Linda cleared her throat. “Ah … there’s a chance, I take it, that we could be knocked out, right?”
Scott nodded. “I’ll be brutally honest with you, Linda. There’s a chance we’ll all be knocked unconscious for too long to recover. If only one or two of us are still conscious and able to react when we stop, whoever’s conscious will have only a few seconds to pull the rest of us out of the seat belts, pull the inflation lanyards, and try to kick us toward the door.”
“Scott, we’ve got safety cords on each of these vests,” Doc added. “Shouldn’t we tie all of us together right now?”
Scott thought back to his water survival training and shrugged. “That’s probably a good idea, as long as we don’t get tangled up trying to get out of the cockpit.”
“What about Jerry?” Vivian asked.
Scott sighed loudly. Jerry was worrying him deeply. The odds of getting the injured and anesthetized flight engineer out the door and into a rescue basket without massive additional damage to his crushed legs and pelvis were grim.
But it wasn’t something he could say aloud.
“Well,” Scott began, “we’ll just have to nurse him out and get him in the baskets first.”
“Baskets?” Linda asked.
“Billy Pugh nets, or whatever they have waiting for us.” He described some of the types of water rescue devices the Navy used. “If it’s the one I expect, just roll yourself into it and go limp. The helo crew will do the rest.”
Linda was looking through the door toward the back of the cargo cabin, and Scott followed her gaze to the small mound of Antarctic research materials they had labored so hard to relocate and tie down at the back of the aircraft.
“I’m sorry about your equipment and research, Linda,” he said gently. “I wish there was another way.”
“It’s okay.”
“Can you recover? Professionally, I mean?” he asked.
She nodded. “But first I’ve got to survive this swim, don’t I?”
Vivian leaned forward. “Scott?” she said. “What is this going to feel like when we hit the water? Honestly.”
He shrugged. “I’m guessing. I’ve never ditched a plane. But we’ll get the flaps out and gear down and go as slowly as we can, and if I do it right and we’re lucky, it’ll be like a very hard landing, with a waterfall coming through the door immediately afterward. The winds are sixty knots, but I can’t land directly into the wind, so I’m estimating that we’ll have the equivalent of a forty-knot headwind, and if I can slow us to a hundred knots, that’ll mean we’ll touch down at sixty knots, or about seventy miles per hour. That’s survivable.”
Doc looked over. “You say you want to go in with gear down?”
Scott nodded. “I know what the book says, Doc, but with the gear digging in, we’ll slow faster before we actually get the fuselage in the water.”
“Could cause us to cartwheel, too.”
“It could.” Scott nodded. “But it makes more sense to me. You disagree?”
“Never ditched one,” Doc said. “Neither has Boeing. I think we’re all guessing.”
“There are no life rafts, you said?” Vivian asked.
Scott nodded and sighed. “I … didn’t expect any overwater flights when we started this company. Life rafts are expensive and quite heavy …” His voice trailed off in embarrassment.
“The FAA doesn’t require them, Vivian, even for crew members,” Doc added, “unless you’re doing extended overwater flying, which we weren’t planning on doing.”
“Until I came along,” Vivian added with a grim expression.
Doc turned toward her quickly. “I didn’t mean it that way, Vivian. You’re as much a victim in this as we are.”
Linda reached out a hand and took Vivian’s. “That’s the truth, Vivian. We all heard it back there.”
“We did, and we all feel the same, Vivian,” Scott added. “You shouldn’t feel guilty.”
Vivian nodded, her eyes fixed on Jerry, who had lapsed back into an anesthetized sleep.
There was silence among them for a few seconds before Scott spoke again.
“Okay, if the plane begins to sink, swim out of this cockpit and toward the cargo door. Even if it’s below the waves, you’ve got a good chance of getting clear and getting to the surface. Don’t give up! That’s the main thing.”
“The water down there,” Doc added, “may be influenced by the Gulf Stream, and if so, it may be in the sixty-to seventy-degree range, in terms of temperature, and reasonably, well, warm. But it won’t feel warm. It will be one hell of a shock to your system, but at least, thank God, it’s not the North Atlantic.”
