While the reporters and camera people spread out along the fence looking for the best possible view through all the parked aircraft, Johnny Adair led Joyce and Lila to a gate, punched in a security code, and led them through. In a moment, they stood with nothing between them and the runway but a wide field of grass.
Traffic on the West Seattle Freeway was coming to a standstill as motorists, informed by their car radios, stopped to see the spectacle: two nearly identical Skylane aircraft flying in formation, followed by three news helicopters, all moving slowly over the bay and then right overhead, the airplane engines droning, the chopper blades wop-wop-wopping, heading for Boeing Field to the south. Horns began to honk, people waved, and a paint salesman leaned out the window of his van and hollered, “Godspeed, Jay Cooper!”
As Joyce and Lila continued to watch through binoculars, the two Skylanes grew to a clear and discernible shape; even their markings were recognizable: Eight Yankee Tango, white with red stripes, flying on the lower left of their view, and Niner Zulu Mike, white with green stripes, flying on the upper right.
The image blurred as tears filled Lila’s eyes. She wiped them clear and kept watching.
“I can’t take this, “ Joyce moaned. “I don’t think I can take this.” Nevertheless, she remained standing where she was, solid as a post, peering through her binoculars. “Come on, Jay. Come on. I love that big guy!”
Dr. Cooper could see the runway getting closer, and his heart was pounding so hard he could feel it. “All right, Jay, descent power again. We’ll start down.”
“Okay, descent power.”
“Four miles,” said Brock. “Nine hundred feet. We might need a steeper descent rate before long.”
Dr. Cooper instructed Jay, “Remember now, right before touchdown you’ll probably have to pull off the power and raise the nose, but you have to do it slowly, gently. You’ve landed our plane before, you know how it feels.”
Jay could feel his heart beginning to race. His hands were beginning to shake a little despite his efforts to steady them. “I know how it feels . . . I’ll try to remember.” He reached out and took hold of the control yoke. It felt familiar in his hands, but he dared not tug or push on it, not yet. Oh Lord, help me to remember, help me to feel it.
There was no sensation quite like being blind in a hurtling piece of flying machinery, having no real sense of where you were or where you were going or what might be in front of you. Jay tried to imagine what it was like outside the windows as he asked, “Where are we?”
“Three and half miles from the runway,” said his father. “The I-5 freeway is off to your left, the Duwamish River is off to your right. You’re about eight hundred feet up. It’s a sunny day so far. I can see the numbers on the end of the runway, a big one three. Give me a touch of right.”
Now Ben Parker and his crew were all watching through binoculars, looking out the huge windows of the control tower.
“We have you in sight, Yankee Tango,” said Parker. “You look good so far. Winds one seven zero.
“Two mile final,” said Brock. “Five hundred feet. Lots of room, just hold her steady.”
Dr. Cooper peered through the windshield. Runway One Three Right was almost two miles long, and yet from up here it looked so small, so narrow, like a little sidewalk with a strip of green grass on either side. Outside the strip of grass on the right were a taxiway, huge 747s and 757s parked in a long row, light aircraft, a huge hanger. Straight down, the buildings, streets and houses of Georgetown were passing rapidly under them, getting bigger and closer and faster with each passing second.
The two airplanes passed over the north airport boundary and their shadows appeared on the grass just north of the runway threshold. The broad, white-striped end of One Three spread out before them, coming up fast.
Yankee Tango veered to the right.
“Touch left,” said Cooper.
Jay twisted the autopilot knob to the left, waited just a moment, then returned it to neutral.
“Touch right,” came his father’s voice again.
He twisted the knob to the right. The airplane hit a bump in the air and lurched. Jay’s hand fell from the knob. He groped to find it again. Precious time passed.
The Yank banked over into a steep right turn.
Dr. Cooper tried to keep his voice calm, but his words shot out with rapid-fire urgency. “You’re turning right, Jay! Back to neutral, back to neutral!”
