ATC RULES AND PROCEDURES 29 страница

So which was the lesser gamble---to freeze for sure, or take a cbance and go down fast?

Making a decision which only later events could prove right or wrong, Harris called on interphone to Cy Jordan, "Warn air traffic control! We're diving!"

At the same moment, Harris banked the aircraft steeply to the right and selected landing gear "down." Banking before the dive would have two effects: Passengers or stewardesses who were not strapped in seats, or who were standing, would be held where they were by centrifugal force; whereas, a straight dive would throw them to the ceiling. The turn would also head Flight Two away from the airway they had been using, and---hopefully---other traffic below.

Putting the landing gear down would further reduce forward speed, and make the dive steeper.

On the overhead speaker, Harris could hear Cy Jordan's voice intoning a distress call. "Mayday, mayday. This is Trans America Two. Explosive decompression. We are diving, diving."

Harris pushed the control yoke hard forward. Over his shoulder he shouted, "Ask for ten!"

Cy Jordan added, "Request ten thousand feet."

Anson Harris clicked a radar transponder switch to seventy-seven---a radar S-O-S. Now, on all monitoring screens on the ground, a double blossom signal would be seen, confirming both their distress and identity.

 

They were going down fast, the altimeter unwinding like a clock with a wild mainspring... Passing through twenty-six thousand feet... twenty-four... twenty-three... Climb and descent meter showed eight thousand feet descent a minute... Toronto Air Route Center on the overhead speaker: "All altitudes below you are clear. Report your intentions when ready. We are standing by."... Harris had eased out of the turn, was diving straight ahead... No time to think about the cold; if they could get low enough fast enough, there might be survival---if the aircraft held together... Already Harris was aware of trouble with rudder control and elevators; rudder movement was stiff; stabilizer trim, not responding... Twenty-one thousand feet... twenty... nineteen... From the feel of the controls, the explosion had done damage to the tail; how bad, they would discover when he tried to pull out in a minute or less from now. It would be the moment of greatest strain. If anything critical gave way, they would continue plummeting in... Harris would have been glad of some help from the right seat, but it was too late for Cy Jordan to move there. Besides, the second officer was needed where he was---shutting air inlets, throwing in all the heat they had, watching for fuel system damage or fire warnings... Eighteen thousand feet... seventeen... When they reached fourteen thousand, Harris decided, he would start pulling out of the dive, hoping to level at ten... Passing through fifteen thousand... fourteen... Begin easing out now!

 

 

Controls were heavy, but responding... Harris pulled back hard on the control yoke. The dive was flattening, control surfaces holding, the aircraft coming out... Twelve thousand feet; descending more slowly now... eleven thousand... ten, five... ten!

 

They were level! So far, everything had held together. Here, the normal air was breathable and would sustain life, extra oxygen not necessary. The outside air temperature gauge showed minus five centigrade---five degrees below freezing; still cold, but not the killing cold of altitudes above.

From beginning to end, the dive had taken two and a half minutes.

The overhead speakers came alive. "Trans America Two, this is Toronto Center. How are you doing?"

Cy Jordan acknowledged. Anson Harris cut in. "Level at ten thousand, returning to heading two seven zero. We have structural damage due to explosion, extent unknown. Request weather and runway information---Toronto, Detroit Metropolitan, and Lincoln." In his mind, Harris had an instant picture of airports large enough to accommodate the Boeing 707, and with the special landing requirements he would need.

Vernon Demerest was clambering over the smashed flight deck door and other debris outside. Hurrying in, he slid into his seat on the right side.

"We missed you," Harris said.

"Can we maintain control?"

Harris nodded. "If the tail doesn't fall off, we may stay lucky." He reported the impeded rudder and stabilizer trim. "Somebody let off a firecracker back there?"

"Something like that. It's made a bloody great hole. I didn't stop to measure."

Their casualness, both men knew, was on the surface only. Harris was still steadying the aircraft, seeking an even altitude and course. He said considerately, "It was a good scheme, Vernon. It could have worked."

