying to keep the Skylane in sight. He’d opened up his throttle for more speed, but the little Piper Cub was having trouble keeping up. He could feel his heart pounding and the blood pulsing through his fingers as he pressed the button on his microphone to speak. “All right, you’re still climbing. You’re starting to veer to the left again. Can you give it just a touch of right aileron?” Does he know what aileron means? “Uh, just a little tilt to the right?”
The airplane tilted back to level again, then past it into a right bank.
“That was a little too much. Give it a touch of left now.”
The Skylane rolled back to almost level.
“Okay, that’s good right there. But it won’t stay there by itself. Can you find the throttle?”
Jay cringed. The last time he thought he was pulling back the throttle he’d pulled back the fuel mixture and killed the engine. “I . . . I think so. I just can’t remember which one it is.”
Chuck winced. He wasn’t familiar with a 182 and couldn’t be entirely sure himself. He’d flown some smaller Cessnas. He strained to remember, to see the control panel in his mind. “Um . . . let’s try the second from the left. The first one with a bigger knob.”
Jay reached down to his left and found the row of knobs again. There were four altogether, a small one on the left end and then three bigger ones. “Okay, I’m going to
pull back on the second one.”
“A little right aileron, Jay. You’re starting to turn left again.”
Jay gave the yoke a short little tweak to the right.
“Good. That’s real good.” The man’s voice calmed a bit. “You must know what an aileron is.”
“Sure. Ailerons are those little panels on the back edge of the wing that tilt up and down and make the airplane bank.” Giving that little explanation helped calm Jay’s nerves. Maybe that was why this guy in his headset brought up the subject.
“Okay, Jay, you get an A for the day.” Jay had to smile at the silly rhyme. “Now let’s try that throttle.”
Jay could feel terror gripping him. “What if it’s the wrong knob?”
“Just pull it slowly, just an inch or so, and listen to the engine.”
He took hold of the knob and pulled it out slowly.
He couldn’t tell if it was making a difference or not.
“How’s it going?” came the voice.
“I can’t tell if anything’s happening.”
“Pull some more,” Chuck said.
Jay pulled the knob out another inch. Now the engine seemed to calm a little. “I . . . I think it’s the throttle. The engine’s easing up a little.”
“Pull just a little more.”
Oh Lord, don’t let it be the mixture knob! He pulled another inch. The engine quieted. He thought he felt a sinking feeling. “Am I diving again?”
“No, you’re just starting to level off from your climb. You’re doing good. Just leave the throttle there a moment. Right aileron again, just a touch.”
Jay rested back in his seat and gave the yoke another tilt to the right. He told himself out loud, “All right Jay, now just be cool and pretend you’re flying with Dad.” Then he prayed, “And Lord, please help me. I’m in trouble.”
“What happened to Rex?” came the voice.
Jay reached over with his left hand and could feel Rex sitting there, slumped over, his head bowed, not moving. “Uncle Rex? Uncle Rex, can you hear me?”
“Is he breathing?”
Jay’s hand groped upward and found his uncle’s jaw and mouth. He could feel warm breath coming from Rex’s nose. “Yeah, he’s breathing. But he must be unconscious. I’m poking him right now and he doesn’t do anything.”
“Jay, does that airplane have an autopilot?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never
Now that would be nice! been in this plane before.”
“Give it a touch of right aileron.”
Jay gave it a touch. “What happened?”
“A big 757 came right over the top of you and you got caught in its wake turbulence. It wasn’t your fault. The jet wasn’t supposed to be flying that low. It looked to me like it was having engine trouble. Aside from not being able to see, how are you?”
“I’m sick. I feel like I’m going to throw up, and . . .” Jay felt his head again. “My head’s bleeding and it hurts like crazy.”
“Give her some more right aileron, Jay.”
Jay tilted the yoke to the right just a moment, then returned it to neutral.
Chuck could see the Skylane’s wings level up again as it continued a gradual, slower climb. “Jay, you’re doing terrific. Just keep giving it that much correction whenever I tell you. Just a touch, okay?”
“Okay. By the way, who are you and where are you?”
Chuck laughed. “Sorry for not introducing myself. I’m Chuck Westmore, a friend of your uncle’s. I’m following you right now in my airplane.”
“Are you the guy in the Piper Cub?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Have you ever flown an airplane before?”
“Yeah, my Dad’s airplane.”
“Is it like your uncle’s?”
“Pretty much. They both have a 182.”
“That’s great. Have you ever landed a plane?”
“Yeah, my Dad’s.”
Chuck felt a touch of relief, of hope. He knew they weren’t out of the woods yet, but at least they had a fighting chance. “That’s great, Jay. That’ll sure help. Now let’s work out a little code, all right? If I say left, you give it just a little bit of left aileron and then come back to neutral, okay? If I say right, then you do the same thing to the right. Same for up and down, you understand?”
“Yeah, all right.”
“The biggest danger is overcorrecting, doing too much of something. We have to do it in small pieces, slow and easy.” The Skylane was starting to veer to the right. “Okay, give it a touch of left.”
