Primary Target

11

Chuck Harrison attempted to appear confident when he glanced at his normally relaxed, effervescent copilot. He’d flown with her enough times to know when she was uncomfortable, and she was definitely tense. It showed in her eyes and in her mannerisms. Small, subtle things.

If she’s this nervous, maybe I should taxi back to the gate. He started to suggest a prudent retreat, then immediately talked himself out of it. This’ll be a rough ride, but I can handle it.

“Pam, I think it’s a good idea if we climb at Vee Two plus twenty to give us a slight cush on speed.”

“Good idea,” she said with more than a trace of anxiety in her voice. “You might want to consider adding a little more speed — in case we go through some shear or a down-burst.”

“I think we’ll be okay.” His attempt to reassure her seemed to have no effect. “It’ll be a bit bumpy, but we’ll be out of it fairly quickly.”

Pam nodded valiantly and cinched her seat and shoulder restraints tighter. “We’re going to have lots of white knuckles in the back.” Chuck, you might want to reconsider this and taxi back to the gate while we still have an option.

“American 1684,” the pleasant voice said, “wind is zero-two-zero at twenty-seven with gusts to forty-seven, runway three-five left, cleared for takeoff.”

With her mouth as dry as sawdust, Pam took a deep breath and held it momentarily in an effort to loosen the knot that had formed in her stomach. She was an extremely confident pilot, but loud warning bells about wind shear and micro-bursts were going off in her mind. Wind shear and thunderstorms are unforgiving killers and she rated them at the top of her “fear factor” list.

“American 1684, cleared for takeoff three-five left,” Pam repeated while she fought the paralysis that gripped her throat. The bright warning lights continued to flash in her mind and her senses were crying out for rational intervention, but no action was being taken. I’ll be glad when this day is over.

“Let’s go for it,” Harrison said boldly as he released the brakes and gripped the twin throttles. “Lights on.”

Pam studied a whirling mass of debris crossing the edge of the runway. Yeah, let’s go for it. The feeling of helplessness was almost overpowering. Jesus, what are we doing?

Harrison slowly walked the throttles forward while Gibbs closely monitored the engine gauges and the airspeed indicator. The two jet engines smoothly spooled up to the predicated power setting on the takeoff data card. With 11,388 feet of runway available, there wasn’t any reason to rush the normal sequence of events.

Marsha Phillips closed her eyes and silently prayed as the thrust from the powerful engines pressed her against the seat back. This was the moment she’d been dreading since the breakfast meeting. Every terrifying second was suddenly compressed into one stomach-‌wrenching desire to scream out in protest, to yell, Stop the plane! Let me off!

Facing the stark reality that she didn’t have any control over the situation at this point, Marsha thought about her fiancé. Forced to accept the fact that her fate was in the hands of someone else, she stole a quick peek at her engagement ring. Her husband-to-be had surprised her with the ring the night before she left for Dallas. Two rows in front of her, a baby cried out as Marsha prayed. Dear God, give me the courage I need to get through this flight.

“Set takeoff power,” Harrison ordered while Pam worked to fine-tune the engine power settings.

“Power is set,” came the terse response from a highly experienced pilot under tremendous pressure.

“Thanks.”

Pam studied the engine instruments. “Power looks good.”

“Okay.”

Gibbs inched the right throttle forward to make a small correction. “Just a tad low on number two.”

“Whatever it takes.”

The clouds abruptly spilled their contents and a gigantic waterfall collided with the windshields.

Harrison unconsciously gripped the control yoke tighter. “I’ll take the wipers when you get a chance.”

“Wipers coming on,” she replied behind a superficial barrier of calm professionalism. “Everything’s lookin’ good.”

“Okay.”

The runway markers were flashing past the wingtips when the Super-80 reached takeoff decision speed.

“Vee One,” Gibbs reported in a strained voice as the intensity of the rain suddenly increased. The loud noise was similar to the pounding sound of light hail on a tin roof.

Harrison shot a quick glance at the engine instruments. All indicators were within normal parameters.

Shortly thereafter, the long, sleek jet accelerated to the speed at which the pilot would rotate the aircraft to the initial climb attitude.