Jay groped for the knob with his left hand, grabbed the yoke with his right. He turned the yoke to the left momentarily, trying to override the autopilot.
“No . . . no, straighten it out!” Lila cried as she watched Yankee Tango pass over the runway and then beyond it, rocking this way, then that, caught in ground turbulence.
Jay found the knob and twisted it back to neutral.
The Yank snapped out of the turn, but now the airplane was fifty feet off the ground, still sinking, and headed for a row of 747s parked to the right of the runway.
This landing was too far gone to save.
“Full throttle, Jay,” said Dr. Cooper. “Go around.”
With a grimace of disappointment, Jay jammed the throttle forward and felt pressed into his seat as the airplane roared and rattled to life.
Through the telephoto lens of a television camera on the field, the Skylane appeared to drop behind the monstrous tail fin of a 747—as if it was sure to collide with it.
Then, like a barn swallow in a graceful upswoop, it shot up from behind the tail fin and into the sky, nose high, wings level.
Audiences all over the Northwest could hear a sigh of relief from the reporter and his cameraman.
Ben Parker let his head droop for just a moment of quiet relief, then looked out the window again as the Skylane climbed toward them. “Keep climbing, baby, keep climbing.”
If the Skylane did not continue climbing, it would certainly fly right through the tower windows.
Trust, trust, TRUST! Jay kept telling himself as he forced himself to hold still, keep his hands off the yoke, and not panic as he waited for the next word of instruction from his father.
Dr. Cooper managed to keep his voice so calm he surprised even himself as he said, “Okay, Jay, now let’s give it a touch of left so you don’t run into the control tower.”
The Skylane made a neat, brief bank to the left.
“Perfect.”
Jay’s voice came back. “Dad, I’m sorry. My hand slipped off the knob.”
Dr. Cooper drew a deep breath. He didn’t want his voice to sound unsteady as he replied, “That’s okay, son. You did great. We’re going to go around and try it again.”
Just then, Ben Parker’s voice came over the other radio, the one Jay would not hear. “Niner Zulu Mike, call me on this frequency.”
Brock switched radios. “Niner Zulu Mike here.”
Ben Parker spoke through his headset as he and his crew watched Eight Yankee Tango fly by the tower, safely to one side. “Be advised that by our best figures, Eight Yankee Tango has enough fuel for only one more attempted landing. Do you copy?”
Brock shot a glance at Dr. Cooper, then replied, “Roger, we copy.”
Parker’s face was stony and grim, his voice even. “If the aircraft runs out of fuel over a populated area, some innocent people on the ground could be hurt or killed. I’m sure you understand that.”
Brock looked at Dr. Cooper, who nodded.
Brock replied, “Roger, we understand.”
“If this attempt fails, you are instructed to guide the aircraft back to Alki Point where the Coast Guard is standing by. You are to follow through with the previous plan to ditch. Please acknowledge.”
Reluctantly, Brock pressed his talk button. “We acknowledge. If this attempt fails, we ditch the aircraft.”
Dr. Cooper looked at Brock, and then out the window at Eight Yankee Tango, still climbing. “One more attempt. Let’s make it good.”
EIGHT
The flying armada climbed to one
thousand feet, leveled off, turned to the north, and flew out over Puget Sound once again. For want of fuel—and out of fear for Jay’s dwindling strength—they decided against going clear to West Point. They turned inbound over Elliot Bay, seven miles out, holding steady at one thousand feet. Brock and Dr. Cooper did not tell Jay this would be his last attempt; he had enough on his mind.
Dr. Cooper tried to keep his voice strong and even. He didn’t want to pass any fear on to his son.
“It looked good, Jay, it really did.”
Jay was feeling tired and starting to get sick again, but more than that, a creeping terror was sneaking into his soul, giving him a gnawing pain in his gut and making his hands tremble. “What happened last time? It felt real bumpy.”
His father explained, “We think it was turbulence coming around that big hangar. We’re going to keep you up higher this time and land you farther down the runway. It’s a trade-off. We won’t have as much runway to play with, but hopefully the wind will be a little more steady and you won’t get knocked around quite so much.”
