He’d been involved in two other accidents in his career as an air traffic controller, but this was his first involving a fatality. Kaplan felt sure he did everything by the book and would not be held liable in the accident. But the NTSB has been known to make issues out of procedures and working habits that controllers take for granted as safe operating practices.
The first accident for Kaplan occurred when a Piper Cherokee he was working ran out of gas. The pilot landed in a nearby field and tore up his airplane, but he walked away with only minor injuries. His second involvement was as a tower cab controller — local controller — when a pilot of a light twin-engine aircraft landed gear up. The only injury in that accident was the pilot’s pride.
The other men at the table were the Air Traffic Manager of the Savannah facility and the front line manager on duty at the time of the accident, and Kaplan’s good friend, David Cook, the facility representative for the National Air Traffic Controllers Association (NATCA), the air traffic controllers union at the Savannah facility.
Kaplan trained Cook when he was hired fifteen years earlier, the best trainee Kaplan had ever had. They were both ex-military with similar exercise regimens and Kaplan quickly formed a lasting friendship with the forty-five year old Cook.
They sat on one side of the table while the air traffic manager and supervisor sat across from them in classic labor-versusmanagement style.
Cook and the supervisor took notes as the recording blared through the speaker.
Cook glanced at Kaplan, “You’ve been through this before, it’s all standard protocol for accident investigations. Besides we want to listen to the recording before you write your official statement. Sometimes you hear things that you may not have remembered without listening.”
“Thanks Cookie,” a nickname affectionately given to Cook by his fellow controller. “I thought I did everything by the book — so far it sounds good.”
Cook twirled his pen. “Gregg, everything I’ve heard so far is by the book. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
At the end of the tape, the air traffic manager said to Kaplan, “I didn’t hear you read any of the weather strips. You know, the NTSB is going to bust our asses on that one.”
“None were given to me so I never saw any,” replied Kaplan. “I did read the local weather shortly after he checked on.”
The manager rapped his fingers on the table, turned to Cook and said, “Cookie, the Region informed me this is a covered event for drug and alcohol testing, so Gregg will be required to remain here until they show up and administer the tests. They should be here in an hour or so.”
Cook gave the manager an irritated look. “Gregg was clearly by the book. There’s no reason for testing of any kind.”
“The Region made the call. I have no choice in the matter,” he replied and then paused. “You’ll just have to deal with it. And by the way, Gregg, the NTSB will be in here tomorrow and you will be interviewed. Whether or not Cookie is invited is entirely up to the NTSB investigator.”
Cook pushed his chair back abruptly and stood. “Might I remind you that Article 6 Section 1 entitles the union to be present at meetings with the NTSB?”
The manager said nothing.
Kaplan looked over to see a slight smirk on the supervisor’s face. “I’m on annual leave tomorrow. I won’t be back until next week.”
“I’m canceling it. Part of it anyway. Be here no later than nine o’clock in the morning. You’ll meet with an FAA attorney at nine, then with the NTSB at ten.”
Cook shook his finger at the manager. “You can’t cancel annual leave that’s already been approved. Gregg may very well have made plans by now.”
“Well, I am — file a grievance if you want to.” The manager turned to Kaplan. “Be here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock and that’s an order. And Gregg, one more thing, you’re relieved of air traffic control duties until the NTSB gives you the green light.”
“You can’t do that, you have no cause,” Cook said. “You heard the tapes, Gregg was by the book.”
“I just did. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing, the newspapers, TV stations. I’m not taking any chances. That’s the way it’s going to be.”
The manager turned and left the room.
“I’ll talk to him, maybe I can change his mind.” The supervisor handed Kaplan an accident statement form. “I’ll need this before you go home, okay, Gregg?”
Kaplan nodded. “Yeah, no problem.”
He started writing his statement for the accident, recalling the events of the morning. His mind replayed the scene.
He’d plugged his headset into the slot next to Annie’s and joked with her a few minutes before she briefed him. He’d sat down and taken over as she left. It had seemed like a busy morning with the heavy inbound push but quickly turned into a routine day. Nothing had occurred to raise unusual tension in the room, until he heard that “Mayday” from the corporate jet making its approach to the airport.
Kaplan finished writing his statement, omitting only the personal byplay between him and Annie, and then handed to Cook to proofread.
“Thanks, Gregg. I trust you, just give it to Mac. I’m going to talk to that asshole in the front office and see about getting you back to work.”
“Good luck with that, Cookie. I wouldn’t worry with it too much. I’m on leave for the next few days anyway.”
“I know, Gregg. It’s just the principal of the matter. The prick stepped over the line, and in my eyes, that’s tantamount to starting a fight. I don’t like it when he picks on one of my troops.”
Cook left the union office.
Kaplan found the supervisor in the hall and handed him the statement. “Here you go, Mac, all done.”
“I talked to the son of a bitch but he won’t budge. I left when Cookie showed up. He’s in there yelling at him now. The drug and alcohol testers are already here,” the supervisor told him. “Check in with them and when you’re done you’re excused for the rest of the day. I’ll take care of the CRU-ART,” making reference to the automated sign-on/sign-off program used by the FAA, similar to punching a time clock.
Kaplan raised his arm to acknowledge and headed for the designated drug testing room.
After the tests were administered, he walked to the parking lot and climbed onto his black Harley Davidson Fat Boy. Kaplan slipped on his sunglasses, fired up the 1584 cc Twin Cam 96B balanced engine and pulled out of the airport parking lot. He waited impatiently as the security gate slowly opened, twisting the throttle rapidly, revving the engine. Before the gate had fully opened, he sped out.
Kaplan had lived in Savannah for nearly twenty years, getting hired after the hiring spree that followed the 1981 Professional Air Traffic Controllers Organization strike.
He had grown up near an airport in Fayetteville, North Carolina. As a young boy he would ride his bicycle to the airport and sit for hours watching the airplanes take off and land. One of the Fayetteville air traffic controllers noticed Kaplan out there nearly every day. On one occasion, he invited young Kaplan up into the tower. He was an instant favorite in the tower. He still remembered the amazement on the controllers’ faces when they saw how well he knew and recognized the different aircraft, in some instances better than some of the controllers. When asked where he learned so much, he told them he spent a lot of time at the library reading about airplanes from the library’s copy of Jane’s All the World’s Aircraft.
After high school, he attended North Carolina State University for two years. When his parents were killed in an automobile accident, the financial burden forced him to drop out of college and work full time at a hardware store in his hometown. Eventually Kaplan got bored and joined the Army. Upon enlistment, he requested flight training to be a pilot, either fixed wing or helicopters. He didn’t care as long as he was flying. He was informed that there were no slots available, nor would there be for a couple of years. After some soulsearching, he enlisted as a private in an infantry division.