by Terry James
“No problem,” he mused. “Ain’t gonna give ‘em reason to cut loose of that terrific ordnance,” he thought with an inward smile.
The controllers gave him a vector, which turned him somewhat, and said he could descend without restriction to 7500 feet. This would be, he calculated, about 1500 feet above the ground--a good pattern altitude. The altimeter setting was 30.12; the winds light and variable. Temperature was reported as being 32 degrees and the dew point was 40. One of those cold fronts from just beyond the Rockies was making its way down to spoil the relatively mild fall he knew Denver had been enjoying.
The controller mentioned that since the pattern had been established for landings to the west, he would vector the Criterion onto a 15-mile final approach to the newest runway at the airport.
The impromptu pilot reminded himself that complacency and ignorance were still trying to kill him and his assortment of passengers. Although he had flown a plane with this so-called glass cockpit before, this version was so far in advance of what he had known that it appeared almost totally foreign. Mark was glad that he could still see outside and orient himself to the airport from familiar points on the ground. He, while a Delta Airlines pilot, had logged many landings here. The experience was beginning to create a sweet mix of commercial airline pilot and jet jockey nostalgia. Flying the 737s around the mountains and valleys of Montana and Colorado in the summer would engender an intoxicating feeling. Certainly, low-level bombing missions back in Vietnam were equally tense.
Mark looked closer at the display on the small screen, and right there, in the center, was all the information he needed to know. In fact, there wasn't anything for him to do except push a button, apparently, the one to the left of the letters, “D I A”.
When Jeb Strubble had leveled the Criterion off at 240, he had not only selected a desired airspeed and altitude per the flight’s clearance, he also had selected Denver International in the FMC --the Flight Management Computer. The data was right there for Mark to select, as, he knew, the device followed the position of the aircraft and was always updating itself as to nearest suitable fields, distances to home base, fuel required, and dozens of other potentially needed bits of information regarding the flight.
Mark went silently over the knowledge borne of decades of flight training and experience. It was crucial to remember…
When he pushed the button to the left of the screen's “DIA,” the readout changed to one labeled “Approach Ref”. This was the page Mark had hoped would appear at some point. Here was all the information he needed to safely operate the aircraft within its airspeed limitations.
Mark had to fight the tendency to concentrate on the computer readouts and control mechanisms. He could not afford to neglect flying the plane. The first rule of any emergency management scenario is “Fly the Plane!” he reminded himself. The second was harder: “Always be ready to land when you hit the ground!”
The gear and flap actuating switches were obvious, and now that he had the approach reference speeds he needed, he felt ready to continue.
It was getting darker because of the scarcity of lights now, and more and more difficult to see back over his shoulder towards Denver. Mark was thankful that the screen right in front of him continued to display a familiar-looking attitude director, heading indicator, altitude, vertical velocity indicator and most importantly for the pilot, and airspeed indicator.
The Criterion was still whistling along over the high mountain terrain at 80 percent of the speed of sound.
He prayed that the F-16 pilots were aware of communications between ground control and him and would give him wide berth to do what must be done. Mark disconnected the auto pilot and heard the snap of the switch, which engaged the system.
The airplane jerked a little. The jolt was actually comforting because it let him know that, in fact, the auto pilot was off. He retarded both throttles back to idle and grabbed the speed brake control lever. It was just to the left of the throttles. When he moved it slowly up to put the brakes out, the airplane erratically yawed and rolled a little, but settled into a steeper dive. This was just what was supposed to happen.
“Criterion X, I see that you have left flight level 240,” the man on the other end of the transmission said. “Turn left now heading three five zero, this is a descent vector, and we will turn you back in for a down wind, when you are lower.”
“Have you been flying the Criterion very long, sir?” the controller asked.
“About 40 minutes or so,” Mark responded. He wasn’t sure whether that was a funny thing to say, or a serious response that came out sounding like a wisecrack.
Mark did explain that he had been flying since 1958 in one airplane or another, and that he had been a Delta pilot for more than 20 years. They talked a little back and forth since the Criterion had been given a discreet frequency and no one was listening. Radio procedures could be informal.
Mark’s controller turned out to be the tower chief, who had been called in because of technical problems. He put Mark at ease somewhat by informal ice-breaking conversation. He was, he said, going to retire later that month, and he was glad to have something out of the ordinary to do to make his last month memorable. Mark was glad that the controller was going to be able to retire, but he didn't want the occasion to be too memorable.
Mark had been holding 350 in the descent and was shooting for 250 as the aircraft went through 10,000 feet. Two hundred fifty knots and passing through 9,000 feet, Denver said, “Criterion X, give me a turn left to zero eight zero, and if you can slow down to two ten, I think I would appreciate it.”
The speed brakes were still up, and the airplane slowed quickly, very quickly. He didn't want to stall out here, so he was glad to remember to put the brakes down. All the vibration and shuddering that accompany a rapid descent smoothed out immediately. It got quiet, and the bird seemed to glide in a controllable descent, all the while in a 30-degree bank to the new heading. As Mark left 7500 feet, the altitude reminder beeped, indicating that he was now within 500 feet of his desired altitude.
