The Thinktank That Leaked

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  “Affirmative. Under control.”

  “Keep it that way. We have you on radar but can you squawk or give your altitude verbally?”

  I panted, “Can’t trust the transponder. Altimeter reads eighteen thousand feet standard atmosphere.”

  “Roger. DC-10 Flight two-seven-two can see you and has reported a very close air miss. Don’t know what the hell’s going on but he’s been in constant touch on another frequency and now says you look okay.”

  “I’m okay. I’ve … I’ve had to knock out the captain. I have no experience flying these things except two hours in the simulator.”

  “We know. Execute auto landing.”

  I snapped, “All computers have gone crazy. Not on auto pilot and don’t even know if Flight Director will read. If you want explanation of this call Dr. Richter at Standard Electric Computers by phone.”

  “Richter is here in the building and has outlined the problem. Can you judge the landing without the Flight Director? — If we talk you down?”

  I thought about this again. It did have one advantage. It would mean that I wouldn’t have to watch so many things at once. The vital instrument was the Air Speed Indicator. Too fast and I’d be crossing several roads with engines blazing. Too slow and I’d stall and smash down on the approach lights. I said, “Try it. But have a man in the field on the other side of the A30 main road to judge my angle and advise for flare-out. Hook him by radio to Approach Control. I’ll use Flight Director but won’t have much time to admire it even if it does read right. I’ll need flap instructions as I come in. Can you call out speeds using doppler radar?”

  “You’ll have to watch your own airspeed. But we’ll have a pilot in that field as you suggest. Try and find time to check your glide angle as well.”

  I said, “You sure this is fair on the people living near Heathrow? I could try and ditch in the sea.”

  “You’ll never manage a ditch and we very urgently want to examine the … the you-know-what on that aircraft. You’ve got to land it the right way up, Kepter, so get it together.”

  “It’s big,” I said.

  “It’s just an aeroplane. Now, listen …”

  — I was given a great deal of information and I found it very hard to take in. Apart from headings and altitudes there were a hell of a lot of drills … “which are devised,” explained the disembodied voice in my ears, “for getting over with early. So concentrate and we won’t hang about. By the time you’re on finals you’ll be stuck for something to do …” His joke, not mine. I was, in fact, shaking all over.

  “Now get your gear down.”

  I found the undercarriage lever easily — I was just beginning to find my way around. I got the single green light standard on all 747s.

  I squinted ahead and my newfound confidence collapsed.

  The runway was a useless bit of ribbon about three inches long, quite impossible for the purpose of successfully landing a 747 and I said so.

  “Just do what you’re told. Heading is now two-nina-zero. Maintain your present rate of descent. Captain Knapp of British Airways has taken up the position you suggested and is through to us by walkie-talkie. But let us do the talking. You will intercept the glidepath in less than a minute and you’re practically in the VIP bar already.”

  But at least a million things … I’d got to allow for a very slight drift, at my present height there was a slight southerly beam wind, and for heaven’s sake, man, stop wiggling those throttle levers and settle for a power setting you can hold, same applies to trim, stop flicking at everything, Christ, haven’t I ever flown an aeroplane before? — Ridiculous thoughts; this was a huge monster with a four giant turbines. Mine was a single-engined joke with a real propeller that went round and round until such time as you saw it stop …

  “Hold your heading, Kepter.”

  “Yes, why not, nothing to it.” I’m Captain Kepter … Captain Walter K. Mitty Kepter, veteran pilot of —

  I managed to check the hysteria and got a hold of myself. I must make it first time; I knew my concentration wouldn’t hold second time around, I’d never manage an overshoot in this flying palace.

  “And your heading now is two-eight-five.”

  “Two-eight-five.”

  “And you are four miles from touchdown. Check fuel booster pumps on.”

  Dreaded words, these. You have them in case you want full power for an overshoot. Flatly I came back, “Boosters on.”

  “Select Thirty flap, now. Watch your airspeed because that’s the way you stay alive … You’re on the glide path quite nicely now, just a little bit too high … that’s better. How’s your Flight Director read?”