The voice of the controller aboard the Eisenhower cut into their thoughts.
“ScotAir Fifty, descend now to one thousand feet, come left, heading one-four-zero. We’re going to bring you below the prevailing ceiling, which is three thousand six hundred, and alongside the ship. Call the ship when we’re in sight.”
“How far, Eisenhower?”
“Twenty-one miles. When you call the ship in sight, we’ll transfer you to the airboss for a briefing on what we’ve worked out for the splashdown zone.”
“Roger, Eisenhower.”
BRIDGE, USS EISENHOWER—8:08 P.M. EDT
From the depths of the hangar bays below, the forward elevator had raised two SH-60F Seahawk helicopters to the flight deck. With the ship now steaming at greater than thirty knots and the wind coming from the stern, the wind speed over the flight deck was down to forty knots—with occasional gusts to forty-five.
A small cadre of deck crew spotted and prepped the helos and adjusted the chocks and chains as the pilots and aircrewmen strapped in. With a final signal from the airboss, both crews started their engines and began bringing their rotors up to speed as the ship pitched and rolled through the gigantic waves kicked up by Hurricane Sigrid.
On the bridge, several senior officers were huddled with the skipper over a large piece of paper containing a diagram of the ship.
“We need to keep sailing downwind, but if we have him aim to touch down just ahead of us, moving from our left to our right—like this—along the wave crests, with any luck he’ll come to rest no more than a thousand yards off our starboard side.”
“So,” the captain repeated, “he’ll be about forty-five degrees into the wind?”
“We’re steering zero-one-zero degrees right now. The wind is directly behind us, coming from one-nine-zero degrees. The prevailing wave crests and troughs are running roughly west-northwest to east-southeast. So if he makes his final approach on a heading of, say, one-zero-zero degrees …”
“Roughly east-southeast, in other words?” the captain asked.
“Correct. That will align him with the wave crests and yet put him mostly into the wind. If he keeps us in his right windscreen and uses a touchdown aim point just beyond our bow, that will get him in as close as we dare.”
The captain studied the hastily scribbled lines and straightened up.
“Agreed. But make damn sure he understands not to land short. We don’t want any risk of the ship running him over in the water. That’s a nightmare we don’t need.”
The officers turned to go as the captain caught one by the shoulder.
“One … more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Get the television cameras all rolling and call up the guys from our TV studio. I want every Navy TV camera on board trying to capture this. I can’t recall a 727 ever ditching before, and this could prove valuable for safety purposes, however it turns out.”
“You want a camera on board the lead helo, sir?”
The captain nodded. “Have them record whatever they can, regardless.”
“Aye, sir.”
The Officer of the Deck—the OOD—appeared at the captain’s side. “Captain?”
“Yeah?”
“Sir, there’s a secure call for you from Air Force One.”
ABOARD SCOTAIR 50—8:10 P.M. EDT
Doc stabilized the 727 at a thousand feet and worked to adjust the throttles on the two remaining engines as Scott, Linda, and Vivian scanned the dark gray waterscape ahead for signs of the aircraft carrier. With daylight savings time, it was still light; though the setting sun remained hidden by the overcast.
“Scott, can I make a suggestion?” Doc asked, his eyes on the instruments.
“Sure,” Scott replied, as he watched the horizon.
“Yeah, well, I’d like for you to fly this landing.”
Scott glanced over at the big copilot in surprise. Doc looked agonized.
“Why, Doc?”
“Neither of us has ever ditched. Either of us can do it, but from the left seat it takes you longer to operate the flaps and gear and things. I should be playing my normal copilot role. It’s more efficient.”
“You’ve got far more experience …”
“I know I do.” Doc cut him off. “I know I’ve got a hell of a lot of time in these birds, but I’m telling you, we need to work like a normally configured team now. Your place is flying, mine is supporting your aeronautical orders as rapidly as humanly possible.”
