Sandy glanced at a note that had been slid in front of him. Denver International had lost the battle trying to keep a second runway open. Runway Two-Six was now closed and they were down to one useable strip of concrete, but the bad news went on: DIA says they may have to close part of the remaining runway in two hours if the snowfall continues at this rate.
There was no point in reading the second part to Regal, Sandy figured. They were going to get him on the ground before then anyway.
“Regal, ah… Regal Twelve, Denver Approach. That’ll be Runway Two-Five. All other runways closed by snow.”
“All twelve thousand feet available on Runway Two-Five?”
“Roger, Regal Twelve. The entire runway is available.”
For now, he thought.
CHAPTER TEN
Seven Months before — January 21st
Regal 12
For some reason, the right wing was feeling lighter, and for a few moments Marty hadn’t any idea why. He was still having to hold a huge amount of force to keep the yoke rolled to the left, but it definitely was becoming easier, and that meant something was changing, which was not necessarily good.
His eyes caught the fuel gauges on the center panel at the same moment the memory of the copilot’s voice replayed in his head: “We’re leaking fuel like a sonofabitch…”
Jesus! Of course! Marty thought, wondering if he had mere seconds or minutes to change the fuel distribution panel before the right engine started sucking air instead of kerosene. If the right engine flamed out, the prospects for restart would be nil, and the chances for staying airborne and under control with one engine and the wreck of another airplane on the right wing were zilch.
Somewhere deep inside a small prayer of thanks was playing like a mantra that the collision hadn’t physically destroyed the right engine. He wouldn’t be having this conversation with himself if it had.
I can’t believe this is happening!
Marty held the bird steady with his left hand while reaching to the overhead panel to make the adjustments — changing from the tank-to-engine takeoff configuration to have both of the hungry Pratt and Whitneys feeding off the unaffected center tank. That would preserve all the counterbalancing weight of the full number one tank in the left wing. He’d have to get Ryan to help with the calculations in a few minutes — how many pounds were left in the center tank and the left versus whatever their fuel flow was at low altitude in order to figure out how long they could stay airborne. Whatever the answer, it would be measured in hours, and surely they’d be on the ground long before that.
We’re supposed to be at nine thousand and we’re still at twelve, he reminded himself, his stomach contracting again at the near-certainty they’d created the whole disaster by blundering up to the wrong altitude. Maybe it was an old tendency to fatalism, but somehow — even without reviewing all the details in his memory — he knew. He just damn well knew! He’d promised himself to double check everything this copilot did, and he hadn’t.
Slowly Marty let the jet descend, pulling the power back slightly to keep the airspeed within ten knots of where it had been. If he changed anything about the angle of attack — slowed or sped up too much — there was no way to predict what would happen to the changed aerodynamics of the Boeing. But if 250 knots gave them some degree of stable flight, he wasn’t about to change the airspeed.
Marty glanced at the overhead pressurization panel. The cabin was essentially depressurized, but there was a very slight pressure differential a result of the air conditioning packs still shoving air into the cabin. Somewhere along the upper right side the fuselage had been punctured, not that it mattered much now.
The copilot had been shuttling back and forth to the cockpit as if manic action could help the situation. Suddenly he was back again, trying to close and lock the cockpit door behind him. The gesture struck Marty as ludicrous.
“Ryan! Stop fussing with the damn door and just prop it open!”
“Really? What about the security rules?”
“What? We’re worried about hijackers? Prop it open.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then strap in and help me here.”
“I’m… sorry… I was trying to figure out…” his voice trailed off with the track of his thoughts as he scrambled to comply.
Marty let his mind ricochet around the cockpit again. He didn’t have a plan and he desperately needed one. There were no checklists for what had happened, but there were plenty of smaller checklists to help keep them disciplined. In range. Before landing. And there was probably something more in the emergency procedures to help, even though nothing covered hauling around a parasitic pile of aluminum on the right wing with people still inside.
First, last, and always, he reminded himself, there was order in the way you were supposed to fly even a crippled airliner, and he had to restore his thinking to that regimentation, even if his hands were shaking on the yoke.
“Where are we, Captain?” Ryan asked, the formality registering as a combination of fear and abdication. The subtext was agonizingly clear: I have no idea what to do now, so please tell me! Marty felt a flash of sympathy, wishing there was someone he could turn to with the same questions.
“Near Boulder, turning east.”
Yeah, what the hell DO we do now? Marty asked himself. He turned to the copilot — aware the senior flight attendant had once again entered the cockpit and was standing between them, unwilling to break in until acknowledged.
“Ryan, figure out the fuel and how long we can stay airborne at this fuel flow rate, and get on the controls with me. You need to feel this.”
The copilot nodded as his hand went to the yoke, his eyes scanning the fuel readouts. Marty slowly released his grip on the pilot’s yoke, letting the copilot feel the artificial feedback and realize how much pressure he was going to have to use to maintain control.
“Jeez! That much?”
“Almost everything. The rudder, too. Almost full left. Got your foot on it?”
“Not… yet. Hold on. Yeah.”
“You got it?”
“I think so.”
“Okay, you’ve got it. Remember, you’re flying hydraulic valves and artificial feel springs.”
They went through the same sequence with the rudders, Marty letting go and feeling the stricken 757 yaw sharply as the copilot first put too little pressure on his left pedal, then muscled it back under control.
“Good God, this is awful!” Ryan gasped.
“Can you hold it long enough to let me run back and look.?”
“I… yeah!”
“Hold your heading and slowly bring us down to nine thousand. Got it?”
“Yeah. Hurry!”
Tell me about it, Marty thought as he snapped open his seat belt and lunged out of his seat, aware the flight attendant was scrambling to get out of his way. The look in her eyes when he glanced at her was pure panic, and he stopped long enough to put a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Nancy.”
“Nancy, what were you going to tell me? You’ve been waiting.”
She pointed toward the cabin. “Just that… you need to see it, Captain!”
He let her lead the way into the forward entry alcove and past the galley, into a first class cabin full of the pasty faces of deeply shaken people. As the captain passed they could see the four stripe epaulets on his shoulder and read the determined look on his face — a contrast to the wide-eyed copilot who had already darted back and forth through their cabin twice. They were all on a ragged edge, he thought. A PA announcement from him would be needed as soon as possible.