Headwind (2001)

by John J. Nance

  Yet the Cessna’s transponder was reporting ten thousand one hundred and descending.

  The controller triggered his transmitter again, trying once more to raise the pilot.

  “Still having problems with that guy?” a voice said over his shoulder. The controller glanced around at his supervisor and nodded. “He can’t hear a thing from me, but I’ve heard every call he’s made.”

  “Partial radio failure, then,” the supervisor grumbled.

  “He’s on the proper course, and he’s past the highest mountains, but he’s started descending without clearance.”

  “Transponder’s not on seventy-seven hundred, either,” the supervisor said, referring to the emergency transponder code. “He should squawk the radio failure code, at least.”

  “Yeah, but he hasn’t yet,” the controller said

  “You tried calling him over the VOR frequency?”

  “Yep. No luck.”

  The controller checked the clearance again on the handwritten paper strip to his side. If he couldn’t regain contact, he could expect the pilot to bore on in toward Denver’s International Airport using the very specific published procedure known as the Rammes 3 arrival, and probably try to fly an ILS to one of the runways. He would have to notify a Denver approach controller in a minute or so, and a sky full of commercial traffic would have to be routed around the little Cessna to keep everyone safe.

  “Better let Denver Approach know,” the supervisor said.

  The controller nodded, cringing inwardly at the disruption the private pilot was about to cause. 747’s, DC-10’s, 737’s, and a myriad of other large airliners would be wasting untold gallons of jet fuel all because a solitary pilot hadn’t made sure his radios were working before departure.

  He looked back at the glowing data block next to the target that represented the Cessna’s position on his computerized radar display.

  Now he’s down to nine thousand eight hundred. Why? What’s going on up there?

  Aboard Cessna 225JN, in Flight, Sixty Miles

  Southeast of Laramie, Wyoming

  “What’s happening, David?” Jay asked, his fears reaching new heights as he watched David Carmichael glance repeatedly at the left wing and the engine cowling and windscreen in front of them, which had frosted up.

  Jay saw him check the throttle, pushing it as far in as it would go.

  “Just . . . a second . . .” David managed, as he looked again to the left.

  Jay followed his gaze to the left side brace that came up from the lower fuselage to the bottom of the wing on the left side, holding the wing in a rigid position. The brace was intact, but there was something on the leading edge of its metal surface.

  Ice, Jay thought to himself. Even as he watched, the crust of ice thickened. Mostly clear, there were flecks of white, as if they were picking up sleet or snow as well.

  “I ah . . .” David began, his eyes still outside.

  “What?”

  David turned to look at Jay. “I wasn’t expecting this. We’re picking up ice. I’ve got to get us out of here.”

  “Where?” Jay asked as he felt a wave of cold rush through his body. “Turn around?”

  David shook his head. “Too late. We’re over the pass, and . . . the ground below us is probably about six thousand feet. We’re sinking slowly at full power.”

  “What . . . what do mean, ‘sinking’?” Jay stammered.

  “I can’t hold this altitude with the added weight of ice,” David said quietly.

  The sound of the engine had been a steady, cacophonous drone, but it changed suddenly, sputtering and surging and sputtering again.

  David’s hand snaked out to pull a knob on the forward panel and the sputtering was replaced again by the steady drone of gasoline-powered pistons.

  “What was that?” Jay asked, his words coming too fast.

  “Carburetor ice. I needed . . . carb heat.”

  “Is it . . . going to keep running?”

  David nodded. “Oh, yeah. Just . . . routine problem.”

  Even I know that’s a lie! Jay thought as his cell phone rang again. He fumbled for it and flipped it open.

  “Yes?”

  “Jay? Sherry Lincoln.”

  “Yeah . . . hold on, Sherry. We’ve, ah, got a problem up here.”

  “What is it?” he heard her say as he pulled the phone from his ear and held it in his lap, his mind whirling with conflicting emotions and thoughts. They were sinking, David had said. Did that mean they were going to crash?

  “David . . . what are you going to do?”

  The pilot’s right hand came up in a “wait” gesture, but Jay could see it shaking, and only shards of a sentence came out of David’s mouth.

  “I . . . ah, we’re going . . . wait . . . wait a minute . . .”

  Jay forced himself to disconnect from the nightmare and focus on the cell phone and Sherry Lincoln and Sigonella.

  “Yes, Sherry,” he said.

  “What’s happening there?” she asked.

  “Not important,” Jay replied. “We’ll be in Denver shortly. What’s going on there?”

  Jay could see David pushing on the throttle again, even though they both knew it was at full power.