“Vee R,” the first officer sang out an octave higher than usual. The butterflies in the pit of her stomach were beginning to take flight as she watched Harrison ease back on the control column. We ‘re committed, no turning back now.

At the same moment the deck angle increased to the takeoff attitude, Gibbs felt an unexpected decrease in velocity. Her eyes flashed to the airspeed indicator, which confirmed a fifteen knot deceleration in airspeed.

Oh, shit!

“You’re losing speed,” Pam shouted. “The airspeed is dropping! We’re going through a microburst!”

“I know!”

“Hang on to it!” Pam urged.

“I’ve got it!”

Harrison felt the airplane buffet and instinctively pushed the throttles forward to maximum power. No sense sparing the engines if it looks like we might crash.

“Call my speed!”

“It’s coming up,” Gibbs yelled as they rocketed through the downburst created by the massive thunderstorm. Four seconds ticked by in slow motion. “Vee R plus five!”

“We’re almost there,” Harrison exclaimed through clenched teeth. “Just gotta nurse it nice and easy.”

Aborting landing approaches or takeoffs is among the toughest decisions captains have to make. They are instinctive decisions in most cases. Things happen so quickly that there isn’t time to consult and exchange ideas when a split-second decision has to be made.

Pam felt a pang of real doubt begin to creep into her mind. We need to abort — even if we go off the end of the damn runway.

“We’re running out of runway,” she blurted.

“—gonna make it.”

“I don’t know…”

The 3,000-foot “runway remaining” marker flashed past as Harrison gingerly worked the control yoke and shoved on the throttles. “Come on, baby… climb. Don’t give up on me now.”

Pam gripped the glare shield and held her breath while she fixated on the airspeed indicator. This isn’t good.

Concerned about the unusually long takeoff roll, Senator Morgan squeezed his wife’s hand and darted a quick look out the window, then attempted a reassuring smile.

She remained quiet and looked down at her lap.

“We’re going to be in Lewisville,” he scoffed under his breath, “if they don’t get this thing off the ground.”

Julie squeezed his hand so hard her wedding ring dug deep into her finger. “Something’s wrong — I just feel it.”

Morgan clasped his wife’s tightly balled hand. “Just relax,” he reassured her. “Everything is going to be fine.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’ll be okay,” he insisted.

“We’re out of runway!”

“Relax.”

On the other side of the aisle, Ed Hockaday’s hands were glued to the armrests. He opened his eyes and slowly turned his head to look out the window. We’re at the end of the airport! The pounding in his chest was excruciating and unrelenting. Taking deep breaths in an effort to calm himself, Hockaday closed his eyes and tightly gripped the armrests. Gents, it’s time to get the kite in the air.

The right main landing gear of the MD-82 skipped twice before the struggling airliner staggered into the disturbed air mass. The wings rocked back and forth as the long fuselage yawed left, then right. The hapless travelers were being slung from side to side as a number of overhead bins popped open and spilled a few items on top of them. A murmur of frightened voices could be heard throughout the cabin. The passengers, even the uninitiated ones, knew that this takeoff wasn’t normal.

“Positive rate,” Gibbs breathlessly announced as the aircraft approached takeoff safety speed.

“Gear up,” Harrison ordered, and winced at a bright flash of lightning.

“Gear coming up — Vee Two.”

The pilots could see that they were only seconds away from another wall of water that appeared to be more intense than the last one.

After Pam raised the landing gear, she watched in horror as the altimeter suddenly stopped climbing and slowly reversed its direction. “We’ve got a sink rate going! We’re going down!”

“Son of a bitch!” Harrison said as he pulled on the control column. He could feel the severe sink rate and his heart raced like a trip-hammer. Don’t give up, stay with it!

Pam’s face turned pasty white.

A microsecond later the ground-proximity warning device sounded. “Whoop, whoop. Pull up!”

Waiting for the expected impact with the ground, Harrison maintained the proper deck angle to fly out of a wind shear condition and continued to push on the throttles. He had practiced the same procedure many times in the flight simulator.

