16 Souls

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Seven Months before — January 21^st

Regal 12

With the good news that the conga line of snow plows was now off the runway, Denver Approach passed the unwelcome information that the visibility conditions for Runway 7 were now well below legal minimums and hovering at 300 feet.

“Denver, we’re going to make this a Category 3B approach,” Marty replied, referring to the high-precision approach procedure that would let a crew fly to fifty feet above the concrete before seeing the runway and landing.

“Regal, that runway is not certified for a Cat-3.”

“We have no choice, Denver. Please ask tower to turn up all the lights to the highest step but be ready to bring them down if we ask at the last minute.”

“Roger, Twelve. Turn right now to zero four five degrees, intercept the localizer at seven thousand, and you’re cleared for the approach. Tower is coming up this frequency so just stay with me.”

Mountaineer 2612

Living with the seismic bouncing of the Beech fuselage and the occasion screech of torn metal was becoming familiar, or perhaps she was just going numb. Michelle kept forward pressure on the control yoke and had become used to her feet on the rudder pedals as they vibrated and shook, the still-intact rudder of the regional aircraft’s fuselage being battered by the roiled airflow over the 757’s wing.

There was something new, however, and she had tried to convince herself that it was just hypersensitivity… but it was real. Almost a rotating moment, as if the aircraft was trying to rotate left just a bit.

As an almost unconscious remedy Michelle held her feet firmly on the vibrating rudder pedals.

With no warning a deafening screech was accompanied by a severe swing to the left, and in the space of a split second Michelle realized the Beech had lost the connection of torn metal to torn metal on the left side, and was now being held on by only the main gear strut on the right. She jammed her right foot on the right rudder pedal instantly, meeting the rotating force with a counter rotation back to the right, and realized with a sinking feeling that she was now reduced to flying the wreckage of her plane to stay on the wing.

“What was that?” Luke asked, his voice squeezed by fear.

“I’m… hard right rudder, Luke. Get your feet down there… feel it with me.”

“I don’t understand!” he answered, wide-eyed.

“Only thing holding us now is the right gear strut and holding her straight with the rudder. Nose down on the elevator, full right rudder. Help me, Luke! Keep flying her… we have to keep her attached.”

Luke felt for the rudder pedals on the right, feeling the right pedal severely displace. He could feel Michelle literally flying the fuselage nose down, and now nose right, in a continuously desperate attempt to hang on.

How long, he wondered, before the strut failed and they were in free fall?

Of course, if that happened, both of them would try to fly it all the way to the ground, but it would be no use, and suddenly, that exact fate seemed inevitable.

Cockpit — Regal 12

Ryan was shifting in his seat, his hand waving slightly for Marty’s attention.

“Yeah?”

“We’re down to two thousand five hundred pounds in the center tank,” Ryan said.

“Understood. But she’ll automatically start feeding both engines from the left tank when we run dry, correct?”

“Yes, the way I have it set up.”

‘Okay. Let’s keep the landing lights off until the last second. I’ll call for them if I need them. Here we go,” Marty said. “I’m going to hold the gear until one mile out. You concur?”

“I do.”

Marty had pulled into position the clear slab of blue-green glass called a combiner, adjusting it in front of his eyes. The so-called heads-up display allowed a pilot to focus outside and essentially have the airspeed and altitude and instrument landing system information all projected on the glass as if it were parading across the distant horizon. The HUD had become the essential piece of equipment for landing in near zero-zero conditions.

“The combiner is working perfectly, Ryan, but I’m changing the normal procedure.”

“Okay.”

“Below two hundred feet I want your eyes out, too. Call a go around if we’re dangerously misaligned, otherwise just… help make sure we can see the concrete.”

“Wilco.”

“Lowering the gear shouldn’t change the pitch in any way. I’m holding two hundred thirty knots and I’m planning to just barely flare to keep the sink rate from being excessive. I’m also going to duck under the glide slope by one dot to get us on the runway as close to the approach end as possible.”

“Marty, we’re seven miles out, two miles from glide slope intercept.”

“Roger. I’ll start down… one dot low.”

“Did we tell the other captain we’re landing?” Ryan asked.

“She knows. She can feel it.”

The approach controller’s voice cut the silence.

“Regal, we show you one mile from intercept,”

“Roger,” Ryan replied. “And you said cleared approach?”

“Yes, sir,” the approach controller replied, “…and the tower has cleared you to land.”

Marty took a deep breath and tried his best to concentrate. Something that had been bothering him was now raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Whatever it was, it was something overlooked, or something they hadn’t considered — but definitely the sort of thing he would be called to account for. He tried again to push the rising feeling out of his mind, but it kept circling his consciousness, like a defiant horsefly.

“Glide slope intercept, one dot low,” Ryan intoned. Marty had pulled the thrust levers back slightly, watching the airspeed with laser-like intensity as they started exchanging altitude for reduced power to keep the same speed.

“Should we ask for the current RVR?” Ryan asked.

“It’s immaterial. We’re landing regardless,” Marty answered, pulling the thrust levers a bit more as the airspeed tried to increase.”

“Four miles out, Marty.”

“Got it.”

What the hell am I forgetting? Marty’s brain again demanded, and once more there were no answers, just the clucking of some distant part of his mind that he would deeply regret ignoring.

“Three miles, holding one dot low, on speed,” Ryan intoned.

“Stand by for the gear at one mile.”

“Standing by. Five hundred feet to go, Marty. No decision height.”

“Roger.”

“Coming up on two miles to the runway, on speed, on glide slope minus one.”

“Roger.”

“Four hundred above and one mile,” Ryan was saying.

“Gear down,” Marty commanded, as Ryan’s hand moved the lever downward, starting the hydraulic sequence that lowered the huge main gear trucks and the nose gear into place.

Whatever had been eating at him loomed suddenly as one of the most profound warnings he had ever ignored, and this time it refused to go away. A very insistent part of his mind screamed “Go Around!” and finally, at a radar altimeter reading of 190 feet above the terrain, the last tumbler between nuance and reality fell into place.

“GEAR UP!” Marty commanded.

“What?”

“Going around. Gear Up! Tell the tower.”

Marty nursed the throttles forward while pulling gently to arrest the descent of the big jet at 120 feet, starting a shallow climb.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Ryan demanded, eyes wide.

“Tell them we’re on the go!”

Ryan froze for a few microseconds before realizing that a protest over how little fuel they had was now too late. The runway was zipping by unseen beneath them, and with it, it felt like their last chance was slipping away.

“Denver, Regal Twelve is… ah… on the go,” Ryan said as ordered.

“Roger, Twelve. Climb straight ahead to seven thousand. What are your intentions?”

Unaware that his finger had once again pressed the transmit button, Ryan’s thoughts found voice: “I wish the hell I knew!”