by Andy Farman
“One Four Eight, Gun Lead.”
“Go ahead Gun.”
“How are your passengers holding up?”
“Oh, about the same as us…the clinical term would be, ‘about as well as can be expected under the circumstances’…which for me means, right now I’m wearing elastic bands around the bottoms of my trouser legs, to stop my socks filling up with brown Adrenaline.”
The humour in the otherwise flat calm of the ACs voice brought a wide grin to Arndeker’s face. He didn’t know either pilot’s names, but he was determined to hoist a drink or two with them after this was over, and find out.
At Galway Lifeboat station the volunteer boat crews who lived furthest away were still arriving, having been summoned from their beds. The ready lifeboat was far out in the bay, manned by the first arrivals and so the remainder made themselves tea and sat around where they could hear the RT set. All anyone had been told was that an airliner was in trouble, and it was going to ditch in the sea because it couldn’t steer.
Liam McGonnigle, a lifeboat Cox’n and local dentist was the last man in through the door, still dressed in his best suit and hot from the dance floor at the local Rotary Club. “Who’s taken her out?” he asked as soon as he made it through the door.
Someone answered without looking around, unwilling to take his attention from the constant chatter on the radio, as if it were a TV set “Big Sean, little Sean and Patrick with the limp.”
“Jay’zus…there I was fending off the desperate blue rinsers, and the ugliest trio in all of Ireland are going to be fishing grateful stewey-desses from the bay!” said Liam with a strong note of irony.
The speaker, who was the station’s manager, turned and replied.
“Those are harsh words to be coming from the face of such a hideous looking man, Liam.”
Liam grinned back at the speaker before squinting at a dry marker board fixed to the far wall.
“Has the new carburettor arrived for the left outboard on the number two boat?”
“It has so…but I’ve had no time to bless me own face today…are you thinking on taking it out Liam, the starboards fine but the others still as like to pack it in?”
“I’m thinking it’s awful cold tonight, and some that gets into the water won’t be making it into the boats.”
The station manager refilled the kettle and took down another mug for Liam.
“Who will you take, to crew with you?”
“Young Terry and that Adrian fella…I know one’s from Sligo and the others English, but I’m thinking they’re good hands.” Adrian had been born and raised in Galway, as had his father, but his grandfather had hailed from Liverpool, and that was enough for him to wear the label.
It took fifteen minutes to get ready and then get the reserve boat in the water; Liam started up the twin 70hp Evinrudes, listening carefully for signs of trouble from the bothersome portside motor as his two crewmen cast off. It seemed to be behaving, so with a last wave he opened the throttles, turning the Atlantic class boat westwards toward the ocean.
Arndeker carried on down to five hundred feet with the Boeing before slipping into trail five hundred metres behind, and fifty feet above it. Small ships and lifeboats were strung out in a five-mile long line, somewhere along that line the VC-25A would ditch.
Twenty thousand feet above them, the Royal Air Force AWAC orbited the area, its operators tightly controlling not only the helicopters and vessels, but a small fleet of ambulances that were in holding areas too.
Sgt Palo was buckled in on her seat against the bulkhead, sat upright but deliberately leaving her hands open in her lap, creating a picture calm. She wore a headset attached to a waterproofed, voice activated radio strapped to her waist, the pilots would give them the word that ditching was imminent, after which the cabin crew would use them to co-ordinate the evacuation. The German Chancellor and British PM were silent, deliberately ignoring the buffeting, constant vibration, and Senator Rickham, who was dry retching into an almost full puke bag.
From the left-hand seat Lt Col Jaz Redruff depressed the transmit button on the ‘stick’.
“Gun Lead, One Four Eight.”
Arndeker responded instantly.
“Go, guy.”
“How we looking?”
“Like a fat, rich, Ft Lauderdale widow, deciding if she wants to get her feet wet.”
“Just to let you know…in one minute we will commence throttle-back.”
