Suddenly, another cockpit horn sounded, followed by another synthetic electronic voice. LANDING GEAR.
Berry looked down at the instrument panel. “Damn. . . .” He realized now that he had put out full flaps without lowering the landing gear, and that had automatically triggered the warning. A gentle reminder to pilots like himself who had too many problems to think about trivialities like landing gear. “Sharon—the landing gear. Put it down. Down!”
Crandall knew she also should have remembered—it had been part of the drill they had practiced. She reached out and lowered the big handle directly in front of her. “Gear down.”
The airport was almost beneath the nose of the Straton, and Berry knew it was too late to try to put it down on the shorter runway in front of him. He swung the Straton to the left, toward the widest part of the bay, away from the airport.
“John. The airport.”
“No good, I need room to maneuver.” The landing-gear voice continued, and he wondered if the gear was functioning. He focused on the three unlit landing-gear lights directly in front of him. “Forget it. No gear.
We’re going to put it down in the bay.” Suddenly, the horn stopped and three bright green lights glowed in front of him. “Gear down! Gear down. Okay. Hold on. We’re turning in.” Berry banked the aircraft back to the right, but as soon as the airport came into sight again, he saw that his turn had been too wide. Christ, Berry, do something right. Get a grip on yourself.
“John, we’re too far left of the airport.”
“I know. Take it easy. I can slide it back.” He applied the proper amounts of rudder and aileron, and the Straton began sliding back toward the airport. “We’re okay. Coming in, everything is all right.” Berry felt that he could negotiate the approach with some degree of skill and confidence. But it was the last five or ten seconds to touchdown that killed—that transition between approach and landing, those moments when the lift of the aircraft had to end and the forces of gravity had to fully take over again.
He looked down at the airport, a right-angle cross of double runways jutting into the bay. He could see the main terminal and the long passageways radiating from it to connect the satellite terminals. He saw movement and activity on the ground, and knew they were waiting for him. There were two parallel runways in front of him now. He expected to see the runways foamed, but remembered that it was no longer considered useful in a crash situation. The white approach lights that ran out into the bay were blinking to show him they wanted him to use the left runway. “Okay, I read you. I read you.”
The touchdown zone lights embedded into the runway were on and the green runway lights were visible even in the daylight. There was no question about where they wanted him to land. The only question was what kind of landing it would be. All he could promise them was that he wouldn’t kill anyone on the ground.
The Straton kept sliding right as it descended on its long, shallow glide slope toward the runway in front of it. Berry stopped the slide and lined up the nose with the centerline. “Okay. Soon.” He had no idea why the engines were still running. He glanced at the altimeter. Three hundred feet above sea level, and the airport was at about thirty feet above sea level. Two hundred seventy feet to touchdown. He looked out the windshield. The runway was about two miles ahead. They were low by normal standards, but nothing about this flight had been normal. The airspeed was slow, but not slow enough for a stall. He grasped the wheel with one hand and pulled off more power from the throttles with the other. “Okay, we’re going in. Going in. Sharon. Linda. Just hold on. Hold on. I’ll touch it down as easy as possible. Sharon, read off the speeds to me the way I told you.”
Crandall looked down at the airspeed indicator: “One hundred sixty knots.”
“Right.” Berry felt he could do it, as long as the fuel lasted another fifty or sixty seconds. As long as he didn’t fall apart within the next minute. He drew a long, deep breath. In front of him, a series of sequence strobe flashers in the bay drew his eyes toward the runway centerline. Very elaborate system. Very nice airport. “Speed.”
“One hundred fifty knots.”
Berry held the wheel steady and felt the huge aircraft sinking slowly from its own weight, down toward the earth.
He heard a sound behind him, the sound of ripping— ripping fiberglass. John Berry kept his eyes on the runway, but he knew what that sound meant.
Sharon Crandall turned and saw the panty hose lying on the floor with the latch still attached to them. She looked up. “No! No!”
