“Tell him we can do that, Alastair, but we’ll have only one chance at it. How’s the weather there? If it’s good enough, maybe we can land straight in to the east.”
Alastair passed the question.
“I have the weather for Connemara Regional,” the controller said. “The ceiling is indefinite at one hundred fifty feet, visibility a half mile and fog, winds are two seven zero at twelve knots. The ILS is up for runway two seven. Just tell me what you want.”
Alastair turned to Craig, who was licking his lips and mentally racing through more calculations.
“I think,” Craig said, without turning his head, “that we have no choice but to fly the instrument approach to runway two seven, even though that means we have to fly past the airport and turn around. We’ve got enough altitude to pass the runway a mile and a half to the south as we’re going eastbound, then make a tight left one-hundred-eighty-degree turn back west on instruments and find the localizer for runway two seven, and just… come down to the glide slope.”
“Fly by the airport? Hell, Craig, he can vector us right to it!”
Craig looked at Alastair with a rapid glance. “But we can’t see it! What if we’re displaced a quarter mile to one side of the runway when we break out? We’ll sit down on a building or worse with no chance of going around.”
“We have no go-around potential if we fly by and turn, either!”
“Alastair, we’ve flamed out both engines. We have no go-around capability period! But, if we keep the speed up, we’ll still have the hydraulics for the flight controls and landing gear and maybe flap extension, and we’ll have the ILS on my side to get down the centerline. All we need is enough altitude. Get your flashlight out, just in case.”
“I have it.” Alastair scanned the situation again on his GPS and on the captain’s panel to his left. Fifty miles from Connemara, speed two hundred ten knots, altitude twenty-one thousand feet and descending steadily with the headwind gone and a tailwind beginning to improve their chances of reaching the airport with enough altitude left to maneuver for landing. As long as they kept the airspeed high enough, the wind flowing through the unpowered jet engines would keep them rotating fast enough to keep pumping hydraulic pressure into the aircraft systems. The battery would be good for thirty minutes, and they’d be on the ground long before that. As soon as they slowed under a hundred eighty knots, however, the hydraulic power would die and the only flight controls left would be the standby rudder system, manual pitch trim, and a hard-to-handle system called “manual reversion” for keeping the wings level.
“Okay,” Alastair said. “The way I see it, we’ll pass south of the runway at… about three thousand feet. A tight left turn at, ah… fifteen-hundred, no, twelve-hundred-feet-per-minute descent rate should put us on final approach at six hundred feet above the ground with a little energy to spare.”
“Tight, but okay. Alastair, tell the controller that, and also tell him we need to begin our turn not an inch farther than one mile east of the approach end of the runway, displaced exactly one and a half miles south.”
“You’re sure?”
“Check me, Alastair, but I think that’ll give us wiggle room. I can always slip it to a landing as long as we have some hydraulics left, which means I’ve got to keep the speed up, which means I’ll have to dive it down final.”
“How about the gear?”
“We’ll put the gear down as I start the turn to final. Use it as a speed brake. Be ready to yank the manual releases if we don’t have enough hydraulic pressure. And… keep your left leg clear, but on short final, pull out the manual crank on the pitch trim wheel and stand by to help me flare.”
“Roger.”
“I’m gonna hold two hundred knots until we’re lined up fat on final, and I may try to extend some flaps at that point to slow us down. If we touch down at two hundred, we’ll never get her stopped.”
“Got it. We’re thirty-nine miles out.”
Alastair relayed the plan carefully to the controller, watching the unfolding flight path on the flight computer and the horizontal situation indicator in front of him to verify they were being aimed ever so slightly to the south of the airport.
“They know we’re coming?” Alastair asked the controller.
“Yes, sir. Crash equipment is standing by. You’re cleared to land. Verify you’ve got no engine power?”
“We’re flamed out. No fuel.”
“Roger.”
“Twenty-eight miles to go, Craig,” Alastair said, yanking his flight manual out of his flight bag and wildly leafing through to check the speed figures for final approach at their weight.
“Since we’re so light, she’s going to want to float when you flare, and we won’t have speed brakes, and of course, there are no reversers without… you know…”
“Engines running,” Craig finished.
“Yeah.”
“Got it.”
“Twenty miles,” Alastair said.
“Okay… look… get me set up now for the ILS, double check I have the right frequency in the radio, and make sure we’ve got the right inbound course set in… that’s a heading of two seven zero.”
“Already done.”
“When… when we break out, we take whatever we’ve got. I’m going to have to plunk it down and get on the brakes to get stopped.”
“Understood, Craig. You won’t have antiskid, you know, and if you blow the tires…”
“I know… we’ll never stop. I’ll be careful.”
“Twelve miles.”
“Roger. Altitude?”
“We’re good. Coming through six thousand feet. I wish we could see something besides gray out there.”
“We will. Lock your shoulder harness.”
“Okay.”
“Get on the PA. Tell them in the back to get in a brace position.”
“I can’t. No electrical.”
“Roger,” Craig said.
“I show your heading dead-on to pass one and a half miles south. Weather information remains the same. The tower reports the ceiling is a bit better than the hundred fifty feet, and all approach lights are on.”
“Roger,” Craig said.
“We’re four miles from the airport, Craig, heading zero nine zero degrees, one point five miles south.”
“Okay. Call me perfectly abeam the end of the runway, then give me mileage increments east of that point.”
“Will do.”
“Altitude’s… three thousand five hundred,” Craig said to himself, pushing the jet’s nose down slightly to reach three thousand as they passed abeam the end of the runway.
“Abeam, Craig. Speed two hundred twenty. Zero visibility.”
“Roger.”
The controller repeated the same information.
“Stand by, now, sir,” Alastair said. “No more transmissions while we’re working this.” He glanced at the left seat. “Okay, Craig, we’re one half mile east, twenty-eight hundred feet above the ground, speed two hundred knots.”
“Roger.”
“Coming up on one mile east, speed two hundred, altitude twenty-six hundred.”
“Keep calling it. Not turning yet.”
“One point one miles, one point two, one point three…”
“Okay!” Craig said. “Now. Landing gear down!” He rolled the 737 into a forty-five-degree left bank, beginning the turn back to the runway.
“Gear down,” Alastair repeated, working the handle and checking the gear as it fell into place and rewarded him with three green lights.
“Gear down and locked, Craig, coming through heading of north, forty-degree bank, speed two hundred, altitude two thousand one hundred, and we’re one point nine miles from the end of the runway. We’re high and fast. I see no lights out there, no glow through the fog, nothing.”
“Okay. Have faith.”
“Localizer alive, Craig. Coming fast.”
“Steepening… the… bank!” Craig said, rolling the 737 into a nearly fifty degree left bank angle to catch the ILS inbound course. He rolled out of the turn precisely on course and perfectly aligned with the unseen runway ahead and reached for the speed brake handle, pulling it to the deployed position. The windmilling hydraulic pressure dutifully raised the speed brake panels on both wings, steepening the descent and slowing them.