“I just . . . ,” Jay’s emotions were getting raw. “I just want to get on the ground again, that’s all. I want to get out of this airplane! I want to use my eyes and walk with my own feet on solid ground!”
“I want the same thing for you, son.” Dr. Cooper spoke soothingly. “As a matter of fact, we were all supposed to go down to the waterfront tonight, remember? We were going to get fish and chips and share it with the seagulls, then walk through the aquarium. Does that sound good to you?”
His father had mentioned the right things. It warmed Jay’s heart just to think of them. “I’d love it.”
“So what do you say? Let’s get this plane on the ground and go home.”
Jay drew a breath and sighed loudly as he let it out. Now he began gathering whatever strength and resolve he had left. “Let’s do it.”
“Right turn.”
Jay twisted the knob for what seemed like the zillionth time. “Right turn.”
A few seconds passed, and then his father said, “Stop turn.”
Jay repeated, “Stop turn,” and returned the knob to neutral.
And then he sat there, isolated from the world in a tight aluminum cocoon that to him had no windows. He was in the dark, surrounded by noise and rushing wind.
“Now when you’re about to touch down, have one hand on the yoke and one hand on the throttle. You’ll have to pull the power back when I tell you, and then you’ll have to hold the nose up. It’ll be tricky. But hey, if we can get you within a few feet of the runway, a few bumps aren’t going to hurt anybody.”
His father sounded so calm about all this, as if he’d done it every day of his life! I wish I could see, Dad, like you.
Dr. Cooper’s eyes were riveted on the airplane carrying his son and brother-in-law. “Just a few more minutes. Just a few more—”
Brock checked the instruments. “Descending two hundred feet a minute. That’ll do for now, but let’s keep him up high enough to get past that stupid hangar.”
The fire trucks motored further down the runway, having gotten word from Josie Fleming that the airplane would attempt a longer landing.
Out by Alki Point, the Coast Guard chopper and cruiser stood ready, listening to their radios, waiting for word.
Aboard the news helicopters, the reporters were so engrossed in the unfolding event that they said very little. They, as well as everyone watching their broadcast, could hear the painstaking, step-by-step radio communications between Dr. Cooper and his son. That and the image of the two airplanes descending together said it all.
“Looking good,” said Brock. “Two mile final, five hundred.”
Again, Runway One Three lay waiting for them, coming up fast. The buildings and streets of Georgetown seemed to move rapidly under and behind them. They were sinking, sinking, lower and lower.
“We’re too low,” said Brock. “More throttle.”
“More throttle, Jay,” ordered Dr. Cooper.
The cameras on the ground now began taping the two Skylanes approaching over the tops of the buildings, and the reporters by the fence picked up their narration:
“This could be it, the final moment.”
“As all the world watches with held breath. . . .”
“Never in all my career have I witnessed a moment like this one.”
Jay moved his hand from the throttle to the autopilot knob, then back to the throttle, then back to the autopilot knob, then back to the throttle, memorizing where they were. He could feel a little bit of stirring in the airframe, as if Yankee Tango were coming into some turbulence again. He reached for the yoke with his right hand and found it. He could feel the autopilot tweaking the yoke left, then right, then right again, then left, fighting the wind gusts, trying to keep the wings level.
“One mile, three hundred.”
The two aircraft came over the north fence. Their shadows raced once more across the grass, coming closer, closer.
“Touch right,” said Dr. Cooper, and this time his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and instructed again, “Touch right.”
The Yank banked to the right then returned to neutral. They were coming in crooked, a little to the left of Runway One Three, their noses turned slightly to the right, into the wind. Dr. Cooper was trying to anticipate the wind, hoping to get The Yank over the runway.
They passed over the runway threshold. The big white numbers, one three, passed under them, only slightly to their right. Now they were using up the runway, losing hundreds of feet of it each moment.
“Hold her right there, Jay, steady as she goes. One hundred feet.”
