16 SOULS

by John J. Nance

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” the copilot was shouting, clearly panicked. “WHAT HAPPENED?”

  Marty checked the altitude and airspeed. They were still flying, but only barely. He goosed the right engine up in power almost to the limit, feeling a bit of relief in the control forces required to stay airborne. The speed had crunched down from the 250 knots to around 200 knots, but the big bird felt like it was wallowing, and he let the speed creep back up to 250, noting somewhere in the back of his mind the more stable feel at the higher speed.

  “Midair!” was all Marty could manage.

  “THERE’S...THERE’S SOMETHING ON OUR RIGHT WING!”

  “Calm down, Ryan! Tell me what you...you’re seeing.”

  The copilot was swiveled around in the right seat, straining against his seat belt to look out the side window. “THAT’S ALL I CAN SEE!”

  Intercom call chimes were ringing but Marty dared not let go of the controls.

  “Ryan, pull yourself...together...answer the, uh, intercom. I have to know...”

  “OKAY!”

  ...know...what’s back there. What’s going on. How bad are we hit?”

  His own words sent another chill down his back. Wasn’t that the phrase the doomed crew of a Boeing 727 used seconds after hitting a light plane over San Diego years ago…a disaster no one survived?

  “Ah...Ryan...you may have to go back and look yourself.”

  The copilot was nodding vigorously enough to register in his peripheral vision, and his eyes were huge when Marty glanced at his face. Slowly, Ryan reached over and fumbled with the interphone panel before remembering to pick up the handset.

  “Y-yes?” he stammered.

  The 757 shuddered sickeningly for a second and then stabilized, as if something was still happening on the right wing. He glanced at the Master Caution light and realized his ears had been popping. The cabin had been breached and they were depressurizing. Must get the oxygen masks on, he thought, before remembering they were only at 12,000 feet. That could wait.

  Marty tried to force himself to calm down and think. He had it under control for the moment. Both engines were running. He had her fairly level, even if his left leg was beginning to shake against the force he was using to hold the left rudder in.

  Trim! He remembered, holding back the urge to pull his right hand off the yoke and motor the control for the rudder trim full left. Gingerly he transferred all the force to his left hand, realizing the control forces weren’t that excessive. Full left rudder trim was helping his leg now, but not much else.

  Marty glanced at the center panel to read the warnings that had popped up automatically on the computer display screen. Thank God the hydraulic systems were not part of the list, he thought. All flight controls appeared intact. But whatever airplane had been out there they had hit and he was sure whoever those poor people were, they were spiraling to their deaths at that very moment. How his 757 was still airborne was already the stuff of luck, and that luck might not last.

  What the holy hell was he doing at our altitude? Marty’s mind was screaming, the thought sending another arctic chill through his spine as he connected the approach controller’s attempts to reach the Mountaineer commuter, the phantom TCAS warning that had disappeared, and worst of all, the controller’s last urgent call asking their altitude.

  Oh, God! Did we screw up?

  The controller’s voice was still in his ear, demanding they descend immediately, as if he already knew about the collision.

  Marty worked his finger back to the transmit button on the top of the control yoke as he fought to maintain control.

  “Denver Approach...Regal Twelve...declaring an emergency! We’ve hit someone up here. Midair collision. We think there’s damage to our right wing but we’re still flying. We’re trying to assess the damage.”

  A few telling seconds elapsed before the controller’s voice returned, quieter, tense, and focused. “Roger, Regal Twelve. You need an emergency return to Denver?”

  “Yes. Affirmative. We may...need to do a controllability check, but...yes.”

  There was a flurry of motion to his right and Marty realized Ryan had dropped the receiver and was half out of his seat, obviously intent on getting out the door to the aft cabin.

  “What, Ryan?”

  “Ah...ah, they...they’re telling me...I got to see this for myself, but...”

  “What?”

  “A PLANE’S STUCK ON OUR WING!”

  “WHAT?”

  “A plane. Whoever we hit. They’re...they’re out there on the right wing. She says they can see people in the windows.”

  “That’s not possible!” For a split second they looked at each other, the copilot half out of his seat and clearly panicked, Marty in complete disbelief with time dilating and seconds feeling like minutes as the momentary glimpse of the other aircraft flashing by replayed in his mind.

  “Go! Get back there and assess it.”

  “Right.” Ryan resumed the uncoordinated scramble to get the cockpit door to open, all but tumbling out into the alcove by the forward galley. One of the flight attendants shot into the cockpit as soon as he was out, and Marty could feel the panic in her voice before he even glanced at her ashen face.

  “Captain! We’ve...got a plane full of people stuck on our wing!”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “I don’t know...it looks pretty mangled up.”

  “In our airplane?”

  “Oh...no. Oh God! What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to make an emergency landing. Get the cabin prepared.”

  “Can we bring them in our cabin?”

  “What?”

  “Those people?”

  “Get...get the cabin prepared for an emergency landing. NOW!”

  She nodded and turned, then realized she hadn’t uttered an answer and leaned back in, wild eyed. “Yes, sir.”

