The First Casualty

5

The giant Airbus A330’s 216 passengers remained strapped tightly into their seats. The storms indigenous to this area had tossed the plane about as though it were a child’s ball. Last night’s native Brazilian dinner, perhaps too rich, had caused Captain Marc Duboise to temporarily turn the ship over to the first and second officers while he made a brief visit to the first-class head. On long international flights, it was not uncommon to share the duties even though the captain had far more hours of experience than the two younger men combined.

Within minutes, the plane would reach TASIL, a point existing only on aeronautical charts and defined by the aircraft’s global-positioning system as 780 statute miles west of Dakar, Senegal. Its only real significance was that it marked the end of the “dead zone,” the point at which there was no VHF radio communication. Though no one voiced the thought, the sound of another human voice would make the turbulence more bearable.

“Merde!” the first officer swore as a particularly violent down draft buffeted the plane, pushing the nose down. He was thrown painfully against his seat harness. The aircraft was bucking like one of those wild horses he had seen in films of American rodeos. Broncos, yes, that was what they were called, broncos. He kept his line of vision on the instrument panel below the windscreen, taking no chance of being temporarily blinded by the lightning outside, flashing with the frequency of a celestial disco. He could only hope the repeated strikes had not damaged the electronics.

The second officer pointed to the altimeter and shouted to be heard above the crash of thunder. “You’re off your assigned altitude of thirty-five thousand feet.” He put a finger on the weather radar, indicating a narrow streak of green between red and yellow blobs. “Try flying zero-seven-zero. That might get us around the worst of it.”

For an instant, the first officer contemplated switching off the autopilot. Its immediate reactions to extreme turbulence could, possibly, damage the air frame. He discarded the idea. Even with hydraulically assisted controls, he would be unable to make all the corrections required by this line of storms. Instead, he thumbed the electric trim tab on the control yoke, elevating the aircraft’s nose.

“That should help,” he shouted above the clatter of hail against the plane’s hull, the sound of a coven of demons demanding admittance.

Neither man noticed the air speed indicator remained steady, an inconsistent reading since airspeed should have decreased in direct proportion to the elevated angle of the aircraft’s nose — one reason planes land in a nose-up configuration.

“The altimeter!” the second officer exclaimed. “It is not moving. Neither is the vertical speed indicator!”

That was the least of the immediate problems. The yoke in the first officer’s hands was not only twisting with the aircraft’s gyrations, but now it was pulsating, a phenomenon neither first nor second officer had ever experienced.

“What the…”

There was a tearing sound, the cry of distressed metal, followed by a crash from the left side of the plane. The second officer looked up as a bolt of lightning illuminated the left wing. The number-one engine was gone, a gaping hole in its place.

“Mon Dieu!”

The stricken aircraft rolled violently to its left, shuddering in its death throws just as the strange expansions and contractions increased in violence. Over the terrified shrieks of passengers and the bedlam of the storm, there was the sound of ripping metal. From its location, the first officer guessed the vertical stabilizer had torn free.