The shadow of Eight Yankee Tango was racing along the concrete of Runway One Three.
Jay reached down and gave his seat belt one last tightening tug, then placed his right hand on the yoke. This time he held the autopilot knob with his left thumb and index finger and braced his hand against the panel with his other fingers. He could not let his hand be jerked away from that knob again!
Brock eyed the end of the runway coming up fast.
“Too much power, too much power, he won’t get down in time!”
“Less power, Jay!” Dr. Cooper almost shouted.
“Back it off easy.”
Oh man, here goes. Jay cringed and prayed as he pulled the throttle back.
The Yank nosed down and began to drop faster toward its shadow on the pavement below.
Joyce let out one little cry and then ran for the fence. “I can’t watch this, I can’t watch!”
Johnny Adair opened his arms and held her as she buried her face in his chest.
Lila kept watching, no longer aware of the asphalt under her feet. In her mind and soul, she was in that airplane with her brother, feeling it, flying it, willing it to land on the runway.
“Come on now, easy, easy . . . ,” she coached.
The two airplanes descended together, one over the runway, one over the grass. They were like twins, mirror reflections of each other. At fifty feet off the ground, Brock lowered ten degrees of flaps and throttled for level flight, keeping pace with the descending Yank.
“Hand on the throttle, Jay,” said Dr. Cooper. “You’re fifty feet off the runway.”
Jay’s hand was already there. He waited, knowing nothing but what his father told him. Trust, Jay! Trust, trust, TRUST!
“Forty feet. Don’t pull the yoke yet. Relax. Remember, don’t overcorrect.”
The Yank’s shadow moved to the left and over the grass.
“He’s going to miss the runway!” Brock warned.
“Touch right.”
The Yank banked to the right and now its shadow skittered along the runway’s edge. They could feel the stirring, the lurching of turbulence close to the ground.
The shadow drifted to the left again.
“Touch right. Twenty feet.”
The Yank banked right again. Half the shadow came over the runway.
They’d used up half the r
unway. Up ahead, the fire trucks and aid cars were waiting on the grass, lights flashing, medics and firefighters standing ready.
The shadow drifted left and off the runway.
“We won’t make the runway,” said Dr. Cooper.
“Let him finish it,” Brock yelled. “Let him touch down.”
“Ten feet,” said Dr. Cooper. “Hand on that yoke, stand by!”
Jay could feel The Yank rocking, swaying, wagging its tail in small gusts of wind. His hands were shaking, trembling against the yoke and throttle.
“Dear God, dear God, dear God. . . .”
“Start pulling the power back, Jay, slowly!”
“Oh God, oh God. . . .” He pulled. It seemed slow, but he couldn’t be sure. The engine began to hush.
“Back pressure, Jay, just a touch.”
He pulled on the yoke.
“Hold it there, hold it there!” Now his Dad was quite excited, his voice racing and high-pitched.
“Five feet, hold it steady!”
The Yank was off to the left of the runway, heading for the grass. Brock looked anxiously ahead. Were there any lights, any signs, any obstacles?
A fire truck! A big stupid fire truck was sitting on the grass! The crew was scrambling, trying to move it. It was beginning to move, but—
CRUNCH!! RATTLE! The impact of the wheels on the ground came so suddenly, so loudly, that Jay’s whole body jerked with a start.
Then the wheels were quiet. Jay felt like he was floating.
The Yank had bounced high. It was nose up, losing speed, heading for the fire truck.
“POWER, JAY!” Dr. Cooper yelled. “POWER!”
Jay jammed the throttle forward. The plane lurched, roared, rattled. Through the blur and blindness he thought he saw a flash of red.
As Lila watched, as the television cameras recorded it, as the crowds along the aprons and fences all watched in horror, Eight Yankee Tango pulled, struggled, clawed its way into the air, up ten feet, then fifteen, just enough to skim over the top of the red fire truck.
Mayday at Two Thousand Five Hundred Page 8