Primary Target (1999)
Page 28
For most air traffic controllers, their worst recurring nightmares were about personal miscalculations that resulted in two jumbo jets colliding over a highly populated area. The present situation was even worse than their most frightening dreams. They were actually living the nightmare, and Air Force One was in the center of the flail.
Involuntarily, Traweek flinched when two blips indicating the same altitude merged for a long moment before separating on the scope. They couldn't have missed each other by more than 100 to 200 feet vertically or horizontally.
Chapter 37
Air Force One.
'Traffic! Traffic!" TCAS warned as Bolton and Upshaw and I stared at the screen, then made a minor correction in both course and altitude. Eleven seconds later Bolton cringed when his airplane was buffeted by American 864 as it passed overhead in the dark clouds. Flying in these conditions was like being in a submarine and unexpectedly having another sub scrape across the top of the hull of your boat. For Bolton and Upshaw, the near midair experience was too frightening even to contemplate.
Bolton was a cool customer by nature, but his present predicament was unnerving and unprecedented in his accident-free aviation career. Even the most shocking emergencies he'd faced weren't as stressful as flying blind in a dark sky full of metal objects traveling hundreds of miles per hour in many different directions. With no positive control, Bolton and his crew and passengers were in the hands of fate. Bolton glanced at Upshaw. "This could only happen when the president is onboard."
"No shit," Upshaw said while he yanked open his approach plates and selected the military ATIS frequency for Dobbins. "We're all passengers for the time being."
The cockpit became eerily quiet while they listened to the Dobbins information. The weather wasn't any better than what had been reported at Hartsfield/Atlanta.
"Traffic! Traffic!" TCAS warned.
"Curt." Upshaw hesitated while he tuned in the busy approach-control frequency at Dobbins, then carefully framed his question. "Do you think we ought to step down a couple of hundred feet, get below our cardinal altitude?" "Maybe miss a fender bender?" Bolton calmly asked. "It might give us a better-than-even chance."
Bolton stared at the altimeter for a few seconds and initiated a slight descent from their assigned altitude of 5,000 feet. "What the hell--it's a roll of the dice any way you look at it."
"Yeah, a roll with our eyes closed," Upshaw said cryptically as he selected the UHF frequency for approach control. "Dobbins approach, Air Force One."
"Stand by, Air Force One--all aircraft on this frequency, stand by!" the controller blurted in an exasperated voice and then addressed two flights he was trying to work into the traffic flow for Dobbins. "Northwest Seven-Twenty-Four, descend and maintain four thousand. Delta Six-Ninety-Nine, turn right to two-eight-zero and continue your descent to six thousand."
Unlike the normal pattern of communications between controllers and pilots--where instructions issued by a controller are read back to him by the flight crews--this controller was issuing a constant stream of instructions and expecting the pilots to respond instantly to the orders. There wasn't time for the usual clarification procedure.
Summoning his courage, Bolton leveled Air Force One at 4,700 feet and listened to the harried controller trying to sort out the flights in the most immediate danger. The controller's problem reminded Bolton of a triage surgeon in the process of sorting victims to determine priorities for action in an emergency. He fervently hoped the tormented controller would find time for the president's plane. I'd give up my retirement pay if I could just see what the hell was happening.
Kirk Upshaw involuntarily ducked his head to the side. His sudden action caused Bolton to twitch.
"What'd you see?" Bolton asked while his pulse raced.
Upshaw was trying to find his voice. "I thought I saw something converging from the left--it passed right in front of us."
"Steady at the helm," Bolton said quietly in an effort to calm the jumpy copilot. "We'll be on the ground soon."
"If we survive this," Upshaw said through clenched teeth, "I'm going to church every Sunday, so help me God."
"I'll go with you," Bolton said in a tight voice.
Stirred by his intense anxiety, Chief Master Sergeant Brewer made small talk. "I remember a tanker crew who had a religious awakening," he said in a nervous voice. "They were descendin' at night to ten thousand feet over the ocean. The moon wasn't out and the night was pitch-black. When the pilot leveled off at what he thought was their assigned altitude, the crew felt a series of continuous bumps--sort of like they were in light turbulence. They turned on the ice lights and discovered they were flyin' in ground effect only a few feet above the water."