“Which would you really rather do, Doc?”
Doc looked at him with a scowl. “Dammit, I’d rather fly! You know that. But that’s not the best way to handle this.”
“Look, Doc …” Scott began.
“No, you look! I appreciate the continuous vote of confidence. I appreciate the fact that you’re a careful team player sensitive to utilizing your resources correctly. But listen, dammit. If we have to make some last-second adjustment in here, we’re not going to have time for you to search out the right lever. Simple fact is, I’m far faster from the right on flaps and gear and radios and all than you are from the left, and you know I’m right. Okay?”
Scott searched Doc’s eyes for any indication that the argument was some sort of subterfuge.
It wasn’t.
“Okay, Doc. I’ll take over now,” Scott said, taking the control yoke.
THIRTY-TWO
ABOARD SCOTAIR 50—8:14 P.M. EDT
The huge carrier that had been his professional home for so long loomed into view as the onboard controller vectored them across the bow of the Eisenhower at a distance of a half mile.
They had already explained the ditching plan.
Scott dropped the 727 down to five hundred feet to study the wave pattern as Doc worked the radios. The winds were howling from the south at a steady sixty-two knots, but the ship was steaming at top speed to the north to keep the deck winds reasonable for the helicopter launch.
“How fast can she go?” Doc asked.
“That’s classified, but it’s above forty knots,” Scott replied.
Doc turned back to his right and strained to check the fuel readings.
“We’re down to two thousand three hundred pounds, Scott.”
Scott acknowledged the information as he turned to Linda and Vivian. “Check Jerry one last time, please. Vivian, check to make sure the cockpit door is securely tied open, and both of you fasten all your seat and shoulder belts, including the crotch belt.”
Another radio transmission from the ship came through the overhead speakers, but he missed the words.
“They want to know if you’re ready, Scott,” Doc said, holding the microphone.
Scott licked his lips and checked the altitude, then nodded. “I’m going to circle the ship clockwise and get the gear and flaps out. We’ll get into position ahead of them as planned and do it then.”
“Two minutes? Five minutes?”
“Tell him four to five minutes.”
Doc passed the word and the controller acknowledged.
The overhead speakers came alive again with the voice of the F-15 leader.
“ScotAir, you have a visual on the ship now, affirmative?”
“Affirmative,” Doc replied.
“Roger, we’re bingo fuel. We’ve got enough navigation equipment back on-line to find our tanker, but not enough gas to stay with you.”
“No problem, guys. We appreciate the escort.”
The two F-15’s pulled up and away and headed west. Within seconds they had disappeared into the overcast.
“Okay, Doc, flaps two,” Scott ordered.
“Roger, flaps two.” Doc’s left hand moved the flap handle to the first indented position and monitored the gauge as the leading edge flaps and slats came out, followed by slight rearward movement of the large extendable surfaces on the rear of each wing.
“Flaps are at two,” he reported.
“Flaps five, please,” Scott added.
Doc repeated the command and moved the lever to the next gate. The flap gauge indicator needles began moving again, stopping at the appointed position.
“Gear down. Landing checklist.”
Doc’s hand reached for the handle, then hesitated. “Ah, Scott, I’m really uncomfortable with using the gear.”
Scott glanced at him with a puzzled expression.
“I thought you didn’t care one way or another.”
Doc nodded. “So did I, but I’ve been thinking about it, and I reread the ditching section of the emergency pages and figured out why they don’t want it used.”
“Tell me,” Scott said.
“Two reasons. First, it exposes some pretty weak floor beams in the gear well and gives the water a chance to breach the floor and cascade in, sinking us faster.”
“That does make sense,” Scott responded.
“And since the gear is behind our center of gravity, it could rotate us nose-first into the waves. Scott, they say we can expect to go no more than six hundred fifty feet once we hit the water anyway, and that’s without the gear.”
“That’s three to five G’s deceleration, right?”
“Right.”
