by C. J. Stott
Don twitched and settled himself in his seat as he took a firm grasp on the control column. Slowly, deliberately, with calm anticipation, he pushed the four thrust levers back up to 65% power.
Without looking over his shoulder Don said, “Stan, keep ‘em all even. I don’t want any yaw problems.”
Stan Kurtz reached forward and made slight adjustments to the throttles, so each engine was producing 65% thrust. Stan removed his hand from the throttles and heard the “C Chord” chime, the automated warning to remind them they had deviated their assigned altitude by more than 500 feet.
Stan looked at Don’s altimeter. 26,470 feet, 26,400 feet, 26,300 feet. The aircraft’s airspeed had increased ten knots and with the increased airspeed, her nose started to rise. The captain pushed forward on the controls firmly, with no help. He reduced the power to 60%. This time, the same command, “Trim ‘em up, Stan.”
The 747 descended while Fred watched Don intently, “Looking good, Don. How much pitch control do you have with the elevators?”
“Not much. But I think at these lower airspeeds, maybe coupled with denser air, we may have better control.” He added, “When I get her level at 24,000 and stabilized, I’ll think we’ll be able to evaluate our pitch control.”
“Fred, I want you to be ready to fly her, should anything,” and nodded his head in the direction of Bill and Carlton, “happens, I want you comfortable with this bird.”
Slowly and gracefully, the enormous 747 fell toward the assigned altitude of 24,000 feet. When she descended through 25,000 feet, Fred made the required call out, “25 for 24.” Five hundred feet above Don’s altitude limit, Don gradually increased the power settings.
Slowly, the bulbous nose started to climb just above the horizon. The altimeter slowed its downward trend, stopped and then started to climb. 24,400, 24,500, 24,600.
“Watch the altitude, Don. She’s climbing on you, but the airspeed’s holding steady.”
Don reduced the power slightly and the altimeter settled. The airspeed remained stable and Don leveled the 747 at 24,400 feet.
Fred turned in his seat, so that he faced Don, “Pretty good, Orville. Except that if we’re going to land at somewhere near sea level, you landed four hundred feet in the air.”
Don said, “This is just like teaching a student pilot how to shoot approaches and landings.”
Fred laughed, “Why don’t you try to slick her down another four hundred feet, Ace, and then land her?”
Stan noticed that Don had a slight smile by the corner of his mouth.
Don made a short gracious bow and said, “Ok, if you’re so damn good, why don’t you try it?”
Fred took a light grasp on the controls, “My airplane. I’ve got it.” Don could feel Fred’s inputs on his controls and released his grip on the yoke.
He watched as Fred left the outboard engines untouched and only reduced the power on the two inboard engines. The nose moved slightly, almost unnoticed.
Smoothly, deliberately, the aircraft descended to 24,050 feet. Fifty feet above the pre-determined altitude, Fred pushed engines two and three up to a power setting just higher than the outboards. The aircraft leveled at exactly 24,000 feet. The airspeed started to show a gradual increase and Fred pulled two and three back to a power setting that matched one and four.
“There you go, Boss. Nothing to it.” Don was impressed with Fred’s flying skills.
“Nice Fred, very nice. Tell you what, hand fly her for a few minutes and get the feel and tell me what you think.”
Fred followed Don’s request, making slight changes in the power settings and using the ailerons to make a shallow turns. After several minutes, both pilots felt reasonably comfortable as long as nothing else went wrong.
“Jacksonville. 100 here. We made it to 240. Now we’ll use that block altitude you gave us between 240 and 10 thousand.”
“100. Yes sir. You’re cleared to 10 at your discretion. Squawk Ident. Report reaching.”
Both pilots practiced descending and then leveling the aircraft through a series of stepped altitudes on their way to 10,000 feet above the Gulf of Mexico.
Jacksonville ATC called, “100, in about 25 miles, we are going to ask you to contact the Miami Center on 134.80, they’ll be expecting you. Are you alright for the time being?”