  “It seems okay but I’m not trusting it.” I was watching the runway as it grew before me, tried to anticipate how it should look with the main wheels just brushing it, my own position on the flight deck would be a long way up when that happened and I must allow for this when it came to flare out.

  The radio wouldn’t relent in giving me advice. I knew I needed every word of it but even with the blood sugar I’d built up in hot panic by this time I couldn’t seem to absorb it without a sort of resentful fury, like an infant being fed from a bottle with too large a hole in the teat. “You should be watching your height on radio-altimeter by now, and turn right onto two-six-eight, kick off your crosswind about five seconds before touchdown, just a touch, you’ve only got a couple of degrees to correct, so you’re lucky.”

  “What do you consider unlucky?”

  “Unlucky is when a pilot talks too much on being talked down … Captain Knapp just came through on walkie-talkie and he’s got a grandstand view from that field, but please get your wings level … He says you can stick your nose up by a further two degrees … and you’ll be just right over the approach lights.”

  “Will I clear that building?”

  “Easily. Now start bringing the runway up to you … the way I’m told you teach it.” He meant Mike. How did everybody know everybody? … “Full flap now, Kepter. And watch that ASI.”

  And beneath me now row upon row of houses, very close, washing lines and people gazing up casually as if this were any old landing, they’d seen thousands; children on a playground not even noticing, one of those little roundabouts painted green, why are they always green? … and then everything going all right until I suddenly realized that Hitchcock had been conscious and had been awaiting his chance and a hand had shot up to his control wheel.

  I yelled into the radio, “Hitchcock! He’s alert and trying to wreck the landing!” Brute strength was going to be needed now. The first time he’d beaten me hands down. Now, he applied immense downward pressure on the left ailerons and a forward force on the yoke that was designed to drill a very large hole in the concrete. “I’ll never do it!”

  Voice: “Knock him out and go round. Overshoot. Put on full power … Full power — You’re dawdling, man! Get your power on then select Flaps twenty and don’t touch the gear till we say!”

  I was all over the place and crying like a frustrated child, one wing down badly and forced into a left hand turn, the port wingtip was in line with the first of the approach lights and there was no question of lamming out at Hitchcock yet. I thought I’d tear out the ligaments of my arms but I got the stick back a bit and took off some of that bank and somehow the port wingtip cleared the lights though I’ll never know how.

  “Kepter, you’ve got to get those flaps up to Twenty!”

  “She’ll bounce!”

  The voice took on a hard edge. “Don’t call us; we’ll call you!”

  There was only one thing to do and I did it. For a fraction of a second I could spare an elbow. I crooked it and because Hitchcock was leaning across my side I managed to land him a tremendous blow in the face, I didn’t care if I broke his neck twice over but I wasn’t going to get spread thin along a mile of runway in a trail of debris and jet fuel. I grabbed the flap lever and rammed it unceremoniously into what I hoped was the right setting, I couldn’t reall
y see, but it evidently was because I was still flying, only just, but marginally better, if still crabbing, how that thing stayed flying Christ only knew, but somehow I got level using rudder only, would have been definitely curtains using ailerons at that speed, and now I had a new problem, a very large one, made of sheet steel and reinforced concrete — I was heading aslant for the Pan Am hangars. This wouldn’t do. There were some nice guys in there who didn’t want to wind up as fried offal, and they had some expensive aeroplanes. It was up to me to ensure the safety both of the men and their charges.

  In an odd sort of way that I’ll never be able to explain time slowed down just long enough for me to think excellently concerning the effect of my port wing striking the hangar. It seemed like a bad idea. While time crawled and the aeroplane poised with it — as if asking a question of its petrified pilot — I ran through the options open.

