Flying Too Close to the Sun Page 2

  Preis had previously glimpsed Shepard on TV. Attractive on television, she was even more so in person. Although too young to be one of the first female airline pilots, it was no doubt her beauty and confidence-exuding demeanor which was why the media outlets sought her out for information pertaining to women in aviation. Her televised appearances translated into near-celebrity status within the airlines, but without her nose in the air. Although her flight bag bore the scars of many years of cockpit duty you couldn’t say the same about her. She wore no makeup, seemingly immune to the ravages of time, exuding the same air of confidence as a female senior executive but without the hard shell. She was also an expert pilot who flew her plane with the finesse of a first-rate jockey in command of a thoroughbred.

  With a short respite while the mechanic disconnected the tow bar from the jet’s nose wheel Erik asked, “Will you both be flying these same three, five, seven and nine o’clock Shuttles for the entire month?”

  Shepard half-jokingly replied. “Last month, this month and probably for at least the next six months,” sincerely hoping it would be the case. “It’s the only trip my lack of seniority in the captain ranks allows me to fly. Being on reserve – on call – goes to the senior captains who sit on their elderly butts at home and hardly ever work, while us junior pukes have to fly almost every day.”

  “I’m in the same boat with the copilots,” Woody chimed in.

  With her blue eyes feeling as though they looked right through Erik, she turned to him and added, “With the hiring going on, you should be able to get more flight choices pretty soon.”

  After cranking up only the number one and three engines to conserve fuel, Shuttle Air 1540 was directed to taxi to Boston’s runway 22 Right for takeoff. Christina maneuvered the plane on the taxiways while Erik and Woody performed all their required functions. Once everything was running Erik got the weight and balance information over the Airborne Communications Apparatus or ACARS, filled in the required takeoff numbers with a black magic marker pen and handed Woody the completed takeoff data card. It fit neatly on the forward instrument panel and showed the pilots the number of passengers on board, amount of fuel, aircraft gross weight, along with the tail’s stabilizer trim setting and the calculated takeoff speeds for their exact weight. The flip side would be used for the landing data. Erik recited the before takeoff check list with Christina and Woody first checking and then replying to each item. Approaching the active runway they fired up number two, finished up the checklist and were cleared for takeoff.

  Rolling down the runway, when approaching the calculated critical V1 airspeed of 132 knots, Erik felt an abnormal vibration. Quickly checking his instruments all appeared normal. But swiveling his seat toward the engine gauges on the pilots’ forward instrument panel he noticed intermittent RPM fluctuations and an abnormally high Exhaust Gas Temperature on the number three engine. The EGT gauge was well into the red warning band. Simultaneously, Woody made the V1 callout, the speed at which the takeoff could no longer be aborted on the ground. A split-second later came his VR call, rotation speed. Just as Christina began rotating the nose wheel off the ground there was an earsplitting boom like a clap of thunder. Erik hollered, “Something’s wrong with number three!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Jesus!” Christina shouted in a voice fueled by training and seat-of-the-pants instinct, “Engine failure!”

  Like a doctor who is told a patient is coding, when a cockpit crew hears the words “engine failure” immediate actions are required to be performed from memory. Christina rammed the throttles full forward to get maximum power from the operating engines while Erik quickly reached to the top of his flight engineer panel and rotated the essential power selector knob carrying the crucial electrical items from number three to the number one engine generator. He simultaneously turned off the jet’s galley power to prevent an electrical overload and closed off the bleed air supply from the faulty engine so no smoke or fumes could enter the cabin, opening the same valve on the number two-engine.

  Christina commanded Woody, “Gimme maximum power,” even though the throttles were already in the full forward position. Despite three thousand pounds of hydraulic assistance she had to press hard on the left rudder pedal to overcome the jet’s powerful asymmetrical yaw and keep it centered on the runway. With only two engines the plane’s acceleration was more sluggish, so she rotated the nose very slowly so as not to overcompensate and strike the tailskid, which could cause structural damage.

  To Jim Ruppel, the Boston tower operator’s trained eye, Shuttle 1540’s acceleration appeared to be sluggish and he was about to ask the pilots if everything was okay? Just then the jet finally broke ground and gained altitude, but the rate of climb appeared to be lagging.

  Inside the cockpit it was like time stood still and they were glued to the runway. But the big jet finally broke gravity’s grip and a hundred and fifty-two thousand pounds of gleaming metal staggered into the air. Once the vertical speed indicator confirmed they were climbing Christina directed Woody, “Gear up.”

  There was no reaction.