Fred picked up his microphone, “Yes. Oh my yes. We’re doing just ducky. On our way to 10,000 feet, just buzzing along.” We seem to have the pitch pretty well under control. We’re okay, as long as we don’t make any big power changes, or get cute and roll this aluminum tube into a 30 degree bank.”
“Fred, can the chatter. Cut the crap.”
Fred again felt like a small child that had been reprimanded by his teacher, “Sorry.”
Fred paused, then said to the controller on the ground, “Jacksonville Center, if you are going to talk to next sector, pass the word to them that we are going to take it nice and easy. No steep turns and no aerial ballet.”
“Roger, 100. We’ll pass the word to them.”
Fred’s altimeter suddenly showed an angry red flag across the face of the instrument that read “FAIL.”
Immediately, Fred relinquished the manual flying of the ship back to the Captain, “Don, you’ve got it. My altimeter just went tits up.”
Don quickly and instinctively said, “Work with Stan and see what you can do about trouble shooting this problem quickly. I don’t like this at all… flying over water at night with only one altimeter.”
Concern rose in Fred’s throat as he said, “Stan, I think I’ve done it. I tapped my altimeter and now all I have is a bunch of red fail flags. Do you think you could take a look in your bag of tricks at the adult busy-board back there and tell me what’s up?”
“Sure.” Stan sounded positive in his desire to help, but suddenly could not remember even the most basic facts about trouble-shooting Fred’s problem with the number 2 electric altimeter.
“Good. See what you can do for me. The captain is paranoid about people looking over his shoulder.”
From force of habit Stan slowly rotated a selector knob to check and verify power flow to and from various instruments on the aircraft.
With a practiced hand, Stan moved two switches. Lights blinked and a meter reading changed, but Stan could not interpret their meanings. With no fanfare, the angry red warning flags on Fred’s altimeter disappeared.
Fred looked at his altimeter and then said to the Flight Engineer, “You do nice work, Stanley. I’m going to put your name in for an air medal.”
Stan said, “Thank you,” but had no idea why Fred’s altimeter suddenly had started to work again.
Fred smiled at his boss, who looked back and attempted to stifle a smile. Fred winked and then said to Stan, “Wait until he finds out I’m after his job,” referring to the airline policy that all captains must start as copilots.
The radio crackled, “100. Jacksonville Center. Contact Miami Center now on 134.80. Descend to 8,000 feet, your discretion. Good luck.”
Don reached for the microphone and said, “We’re on our way to 8,000. Thanks for the help.”
He hung up the microphone and said to his copilot, “Fred, go ahead and take her down to 8 grand.” Don thought that maybe Fred was not so bad after all. One thing was certain: Fred was one hell of a pilot.
Fred again slowly reduced the power on the inboard engines. He flew the aircraft precisely to 8,050 feet, reapplied the power and leveled at the lumbering 747 at squarely 8,000 feet.
Fred looked at Don, “I’m glad we got this thing under control. I thought back there that we were going to have to get our next clearance from the United States Bureau of Mines.”
Chapter 82
21:05 Eastern Standard Time
Abeam of Tampa, Florida
Earlier, but less than an hour ago, Lazlo Fielding and John Batchelor had been together in the Operations room at the hangar. They talked to 100 on the radio and about whether they could proceed to Havana.
&n
bsp; Though their discussions were not fruitful, their motivations were above board. Fielding had been concerned that if they didn’t cooperate, the hijacker would injure or kill a passenger or a crewmember. Don was concerned about the structural integrity of his 747 and wanted to get the aircraft on the ground as soon as possible. Furthermore, he did not want to land at Havana with a badly damaged aircraft. Though he didn’t know with any certainty, he suspected Havana’s Jose Marti airport probably had marginal fire and rescue equipment, if any. Not Don Webber’s idea of acceptable risk management. He and Fielding discussed options. Under the FAA rules, the pilot and dispatcher must agree on the destination.