His friend on the ground said, “Turn right heading one seven zero for a base leg that will give you a 15-mile final. When you roll out, the airport will be at your one o'clock, 17 miles. Let me know if you see it.”
Mark looked in the direction as instructed. He couldn’t make the desired visual confirmation. A thick haze had developed and covered every landmark. This early morning, Mark knew that the proper frequencies had been selected in the FMS, but he hadn't a clue as to how to get the instrument to depict what he needed to get the craft on the ground.
Even though he knew he shouldn't be embarrassed, he was a little hesitant to tell the controller that not only could he still not see the airport, but he did see four other planes turning on a variety of headings, which were leading them to landings on the other runways. At this early hour, he had expected the prom to be sparsely attended. But, the dance –as the big jets’ pilots called the hectic landings and take-offs-- was getting furious.
He began to put some flaps out as the Criterion slowed down; he finally selected 15 degrees of flaps and settled in at 135 knots. Seven thousand feet above sea level. Current altimeter setting. Good.
Mark still could not see the airport, but he noticed two 757s –at least that was the type of planes according to the controller’s information-- had disappeared into the haze, about 10 miles to his right.
“Turn right, now, heading 240. This will get you on a nice intercept for the localizer. Maintain 7,000 feet.”
“Roger the turn, but I have to remind you that the ILS is inoperable!”
Actually, he was inoperable, Mark thought, but he didn't want to sound like a dummy or worse. The power setting was a little too high because the Criterion’s airspeed was going through 200, and the vibration of the air frame was getting very noticeable. He reduced thrust, and got another deceleration going. “Look out for the airport!” he mentally jabbed himself. “Make sure in your mind not to land w
ith the gear up.”
“You're crossing the center line,” the controller announced. “Can you see the airport, sir?”
“No, I can't. Did I mention that the ILS wasn't working?”
“Yes sir, I assumed you'd be using the inertial reference system and the GPS. Have you got those on board?”
“They are inoperative too”
“No problem sir. Say, how old are you?”
“What a strange thing to ask,” Mark thought. “Here I am, screaming around the Colorado, mountain-filled countryside at 135 knots. There are at least a dozen airplanes within 20 miles of my present position, at who knows what altitudes or headings, and he wants to know how old I am!” The thoughts both irritated and amused him.
“I'll bet you're old enough to remember what we used to call a GCA,” the controller radioed.
“Sure, I do.” A GCA, or ground-controlled approach, used to be the standard instrument landing scenario back in the ‘60s in the military. He hadn’t flown one since he got out of the service in 1969. They never used them in the commercial airline driving business, so it wasn't something that was common anymore, except in the memories of old timers –like Mark Lansing. He had many of those memories. Landing on the wing of his flight commander in an F-102 in heavy fog. Bringing the F-4 Phantom into Ubon Thailand, when those afternoon thunderstorms made a nice day into a grim time for flying. Good memories, because he was still alive. Not so good if you don't listen and trust your controller.
“Let's finish this morning’s flight with a show for the youngsters,” the new friend on the ground said. “We've had this GCA system installed and operating here in the tower for years, and we use it for a back-up. I can bring it up on my screen and get you down here just like I used to do as an Airman First Class at Itazuke Air Base on Kyushu, in the late ‘60s.”
“Sounds good, considering the alternatives.”
“Give me a right turn to two nine zero and maintain your 7,000 feet. You're about eight miles from glide slope intercept. You might want to begin slowing to approach speed.”
Mark pulled back on the throttle slightly and selected 25 degrees of flaps. This combination of increased drag and lower thrust immediately acted in concert to give the plane a huge change in airspeed. He still had the altitude hold on. He jammed the throttles again and the powerplants responded with some good feeling thrust, and the airspeed settled in at 130.
A warning buzzer sounded, and a woman's voice said, “Landing gear, landing gear, landing gear.”
Ooops! He wasn't going to forget that, but it would have been forgotten, without her computer voice to remind him. The computer wanted some gear down, and so did Mark Lansing.
He snapped the plastic wheel-looking knob mounted on a short lever to the down position. Three red lights came on followed quickly by three green lights, indicating that the gear was down and locked. The lady in the computer shut up.
“Turn back left now to two eight five. You are approaching the center line nicely; glide slope intercept in three miles,” the controller said.
“Left to two eight two and you're on the centerline. Glide slope in one mile. Call gear down.”
“Roger, Criterion X, down and locked, three green.”
“Approaching glide path, begin descent.”
Mark pulled the throttles back to give himself about 2200 pounds of fuel flow, and clicked the altitude hold off with his right thumb. The vertical Velocity moved, indicating an initial descent.
“On glide path, on center line,” the controller called out.
The air speed began to drop off a little, and the Criterion was descending at about 900 feet per minute. Too slow, too fast, he thought.
“Slightly below glide path, on centerline.”
Mark nudged the throttles a bit. He had to stabilize and come back up on the glide path.