"It could have, but it didn't." Demerest swung around to the second officer. "Get back in tourist. Check on damage, report by interphone. Then do all you can for the people. We'll need to know how many are hurt, and how badly." For the first time he permitted himself an anguished thought. "And find out about Gwen."

The airport reports, which Anson Harris had asked for, were coming in from Toronto center: Toronto airport still closed; deep snow and drifts on all runways. Detroit Metropolitan---all runways closed to regular traffic, but plows will vacate runway three left if essential for emergency approach and landing; runway has five to six inches level snow, with ice beneath. Detroit visibility, six hundred feet in snow flurries. Lincoln International---all runways plowed and serviceable; runway three zero temporarily closed, due to obstruction. Lincoln visibility one mile; wind northwest, thirty knots, and gusting.

Anson Harris told Demerest, "I don't intend to dump fuel."

Demerest, understanding Harris's reasoning, nodded agreement. Assuming they could keep the airplane under control, any landing they made would be tricky and heavy, due to the large fuel load which in other circumstances would have carried them to Rome. Yet, in their present situation, to dump unwanted fuel could be an even greater hazard. The explosion and damage at the rear might have set up electrical short circuits, or metal friction, which even now could be producing sparks. When dumping fuel in flight, a single spark could turn an aircraft into a flaming holocaust. Both captains rationalized: better to avoid the fire risk and accept the penalty of a difficult landing.

 

Yet the same decision meant that a landing at Detroit---the nearest large airport---could be attempted only in desperation. Because of their heavy weight, they would have to land fast, requiring every available foot of runway and the last ounce of braking power. Runway three left---Detroit Metropolitan's longest, which they would need---had ice beneath snow, in the circumstances the worst possible combination.

 

There was also the unknown factor---wherever Flight Two landed---of how limited their control might be, due to rudder and stabilizer trim problems, which they already knew about, though not their extent.

For a landing, Lincoln International offered the best chance of safety. But Lincoln was at least an hour's flying time away. Their present speed---two hundred and fifty knots---was far slower than they had been moving at the higher altitude, and Anson Harris was holding the speed down, in the hope of avoiding further structural damage. Unfortunately, even that involved a penalty. At their present low level of ten thousand feet there was considerable buffeting and turbulence from the storm, now all around them instead of far below.

The crucial question was: Could they remain in the air another hour?

Despite everything that had happened, less than five minutes had passed since the explosion and explosive decompression.

Air route control was asking again: "Trans America Two, advise your intentions."

Vernon Demerest replied, requesting a direct course for Detroit while the extent of damage was still being checked. Landing intentions, either at Detroit Metropolitan or elsewhere, would be notified within the next few minutes.

"Roger, Trans America Two. Detroit has advised they are removing snowplows from runway three left. Until informed otherwise, they will prepare for an emergency landing."

The intercom bell chimed and Demerest answered. It was Cy Jordan calling from the rear, shouting to make himself heard above a roar of wind. "Captain, there's a great hole back here, about six feet wide behind the rear door. Most else around the galley and toilets is a shambles. But as far as I can see, everything's holding together. The rudder power boost is blown to hell, but control cables look okay."

"What about control surfaces? Can you see anything?"

"It looks like the skin is bulged into the stabilizer, which is why the stabilizer's jammed. Apart from that, all I can see outside are some holes and bad dents, I guess from debris blowing back. But nothing's hanging loose---at least, that shows. Most of the blast, I'd say, went sideways."

It was this effect which D. O. Guerrero had not allowed for. He had blundered and miscalculated from the beginning. He bungled the explosion, too.

His greatest error was in failing to recognize that any explosion would be drawn outward and would largely dissipate, the moment the hull of a pressurized aircraft was pierced. Another error was in not realizing how stoutly a modern jetliner was built. In a passenger jet, structural and mechanical systems duplicated each other, so that no single malfunction or damage should result in destruction of the whole. An airliner could be destroyed by a bomb, but only if the bomb were detonated---either by plan or chance---in some vulnerable location. Guerrero made no such plan.