“I don’t want to leave a badly damaged 40 million dollar aircraft in a communist country. I’m convinced wherever we land, this bird is not going to fly for a long time. A lot of repairs will be required and I’m sure the company doesn’t want Fidel’s followers doing the work. The emergency equipment, training and protocols in the United States are much better than whatever they might or might not have in Havana.”
After reconsideration, Webber added, “If we landed in Cuba, how do we get 439 passengers and crew out of the country? We don’t have diplomatic relations with the Cuban government.” He ended the conversation, “Havana is not an option. We are not going there.”
“We still think you should consider the wishes of the hijacker.” Fielding continued, “The company policy is to cooperate. What will he do when he finds you have landed in Miami, instead of Cuba?”
“Once we’ve landed it won’t make any difference, I intend to have the aircraft disabled on landing, if necessary. Right now, he seems sort of quiet. He’s not making any threats. He has a gun, but I don’t think he’s going to use it again, especially, if he thinks he’s getting his way. My read is that I think he’ll be all right.”
Don made his decision not to proceed to Havana, but rather land at Miami, solely based on safety considerations. He considered Atlanta or Jacksonville. The duty runway at Miami was 2,000 feet longer than Jacksonville or Atlanta, and the weather was better in Miami. Most important, the wind at Miami International was supposed to be right down the runway – no cross wind. This was a critical consideration in Don’s decision.
“Captain, this is John Batchelor, Head of Security here in New York. If you decide to go to Atlanta, Miami, Jacksonville or where ever, please let us know as soon as you have reached a decision, so we can coordinate with the local law enforcement on your arrival? This might turn into a dicey situation when you land, with the hijacker being armed and all.”
He saw his opportunity. “You are right John. You are hereby notified that we are going to Miami. The weather is much better than Atlanta. I deem it safer to go to Miami than to proceed to Havana. Alert the troops, we’re on the way.”
Chapter 83
21:25 Eastern Standard Time
80 Miles West of St. Petersburg, Florida
After his radio conversations with Fielding and Batchelor, Don spoke frankly and openly to the hijacker. “As I said earlier, we have much to do here if we’re going to take you where you want to go. I have to discuss things with my crew and people on the ground. You are welcome to listen. But I don’t have time to ask you for permission to use all this equipment, or to talk on the radio.”
There was been no response from Bill.
“What I’ll do if you want, is set you up with a pair of head phones so you can listen to the radio.” He turned and said, “There is an extra set of ear phones on the bulkhead.”
The hijacker picked up a spare headset and tried to put it on with one hand, holding his gun with the other. What he didn’t know was that there were over twenty combinations of audio sources that could be piped through the headset he held in his hand. The way the switches were set, he could only hear conversations on the ground interphone.
Once Don made the offer, the hijacker oddly seemed disinterested in the specifics of the flight communications. After a few seconds of trying to put the headset on, the hijacker gave up and threw them on the floor.
Because of the hijacker’s lack of interest, Don, Fred and Stan were able to communicate with each other much more easily.
He made a couple of adjustments to his instruments and said to Fred, “Punch in the coordinates for Miami in the number three platform and give me an ETA. I would guess less than one hour.”
Without a word, Fred did Don’s bidding.
“The platform says 57 minutes, plus 8 minutes for the letdown and arrival. An hour and five or six should do it.”
Don reselected his radio, “Dispatch, this is 100. You can expect us on the ground at Miami by 2210 local time.” Not wanting an argument, Don added, “100 out.”
“Well. Here we go.”
Don didn’t care much for what the FAA bureaucrats had said. Or, for that matter, what the company recommendations were. Going to Miami was the best of all possible choices in a very difficult situation.
The tenuous condition of the crippled 747 demanded that he land as soon as possible. To paraphrase the company policy, “Land at the nearest suitable airport, in point of time.”
“Stan, you okay?”