"Wonderful," Upshaw observed, unamused.
Ignoring the interruption, Brewer continued. "The engines were blowin' spray off the ocean when the major began climbin' away from the water. Ground effect was the only thing that kept them from becomin' shark food."
Kirk Upshaw gave Bolton a fleeting glance, but found he'd suddenly lost his voice. I wonder what the president is going to say when we taxi in at Dobbins instead of Hartsfield? Bolton shook his head in frustration. "Kirk, try Dobbins again. We're Air Force One. We can't waste any more time." "Yes, sir."
"We have the president onboard," Bolton said dryly. "We have to have positive control--don't take no for an answer." Upshaw nodded. "You want to go ahead and declare an emergency?"
"Damn right! The president is onboard and we're flyin' blind."
Relaxing in the elaborate presidential office, the chief executive sat his coffee cup down and wrote the final words to his speech on racial harmony. Pleased with his efforts at spearheading a major race initiative, he unfolded his morning paper and studied the New York Stock Exchange composite transactions. Turning to look out the window, the president was shocked to see an airplane flash beneath the wing.
Captain Fred Oliver could occasionally see a few hundred feet in front of United 1147, but he couldn't see the ground because of the haze and thick clouds. The continuous choppy turbulence prompted him to recheck the seat-belt sign. Pleased to see that it was in the on position, Oliver didn't consciously remember toggling the switch. He also checked to make sure he had all the 727s external lights on.
Pete Taylor momentarily swallowed his fear and looked at Oliver. "I've never seen anything like--"
"Traffic! Traffic!" TCAS suddenly warned as Oliver, Taylor, and Ingraham shot a look at the TCAS scope. "Traffic! Traffic!"
Oliver glanced through his side window. "We've got one at ten o'clock."
"I'm looking," Taylor replied in a voice laced with fear. He scanned the dark clouds out the left side of the cockpit, hoping to get a glimpse of the conflicting traffic. "I can't see a damn thing."
"Keep looking," the captain said as he deactivated the autopilot and took manual control of the airplane. "He's probably level at five thousand."
"He's closing on us," Zeke Ingraham warned while he joined in the search efforts. "He's headed straight for us!" "Descend! Descend! Descend!" ordered TCAS.
Both pilots shared a quick glance as Fred Oliver began a smooth descent from 4,500 feet. He felt remiss in not telling the flight attendants about the situation. There wasn't anything they could do to alleviate the problem, and he didn't want to worry them needlessly.
"Increase descent!" shouted TCAS at a level that shocked the flight crew into instantaneous action.
"Oh, shit!" Taylor yelled.
The relatively smooth ride was over for the time being. Oliver reduced power and forced the yoke forward while he cross-controlled the tri-engined jet. The Boeing sliced downward as the TCAS continued its urgent warning.
"Increase descent!"
"There he goes!" Pete Taylor said with genuine relief in his voice.
"Increase descent!"
"Okay, goddammit!" Oliver swore in frustration.
A half second later, while passing through 4,200 feet, Oliver saw the lights of a lar
ge aircraft as it roared over the top of their airplane. The encounter with the Delta jet was extremely close. The captain of the other airliner was also cheating on the altitude rules in order to increase his chances of avoiding a midair collision.
It's getting exciting up here," Pete Taylor uttered, and looked at the TCAS scope. "I'll try Dobbins again." "Okay," Oliver replied while he added a small amount of power and began a smooth climb back to 4,500 feet. "We gotta get somethin' going or we're going to be in deep shit." "Dobbins approach," Taylor radioed when the controller paused for a breath of air. "United Eleven-Forty-Seven." The controller again ignored him and rapidly issued commands to a number of flights that were in close proximity to each other. "American Two-Sixty-Two, turn west and slow to your final approach speed. Citation Six-One-Charlie Mike, turn to zero-three-zero and give me your safest slow speed. American Four-Sixteen, turn east and give me your slowest speed. Delta Eight-Twenty-Eight, turn west now! Descend and maintain six thousand--give me your best rate!" "Traffic! Traffic!" advised TCAS as Oliver and Taylor stared bug-eyed at the scope.