“Drifting slightly left, turn right now, heading two eight five. Below glide path.”
He had learned to use the rudders to change the heading in these small increments. Usually the rudders are used only in dog fights, strafing and taxiing in jet airplanes. He added a small increment of power.
“On center line. Coming up on the glide path. On glide path.”
Mark reduced power 100 pounds on each engine.
“Let's see, now,” he considered. “I'm in the clear up here in the early morning. I'm flying a plane that I have yet to log an hour's worth of time in, and I can't see the runway. The millions of dollars worth of avionics are one click away from taking control and making a safe landing unimpeded by the human touch. I don't know how to turn it on. Situation normal,” he thought.
“On center line and on glide path, one mile to touchdown. Winds are light and variable; you're cleared to land.”
The power setting had been correct. Once trimmed up, one can adjust his vertical velocity with tiny changes of thrust. It works in an F4, a 737, and here, in the Criterion X. It might be something to teach everybody, he thought. Patience is a good thing to have, too. Don't chase any readout. If you're off course, correct, but just a little. Wait. If you're low, add some power. Wait for the vertical velocity to change. See if it moves the way you want it to.
“On centerline, on glide path, approaching minimums, call the runway.”
Mark looked up from his circuit of instrument scanning. Nothing. A pretty orangish-gray in the lights, he thought. Smog.
“On center line, dropping slightly low on glide path, 100 feet to minimums.”
The airplane was smoothly cutting through the fog and smog. All parameters were nailed, just as if he had been doing this for years. It had been seven years, in fact, since he had moved the controls of an airplane, and then it had been a Cessna 172, on a sunny afternoon. Eighty dollars worth of fun. He knew there was an airport out here somewhere. They promised him when he and the controller started all of this.
“Holding slightly low and on center line. At minimums. Call the runway in sight or go around!”
Mark held his breath. He locked his grip on the controls. He waited. One hundred twenty knots, 550 feet per minute rate of descent. He waited. One click of nose up trim, tiny reduction of power, don't move anything!
The runway was, he remembered from reading in industry magazines that kept him up to date, 33 percent longer than the other runways at the DIA and approximately twice as long as runways at lower altitudes. He didn’t know if it was the truth, or propaganda hype, but it was said that the 16,000-foot long, 200-foot wide runway was so long that a jet parked at one end was not visible from the other end due to the curvature of the earth.
Now, the lights on either side narrowed in perspective in the black distance. The big landing light illuminated nicely. The huge strip still clean, he considered, now able to see the broad expanse of concrete. There were no long streaks of rubber residue where hundreds if not thousands of airplanes had landed before him. That was because, he for some reason recalled from a distant conversation, it had been opened only a few months –maybe a year before. He was –he was certain-- among the first 10,000 to land on this monster runway.
Christopher Banyon and the others watched the flashing red lights, while the emergency vehicles roared to meet the plane at the end of the runway.
“Don’t know why there’s such a greeting,” Lori said in a light tone. “The best pilot in the whole world was flying the airplane.”
The passengers laughed at the proud wife’s assessment and broke into applause.
“Absolutely none better,” Randall Prouse agreed, reaching across the aisle to squeeze the left forearm of Mark Lansing’s bride.
Mark taxied the Criterion off the runway and pointed it toward the terminal area. They wouldn’t want him going further, he knew.
Now, what to say to them? How would he tell them he had to fly the airplane because the pilot and co-pilot had… disappeared?
Nigel Saxton couldn’t sleep. His training had taught that one should be able to fall asleep under any circumstances, then awaken, ful
ly alert, as if one had never fallen asleep.
Fine in theory, he thought. But, it didn’t work as a matter of practicality.
He was wide awake and had been for an hour. He had gotten some sleep, but now his core thoughts nudged him to move, well before the dawn began dissipating the darkness that surrounded the village of Alamosa.
The rottweiler was awake, too, lying near him, alert to the man’s every movement.
“I think we better get a move on, boy,” Saxton said, vigorously rubbing Jeddy’s head, and tugging on his ear. The dog shifted, then stood and stretched his muscular body.
“Let’s have a look at what we have down there,” Nigel said, taking the binoculars from the backpack and, after walking to the edge of the rocky area that had given them shelter from the frigid winds, trained the glasses on the sprawling village, whose lights were already ablaze with early morning activities.
“Alamoso,” he said. “Just like Zeke promised.”
The canine looked to the man, trying to get the human’s meanings. Did this mean that “Mommy” was there? Were they going to find his mistress?
“We had better move in that direction, mate. Before it becomes too light. We will get a room.”
Jeddy whined, responding to Nigel’s happy tone while Saxton patted him, and playfully tugged at one of the dog’s ears. “Shall we ask for two double beds?”
Mark thought it odd –as did Christopher Banyon and Randall Prouse-- that they had not been questioned to any extent upon departing the Criterion. The lights of the Denver area whisked by while they rode toward downtown in the big van –first on Peña Boulevard, then I-70.
The man had flashed credentials and said he was with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, then “invited” them to accompany him and three other agents to FBI headquarters.