19
The president of Trans-United Airlines, the chairman of the board, and government officials looked out from the control tower. The entire emergency and rescue operation was being coordinated below.
Jack Miller stood off to the side, not exactly sure how he had gotten into the control tower, but knowing that there was no longer time to get to the runway. He watched and listened as the operation unfolded around him.
The curious and the morbid were arriving by the thousands, choking the airport access roads and covering the grass boundaries of Route 80. Police in the area of the airport, trained for just such a situation, began clearing a lane for outside emergency vehicles to reach the airport.
Outside the main terminal, and inside along the security corridors, people had begun assembling, even before the news of the radar sighting. Those on the outside stared up at the sky, waiting, on the remote
410 chance that the Straton would return. Those on the inside watched the flight information board or just listened to the public address system for updates. They waited and watched, like wives of sailors once waited and watched, on the quays and from the upper windows of their houses, for sight of the ship that was lost.
Since the radar sighting had been announced, the airport was increasingly jammed with friends and relatives of the passengers on Flight 52. With them stood other passengers and airport employees who had temporarily abandoned their jobs. For everyone outside, all eyes were turned eastward as they followed the huge silver Straton as it swung slowly around to the south. It flew low over the bay, flaps down and landing gear extended, like a gull about to light on a rock.
From the moment the Straton had been spotted on radar, all other air traffic had been diverted to Oakland and other airports, and rapid intervention vehicles— RIVs—had been cutting across the deserted runways, trying to position themselves for any eventuality. Equipment was being massed by RIVs and helicopters at the point where the two pairs of runways crossed. A platform truck from which the officer-in-charge who would supervise the operation was brought out to the crossway, complete with field desks and cell phones. Medical supplies, wheelchairs, hundreds of stretchers, water, and burn units were flowing toward the center of the airfield. Aluminum trestles were set up to convert stretchers into examining tables. A unit stood by to identify and mark the dead. Another unit of paramedics, nurses, and doctors was breaking open crates of medical supplies. The entire acre at the juncture of the runways resembled a hastily assembled military bivouac. But as quickly as the emergency services were assembling, they were still not ready to handle a disaster of the potential scope presented by the onrushing Straton.
Edward Johnson and Wayne Metz stood on a small taxiway a few hundred feet from the runway. Around them, on the road and on the grass, stood scores of police, reporters, airport officials, and Trans-United people. About a dozen news cameras stood in the grass, all pointed toward the end of the runway. RIVs sped past, taking up positions on both sides of the runway.
Wayne Metz looked out across the bay and watched silently as the Straton made its turn. His mouth kept forming words, but no sound came out. Never before had he wanted so badly to see one of his insured risks destroyed. He stared as the Straton came out of its turn far east of the runway. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe that’s the Straton.”
Edward Johnson watched, fascinated, as the aircraft made its final approach. “It’s the Straton, all right. I don’t know
how he did it. I don’t know how he could have recovered from a flameout . . . but he did, didn’t he?” He had stopped being frightened and had gotten control of himself again. A cold, calculating impassiveness took hold in him, and he watched with grudging admiration as Berry slid the aircraft back toward the runway. “I’ll be damned. Jesus Christ, this guy has his act together. I might sign the son-of-a-bitch for a pilot job with Trans-United. He does a better job than half our overpaid crybabies.”
Metz looked at Johnson as though the man had gone completely out of his mind. But as he stared at Johnson, he knew why Johnson had come so far. Edward Johnson believed that he had not been a participant in what had happened in the communications room. He was now Edward Johnson, vice-president of Trans-United Airlines, and very concerned about the fate of his flight.
Trans-United’s chief pilot, Captain Kevin Fitzgerald, moved closer to the runway than anyone else dared. He stood by himself at the edge of the grass, staring down the long expanse of concrete. He raised his eyes and looked out into the bay, then looked at the head-on silhouette of the Straton. His airplane was coming home. He whispered, “Come on. Come on, you bastard. Hold it.” His voice became louder, “Hold it! You got it! You crazy bastard, it’s yours, it’s yours! You’re in control. In control.”