  They didn’t seem good. I couldn’t execute a left turn and go the wrong side of the hangars for the reasons that would be all too obvious to anyone who’s studied the map, and there was no time to study any maps. So I risked a slight rudder-skid to the right, knowing I had no height to spare. Several people were busing having babies as they watched this fearful manoeuvre and all eyes were on my left-hand wingtip. Stunt flying is discouraged at Heathrow but I got clear with some speed at last giving me more control. It must have been a horrible sight.

  I flew the full length of the remaining section of runway then glanced at the ASI for the first time. Of course, I’d forgotten: the aircraft was almost absurdly light. Instead of hundreds of passengers I had row upon row of empty seats, back there. There was no more than twenty-minutes’ — worth of fuel in the tanks and because there was almost no crosswind my former wing-down attitude hadn’t become self-increasing but had simply put me in a shaky turn.

  With full power on I pulled clear of the airport and climbed out steeply. As I did so I gave Hitchcock three vicious thumps with his briefcase though he hadn’t stirred.

  I felt indescribably better from doing just that. If he was dead I would do a sword-dance on his grave — a filthy reaction really because Electronic Cancer was not his fault.

  “Retract your undercarriage.”

  I found the lever fast and did so. Things were getting better and so far I hadn’t shat my pants.

  “Continue the climb and standby for the command ‘Flap Ten’ but don’t anticipate. We’ll say when.”

  “Roger.”

  Soaked in sweat right to the eyeballs I had a hell of a time checking the instruments but they seemed to confirm the improbable fact that a badly mishandled 747 had survived. So far.

  To the Tower I said, “Put Dr. Richter on radio.”

  There were no jokes. Death had hurtled along the runway. No oxygen left in anyone’s brain for the release provided by any attempts at wit. Lips were too dry to form the words.

  I got Richter and I managed to put my vital points: “Dr. Richter, I’ve got to bank on the computers being okay for a fully automatic landing. Possibly without any further feedback from the Captain they may be okay.”

  His crisp voice came back, “Where’s your logic, Mr. Kepter? Hitchcock was utterly controlled by the malignant LSIs that have grown all over that equipment.”

  “I’m too shaken up for another approach.”

  “Every time you manoeuvre that aeroplane, Mr. Kepter, you’re gaining experience. You got out of more trouble than the chaps here in the Tower thought possible in a 747 with a novice at the controls. Why give up now? Answer: You can’t anyway. I’m handing you back to the expert. We’ll talk over a drink when you get down.”

  The former voice said, “Flap Ten. Easy on the turn. Left hand circuit and take it wide. You’re a bit lucky but you’re keeping your head.”

  “I’m in floods of tears.”

  “We all understand that. It’s the best thing. This is no time to be brave, we have to be practical. You needn’t do your downwind checks again but I bet you’re glad you kept those pumps on … Now, exactly the same routine just once more. Hang on, get your breath back and use a hankie. Is Hitch out cold? … Are we absolutely sure this time?”

  I glanced at him and said, yes I was sure.

  “Good. Bring her in.” At last he could get his lips around a Joke. “You had quite an audience for that performance.”

  I said, “Please give me every action. I am very tired.”

  *

  The landing, when it finally came, was so easy it was almost uncanny. I suppose in a way it helped to be so punchdrunk. I wasn’t entirely there … I was on first solo, with the final words of my instructor ringing in my ears as I proudly watched him step out of the back seat of the Chipmunk and carefully leave his seat straps done up tight to prevent them fouling his set of controls. I remembered Robbins vividly — almost saw him.

  Robbins signalled me to throttle back to tick-over and remove my headset as he put one foot on the wingstep and smiled up at me. Robbins, tall, with a baby-complexion on a sensitive face, took in my own idiotic grin and knew I was ready. “I told you,” he said, “that all you had to do was stay up all night. You’re as tired as hell. What did you do with your time? — or would it be tactless to ask?”

  I said, “Not tactless. I watched two movies until I couldn’t see any more. Then I drove to Heathrow and watched a few landings until it was dawn. On the way back I blew out a tyre and I think I cracked a rib changing it.” As a matter of fact the X-ray they took after the solo showed that I’d cracked two of them. “But I can still work the flap lever.”