“Roger…luck guys.”
Redruff glanced across at Sara Pebanet after checking the gauges one last time.
“Ok?”
She nodded in reply and took her left hand off the controls, placing it atop the throttles and began to ease them backwards. Jaz Redruff kept both hands on the controls, straining to keep the nose level. The next step would be the difference between hitting the ocean at 240 knots or 160; he knew which one he preferred.
Outwardly both pilots’ were a picture of calmness, and in truth they were a hell of a lot calmer than most of the planets population would have been, if they had been in the cockpit. Training, and later experiences, had taught them that panicking pilots died that much quicker than cool ones. However, they were human and both had families that they wanted to see again, so both were saying silent prayers as the indicated airspeed reached 240.
“Flaps 20.”
With an audible whine the flaps began to extend, and then the starboard wing dropped sickeningly as the starboard flaps met resistance from buckled metal within the wing, but the port side extended smoothly. Both pilots turned deathly pale and Sara’s hand shot back toward the gated flap control. With a screech like fingernails being drawn down a blackboard, the obstruction was forced aside, and the wing rose as its lifting surface was expanded to match that of the port wing.
Five hundred metres away Lt Col Arndeker had applied hard left rudder when he saw the airliner lurch to the right like a drunk trying to find home.
As the wings came level again he cancelled the manoeuvre and realised he’d stopped breathing. Letting the air escape from his lungs in a rush, he shook his head from side to side, no way was he ever going to play high stakes poker against guys with that kind of luck!
At 190 knots he lowered his own flaps in order to stay with the big Boeing, and as he did so he saw below them the lights of a small vessel, the head of the line of waiting rescue craft. As the aircraft roared past, the lifeboats Cox’n opened the throttles to the stops, and spun the wheel to race north after them.
Despite the turbulence Jaz Redruff was able to keep the aircraft’s nose up at 2.5 degrees above the horizon, and keeping it from going beyond that, with little physical effort. His movements on the controls were transmitted electronically to motors that did the physical job of moving the aircraft’s control surfaces. The buffeting and vibration was increasing to the point where he had to raise his voice to be heard.
“Flaps 25!”
Sara’s left hand eased the lever through the next gate to the 25’ position, and with a whine the flaps extended further.
Arndeker lowered his own landing gear in order to keep station behind the Boeing as its speed decreased. Time seemed to standstill as it drew closer to the ocean surface, and then a white wake appeared as the rear of the fuselage belly slapped wave tops. Lt Col Redruff kept the aircraft’s nose up as long as he could because once the four scoop-faced General Electric engines met the ocean the deceleration, and stress on the airframe would be harsh.
From its initial nose high attitude the speed fell off rapidly, and as it did so the nose came down toward the waves.
Arndeker saw the moment that the engines dug into the ocean surface, but little else because the aircraft vanished below him in a huge cloud of spray. The weakened starboard wing came away at the damaged section and whipped up and over the fuselage, decapitating the vertical fin from the tail. The VC-25A was no long balanced; the port wing dug in and spun the airframe so it was travelling sideways for a time at over 90 knots. The p
ressure on the starboard cargo doors was something that had never been catered for, or envisioned by her designers. The doors were stove in and the bay instantly flooded by a deluge that smashed into the cargo containers within, tearing them free to slam into thin aluminium bulkheads. A jumbled mass of containers holding the passengers’ baggage was shunted forward by the weight of water entered the aircraft’s hull. As it hammered into the forward bulkhead it gave, along with a seam on the hull, and the edges of the seam buckled inwards against the pressure of the ocean playing on it.
When the aircraft came to a halt the cockpit and nose were already under water, 28000 was sinking fast, canted over at an angle by the weight of the port engines.
Galway’s first lifeboat received the radio message that the airliner was down and opened its throttles. She was the boat at the end of the line, nearest the southern end of Galway Bay and a mile from the crash site, but she beat the Irish minesweeper Deirdre there, despite the ships 18-knot speed. The lifeboat hit her wake at 32 knots, becoming airborne briefly as she tore past.