  “When I lost you a while ago,” Sherry was saying, “you’d just asked if we had any reason to think the Italians might change their mind about letting us stay on the ground here undisturbed. We’re worried, Jay, that we need to get in the air and aim for someplace else. Campbell was pretty mad when he left the airplane and I’m not sure what else he can pull. Do you know?”

  There was a momentary shrill sound, an electrical buzzer or horn of some sort, and he saw David shove the control yoke forward slightly in response.

  Jay shook his head, reminding himself suddenly that she couldn’t see the gesture. He forced himself to ignore the needles of the instrument David had identified as the altimeter, even though he could see them slowly unwinding in his peripheral vision.

  “I don’t know for certain, Sherry, but his only real option is to find a high court judge there in Italy, probably in Rome, and try to get a ruling that Italian jurisdiction covers that flight-line ramp as well.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “The Italians don’t react like our judges, but then, Campbell is well known and respected. It’s not impossible that some jurist would let himself be disturbed at home.”

  A hand appeared in front of him as David changed a radio frequency and adjusted several knobs, calling once again in vain for Denver Center.

  “What should we do, Jay?” Sherry asked. “Plain and simple. It’s decision time.”

  He swallowed hard, trying to weigh the options with a mind badly divided between considering the situation in Sicily and considering the possibility of his own imminent demise.

  “All right, Sherry. I . . . need to make a few more calls to verify that nothing’s changed in the British approach to the torture treaty and extradition. Have the pilot file a flight plan for London, but stand by and don’t leave for an hour. Call me back in an hour. If I’m . . . not available . . . take off, go to London, and have the President surrender to any properly constituted authority trying to serve the warrant. But, if they aren’t waiting, refuel and get as far toward the U.S. as possible. Canada would be okay.”

  “What do you mean, if you’re not available?” Sherry asked, aware of his frightened tone.

  “Just . . . don’t worry. Call me in an hour.”

  Jay ended the call as David once again twirled radio frequency dials, his hand pausing suddenly over one of the knobs. Jay saw him grab the outer ring of the dual plastic knob and turn it back and forth.

  “Oh, DAMN!”

  “What?”

  “Denver Center, Cessna Two-Two-Five Juliet November, how do you hear me now? I think I’ve fixed my radio problem.”

  A male voice boomed into their headsets, the tones as welcome a deliverance as suddenly flying into clear skies would have been.


  “Cessna Two-Two-Five Juliet November, Denver Center. Can you hear me, sir?”

  “YES! Thank heavens!” David managed to say. “I’ve got you five by, Denver.”

  “I’ve been hearing all your transmissions, Juliet November, but you apparently weren’t hearing me on any transmitter.”

  “I . . . somehow the volume control slipped, sir. I apologize.”

  “Observe your altitude to be nine thousand three hundred and descending, Juliet November. You were cleared to eleven thousand.”

  “I can’t control it, Denver! I’ve picked up ice. That wasn’t an intentional descent.”

  “Understand, sir. Are you declaring an emergency at this time?”

  “Yes! I’ve got full power and I can’t stay level . . . and I got a stall warning a minute ago.” David’s voice was several levels higher than normal, the extreme stress showing in the pace and timbre of his words, and the controller had obviously picked up on it.

  “Okay, stay calm, Two Five Juliet November, we’ll get you home. Are you still picking up ice?”

  “Yes! I need to get away from the front range.”

  “Understood, sir. Come left this time to a vector heading of one-zero-zero degrees. I’m going to clear out everyone ahead of you and bring you into Denver for an ILS to runway nine left. Weather at Denver is indefinite ceiling, visibility one-half mile, runway visual range on nine left is three thousand feet, temperature twenty-nine, dew point seven, altimeter two nine seven four, winds calm.”

  “Roger. I’m descending through nine thousand feet!”

  “Okay, sir, you’ve got twenty-six miles to go, ground speed shows to be one hundred twenty knots, and I show you descending at about two hundred feet per minute. You should be fine.”

  “Denver, we’re still picking up ice!”

  Jay felt a sudden shuddering of the aircraft.

  David shoved the control column forward, partially lifting them from their seats as the nose came down. Again he let the speed build back and slowly raised the nose.

  “What . . . was that?” Jay asked in a voice barely above a squeak.

  “Stall. We stalled. I’ve got to keep the speed up faster than normal because we’re carrying a heavy load of ice and it’s redesigning the wing.”

  “Oh, wonderful.”

  David was breathing hard, his eyes all over the instrument panel as the voice of the Denver controller returned.

  “Okay, Juliet November. I see you suddenly lost several hundred feet there. You okay?”

  “I . . . almost stalled, Denver.”

  “Call me Bill, okay?” The controller said. “And your name?”