“Whoop, whoop. Pull up!”

Pam braced for the impact.

“Don’t let this happen to me,” Marsha Phillips moaned aloud, and tightly gripped the armrests. She glanced up the aisle and saw some of the other passengers doing the same thing. Listening to the baby cry more loudly, Marsha allowed her gaze to drift to the window, then recoiled in sheer terror. The runway was no longer under them and the shuddering airplane was only a few feet above the ground. Unable to contain her fear any longer, Marsha began praying out loud. “Dear God, please give me strength… please don’t let anything happen.”

“Brace yourself!” a flight attendant ordered over the PA system. “Get your heads down! Assume the crash position now!”

Marsha winced when someone screamed. Her worst fears had suddenly materialized and she couldn’t wake herself from this horribly frightening dream. She was about to die. No, no, no not me, please, God.

Both pilots slowly let their breath out when the airplane began accelerating and the shaking finally ceased. They could feel the stimulating effect of the adrenaline coursing through their veins. It would take a few minutes for their vascular systems to recover from the sudden shock.

The ride through the heavy downpour was extremely rough, but it couldn’t have been sweeter to them. Little did they know that the red-hot exhaust gases from the two Pratt & Whitney engines had literally scorched the ground at the end of the runway.

The pilots busied themselves with the after-takeoff checklist while their heart rates slowly began to return to normal. Neither wanted to say anything to the other. The decision to take off into the teeth of a raging thunderstorm had been ill-advised and they both knew it.

“Just another fun day at the office,” Harrison finally muttered.

“Yeah.” Pam sighed and glanced at the rain streaking off the windshield. “I wonder if I could make it as a topless dancer?”

Chagrined as well as frightened, Harrison didn’t respond to her comment. “We better tell the tower what happened.”

“As soon as I find my voice.”

Allowing a thin smile, Harrison grudgingly turned his gaze toward her. “Don’t ever let me do that again.”

“Trust me,” Pam said as her glance slid to Chuck. “I’m gonna carry a hammer from now on.”

Julie Morgan could tell by her husband’s sallow complexion that he, too, had been traumatized by the terrifying experience.

“I think we need a double bourbon and water,” she commented in a weak voice as she tilted her head back against the headrest.

“I’ll take mine straight,” he said, letting out his breath, then slowly glanced at his wife. “I wonder what the hell was going on up there?”

“Who knows?” she answered with her own sigh of relief. “Just be thankful it’s over and we’re safely airborne.”

He shook his head. “I’ll feel a lot safer when we’re on the ground in Washington,” he replied with a hint of irritation in his voice.

“I’m sure the worst is over.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he said sarcastically. “We aren’t there yet.”

Wide awake and on the verge of panic, Ed Hockaday felt beads of perspiration on his forehead. He placed his right hand over his heart. It was pounding so hard, he thought he was going to faint.

Looking around the cabin, Hockaday could see the raw fear in people’s eyes. Something is wrong. Get out of the storm and land this thing!

“Regional tower,” Pam said evenly, “American 1684 lost fifteen to twenty knots at rotation.”

“Copy, 1684. We’re shutting everything down until the storm passes. Contact departure, one three five point niner two, good day.”

“Switchin’ departure, American 1684.”

“Flaps up,” Harrison ordered.

“Flaps comin’ up,” Pam said, reaching for the lever.

Marsha Phillips hesitantly opened her eyes and tried to slow her rate of breathing. Never again. Never, never, ever again. Her knees were shaking uncontrollably and her neck was as rigid as a steel post. I could drink an entire pitcher of water.

A nervous flight attendant attempted to calm the frightened passengers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said over the PA, “please stay seated. Captain Harrison will turn off the “fasten seat belt” sign just as soon as he feels it’s safe for you to get up and move about the cabin.”

Marsha tuned out the announcement when she noticed her hands. They, too, were trembling uncontrollably. With a feeling of nausea sweeping over her, she closed her eyes and began taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly. After a few seconds she gripped the armrests to keep her hands from shaking and then slowly opened her eyes.