“Yes.” Twisting his neck, “I’m okay. I’m just a little worse for the bumps and bruises. I’ll be ok. He thought a second then said, “Tell you what though, I’ll feel much better when we get this hog on the ground.” The large lump behind is right ear made him look much the worse for wear. His hair was matted with blood and his nose had a cut from his glasses. His right eye was nearly swollen shut and had turned the color of eggplant. Stan still had a terrible headache and felt as bad as he looked. If he moved his head quickly, he was overcome by mounting waves of nausea. The only thing that kept him going was his intense desire to keep the 747 aloft until they could safely and successfully put the bird on the ground. Stan realized he was not wearing his glasses. Looking around, he spotted them on the floor, twisted and broken. He opened his navigation bag and retrieved his FAA-required backup pair of glasses.
Fred chuckled nervously, “Preferably within the confines of an airport. And preferably a big airport with long runways.”
“Come on Fred, we should be in the Miami area in the next fifty minutes. I need your utmost concentration and assistance. I don’t need your poor attempts at humor.”
Fred looked intently at his newly repowered altimeter and other navigation instruments and was everything was working properly. He leaned over toward Don. “How’re your instruments? Everything okay?”
Don was caught off guard by Fred’s concern, “Fine. Everything is fine.”
Again the radio crackled in their headsets. “100. Miami Center. If possible, Ident on 3498.”
Fred looked down at the transponder and saw dried blood on the window that revealed the selected codes. Fred licked his finger and wiped the blood away and turned the two concentric knobs, so the digits 3 4 9 8 showed in the window. He pressed the IDENT button and said at the same time, “Here you go, Miami. Ident on 3498, coming at you.”
“Roger, 100. Ident again.”
“Rog.”
“100. Can you switch to your other transponder?”
Fred twisted a selector switch and said, “There you go. Is that any better?”
Ten or fifteen seconds passed before the Miami called back, “100. Your Mode C reporting is not working. We’re only getting a partial primary skin paint return for you.”
Fred cursed. The controller asked, “Can you recycle the circuit breakers?”
“NO. We’re barely able to keep this thing in the air, we are not going to start trouble shooting for the FAA.” Don was visibly angry at the controller’s request.
“OK, 100. Just be aware we have no Idents or altitude info for you. Confirm you are at 8,000.”
Fred looked at Don’s altimeter, which read 7,980 feet, “That’s a Rog. We’re level at 8 grand.”
“100, what are your intentions?”
Don seethed as he picked up his microphone and said, “We wan
t a clearance direct to Miami. We don’t know how much longer this piece of crap is going to stay airborne. We want a straight-in approach. We have very limited pitch control capabilities and roll control is not much better. No tight turns.” He paused, waiting for a response from the Miami ATC Sector. None came.
“We want a vector to Runway 9 ILS approach. We’ll track the localizer inbound. When we capture the glide slope, we’ll follow it to the runway.” As an afterthought, he added, “We are also requesting GCA monitoring, as a back-up. We want someone monitoring our approach to let us know if we are too high, fast, low or slow.” He paused, then said, “We also would like to have a long, extended final approach.”
“Stand by 100, I’ll have to check that with the arrival sector over at Miami Tracon.”
“You check with whoever you want, we’re about 70 or 80 miles north of the Runway 9 localizer. I intend to make a left turn and start tracking inbound. If you can’t approve that, we’ll declare an emergency.”
The unseen controller said, “Stand by.”
Don tossed the microphone on to the glare shield, “‘Stand by,’ my ass. Here we are in a crippled, marginally stable aircraft and those stupid bastards want us to stand by.”
A new voice from the Miami Sector called back, “100. Maintain present heading until you receive the ILS for runway 9, 110.9. Inbound Front Course 092°. You are cleared for a Runway 9 ILS Approach. Proceed direct via the localizer to the airport. If able, Report GRITT Intersection. If unable, report INESS Outer Marker Inbound.” A short pause, then, “Looks like you’ll intercept the localizer about fifteen miles outside the outer marker.”
Don, Fred and Stan considered what they had heard. The controller continued, “We have cleared all known traffic between you and the field.” Almost as an afterthought, the controller said, “You are cleared to deviate as necessary. Advise your intentions.”