  “Good. Listen, Roger. First solos are always perfect and they don’t count. Do your solo, taxi back to the apron. I’ll then clear you for another few circuits. It’s going to rain, too. That should give you something to think about. I shan’t even stay around to watch you doing awful landings after the opening greaser. And none of those unsightly wheelers, please. You always belt in too fast and it looks untidy. I do have my own reputation to consider.” With that he tapped the wing affectionately and left me to it.

  Robbins often whistled some tune or other that was popular at the time so on take-off I did the same. The whole thing went like clockwork as he’d prophesied and by the time I was on finals I was dead right for the approach. The runway, instead of appearing out of the blue at some weird angle, was dead ahead and might have been lined with flags — except they don’t put them out for student flyers because they know that the youngster in the Chipmunk is going to make it okay or they wouldn’t have sent him up there …

  In my mind, as I brought in the big Boeing second time round, the event was all mixed up with Robbins walking away from the Chipmunk and the memory of that fleeting little tune and the ease with which he found himself trusting each student he launched into the air. I don’t think he ever worried very much. He had faith in one thing above all others: fatigue. Tired students don’t panic. They follow the drills and they do what they’ve been told to do and they each land perfectly and swagger about the place for hours afterwards as if they’re Orville Wright, just as I had.

  And now, in the 747, I was whistling the same tune and obeying orders and even attending to fine detail, like checking my wings were perfectly level and keeping the far end of the runway well and truly in my sights. I listened to Captain Knapp as relayed by the Tower (they’d fixed up a hooked circuit by this time) and I still had enough fuel in the tanks for at least a couple more tries and I knew I wouldn’t need it. I enjoyed it when that fat white line with the big numbers passed underneath me and I kept just the right amount of power on and then let her sag quite gently and if it wasn’t quite a greaser it wasn’t far off it, and I remembered to ease forward gently on the stick so as to land the nosewheel quite delicately and my reverse thrust wasn’t too bad though I had to correct some swing with the toe brakes and later on the nosewheel steering. On the 747 the computed groundspeed shows on a digital indicator and it was fascinating just watching it go down through forty then thirty then twenty then nothing a
t all. I don’t remember feeling surprised at all that the thing had ended all right but they tell me I passed out, grinning they say, through my tears like the village idiot who had successfully pumped the church organ without running out of wind and causing a sour note …

  7

  Nesta was waiting for me in a small ante-room at London Airport Central. I was shown in and someone shut the door, I don’t know who. I watched her and saw that she was tormented in a way I couldn’t define. Badly shaken myself, I wasn’t yet ready for a new turn of events. She was leaning against a bar top. The grill was down and there were no drinks.

  She looked at me blankly and said, “I wanted you to crash.”

  “Why?”

  “I hated you. I stood there, quite close to the runway, and I was disappointed, when you made that first crazy approach, that you didn’t ram straight into those hangars and kill yourself.”

  “Kill myself?”

  “Why not? One day you’ll try and kill me.”

  I needed to hold her but she tore herself away. “Nesta, for Christ sake, I’ve got to … I must touch you.”

  “I know what bloody for, too. You want to pull the quick release ring, you want a sexual parachute, that’s all. Hero’s privilege. God, it makes me sick.”

  “Nesta, that’s not you talking.”

  “Funny, it sounds just like my voice.”

  “Don’t you see? … We knew this would happen.”

  “It always happens. Some randy bastard gets hold of a girl and takes advantage of some sort of situation and —”

  “ — It wasn’t like that. Don’t dirty it.”

  She swung round on me, her face contorted. “Dirty it? Sex is dirt. You show off in a bloody aeroplane you can’t handle and want dirt as a reward. Why the hell did you go up in it? What was the point of the flight, Roger? You want power as well as dirt?”

  I said, “I don’t yet know what the flight was for. I don’t see the point of it, either. I’m trying to work it out.”

  She was smiling at me with such cruelty I wanted to slap her viciously across the face.