Scott was nodding. “Okay, forget the gear. I agree.”
“Thanks.”
“But we’re going to need to pull the landing gear warning horn circuit breaker or we’ll be listening to that instead of each other.”
Doc had already thrown off his seat belt and threaded his way past Jerry. He leaned behind Jerry’s flight engineer panel to locate the right breaker, which he pulled. He then adjusted several switches on the flight engineer’s panel and turned toward Scott.
“I’m going to secure things in the cabin. Hold her steady.”
“Roger,” Scott said.
In two minutes Doc was back and fastening himself in his seat. “Done.”
“Anything we’ve forgotten? You’re reading the checklist, aren’t you?”
“We’ve got it all done, Scott. I shut down the air-conditioning and closed the outflow valves on the panel, set up the fuel and opened the crossfeeds, then I went back and double-checked the aft entry door closed, and made sure the cargo net around Linda’s stuff was still secure, and replaced the emergency exit hatch. With everything closed, even though the cargo door is gone, there’s a chance she might even float a few minutes, if … ah …”
“If we don’t break up on impact,” Scott finished.
Doc nodded slowly. “True,” he said simply, diverting his eyes out to the right. He could see the Eisenhower steaming north as Scott turned from west to north, keeping the carrier on the right. There would be a few more minutes of maneuvering, Doc reminded himself, then they would point their nose to the east-southeast just ahead of the carrier and descend until they were barely skimming the waves and had passed the carrier’s intended course. There would be a moment of decision, then, as Scott looked for the right spot.
Why am I so calm? Doc asked himself. The prospect of surviving a crash landing in high seas and then swimming for his life was hardly calming. He’d always been a terrible swimmer and very suspicious of the sea.
He glanced at Scott, then back at Vivian. A few hours ago they had been just a nonscheduled aircrew with a couple of strangers aboard. Now they seemed like family.
Of course, he reminded himself, Scott had seemed like famil
y since he met him—like a son—though he was always careful not to let on he felt that way.
His thoughts turned to Vivian and what she’d endured—how she’d been made the victim and the scapegoat at the same time. He was feeling very protective of her, and the feeling was growing. Whatever happened, he was determined that she survive.
Doc took a deep breath and rubbed his head as he tried to focus on the steps he was supposed to take after the aircraft came to rest in the water.
Start switches off, pull the fire switches, initiate the evacuation.
Hopefully it would be that easy.
On the bridge of the Eisenhower, several sets of field glasses were tracking ScotAir 50 as the 727 maneuvered to the northwest and prepared to turn on what would be its final approach. The two SH-60F Seahawk helicopters were up to speed and standing by, rotors turning furiously on the angle flight deck. A few additional deck crew had emerged to watch, and several television cameras were trained on the commercial jet. The sheets of rain that had pelted the carrier earlier had subsided, and nothing but high winds and angry gray skies covered the ship as it plowed repeatedly through giant waves.
“Okay, Eisenhower, we’re turning in for the ditching run,” Doc told them.
“Understand, ScotAir. The helos will reach you within a minute of splashdown.”
“Ready?” Scott asked as he glanced behind him at Linda and Vivian.
Linda’s hand had been on his shoulder for some time. He wanted to tell her to put it on the back of the seat and brace, but the reassurance from her touch was a continuous flow of energy, and he decided to wait until the last few seconds.
“We’re ready,” Linda said.
“Let’s do it,” Doc added.
“Okay. Prayers will definitely be in order. Doc? Flaps twenty-five. Set speed.”
“Flaps twenty-five.”
The whine of the hydraulic motors driving the flaps into position could be heard in the distance again as the aircraft slowed and the roar of the slipstream outside the open cargo door diminished.
“Flaps thirty, then flaps forty. Set target speed at one-zero-eight knots.”
Doc’s hand moved the flap lever to the final position and his eyes followed the flap gauge needles as they moved obediently to the full-extended position. He reached up to his airspeed indicator and set the speed at one hundred and eight knots.
Medusa's Child Page 39