  Ryan was back almost as fast, breathing hard, standing between the seats as if he was afraid to resume his position in the copilot’s chair.

  “What’ve we got?”

  “I’ve...I don’t believe it. It’s a Beech 1900 , on our right wing, over the right engine. We’re leaking fuel like a sonofabitch...he’s gashed a huge chunk of the top of our wing...and his wing and engine on the left are gone, mostly, but the fuselage is intact and, Captain, the people inside I think are okay, or at least alive.”

  “The fuselage is stuck?”

  “It’s...I don’t know how to describe it...the remains of his left engine cowling are there, the prop and actual engine are gone, but the landing gear on the right side...best I can tell, it’s just jammed into our wing. I think it’s the only thing holding him there.”

  “So, he’s not going to fall off?”

  “I don’t know. He’s rocking around in the airflow and it’s like our slipstream is trying to lift him off. I...I think we’re getting lift from his right wing, the way its cocked up. But if they fall off...they can’t fly like that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can we fly?”

  “We are flying.”

  “I mean, can we get us both down okay?”

  Marty looked around, recognizing the all but feral panic in the young man’s eyes.

  “We’ll do out best, Ryan.”

  “I mean...I mean...Captain, there are people alive out there!’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Seven Months before – January 21st

  Denver TRACON (Terminal Radar Control Facility)

  Denver Approach Controller Jerry LaBlanc responded to Regal 12’s midair report by raising the tie line to his ear – the connection with Mountaineer’s cell phone – hoping for audible confirmation that the regional was still airborne and talking and perfectly okay. He could feel him
self praying for reassurance with the same desperation of a gambler hoping for a jackpot with his last dollar.

  But Regal had overrun Mountaineer’s faint radar return, and now there was only the 757 on Sandy’s datascreen. And there was the possibility they’d screwed it up somehow as controllers, and that was unacceptable.

  “Mountaineer, you still with me?” Jerry asked, his voice clearly strained. The line seemed open but all he could hear in the background was...something. Noise. No voices. Like the phone was being banged around. “Mountaineer, do you copy Denver?”

  He was standing partly behind and beside Sandy Sanchez who was hunched over his control position. Sandy’s eyes were riveted on Regal 12’s datablock, his voice issuing the same instruction as a moment before. “Regal Twelve, turn right now to a heading of zero nine zero degrees. Descend to and maintain nine thousand.”

  It seemed suddenly cold in the darkened control room.

  “He said the word ‘midair,’ right?” Jerry asked, bending down slightly.

  Sandy jerked around, startled. “What?”

  “He said he’d hit someone?” Jerry LaBlanc insisted.

  “Yes!” Sandy replied, taking in the tie line still held to Jerry’s ear. “Do you still have Mountaineer on the line?”

  “No...well, I’m not sure.”

  Two other supervisors had silently gathered behind them, listening intently.

  “I’ve lost his skin paint, and...” Sandy added, his words hanging in agonizing limbo between them, as if finishing the sentence might doom the little turboprop by making the midair real.

  Regal 12 broke the icy silence. “Ah...Denver, I’m...having a struggle up here just flying straight, but I’ll start a slow turn to the right to zero-nine-zero. I...ah...did you clear us to nine thousand?”

  “Affirmative, Regal Twelve. And please say fuel and souls on board.”

  Somewhere inside Sandy knew he was snapping off the routine questions and instructions in order to force the situation itself back to a controllable routine. By the numbers. Get them back by the numbers.

  Regal 12 was transmitting again, the voice hesitant and distracted, and almost irritated. “I...the fuel is...I don’t have time right now. When I can, I’ll...read that to you. Our dispatcher knows.”

  “What’s your status, Regal?” Sandy insisted. “Are you controllable?”

  Each question was followed by a deep silence like the agonizing wait for more clues after a scream in the dark. But each time as Jerry Lablanc was sure he’d have to intercede – grab a headset and say something – Regal 12’s transmitter clicked on again.

  “Having a struggle because the right wing’s lost...ah...you know, lift, and... we’ve got all that extra weight out there.”

  Sandy Sanchez glanced around at Jerry, searching for help in translating the pilot’s words, but there wasn’t any. Extra weight? He snapped his gaze back to the datablock as if his concentration alone could help the apparently stricken Boeing.

  “You’ve lost what, Regal? Your right wing, or...I mean, lift? What’s wrong with your right wing?”

  More silence. One of the supervisors was urgently reporting the situation into another tie line alerting a wider circle. Jerry was still pressing the receiver to his ear, almost sure now he heard what sounded like voices among the background noise, and maybe even voices yelling somewhere distant.

  “Roger, Approach,” the Regal pilot resumed, “...we’ve got the weight of the other airplane out there, and...I’m having a struggle holding us level.”

  “What does he mean, ‘weight of the other plane’?” one of the supervisors asked as they all looked at each other. But Sandy Sanchez’ voice was already asking.

  “Regal Twelve, you mean the damage done to your right wing by a collision is giving you control problems? You say you’re controllable and want to return to Denver International immediately, correct?”