Demerest queried Cy Jordan, "Can we stay in the air an hour?"

"My guess is, the airplane can. I'm not sure about the passengers."

"How many are hurt?"

"I can't say yet. I checked structural damage first, the way you said. But things don't look good."

Demerest ordered, "Stay there as long as you need to. Do what you can." He hesitated, dreading what the answer to his next question might be, then asked, "Have you seen any sign of Gwen?" He still didn't know whether or not Gwen had been sucked out with the initial blast. In the past it had happened to others, including stewardesses who were near the site of an explosive decompression, unprotected. And even if that had not happened, Gwen had still been closest to the detonated bomb.

Cy Jordan answered, "Gwen's here, but in pretty bad shape, I think. We've got about three doctors, and they're working on her and the others. I'll report when I can."

Vernon Demerest replaced the interphone. Despite his last question and its answer, he was still denying himself the indulgence of private thoughts or personal emotion; there would be time for those later. Professional decisions, the safety of the airplane and its complement, came first. He repeated to Anson Harris the gist of the second officer's report.

Harris considered, weighing all factors. Vernon Demerest had still given no indication of taking over direct command, and obviously approved of Harris's decisions so far, else he would have said so. Now, Demerest appeared to be leaving the decision about where to land to Harris also.

Captain Demerest---even in utmost crisis---was behaving exactly as a check pilot should.

"We'll try for Lincoln," Harris said. The safety of the aircraft was paramount; however bad conditions might be in the passenger cabin, they would have to hope that most people could manage to hold on.

Demerest nodded acknowledgment and began notifying Toronto Center of the decision; in a few minutes, Cleveland Center would take them over. Demerest requested that Detroit Metropolitan still stand by in case of a sudden change of plan, though it wasn't likely. Lincoln International was to be alerted that Flight Two would require a straight-in emergency approach.

"Roger, Trans America Two. Detroit and Lincoln are being advised." A change of course followed. They were nearing the western shore of Lake Huron, the U.S.-Canadian border close.

On the ground, both pilots knew, Flight Two was now the center of attention. Controllers and supervisors in contiguous air route centers would be working intensely, coordinating removal of all traffic from the aircraft's path, sectors ahead warned of their approach, and airways cleared. Any request they made would be acted on with first priority.

As they crossed the border, Toronto Center signed off, adding to the final exchange, "Goodnight and good luck."

Cleveland Air Route Center responded to their call a moment later.

Glancing back toward the passenger cabins, through the gap where the flight deck door had been, Demerest could see figures moving---though indistinctly, because immediately after the door had gone, Cy Jordan had dimmed the first class cabin lights to avoid reflection on the flight deck. It appeared, though, as if passengers were being ushered forward, indicating that someone in the rear had taken charge---presumably Cy Jordan, who should be reporting again at any moment. The cold was still biting, even on the flight deck; back there it must be colder still. Once more, with a second's anguish, Demerest thought of Gwen, then ruthlessly cleared his mind, concentrating on what must be decided next.

Though only minutes had elapsed since the decision to risk another hour in the air, the time to begin planning their approach and landing at Lincoln International was now. As Harris continued flying, Vernon Demerest selected approach and runway charts and spread them on his knees.

Lincoln International was home base for both pilots, and they knew the airport---as well as runways and surrounding airspace---intimately. Safety and training, however, required that memory should be supplemented and checked.

The charts confirmed what both already knew.

For the high speed, heavy weight landing they must execute, the longest possible length of runway was required. Because of doubtful rudder control, the runway should be the widest, too. It must also be directly into wind which---the Lincoln forecast had said---was northwest at thirty knots, and gusting. Runway three zero answered all requirements.

"We need three zero," Demerest said.