Now the airplane rocked back to level again. Good. This kid was doing all right so far.
He had to call for help, but there was no time to do that and still talk to the lad to keep him flying safe and level. Aviate, then navigate, then communicate, went the old pilot safety slogan. Oh well, he thought, one thing at a time. We’ll wake ‘em up with the transponder. At least they’ll know where we are.
On the right side of Chuck’s control panel was a small black box with four numbers and a little knob under each number. This was his transponder. Every time a beam from a radar station would sweep over the plane, the transponder would send back a signal telling the people in the control tower the number or code on the transponder and the plane’s altitude. Right now the four numbers were set to 1200, a code that meant he was just out buzzing around in clear weather. No doubt there were several airplanes in the area with transponders set to that same code, so the people in the control tower wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. But that was about to change. He started twisting the knobs until the number was 7700, a universal distress code.
That should wake them up, he thought.
In the control tower at Boeing Field, the controllers had just heard about the WestAir 757 making a safe emergency landing at nearby Seattle-Tacoma International and were breathing a sigh of relief. They’d been on alert in case the 757 needed to land at Boeing, but now that whole mess was over, and they could get back to their regular routine. Ben Parker, the tower chief, a veteran air-traffic controller with a graying crew cut and somber expression, allowed himself at least a slight glint of happiness in his eyes. Apart from that he was silent, his hands on his hips, as he watched his staff of three men and two women cheer and give each other high fives.
Until the alarms went off. Loud beeps and blinking red lights on the control panels filled the room.
“We’ve got a seven-seven!” someone exclaimed. The cheering and talking stopped.
“Never a dull moment,” Parker muttered, then called out, “All right, let’s look alive, let’s get on it!”
Every controller manned his or her station, monitoring the radios, searching the radar screens.
“Southeast,” announced Barbara Maxwell, a dark-haired lady in her thirties wearing a small headset. “About fifteen miles out.”
Ben Parker stared grimly over her shoulder. He could see the blinking target on her radar screen. “Any voice contact?”
Maxwell switched over to the universal emergency frequency and called, “Aircraft in distress, this is Boeing Tower. Come in.” No answer. She repeated the call. Still no answer.
“They’re near Auburn. They might be on the Auburn airport frequency,” Parker thought out loud. “Bob, switch over to Auburn frequency. See if you pick up anything.”
Bob Konishi, a youthful Asian-American, manned his radio panel, dialed in the frequency, and listened.
“We have two targets on the radar,” Maxwell reported. “The seven-seven might be following another aircraft.”
Konishi waved his hand. “I’ve got something!”
“Put it on the speaker,” Parker said.
Konishi flipped a switch and the whole room could hear the voice of Chuck Westmore crackling from the overhead speaker: “You’re doing real good, Jay. Now remember, when you can’t see the ground outside, your body can lie to you. You can think you’re turning when you aren’t and think you’re flying level when you’re turning. You’ll just have
to ignore what your body is telling you and listen to me. Okay?”
“Okay,” Jay’s voice answered.
“Now stand by. I’m going to make a call and get some help. Just hang on.”
Parker looked at Maxwell. She was monitoring the distress frequency. She would most likely get his message.
She nodded back. She was getting it, and switched it to the overhead speaker: “Mayday, Mayday, Piper Cub Eight Eight Niner in distress, anyone who hears me, please respond.”
Maxwell replied through her headset, “November Eight Eight Niner, Boeing Tower, go ahead.”
Chuck had two radios in his Cub. One was tuned to talk to Jay, the second was tuned to talk on the emergency frequency. It was on the second radio that Chuck got the response from Boeing Tower. He answered, “Eight eight niner about ten miles southeast of Auburn Municipal at two thousand five hundred feet. I’m following a Cessna Skylane. I’m in contact with the passenger. The pilot is unconscious. The passenger is conscious but blind.”
The people in the tower were dumbfounded. Parker’s eyes narrowed. “Say again,” he prompted Maxwell.
“Say again,” she told Chuck.
Chuck’s voice came over the speaker, “The Skylane encountered wake turbulence from a lowflying 757. The pilot was knocked unconscious. His passenger, a young man, is conscious, but is injured and he can’t see.”
“The WestAir 757,” Parker muttered. He started barking out orders. “Bob, declare an emergency for November Eight Eight Niner, ground all aircraft leaving and redirect all aircraft arriving. Johnny, get the airport manager on the phone and tell him what we’ve got. We need the airport closed.” Johnny Adair, a plump man in his forties, grabbed up the telephone at his station. Parker quickly added, “And tell him we need emergency vehicles on stand-by.” Adair nodded as he punched in the phone number. Parker went to his own station and put on his headset. “Eight Eight Niner, Seattle Tower. Does the Skylane have an autopilot?”
Chuck was straining to see the Skylane, still shrinking as it flew farther and farther ahead of him.
“The passenger doesn’t know.”
“Do you know who owns the airplane?”
Mayday at Two Thousand Five Hundred Page 2