She glanced around the cabin and noticed the same strained looks on the faces of the other passengers, including a handsome young Navy lieutenant with gold aviator wings adorning his white uniform. He shook his head in disbelief and displayed a taut smile as he flexed his fingers. Marsha returned his smile. Even the top guns get scared. Somehow, she found that reassuring.

With their seat belts still fastened, many passengers were collecting their personal effects from the aisle. Most were grumbling to themselves and to others while they gathered their possessions.

“Regional departure,” Pam said in a calm voice, “American 1684 is with you out of twelve-hundred, goin’ to one-zero-thousand.”

“Roger American 1684, good afternoon, radar contact. Turn right, heading zero-seven-zero and maintain one-zero-thousand. Expect filed altitude in eight minutes.”

“Ah, zero-seven-zero on the heading, and up to one-zero-thousand,” Pam replied, then flinched when a blinding streak of lightning flashed in front of the windshield. “Sixteen-eighty-four can expect our filed altitude in approximately eight min—”

A deafening, blinding explosion ripped the cockpit to shreds and sent a powerful shock wave through the passenger cabin. The thunderous blast killed Harrison and mortally wounded Gibbs. The first officer remained semiconscious, but she couldn’t lift her shattered arms high enough to grip the twisted control yoke.

The aircraft pitched nose up and slowly rolled to the right, rapidly bleeding off airspeed while total chaos erupted throughout the passenger cabin. Bloodcurdling screams and anguished cries of terror added to the trauma and confusion.

The intense explosion had blown the cockpit door into Julie Morgan’s lap, cutting her face and arms. Her heart pounded so hard that she could barely catch her breath.

Hearing a strange ringing sound in his ears, Senator Morgan sat back in shock and stared wide-eyed at his bleeding wife. “Are you all right?” he uttered before realizing he could not hear the sound of his own voice. “Are you okay?”

Julie mouthed what passed for a yes and then stared in disbelief at the fragmented remains of the cockpit. She could see the magnitude of destruction on the pilot’s side of the mangled flight deck. Julie couldn’t see the copilot, but the captain was slumped in his seat with his chin resting on his chest and his right arm dangling on the crushed throttle quadrant. There was no question in her mind that the pilot was dead.

Frozen with fear and disbelief, Ed Hockaday’s legs turned into rubber and his right hand shook uncontrollably. An intelligent man, he knew he was about to die, but his mind refused to accept his fate.

The senior flight attendant in first class finally found her feet and struggled to the cockpit entrance. She gasped aloud at the condition of the pilots, then stumbled back in horror. From looking at the pilots and the twisted remains of the flight controls and throttles, the dazed woman knew they were doomed.

“Travis,” Julie sobbed, and wiped the blood from her mouth. “We’re not going to make it.”

He held her close to him and cupped her head in the crook of his neck. “We’ll always be together, I promise.” For the first time in his long and distinguished political career, the senior senator was powerless to correct a problem. In one horrifying second, money and power and influence had become completely useless.

A chorus of howls and screams filled the cabin while the sleek jet — at climb power — rolled steadily to the right until it was inverted, then slowly pitched nose down to a pure vertical attitude. Full of jet fuel, the airliner was now an out-of-control bomb plummeting toward the ground.

Powerless to stop the deadly plunge, Gibbs made a last survey of the shattered flight instruments. She willed her lifeless arms to grasp the bent control yoke, then felt warm tears as she slipped into unconsciousness.

Marsha Phillips screamed in desperate anguish as the airspeed rapidly increased to 330 knots.

Slumping in agony, Ed Hockaday felt like he was being suffocated. He convulsed twice, then gripped his chest and died of a massive heart attack.

Travis Morgan hugged his sobbing wife with all his strength and closed his eyes for the last time. Behind the first-class section, the piercing screech of a small child rose above the other anguished screams.

A moment later the MD-80 slammed into the ground and exploded in a mushrooming orange-and-black fireball. The kinetic energy of the impact compressed the fuselage to a length of seven feet at the bottom of a twenty-foot crater. Mercifully, no one onboard felt anything when the plane hit the ground. In less than a nanosecond everyone was gone.