Zeke Ingraham forced himself not to look at the screen, thinking instead about his wife and son.
"Traffic! Traffic!"
"Here we go again," Taylor commented as he studied the collision avoidance system.
"Do you see him?" Oliver asked.
"No!"
"Keep looking."
"I am."
"Traffic! Traffic!"
With his attention riveted to the TCAS scope, Oliver took his eyes off the altimeter for a few seconds. "Where is he?" "I'm not sure. Looks like, ah, four to five o'clock at--" "Descend! Descend! Descend!"
"United Eleven-Forty-Seven," the air traffic controller screamed, "turn left two-three-zero now!"
"Increase descent!" shouted TCAS. "Increase descent!" Oliver pulled the throttles back. "Gotta do it."
"This is getting crazy!" Taylor exclaimed.
Ingraham stiffened and glanced at his flight engineer panel. "Yeah--too damned crazy."
"Increase descent!"
"Eleven-Forty-Seven turn left!" the controller shouted as he saw two blips on his radar screen merging at the same altitude. "Turn left now!"
"Increase descent!" screamed TCAS.
Pete Taylor attempted to answer the controller while Oliver immediately initiated a steep, descending turn to the left. "Aw, shit!" Oliver swore to himself when he saw that he'd drifted up to 4,700 feet. "Pay attention--fly the airplane." "Dobbins approach," Taylor tried again. "United ElevenForty-Seven is coming left to two-three--"
The urgent radio transmission was abruptly interrupted when the two left engines and the bottom of the fuselage of Air Force One smashed through the first-class section of United 1147, ripping the entire flight deck of the 727 away from the rest of the airplane.
The frightened passengers in the first-class section of the United jet died instantly as the airliner exploded in a huge fireball. The violent collision produced a reverberating sound similar to a thunderclap. Fiery scraps of metal plummeted from the skies as the aircraft tumbled tail over nose toward the ground.
The stunned pilots died when the remains of their cockpit slammed into the roof of a home a quarter of a mile from where the main wreckage of Flight 1147 landed.
Chapter 38
Air Force One.
Chocked by the violent collision, Colonel Bolton froze on the controls when the Boeing rolled slightly left wing down and yawed to the left. He instantly recognized what had happened, but his mind was reeling from the seriousness of the situation. Air Force One had had a midair collision and he was the pilot in command. It was hard to comprehend the magnitude of the accident.
The cockpit was aglow with warning lights as he and Kirk Upshaw mechanically went through the emergency procedures to secure the two left engines. Upshaw maintained his professionalism while handling the checklist, but he was suffering from a combination of disbelief and horror.
"Get us priority at Dobbins!" Bolton exclaimed as he struggled to fly the 747 on the two starboard engines. "We're goin' straight in! I can't hold this--I can't maintain altitude!" "Mayday! Mayday!" Upshaw urgently radioed. "Air Force One has had a midair! I repeat--Air Force One has had a midair collision! We've been hit. We're turning ... we're heading straight in to Dobbins. The president is onboard and we need priority handling and the equipment standing by!" "All aircraft stand by," the astounded controller replied. "Air Force One, you're almost abeam the runway. I'll have to take you out for a right turn to Runway Eleven, Runway One-One. Maintain two-eight-zero on the heading and descend to three thousand."
Upshaw repeated the instructions. "Two-eight-oh and down to three thousand, Air Force One. Roll the trucks--roll everything you have!"
"Roger."
Racked with guilt that he suggested they change altitudes, Kirk Upshaw listened while the controller told him the latest weather conditions. If they were lucky, they'd break out of the clouds during their turn to final approach.
"Air Force One, the equipment is rolling."
"Thanks," Upshaw said briskly, then ordered Chief Master Sergeant Brewer personally to inform the senior Secret Service agent of their emergency situation.
"Yes, sir," Brewer said stiffly as he rushed out of the cockpit.