  “Woody, raise the landing gear,” she ordered. Seemingly spellbound, he just stared at the engine indications on the forward instrument panel. Erik quickly released his safety harness and seat belt, reached over Woody’s shoulder and moved the large handle with the little wheel on it to the up position. With the gear retracted the plane would now climb more rapidly. Since the jet’s three engines were at the rear of the fuselage and not visible from the cockpit, Christina wondered if the faulty one damaged any of the jet’s systems. If an engine broke up it could cause a catastrophic failure by cutting the fuel and hydraulic lines, along with the flight control cables. Was there a fire? Thoughts of 9/11 flashed through her mind faster than her jet flew through the air. Had terrorists targeted her flight? Despite these concerns, she performed her required flight duties with textbook precision. The passengers had placed their lives in her hands and she would not let them down. “Inform the tower we have an emergency and are taking it straight out until we get the flaps retracted,” Christina directed Woody as the plane entered the low murkiness. “Then we’ll need an immediate clearance to return for landing.” Although not visible because they were in the clouds, she knew she had to get the crippled bird over the looming metal masts of the mammoth cargo ships anchored in Boston harbor. She had frequently gazed in awe at these enormous vessels sailing to mysterious, far-away destinations. But now their metal spars were like huge hands reaching straight up, trying to swat the big jet out of the sky. The first needed step was to achieve the correct thousand-foot level-off altitude where the flaps could be safely retracted.

  There was still no response from Woody. She wanted to reach over and shake him, see if he was alive. “Did you hear me? Call the tower and work with Erik to shut down number three and then run through the emergency checklists. I’ve got to concentrate on flying this bird.”

  “I’ve got it,” Erik said picking up his microphone. “Logan tower, this is Shuttle Air 1540. Our number three engine’s failed and we’ll need to return for an immediate landing.”

  “Roger, 1540. Do you require the emergency equipment?” Ruppel replied.

  “Affirmative. We’ll be taking it straight out until we get the flaps retracted.”

  “The normal procedure is to turn left to a heading of 140 degrees—”

  Erik cut him off. “We have an engine out. We’ll be going straight out ‘til we get the flaps up.”

  “Roger. All traffic will be cleared. Inform us if you require any other assistance. The emergency trucks will be standing by,” the controller quickly added. “Runway 22 Left is the active landing runway; it’s ten thousand feet long, with the wind from two zero-zero degrees at six knots. Will an ILS to 22 Left be acceptable?”

  Christ
ina nodded her head in the affirmative. Erik presumed because of the poor weather they would have to make an instrument landing approach or ILS. “We’ll expect an approach to 22 Left.”

  As taught, Erik grabbed the engine failure checklist. As the airspeed increased Christina performed Woody’s job by retracting the flaps while Erik read the checklist aloud.

  “Throttle, idle,” he read.

  “Idle,” Christina’s immediately replied, pointing to the number three engine throttle.

  “Start lever: cutoff. Engine fire handle—pull,” he said aloud. These combined emergency actions shut off the fuel and insured the closure of all the failed engine’s bleed air valves so no fumes would enter the aircraft. Next, Erik had to disconnect the number three generator constant speed drive, rendering it useless. During his schooling the instructor had constantly stressed this was the most crucial emergency procedure step because if he made a mistake and disengaged the wrong one, the remaining generator would overload and plunge the cockpit into total darkness. The pilots’ would have no instruments and without them they would crash. He was extra careful and disengaged the correct one.

  While ensuring the completion of all his required items, Erik noted a mistake he’d made by not turning off the air conditioning unit on the failed number three engine and opening the bleed air switch for number two. So, with a slight hand motion and a muted clicking sound, he corrected the error. They ran through the remaining items by the book, with Christina performing them and Erik verifying her actions. “The engine failure checklist is complete,” a perspiring Erik announced.

  “Tell the flight attendants we have an emergency and are returning to Boston,” Christina instructed Woody in a loud voice, “and tell ‘em to brief the passengers.”

  Suddenly, Woody snapped to, picked up the mike and rang the flight attendant call button. “We’ve got a serious problem and are returning to Boston. Prepare the cabin for an emergency landing.”

  “I heard a loud noise. What’s going—?”

  “Just do as I say.”

  Ruppel anxiously broke in. “How many souls and how much fuel are on board?”

  Christina hated the use of the term souls. It was as if the passengers were already dead and on their way to heaven or hell. She swore it would be a cold day in the latter before that happened while she was in command. “Tell ‘em there are a hundred and forty passengers on board and be certain to use the word passengers,” she told Woody, “and twenty-four thousand pounds of fuel.” Woody did as instructed.

  Ruppel picked up the bright red emergency hotline going directly to the Massachusetts Port Authority police and informed the official-sounding voice that answered, “We’ve got a serious one in progress. A Shuttle Air 727 with a hundred and forty souls and twenty-four thousand pounds of fuel has an engine out and is returning for landing. Send your emergency and fire fighting equipment along with all the security personnel you can muster to both ends of runway 22 Left. Now!”

  The guy started to ask something, but Ruppel hung up.

  While Flight 1540 was radar vectored on to the downwind leg of the 22 Left traffic pattern, Erik completed the landing data card, using the required thirty-degree flap setting for a two-engine landing. He asked, “Will we have to conduct an emergency evacuation after landing?”