Two other lifeboats were already on scene when she arrived, the Boeings nose section and almost half of the fuselage was already invisible below the surface as it lay at an angle with its tail raised above the waves, and the aircraft was visibly getting lower in the water by the moment.
Lt Col Arndeker had been waved off by the AWAC, which wanted the air clear for rescue helicopters, so he climbed up above the cloud to 15,000, feeling totally impotent.
Liam McGonnigle turned in his seat briefly to say some kind words to the port engine, promising to be nice to it providing it didn’t get up to its old tricks, the words were whipped away by the cold wind as they bore into the night.
Nancy Palo had been stunned by the impact with the ocean, and the seat belt that had saved her life, had also driven the breath from her. The cabin crew of 28000, and its sister 29000, were regularly drilled using various disaster scenarios, but this one was new however. Apart from having the stuffing knocked out of her, she was plunged into total darkness in a cabin canting over thirty degrees…and then the sea burst in.
Still groggy from the crash, Nancy’s senses were restored as the freezing waters bursting open the door and drenched her. She gasped with the cold and groped for the lamp on her life vest, it showed her the three other occupants of the office, still in their seats and the level of water rising quickly. Senator Rickham was sat open mouthed and staring as he clutched at the uppermost armrest on his seat, and the PM was reaching across the table that separated himself and the German politician feeling for a pulse on the Chancellor’s neck. The German’s head hung to one side and his arms and legs were angled toward the water, the PM had to grip the edge of the table as he leant over precariously. It was a matter of public record that the Chancellor had undergone bypass surgery the previous year, but what was not was his doctors warning that it his heart condition was worsening, and a major coronary failure was a distinct possibility.
“I’m afraid he is dead sergeant, and I think we should get out of here, don’t you?” He pulled himself nimbly over on to the Chancellors seat, taking care not to tread on the dead man, and taking a firm hold on the bottom most armrest he lowered himself toward Nancy, outstretching his free hand. From the noises beyond the partition, in the cabin section nearest the tail, they could hear the sounds of the emergency exits being opened and Nancy’s colleagues shouting instructions. She should have been hearing her colleagues in the radio headset, but there was nothing at all, and she didn’t want to think of the reasons for that.
She did not have armrests to keep her from sliding off her seat into the water, and if that happened then there was nothing for her to use to climb up toward the emergency exit, so she grasped the PMs wrist with her left hand before releasing her seatbelt, and he pulled her up to the Chancellors seat. Senator Rickham had sat unmoving, with the look of shock on his face and it took the PMs shaking him violently before he stirred. It was very apparent that Rickham had soiled himself, and the PMs expression softened, he knew what it was like to be scared. “Senator, it’s time to go, yes?”
The emergency exit for the Presidential office was situated at one of the windows, and Nancy stretched up to release it, and then hesitated. “Oh crap, this section’s under water already.” The water inside the office had already engulfed the seat she had vacated, so time was of the essence.
“Okay Gentlemen…listen carefully now!”
The PM was struggling against the angle that they were canted over as he helped the senator climb onto the seat. “Do go on sergeant, we are not ignoring you.”
“Once I open this hatch the water is going to pour in, so we cannot get out until this part of the cabin is full of water…ok so far?”
If anything the senators expression became even more fearful, but he seemed incapable of saying anything. The PM nodded at her, so she continued. “Start taking deep breaths, really expand your lungs because you need to saturate your blood with oxygen…it will help you hold your breath much longer, ok?” The PM was already drawing in big gulps of oxygen, and the senator nodded back dumbly.
“But…I can’t tell how deep we are so once you get out, you cannot keep the air in your lungs, you must slowly breathe out or your lungs will explode as you get closer to the surface if we are too deep!”