  One of the supervisors behind Jerry LaBlanc held his hand over a receiver and leaned into the group. “There are no reports of a crash in the vicinity of Broomfield. Mountaineer was over Broomfield when you lost him, right?”

  “You mean he might still be airborne?” another asked, as Jerry motioned for quiet.

  “Regal Twelve, Denver Approach. I need to know what you want, sir, and I need to understand what’s going on with your right wing so we can assist.”

  This time the transmitter came alive with a cockpit conversation – a shrill voice in the background answered by the pilot working the radio.

  “........pretty mangled up.”

  “In our airplane?”

  “Oh God! What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to make an emergency landing. Get the cabin prepared.”

  Their transmitter clicked off and Sandy stabbed at his transmit button

  “Regal Twelve, Denver Approach, we...heard part of that exchange and copy you need to make an emergency landing. But...I’m still unclear on the nature of the problem on your right wing?”

  The pilot’s voice came back solo this time, more forceful than before, as if he’d finally gained control over the situation.

  “Okay, Denver, I haven’t seen it myself...my crew tells me we have the fuselage of a smaller airplane imbedded on top of our right wing from the collision, and that the occupants of that aircraft are apparently alive.”

  For a few heartbeats the collection of controllers in Denver Tracon stood in frozen silence, their minds trying to pull from the varied richness of their aviation experience an image of what had just been described.

  But there was no image, and no precedent.

  Sandy turned to the others briefly, reading the disbelief on each face as confirmation he’d have to figure it out himself.

  “Regal, is the other airplane intact?”

  “If you mean, can it fly if it falls off? No. Their left wing is gone, or mangled, or something.”

  “Roger...what are...I mean...how can we help you?”

  The silence rose to a crescendo before Regal’s transmitter cut in again.

  “Just...ah...vectors, Denver, to the longest runway you’ve got at DIA.”

  Sandy glanced at a note that had been slid in front of him. Denver International had lost the battle trying to keep a second runway open. Runway Two-Six was now closed and they were down to one useable strip of concrete, but the bad news went on: DIA says they may have to close part of the remaining runway in two hours if the snowfall continues at this rate.

  There was no point in reading the second part to Regal, Sandy figured. They were going to get him on the ground before then anyway.

  “Regal, ah...Regal Twelve, Denver Approach. That’ll be Runway Two-Five. All other runways closed by snow.”

  “All twelve thousand feet available on Runway Two-Five?”

  “Roger, Regal Twelve. The entire runway is available.”

  For now, he thought.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Seven Months before – January 21st

  Regal 12

  For some reason, the right wing was feeling lighter, and for a few moments Marty hadn’t any idea why. He was still having to hold a huge amount of force to keep the yoke rolled to the left, but it definitely was becoming easier, and that meant something was changing, which was not necessarily good.

  His eyes caught the fuel gauges on the center panel at the same moment the memory of the copilot’s voice replayed in his head: “We’re leaking fuel like a sonofabitch...”

  Jesus! Of course! Marty thought, wondering if he had mere seconds or minutes to change the fuel distribution panel before the right engine started sucking air instead of kerosene. If the right engine flamed out, the prospects for restart would be nil, and the chances for staying airborne and under control with one engine and the wreck of another airpla
ne on the right wing were zilch.

  Somewhere deep inside a small prayer of thanks was playing like a mantra that the collision hadn’t physically destroyed the right engine. He wouldn’t be having this conversation with himself if it had.

  I can’t believe this is happening!

  Marty held the bird steady with his left hand while reaching to the overhead panel to make the adjustments – changing from the tank-to-engine takeoff configuration to have both of the hungry Pratt and Whitneys feeding off the unaffected center tank. That would preserve all the counterbalancing weight of the full number one tank in the left wing. He’d have to get Ryan to help with the calculations in a few minutes – how many pounds were left in the center tank and the left versus whatever their fuel flow was at low altitude in order to figure out how long they could stay airborne. Whatever the answer, it would be measured in hours, and surely they’d be on the ground long before that.

  We’re supposed to be at nine thousand and we’re still at twelve, he reminded himself, his stomach contracting again at the near-certainty they’d created the whole disaster by blundering up to the wrong altitude. Maybe it was an old tendency to fatalism, but somehow – even without reviewing all the details in his memory – he knew. He just damn well knew! He’d promised himself to double check everything this copilot did, and he hadn’t.

  Slowly Marty let the jet descend, pulling the power back slightly to keep the airspeed within ten knots of where it had been. If he changed anything about the angle of attack – slowed or sped up too much – there was no way to predict what would happen to the changed aerodynamics of the Boeing. But if 250 knots gave them some degree of stable flight, he wasn’t about to change the airspeed.

  Marty glanced at the overhead pressurization panel. The cabin was essentially depressurized, but there was a very slight pressure differential a result of the air conditioning packs still shoving air into the cabin. Somewhere along the upper right side the fuselage had been punctured, not that it mattered much now.