  “I hope not,” Christina replied. “Inform the flight attendants there’s a chance of that, but don’t order it unless one of us tells ‘em to.” Christina knew there were usually many injuries if passengers used the escape slides that popped out of the plane’s emergency exits like giant yellow tongues when opened. Erik did as directed.

  “Assume the bracing position,” Christina announced over the PA, briefly wondering what might be going through the minds of the terrified, now hunched-over passengers who had no control over their destinies.

  “This bird feels different on two engines,” she muttered when turning on to final approach. She cranked in the frequency of 109.9 for the Runway 22 Left ILS, a landing system that provided vertical and horizontal guidance to touchdown. This was a challenging maneuver in poor weather and even more so with only two engines. She silently prayed they weren’t the victims of sabotage because there might be additional problems.

  “Let’s run through the engine failure final checklist. If you notice anything overlooked, speak up.” As Erik and Woody began reading the checklist Christina ordered, “Landing gear down.” Woody and Erik double-checked everything while Christina flew the precise profile called for in the flight manual. She constantly made minor corrections in heading and rate of descent, always keeping the V-shaped command bars on the flight director dead-centered, meaning they were right on course. “We’re not taking it around for any reason,” Christina stated after the gear extended normally. “I don’t like the looks of number two engine. It’s running hotter than normal.” While glancing at the number two engine indications she could feel the hammering of her heart as it pounded up against her breastbone. Would number two continue to operate normally?

  A supervisor and four other tower workers huddled around Ruppel, watching the tiny green blip on the radar screen that represented so much. Out of the corner of his eye Ruppel saw the huge door to the red-and-white firehouse open. Fire-fighting equipment, several ambulances and a number of other vehicles came wheeling out with sirens wailing and strobes flashing. As Ruppel monitored Shuttle Air’s progress it evoked memories of Swissair flight 111, a MD-11 jumbo jet that had crashed some time prior. The Swissair pilot had reported smoke in the cockpit enroute from Kennedy Airport to Geneva, Switzerland. “Nothing too serious,” he had calmly stated in his Germanic accent while over the North Atlantic asking to divert to Boston. It was clear things were grave when he requested landing at the closer Halifax, Nova Scotia airport instead. A few moments later the tiny blip disappeared from the radar screen, killing 229 people, including a number of children. The investigation uncovered a serious on-board fire had ignited the big jet’s insulation, which in turn severed the flight controls causing it to nosedive into the frigid Atlantic. Ruppel had difficulty sleeping, contemplating how those people had died. Things got so bad he considered quitting, but ultimately concluded he needed the money. But at this moment his GS-13 salary didn’t seem worth it. “C’mon. You can make it,” he beseechingly whispered.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Shuttle Air 1540 broke out of the overcast at three hundred feet perfectly aligned with runway 22 Left. With the high intensity sequenced strobe lights assisting Christina’s depth perception the big tri-jet touched down at the fifteen hundred-foot marker and came to a smooth halt with approximately three-thousand feet of runway remaining. Knowing how close they had come to disaster, the silence in the cockpit hung in the air like the thick fog outside. Emergency trucks with ear-shattering sirens blaring and blinding lights flashing broke the hush as they came to a screeching halt planeside. As the crew and passengers anxiously peered out, police with guns drawn, along with mechanics in fire-fighting garb and extinguishers in hand rushed out. With radios tuned to the ground control frequency of 121.9, someone, either a mechanic or policeman inquired, “Does everything appear normal in the cockpit?”

  Christina responded, “Affirmative.” A mechanic stated he was going to visually inspect all of the engines and the landing gear. She could see the security personnel remained at the ready, fingers on the triggers of their M-16’s. A few long moments later the mechanic announced there were no visible signs of terrorism damage, fire, fluid leaks or other problems and the jet could taxi to the terminal under its own power. “Woody, let the passengers know everything is under control and we’ll be at the gate in a few moments,” a visibly relieved Christina directed.

  After taxiing at a snail’s pace, as the big jet came to a halt and the forward door was opened, Erik could feel his heart flutterin
g, like a bird banging against the side of a cage trying to escape.

  To break the stress, a now-smiling Christina stated, “What I’ve heard is undeniably true. The life of an airline pilot is ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent total boredom and one-thousandth percent sheer terror.” They all managed a weak smile, even Woody who dabbed his sweaty face with a handkerchief. As the cockpit door swung open a loud round of applause and cheers greeted them. Christina stood in the doorway, anticipating everyone would quickly deplane. But the same bumbling agent stood in the aisle making the other passengers wait until a frightened looking young man in 3-D deplaned; the seat the paperwork stated was occupied by the sky marshal. Who is this guy? What could he be up to?

  The entire episode had taken perhaps twenty minutes and as he finger-combed his disheveled hair Erik asked, “Think anyone from the media’s here?”

  “It’s pretty late. I doubt it,” Christina replied. But upon entering the terminal it was bedlam. Apparently they had been notified and after learning the identity of the captain throngs of reporters sped to the airport and the crew stepped into the center ring of what seemed to be a circus.