Harris pointed out, "That last report said a temporary closing, due to obstruction."

"I heard," Demerest growled. "The damn runway's been blocked for hours, and all that's in the way is a stuck Mexican jet." He folded a Lincoln approach chart and clipped it to his control yoke, then exclaimed angrily, "Obstruction hell! We'll give 'em fifty more minutes to pry it loose."

As Demerest thumbed his mike button to inform air route control, Second Officer Cy Jordan---white-faced and shaken---returned to the flight deck.

 

IN THE MAIN terminal of Lincoln International, Lawyer Freemantle was puzzled.

 

It was most peculiar, he thought, that no one in authority had yet objected to the big, increasingly noisy demonstration of Meadowood residents who, at this moment, were monopolizing a large segment of the central concourse.

Earlier this evening, when Elliott Freemantle had asked the Negro police lieutenant for permission to hold a public censure meeting, he had been firmly refused. Yet here they were, with a curious crowd of spectators---and not a policeman in sight!

Freemantle thought again: it didn't make sense.

Yet what had happened was incredibly simple.

After the interview with the airport general manager, Bakersfeld, the delegation, led by Elliott Freemantle, had returned from the administrative mezzanine to the main concourse. There, the TV crews, whom Freemantle had talked with on the way in, had set up their equipment.

The remaining Meadowood residents---already at least five hundred strong, with more coming in---were gathering around the TV activity.

One of the television men told him, "We're ready if you are, Mr. Freemantle."

Two TV stations were represented, both planning separate film interviews for use tomorrow. With customary shrewdness, Freemantle had already inquired which TV shows the film was destined for, so that he could conduct himself accordingly. The first interview, he learned, was for a prime-time, popular show which liked controversy, liveliness, and even shock treatment. He was ready to supply all three.

The TV interviewer, a handsome young man with a Ronald Reagan haircut, asked, "Mr. Freemantle, why are you here?"

"Because this airport is a den of thieves."

"Will you explain that?"

"Certainly. The homeowners of Meadowood community are having thievery practiced on them. Thievery of their peace, their right to privacy, of their work-earned rest, and of their sleep. Thievery of enjoyment of their leisure; thievery of their mental and physical health, and of their children's health and welfare. All these things---basic rights under our Constitution---are being shamelessly stolen, without recompense or recognition, by the operators of Lincoln Airport."

The interviewer opened his mouth to smile, showing two rows of faultless teeth. "Counselor, those are fighting words."

"That's because my clients and I are in a fighting mood."

"Is that mood because of anything which has happened here tonight?"

"Yes, sir, We have seen demonstrated the callous indifference of this airport's management to my clients' problems."

"Just what are your plans?"

"In the courts---if necessary the highest court---we shall now seek closure of specific runways, even the entire airport during nighttime hours. In Europe, where they're more civilized about these things, Paris airport, for example, has a curfew. Failing that, we shall demand proper compensation for cruelly wronged homeowners."

"I assume that what you're doing at this moment means you're also seeking public support."

"Yes, sir."

 

"Do you believe the public will support you?"

 

"If they don't, I invite them to spend twenty-four hours living in Meadowood---providing their eardrums and sanity will stand it."

"Surely, Counselor, airports have official programs of noise abatement."

"A sham, sir! A fake! A public lie! The general manager of this airport confessed to me tonight that even the paltry, so-called noise abatement measures are not being observed."

And so on.

Afterward, Elliott Freemantle wondered if he should have qualified the statement about noise abatement procedures---as Bakersfeld had done---by referring to exceptional conditions of tonight's storm. But semi-truth or not, the way he had said it was stronger, and Freemantle doubted if it would be challenged. Anyway, he had given good performances---in the second interview as well as the first. Also during both filmings, the cameras panned several times over the intent, expressive faces of the assembled Meadowood residents. Elliott Freemantle hoped that when they saw themselves on their home screens tomorrow, they would remember who had been responsible for all the attention they were receiving.