With his mind reeling, Curt Bolton glanced over his left shoulder and saw the scores of jagged holes in the leading edge of the wing. The number-one engine had literally been ripped from its mount, and the second engine was crushed and canted downward at a precarious angle. A greasy trail of blackish-gray smoke poured from the heavily damaged General Electric turbofan.
Bolton pushed harder on the right rudder pedal, banked slightly into the operating engines, and added power to the number-three engine to slow the increasing sink rate. He managed to level the airplane at 2,900 feet.
"Curt," Upshaw solemnly reported, "we've got hydraulic problems ... and we're losing fuel at a hell of a rate." Bolton responded in the most calm voice he could muster. "Just take care of the priorities, okay?"
"I'm working on it."
"We gotta concentrate on getting down in one piece," Bolton said with an expression of frustration. "Get another message off to Washington. Tell 'em we have heavy damage--that we're going into Dobbins."
Upshaw nodded and answered a question from the controller. "We've got two engines out and marginal control authority. We're losing hydraulics and we've got fuel pouring out."
"Copy, Air Force One. The equipment is in place."
Bolton was beginning to catch glimpses of the ground, but the visibility was still patchy. "What's the field elevation?" "It's--let's see," Upshaw muttered as he grabbed the Instrument Landing System Runway 11 approach plate. "A thousand and sixty-eight."
When the controller advised them to turn and descend to 2,500 feet, Bolton prayed that they would break out of the clouds. He desperately wanted to get the airplane on the ground as quickly as possible. In its present condition, the wounded Boeing was extremely difficult to handle.
He recalled the United Flight 232 crash landing at Sioux City. After an engine component in a DC-10 disintegrated, the tail-mounted engine exploded and severed the hydraulic systems that powered the primary flight controls. Constantly adjusting the thrust of the wing-mounted engines, the pilots skillfully maneuvered the airplane to the Sioux City Airport, but lost control in the final seconds of the approach. The horrifying crash landing killed 111 people, while 187 survived. Bolton desperately wanted to avoid a similar fate.
"Air Force One," the controller said in an even voice, "I'm going to set you up with the ILS Runway One-One approach--keepin' ya in close."
"Appreciate it."
The president knew they'd had a midair collision. It was obvious that the airplane was staggering through the air. Along with the other passengers, the president was suddenly startled when another airplane thundered close over the top of Air Force One. The sound of the passing engines was extremely loud, and a sharp jolt from the severe turbu
lence of the wing tip vortices shook the huge Boeing. For an instant Macklin allowed a tinge of panic to grip him. He wanted to talk to the pilots, but he knew they had their hands full trying to get the airplane on the ground. Macklin had a gut feeling. Something is very wrong.
The president started to get up, then sat down when two Secret Service agents pounded on the door.
"Come in," he uttered.
The agents rushed in and almost fell over Macklin. "Sir, are you okay?"
"I think so."
"Mr. President," the senior agent exclaimed in a commanding voice, "we've had an accident, and we're going to be landing at Dobbins."
"Is everyone okay?"
The agent ignored the question. "We need to seat you in a different section of the airplane. Please follow us."
Staring into the hazy, opaque clouds, Curt Bolton wrestled the controls of the unsteady 747 as he worked hard to level the aircraft at 2,500 feet. He and Upshaw had performed a flight control check and decided to increase their approach speed by fifteen knots. The flaps were set for the airplane's current configuration, and the pilots were delaying the lowering of the landing gear until they were sure they could make it to the runway.
While Upshaw used the PA system to brief the president and the other passengers about the impending emergency landing, Bolton made judicious throttle corrections to follow the heading changes issued from the new approach controller.
"Air Force One, keep it comin'."
The sudden utterance of a drawling, experienced voice was a comforting surprise for the VIP pilots. The senior controller at Dobbins had been placed in charge of Air Force One. On base leg to Runway 11, Bolton finally made visual contact with the surrounding terrain. Seconds later he saw the 10,000-foot runway in the distance. A sigh of relief swept over him as he nursed the battered Boeing toward the air base. For Upshaw's benefit, Bolton jabbed a finger in the direction of the airfield.
"I see it," the copilot exclaimed, staring through the light, intermittent rain. "Thank God and General Electric!"