Speaking the unspeakable… "I truly believe this crew and this plane is the one answer left. I believe we have a very good chance of getting past Russian radar, avoiding their air defense, neutralizing that laser facility, and getting back."
It was the longest speech he had ever given. The throbbing in his right leg that had stopped over the past hour now was returning full force.
"If you like the odds, say so. If you don't say so. Without everyone pulling together, we for sure won't make it."
Ten minutes later Elliott sat back in his seat, drained. He no longer had feeling in his right heel, and the throbbing pain had reached his knee. He thought again of what Curtis had told him. So far the Russians had been one step ahead. Curtis was obviously afraid that they might be tipped off to the Old Dog's mission too. Well, that wasn't going to happen, the odds were too damn long. Seattle seemed as good a place as any to stage his protective aerial sleight of hand.
in sight," McLanahan reported, returning Seattle coastline his ten-inch radar display to the two hundred mile range. "One o'clock, one hundred miles."
These were the first words anyone in the crew had spoken since their decision. Elliott turned to Ormack.
"Get us clearance into Seattle Center airspace, John. Wendy, see if you can raise Boeing Field on HE Get us permission to land.
"Seattle Center, Dog Zero-One Fox is with you at two-five thousand." Traffic Control Center controller The Seattle Air Route checked his radar display. He had already received a call from command Control radio operator McClellan Air Base s Global Co would be appearing in his sector. And — One x that Dog Zero there he was-right where McClellan said he would be.
"Dog Zero — One Fox, good evening, radar contact at two five thousand feet.
Earlier the Seattle controller had passed along a Mode 3
"Squawk" identification code to McClellan for the airplane to set in its I.F.F, its Identification Friend or Foe system. The I.F.F would transmit the four-digit code to the controller's computer, which would display a data block near the airplane's radar dot with the plane's call sign, altitude, groundspeed, and a computer ID number. The Seattle controller checked the area from which McClellan said the aircraft would be coming and, as advertised, the data block and beacon target symbols appeared at the extreme outer edge of his one hundred and fifty mile range scope. There was no primary target return-a smaller symbol superimposed on the larger beacon target symbol-but that wasn't unusual at extreme ranges.
"Dog Zero-One Fox, confirm your destination is Seattle Boeing Field."
"That's affirmative, Seattle. We'll be requesting permission for a visual to an auxiliary field when within ten miles. Boeing has been notified."
That was very strange, but the controller had heard of it before. To avoid attention some experimental or classified planes used one of Boeing's numerous auxiliary fields scattered around Seattle instead of the main corporate terminal. When they did, they didn't tell the controller which one until in the vicinity of all of them. The approach controller would have to clear the airspace and grant clearance to make an approach to a very wide area, which really complicated air traffic control in the already super-congested Seattle-Vancouver-Portland area, but at this time of day it wasn't too much of a hassle. The procedure wasn't limited to military flights, either-the private aircraft firms guarded their newest developments almost as zealously as the military."
"I've been advised, Zero-One Fox, the controller replied.
"I'll pass it along to Seattle Approach in-" The controller saw something that made him blanch-a beacon code being changed to 7700, the emergency code. The plane's data block was instantly surrounded by a flashing border, and the letters "EMRG" began to flash above the beacon target.
It was the newcomer-Dog Zero-One Fox.
"Mayday, mayday!Seattle Center, Dog Zero-One Fox!"
"Zero-One Fox, I copy your emergency code The controller buzzed his shift supervisor, who hurried over and plugged his headset into a jack on the console.
"Shift supervisor A. Watt on console seven, ID number Sone-one-three-one, time two-three-one-seven local time."
That was for the benefit of the continuously running tape that was monitoring all communications-the tape that would be used in an accident investigation.
"Dog Zero-One Fox is declaring an inflight emergency at this time," came the hurried transmission. The voicepresumably the pilot, the one who had made the initial call-in to Seattle-was nearly drowned out by a thunderous noise in the background.
"It sounds like… waters A waterfall)" the controller murmured.
"He's depressurized, Ed," the supervisor asked. "It's windblast. A big one, too. If it's a depressurization, the noise should stop. If it's glass panel failure, it won't…"
The shift supervisor switched to a Center-wide intercom.
"This is Watt to all controllers. Clear airspace from radial two-six-zero to three-two-zero from Hoquiam VORTAC for inbound emergency aircraft in ten minutes. Advise Boeing McChord, Bowerman, and Portland of possible divertin emergency aircraft type unknown.
Advise McChord and Coast Guard search-and-rescue. Aircraft is currently on the two-eight-two degree radial from Hoquiam at one hundred an thirty nautical miles, flight level two-five-zero, groundspeed four-twenty knots.
Meanwhile, the first controller watched transfixed as the altitude readout of the emergency aircraft began to wind down.
"Zero-One Fox, are you encountering difficulty maintaining altitude?"
Through the roar in the background the pilot said, "Seattle, descending below ten thousand feet… lost pressurization… fire on board… emergency!Emergency!Mayday!Mayday!" "Understand, Zero-One Fox. We are clearing the airspace for you. If possible, turn left, heading two-eight-zero, vectors for emergency landing at Boeing Field, cleared to descend and maintain ten thousand feet."
No reply. The altitude readout was winding down, faster and faster.
"TWenty thousand… eighteen thousand….. fifteen thousand.-Andy, rate of descent increasing….. passing through ten thousand feet Over the radio he said, "Dog Zero-One Fox, climb and maintain ten thousand feet.
Acknowledge.
The noise of the windblast over the frequency all but drowned out any reply.
"Passing eight thousand… rate of descent slowing but he's still going down… passing five thousand low altitude warning!" Over the channel the controller said, "ZeroOne Fox, climb. Pull up, pull up. If you're in a spin release your controls. Acknowledge…"
"Beacon target lost," the supervisor asked. "This is A. Watt plugged into console seven, local time two-three-two-zero, Seattle ARTCC.We have lost Dog Zero-One Fox on radar.
Last report from the pilot said he was descending to ten thousand feet due to inflight emergency, fire, and loss of pressurization. Rate of descent from flight level two-five-zero estimated at fifteen thousand feet per minute, slowing to approximately ten thousand feet per minute but mishap aircraft never regained altitude or appeared to level off.
No primary or secondary targets visible at this time. No flight data visible. No aircraft within sixty nautical miles of mishap aircraft noted. No emergency locator beacon transmissions yet received. Coast Guard and Air Force search-and-rescue forces have been alerted.
WASHINGTON, D.C. Several minutes later the President, still in the Oval Office with General Wilbur Curtis, took the message from Jeff Hampton that the FAA had lost Dog Zero-One Fox from radar, that the plane had experienced a major emergency and had plummeted twenty-five thousand feet into the ocean in less than two minutes.
The President forced his left hand steady as he replaced the phone receiver on its cradle. He looked at Curtis. "Dog ZeroOne Fox has disappeared. Presumed lost a hundred and thirty miles off the west coast.