The police and emergency services crews who had gathered on the grass became excited as the Straton came in over the bay and began dropping toward the runway. Many of those people realized the dangerous position they had put themselves in and began running back toward the hastily assembled disaster-control area, a little farther from the Straton’s target area.
Johnson, Metz, and Fitzgerald, along with most of the firemen, a few reporters, and all the cameramen, stayed dangerously close to the runway.
Johnson turned to Metz. “It’s going to be hard to convince anyone that the pilot of that aircraft is in any way brain damaged.”
Metz shook his head. “Damn it, you can say he was temporarily confused.”
“Right. But if those data-link printouts exist, we have to get to them before the FAA people start crawling around that cockpit.”
“I hope to hell he crashes. I hope the airplane explodes.”
Johnson nodded. He’d never been so ambivalent about anything in his life. “God, Wayne, I hope he makes it and I hope we make it.”
The two men looked at each other for a long moment.
About ten yards away from Metz and Johnson, Fitzgerald stood at the edge of the runway, shouting. “Push down. Push down! That’s it. That’s it. Gently. Gently.”
Some of the firemen, policemen, and reporters began to cheer. The Trans-United people were screaming, “Down! Down! Down!”
All around the airport and, as the word spread, inside the terminal building, people were weeping and hugging each other.
Johnson stood frozen by the scene in front of him, not knowing if his behavior appeared appropriate, and not caring.
Wayne Metz unconsciously grabbed Edward Johnson’s arm. Talking about crashing an airliner was one thing; seeing it coming out of the sky in front of him was something else. He opened his mouth and drew a short breath. “Good God, I’ve never seen . . . anything
. . . Oh, my God, look at it.” Metz felt like running, and in fact had slipped his hand in his pocket and found his car keys. He turned, dazed, toward Johnson. “We’re finished.”
Johnson shook his head. “Not yet.”
The Straton glided in closer to the approach lights, hardly more than a mile away now, barely 200 feet above the airport, dropping a few feet every second, its long landing wheels reaching out tentatively.
The crowd was becoming almost delirious with emotion as the drama of the moment swept away the last inhibitions. Men and women, reporters and emergency personnel shouted, jumped, wept, and embraced.
In the cockpit of the Straton airliner stood First Officer Daniel McVary and more than a dozen passengers— mostly men, some women, and a few children. They were babbling and wailing, their residual instincts telling them that they were in danger. Their faces and arms were covered with freshly coagulated blood from the battering they had taken during the descent into the storm.
Sharon Crandall stared at them.“John . . .”
Linda Farley fought to keep from screaming. Her body began shaking.
“John!”
Berry’s whole existence had been reduced to the controls in front of him and the runway looming up outside his windshield. “Ignore them! Stay in your seat! Linda, put your head between your legs and don’t move.” It was hardly more than one mile to the threshold of the runway. Thirty more seconds. The Straton’s speed was too high and its altitude too low. Berry could feel someone’s hand brush against the back of his neck. He tried to ignore what was behind him. He concentrated on the airport and his approach path.
Berry could see the crash trucks racing in from all directions, converging on the entire length of the runway. He glanced quickly at the airspeed indicator. Still too fast. They would overshoot the runway and land in the bay or veer off and crash into the buildings outside the airport boundary. He made another adjustment with the throttles and the flight controls.
As the airliner streaked toward the threshold of the runway, Berry became more aware of the press of bodies jammed into the cockpit of the Straton. He suddenly realized that someone was standing barely inches from him. Berry glanced to his right.
Daniel McVary stood at the rear edge of the center console. His body leaned forward, hovering threateningly over the flight controls. The other passengers stepped to the front of the cockpit, cautiously, tentatively, like unwelcome visitors.
Sharon Crandall drew away from McVary. Her voice came out in a barely audible whisper. “John . . .”
“Stay strapped in. Don’t move. Don’t provoke them.”