  “Uh . . . Dave . . . David,” he swallowed hard.

  “Okay, David, we’re gonna get you in. I’m a pilot, too. Just keep that speed at least five knots above wherever she wanted to stall. What’s your descent rate?”

  David leaned forward, peering at another round dial before answering.

  “Ah . . . three hundred feet per minute . . . about.”

  “Still should work. Now, David, don’t try to look up anything, I’m going to read you the frequencies and all you’ll need to do is the ILS. You are, of course, instrument rated?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, don’t worry. I’m IFR rated.”

  “Good. I was sure you were, but we have to check. Okay, I want you to carefully dial in the ILS frequency one one two point four and visually check to make sure it’s in your navigation radio and not your communication radio.”

  “Got it,” David replied, after quickly rotating the knobs.

  “Altitude, David?”

  “Ah, eight thousand four hundred. Still three hundred feet per minute down, speed one twenty-five.”

  “Very well. You’re twenty-two miles out, and we need to make a decision here. I can try to land you at Centennial Airport, which is south of you about five miles, or we can continue on to Denver International. You could make Centennial just fine, but the ILS is out, and while they’re reporting a three-hundred-foot ceiling, it’s an automated ASOS report. Fact is, sometimes the ASOS can’t detect rapidly changing conditions. It could be much worse there.”

  “Okay.” David glanced at his passenger, calculating the reason for the flight to begin with and the danger of descending closer to the front range of the Rockies to find a fog-shrouded Centennial.

  “Ah . . . International. Denver International,” he said.

  “Okay. Are you out of the icing?”

  David looked to the left at the wing and then through the windscreen at the cowling before answering.

  “Yeah . . . I think we’re out of it. But it’s not melting.”

  “Nineteen miles out, David, and your altitude is still good.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, put your course selector on the ILS inbound heading of zero nine zero degrees.”

  “Okay. Done. Am I going to change to Denver Approach?”

  “No, David, I’ll stay with you the whole way. Denver Approach is keeping everyone else away.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re approaching the localizer.”

  “What’s a localizer?” Jay heard himself ask.

  “It’s . . . this needle . . .” David answered, pointing to the Horizontal Situation Indicator on the forward panel. “When it slides over to the center, it means I’m on course to the runway.”

  “Okay.”

  David triggered the transmitter. “Intercepting localizer, Denver. I’m turning on course.”

  “Roger. Sixteen miles to the runway.”

  Shuddering coursed through the aircraft again and once more David shoved the nose over, waiting for the airspeed to come up before shallowing the rate of descent.

  “What’s your altitude, David?”

  “I had to lose some to avoid stalling. Seventy four hundred.”

  “Okay, you’re fourteen miles out, doing two miles per minute, we’ve got to keep you airborne for seven minutes more, the field is at five thousand three hundred feet above sea level, which means you can’t descend at more than three hundred feet per minute maximum. As a fellow Cessna driver, let me advise you not to use flaps. Don’t do anything to increase your drag.”

  “Understood,” David replied, his heart in his throat as he did the math in his head and watched the rate of climb indicator holding just under three hundred feet per minute rate of descent.

  Denver Air Route Traffic Control Center, Denver, Colorado

  “He’s not going to make it, Bill,” the supervisor said.

  The controller nodded reluctantly, his blood running cold at the thought that he might have steered the panicked pilot wrong. Only plowed fields surrounded Denver International, though. If he couldn’t make the runway, perhaps he could put it down safely in a field.

  The controller swallowed hard and looked over at his supervisor. “Alert DIA to get the fire trucks ready to look for touchdown short of runway nine left.”

  “Okay.”

  “He might still make it.”

  The supervisor picked up the tie-line handset without comment and punched the appropriate buttons.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Sigonella Naval Air Station, Sicily—Monday—9:10 P.M.

  Captain Swanson took the unexpected call from the foreign minister of Italy at his desk, where he’d been sitting in thought, rubbing his eyes and wondering if there was anything else he should be doing to defuse the situation on his ramp.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Commander Swanson?”

  “Captain, actually.”

  “Very well. This is Giuseppe Anselmo, and this call has never happened.”

  “Ah, you mean this is completely off the record?”

  “If that’s the correct phrase.”

  “Very well, sir. Go ahead.”

  “I will be brief. I am aware that you know all the appropriate names. Mr. Campbell’s representatives have been at the home of one of our highest judges asking that our interpreta
tion of the lease on your base be changed to include immediate Italian jurisdiction over the flight line.”

  “Yes?” Swanson said with a sinking feeling.

  “The judge is considering his request. We have no control over that, any more than you control your courts in the United States.”