The quality of the voice was pretty good.
There were several exchanges, all routine, and some of the usual cockpit chatter, though by and large the two in the DC-10 didn't have a lot to say to each other. We heard a stewardess come in at one point, and heard the door shut behind her.
This sort of thing went on for ten or fifteen minutes. It was useful to get the names associated with the voices. We had the chief picots for Pan Am and United in the room to help us with that, and by the time things started to get interesting I had them sorted out.
In the DC-20 had been Captain Vern Rockwell, First Officer Harold Davis, and Flight Engineer Thomas Abayta. I wondered what nationality he was. Every once in a while we'd hear the voice of Ca plain Gilbert Crain, the pilot of the Pan Am 747, coming over the radio, responding to calls from Janz. There were also many other planes in the area, and we heard the parts of their communications that reached the DC-10 cockpit through their radio.
United 35 was descending, coming through cloud layers from the north and east, and Janz was guiding it through a series of turns that would have it heading almost due west when he handed it aver to the Oakland tower for landing. Davis said something about the clouds, and Rockwell griped about the weather in Oakland. It seemed he didn't care much for the city.
Abayta said something about a daft hr had that night, and it sounded like the other two laughed. Then things started to happen.
Janz said, "United three-five, I make you too far south. There is another aircraft in your path. Advise you increase speed and turn left."
Rockwell said, "Roger, Oakland, but -- " and that was it, because Janz was on the air again immediately.
"Pan Am eight-eight-oh, advise you initiate left turn and decrease speed at once. What is your altitude, eight-eight-oh?"
I glanced at Janz again. He wouldn't have had to ask that unless his computer was down.
It would be displaying altitude right next to 880's blip. Janz had no reaction. I wasn't even sure he was hearing anymore.
Somebody -- I'm pretty sure it was Davis, the co-pilot -- said, "What the hell?"
"I don't know," Rockwell said. "I better do it. Call him back."
"Oakland, this is United three-five, turning-"
But he was cut off again by Janz, who said, "United three-five, can you see anything out your right window?"
There was a pause. I could imagine Davis looking out the window. He'd have to get his face real close to it, because with the plane already in a left turn his side would be tilted sharply.
"Negative, Oakland," Davis said. "We are in a cloud layer at this time. Do you advise -- "
"Jesus! Right over -- "
That was Rockwell again, and that's all he had time to say. We could hear the screech of metal, far away and indistinct, and instantly alarms started to go off. That's all we heard for maybe five seconds. Then Rockwell came back on.
"Uh ... Oakland, this is ... uh-oh, get that, get it!"
The engineer, Abayta, was shouting something in the background. We might retrieve his words in the lab; we'd listen to it over and over and eventually work up a fairly complete script. For now, we all listened to Vern Rockwell's last words, delivered in a calm, almost bored voice.
"Oakland, this is United three-five ... uh, we have collided with something and the ... uh, the aircraft is not responding ... uh, to control. No rudder function. Ah ... no response from the elevators. We have lost most of our left wing and the aircraft is on fire, repeat, the aircraft is on fire."
"Out of the clouds now," Davis put in. "Come on, come on, pull it up, get up, get up, get up."
Rockwell again: "The aircraft is in a tight roll to the left."
Abayta: "Fifteen hundred feet."
Rockwelclass="underline" "Applying ... right aileron ... the stick is shaking."
Davis: "Get the nose up ... we're going down, Vern."
Rockwelclass="underline" "Looks like it."
Abayta: "Hydraulic pressure is gone, back-up hydraulics ..
Rockwelclass="underline" "I'm trying to ... I'm going to try ... that didn't d. it, okay, uh, let's try ... shit."
I've never yet heard a pilot crying about it on the way down. Some of them are more excited than Rockwell was, but there's never anything that sounds like panic. These are men who have learned there is always something else you can do, something that, if you forget to do it, you're going to feel pretty silly. So they try and they try and they keep on trying until the ground is about an inch from the windshield, and then what I think they tend to feel is foolish. They finally realize they don't have time to do anything about anything. They've missed it. They've fucked up. They feel disgusted that they didn't solve the problem in time, and they say Aw, shit!
Sure, he's afraid. At least the ones I've talked to who made it through say they felt something that was an awful lot like fear. But his job is to keep the thing in the air, and he's still doing his job when he hits.
You can define heroism any way you want, but that's it for me. It's sticking in there no matter what. Whether it's a pilot fighting his plane down through that last mile, or switchboard operators and doctors and nurses staying at their posts while the bombs blitz London, or even the dance band on the Titanic playing while the ship goes down ...
It's fulfilling your responsibilities.
The room was silent for a while. Nobody could think of anything to say. Rockwell hadn't said anything deathless, anything quotable as being a heroic thing to say, but no one wanted to spoil the moment.
That's my job.
"Let's hear the other tape," I said, and everyone began murmuring at once. I glanced to my left, where a stenographer from United was sitting with a notepad in her lap. She was pale and her eyes were shiny. I gave her a smile that I meant m tell her it's okay, I understand, but from the way she looked at me she probably thought l was leering at her. My face is like that, sad to report. I'm told I usually look a little mean, or a little excited.
"They're still working on the other," Eli said. He looked meaningfully over at Janz, flanked by his protectors. I sighed, and went to him.
I dragged a chair around and straddled it, facing him I was introduced to his attorney, but I'm afraid the name has gone clear out of my head.
You can't run an investigation without lawyers. They'd soon be as thick as maggots in a week-old carcass.
"I had both 35 and 880 where I wanted them," Janz said, dully. He kept looking at his hands, clasped in his lap. You couldn't help thinking, looking at him, that the guy would fall over any minute. His eyelids kept drooping, then they'd jerk open and he'd study his hands some more. He had two ways of talking: too fast, and too slow. We'd get a burst of something, then he'd sit there looking vague and mumbling things we couldn't understand.
"And where was that, Don?" I said, encouragingly.
"Huh?"
"In what order? They were both going toward an approach at Oakland, right? Which one were you going to hand over first?"
"Uh ... " His eyes got spacey.
I should have known better. The lawyer cleared his throat again. We'd already listened to a lecture about how this whole interview was against his advice, and at several points he'd broken in, accusing me of manhandling his client. Manhandling! He was a lousy jerk in a three-piece suit, and dammit, I knew better than to push this kid. My big fear was that he'd start to cry.
"Okay, counselor," I said, holding up my hands. "No more questions, okay? I'll just sit back and listen." It was probably the best course, anyway. Questions just seemed to befuddle Janz.
"You were saying, Don?"
It took him a few minutes to recall where we'd been.
"Oh, right. Which one was ahead. I ... I ... can't remember."