The number of Meadowooders who had followed him to the airport---as if he were their personal Pied Piper---astonished him. Attendance at the meeting in the Sunday school hall at Meadowood had been roughly six hundred. In view of the bad night and lateness of the hour, he had thought they would be doing well if half that number made the farther trek to the airport; but not only did most of the original crowd come; some must have telephoned friends and neighbors who had joined them. He had even had requests for more copies of the printed forms retaining himself as legal counsel, which he was happy to pass out. Some revised mental arithmetic convinced him that his first hope of a fee from Meadowood totaling twenty-five thousand doUars might well be exceeded.

 

After the TV interviews, the Tribune reporter, Tomlinson---who had been taking notes during the filming---inquired, "What comes next, Mr. Freemantle? Do you intend to stage some kind of demonstration here?"

 

Freemantle shook his head. "Unfortunately the management of this airport does not believe in free speech, and we have been denied the elementary privilege of a public meeting. However"---he indicated the assembled Meadowooders---"I do intend to report to these ladies and gentlemen."

"Isn't that the same thing as a public meeting?"

"No, it is not."

Just the same, Elliott Freemantle conceded to himself, it would be a fine distinction, especially since he had every intention of turning what followed into a public demonstration if he could. His objective was to get started with an aggressive speech, which the airport police would dutifully order him to stop. Freemantle had no intention of resisting, or of getting arrested. Merely being halted by the police---if possible in full oratorical flow---would establish him as a Meadowood martyr and, incidentally, create one more color story for tomorrow's papers. (The morning papers, he imagined, had already closed with the earlier reports about himself and Meadowood; editors of the afternoon editions would be grateful for a new lead.)

Even more important, Meadowood homeowners would be further convinced that they had hired a strong counsel and leader, well worth his fee---the first installment checks for which, Lawyer Freemantle hoped, would start flooding in right after tomorrow.

"We're all set to go," Floyd Zanetta, chairman of the earlier Meadowood meeting, reported.

 

While Freemantle and the Tribune newsman had been speaking, several of the Meadowood men had hastily assembled the portable p.a. system, brought from the Sunday school hall. One of the men now handed Freemantle a hand microphone. Using it, he began to address the crowd.

 

"My friends, we came here tonight in a mood of reason and with constructive thoughts. We sought to communicate that mood and thoughts to this airport's management, believing we had a real and urgent problem, worthy of careful consideration. On your behalf I attempted---in reasoned but firm terms---to make that problem known. I hoped to report back to you---at best, some promise of relief; at least, some sympathy and understanding. I regret to tell you that your delegation received none. Instead, we were accorded only hostility, abuse, and an uncaring, cynical assurance that in future the airport's noise above and around your homes is going to get worse."

 

There was a cry of outrage. Freemantle raised a hand. "Ask the others who were with me. They will tell you." He pointed to the front of the crowd. "Did this airport's general manager, or did he not, inform us that there was worse to come?" At first a shade reluctantly, then more definitely, those who had been in the delegation nodded.

 

Having skillfully misrepresented the honest frankness which Mel Bakersfeld had shown the delegation, Elliott Freemantle continued, "I see others, as well as my Meadowood friends and clients, who have stopped, with curiosity, to discover what is going on. We welcome their interest. Let me inform you..." He continued in his customary, haranguing style.

 

The crowd, sizable before, was now larger still, and continuing to grow. Travelers on their way to departure gates were having trouble getting through. Flight announcements were being drowned out by the noise. Among the Meadowooders, several had raised hastily scrawled signs which read:

AIRLANES OR PEOPLE FIRST?... OUTLAW JETS FROM MEADOWOOD!... NIX NOXIOUS NOISE... MEADOWOOD PAYS TAXES TOO... IMPEACH LINCOLN!

 

Whenever Freemantle paused, the shouts and general uproar grew louder. A gray-haired man in a windbreaker yelled, "Let's give the airport a taste of their own noise." His words produced a roar of approval.