McVary reached out and put his hand on the copilot’s control wheel.
Berry felt the pressure on his wheel, then felt a cold, clammy hand on his face. He heard Linda trying to fight down a mounting hysteria. “Christ, Jesus!” The threshold of the runway was half a mile away. The excessive speed was dropping off and the nonexistent fuel was still flowing to the engines. Please, God. He eased farther back on the throttles and felt McVary’s hand on his. “For God’s sake, get the hell out of here!” He swiped at McVary’s hand.
With the other hand still wrapped around the copilot’s control wheel, Daniel McVary pulled hard. This was his control wheel, that much he remembered, although he had no idea what it was for.
Berry could feel the man’s pull. He pushed forward against the captain’s control wheel with as much force as he could, to counterbalance what McVary was doing with the copilot’s wheel. Berry’s arms ached. “Get away, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. For Christ’s sake . . .”
Crandall struck out at McVary with her fists. “Stop! Stop! Go away! John. Please!”
“Steady . . . steady . . .” They had only a quarter of a mile to go, but Berry knew that he was losing in this battle of brute strength. Whatever the copilot had lost in mental ability hadn’t affected his muscle power. “Sharon! Get him off! Now! Fast!”
Sharon tried to pry the man’s fingers from the control wheel, but McVary held to it with an incredible strength. She bent over and bit savagely into the back of his right hand, but McVary was almost totally beyond pain.
Daniel McVary pulled against the copilot’s control wheel even harder, and it caused the Straton to suddenly pitch up and its right wing to dip low as the tail began to yaw from side to side. The stall-warning synthetic voice began to fill the cockpit again with its frightening chant. AIRSPEED. AIRSPEED. Several of the passengers howled. Linda screamed.
Many of the people standing in the cockpit were thrown off balance by the sudden erratic motions of the Straton. They lurched back toward the bulkhead; some of them fell against the circuit-breaker panel.
McVary held firmly onto the wheel and kept his balance.
“You bastard! Let go, you son-of-a
-bitch.” Berry knew he had only a few seconds left to get the Straton back under control. If he didn’t, they would die—right here, right now. The runway was only a short distance ahead. “Sharon! Help me! Help!”
Sharon Crandall felt the flesh in McVary’s hand break under her teeth, and blood run over her chin and down her neck. Still, the hand would not move. She picked her head up and shot her hand out, jabbing a finger in McVary’s eye.
The copilot screamed, and released the wheel.
Berry pushed his control wheel abruptly forward, rotated it to the left, and pressed hard against the rudder panels. The Straton seemed to hang in its awkward position for a long second. The stall-warning synthetic voice was still sounding, the repetition of its one-word vocabulary now continuous. AIRSPEED, AIRSPEED, AIRSPEED
Berry could see the ground streaking by outside his windshield at an incredible angle, then suddenly the horizon straightened and the runway centerline swung back to the middle of the windshield.
But the Straton had lost too much airspeed. Even without the continuous blaring of the stall-warning voice, Berry could feel the sickening sensation that told him the airliner was nearly done flying. In another moment the Straton would fall uncontrollably, like an elevator cut loose from its cable, its 400 tons crashing to the runway below.
“John!” Sharon screamed. The ground rushed up toward them. She covered her eyes.
Waiting as long as he dared, Berry made one last and desperate pull on the flight controls with all the strength he had left.
Captain Kevin Fitzgerald’s experienced eye told him instantly that the pilot had suddenly lost control. He found himself running toward the plummeting airliner, shouting as he ran. “He’s losing it! It’s pitching on him! Oh, goddamn it, he’s losing it. Christ Almighty!” The pilot had managed to get the giant airliner within a half mile of the runway, and now, inexplicably, he was letting the ship get away from him. He shouted like a coach trying to play the game from the sidelines. “Goddamn it! Goddamn you! Hold it, you bastard, hold it! Kick the rudder. The rudder! Kick the goddamn rudder, you son-of-a-bitch!” He suddenly stopped running.