Nancy took two deep breaths and activated the hatch release, but even though she had been bracing herself for it, the effect of the weight of water on the outside of the hatch came as a shock. The only way to release the hatch was from directly in front because it was a two handed operation; it wasn’t something that could be done from the side. Only her outstretched arms prevented the hatch from braining her as the ocean propelled it inside the fuselage. Hammered backwards into the water that was filling the lower end of the office, the breath was driven from her and she began to choke on seawater. Hands grasped her under her armpits and she was pulled toward the rapidly diminishing air pocket. The Prime Minister had jumped in after her and pulled her to safety, allowing her the time to take three precious breaths before the office was completely engulfed.
As the waters closed over Senator Rickham’s head, the panic that had lurked so close since the explosion first shook the aircraft, now took over. The opening in the fuselage represented life and he swam the two strokes that separated him from the opening and tried to pull himself through it. Had his wits been with him he would possibly have waited the few seconds remaining for the pressure to equalise. He managed to hook a hand through to the outside rim, but pull as he might he could not get out. Rickham’s free hand sought the toggle that would inflate the life vest, and to his mind lift him against the force of the incoming waters, and up to the surface. His chest was beginning to hurt when his fingers found what they sought, and pulled hard, opening the valve in the small compressed air cylinder that filled the life vest. The effect was immediate, Rickham shot upwards, and his head emerged through the exit but then stopped dead, the inflated vest jamming him in the narrow opening. The realisation that he was going to die struck home as he clawed at the fuselage with his only free arm, and Senator Rickham opened his mouth to scream.
Only a foot or so of space remained out of the waters grasp when the PM ducked below the surface, and Nancy took a last deep breath before kicking off and following him. On finding the senators body, still kicking feebly and blocking the way out she felt the first spike of panic, grabbing his legs and trying to drag him away. The Prime Minister fumbled into his trousers pocket and withdrew a pocket knife, the venerable MOD issue knife known as an ‘oil the joints’, after the only words to adorn its strictly functional body that had been issued to him as an officer cadet years before. He stabbed at the senators’ life vest, puncturing it and working the knife blade, enlarging the rent as the air boiled from it. The PM kicked the body away and reached down for the USAF sergeant, gripping her by the wrist and pulling her up to the exit. His chest was bursting and there were spots appearing at the edge of his vis
ion as he thrust her through the opening. The fuselage started to move and the lamp on her life vest snagged the edge of the exit momentarily, and then it tore loose and she was free. The fuselage rolled as the last pockets of air in the tail section escaped and the fierce undertow played against the port wing, and the Boeing wearing the livery of the United States of America sank toward the ocean bed.
Galway’s number two lifeboat arrived on scene as the stump of the Boeings tail fin disappeared amidst the waves, the odd item of clothing; floating wreckage and stink of aviation fuel were all that remained. After sinking at a steady rate the big aircraft’s demise happened in a rush, as passengers were still emerging from emergency exits in the rear of the aircraft. There were three helicopters overhead illuminating the scene with 'nitesun' searchlights, their pilot earning their pay as they struggled with heavy gusts of wind in order to stay on station.
Liam throttled back and headed toward the other Galway boat that seemed full to overflowing with sodden, shivering humanity that glittered in the light reflecting off survival blankets. Its Cox’n waved and hailed the newcomer as it hove into view. “Would that be yourself, Liam McGonnigle?”
“Aye, and who else would it be on such a night as this Patrick Kilarey, when sensible men are tucked up warm and dry in their beds!”
“You have a point there Liam…no one ever accused you of having wits about you!”
Liam stuck two fingers up at the other Cox’n. “How many are out?”
“Just those that you see…no more than twenty…I’m heading for the Deirdre now, but I’ll return to help recover bodies!”
There was only one boat now still at the spot where the aircraft had gone down, and that held a pair of survivors besides its three crewmen. Liam gunned his own lifeboats engines to head over to where he could shout to its Cox’n.