Without question, Elliott Freemantle's "report" had by now developed into a full-scale demonstration. At any moment, he expected, the police would intervene.

What Lawyer Freemantle did not know was that while the TV sessions were taking place and Meadowood residents assembling, the airport management's concern about Trans America Flight Two was beginning. Shortly after, every policeman in the terminal was concentrating on a search for Inez Guerrero, and thus the Meadowood demonstration escaped attention.

Even after Inez was found, Police Lieutenant Ordway remained occupied with the emergency session in Mel Bakersfeld's office.

 

As a result, after another fifteen minutes, Elliott Freemantle was becoming worried. Impressive as the demonstration was, unless halted officially, it would have little point.

Where in God's name, he thought, were the airport police, and why weren't they doing their job?

 

It was then that Lieutenant Ordway and Mel Bakersfeld came down together from the administrative mezzanine.

Several minutes earlier the meeting in Mel's office had broken up. After the interrogation of Inez Guerrero and dispatch of the second warning message to Flight Two, there was nothing to be gained by retaining everyone together. Tanya Livingston, with the Trans America D.T.M. and chief pilot, returned anxiously to the airline's Offices in the terminal, to await any fresh news there. The others---with the exception of Inez Guerrero, who was being held for questioning by downtown police detectives---returned to their own bailiwicks. Tanya had promised to notify Customs Inspector Standish, who was distressed and anxious about his niece aboard Flight Two, immediately there was any new development.

Mel, not certain where he would keep his own vigil, left his office with Ned Ordway.

Ordway saw the Meadowood demonstration first and caught sight of Elliott Freemantle. "That damn lawyer! I told him there'd be no demonstrations here." He hurried toward the concourse crowd. "I'll break this up fast."

Alongside, Mel cautioned, "He may be counting on you doing that---just so he can be a hero."

As they came nearer, Ordway shouldering his way ahead through the crowd, Elliott Freemantle proclaimed, "Despite assurances from the airport management earlier this evening, heavy air traffic---deafening and shattering as always---is still continuing at this late hour. Even now..."

"Never mind that," Ned Ordway cut in brusquely. "I already told you there would be no demonstrations in this terminal."

"But, Lieutenant, I assure you this is not a demonstration." Freemantle still held the microphone, so that his words carried clearly. "All that's happened is that I granted a television interview after a meeting with the airport management---I might say a highly unsatisfactory meeting---then reported to these people..."

"Report some place else!" Ordway swung around, facing others nearest him. "Now, let's break this up!"

There were hostile glances and angry mutterings among the crowd. As the policeman turned back to Elliott Freemantle, photographers' flash bulbs popped. TV floodlights, which had been turned off, went bright once more as television cameras focused on the two. At last, Elliott Freemantle thought, everything was going just the way he wanted.

 

On the fringe of the crowd, Mel Bakersfeld was talking with one of the TV men and Tomlinson of the

Tribune. The reporter was consulting his notes and reading a passage back. As he listened, Mel's face suffused with anger.

 

"Lieutenant," Elliott Freemantle was saying to Ned Ordway, "I have the greatest respect for you and for your uniform. Just the same, I'd like to point out that we did hold a meeting some place else tonight---at Meadowood---but because of noise from this airport, we couldn't hear ourselves."

Ordway snapped back, "I'm not here for a debate, Mr. Freemantle. If you don't do as I say, you'll be arrested. I'm ordering you to get this group out of here."

Someone in the crowd shouted, "Suppose we won't go?"

Another voice urged, "Let's stay here! They can't arrest all of us."

"No!" Elliott Freemantle held up a hand self-righteously. "Please listen to me! There will be no disorder; no disobedience. My friends and clients---this police officer has ordered us to desist and leave. We will comply with his order. We may consider it a grave restriction of free speech"... there were responsive cheers and booing... "but let it not be said that at any point we failed to respect the law." More crisply, he added, "I shall have a statement for the press outside."