Flight 256
Monday, Dec. 27, 1999

155 miles outside Dulles International Airport
Altitude 30,000 feet
1610 Hours
 

“What the hell is that?” said Al Kingery, the 52-year-old pilot of Transcarrier Airlines Flight 256.

During his 22 years as a commercial pilot, Kingery had never seen this particular warning light during a flight, essentially telling him that his aircraft was overdue for a Federally mandated inspection.

“Probably a short,” said First Officer Peter Savage.  “Has to be a short.”

Kingery let out a laugh of agreement and reset the Master Caution light.  But it was a nervous laugh, with a hint of ubiquitous concern for the integrity of his aircraft.  He would not tolerate a warning light of any kind, short or not, aboard his aircraft.  The Boeing 767 was easy to handle.  Perhaps too easy.  Her computer-managed engine thrust and advanced wing design made her rate of descent breathtaking and her landings quick.  One-hundred forty-three computers in the electronics rack below deck monitored every flight detail.  Her designers joked that pilots seemed almost superfluous.

The Master Caution light came on again, and another amber light began flashing on the cockpit’s annunciator panel, this one accompanied by four sharp beeps.  Both men’s dismissive grins vanished.  The warning light indicated a starboard engine malfunction.

“I don’t get it,” Savage said, studying the VDU.  “All readouts are normal.”

There were a lot of things he didn’t get inside this cockpit.  In fact, Savage had completed his 767 flight training only eight weeks earlier and had hardly flown since.  His lack of experience worried Kingery, and he questioned the officer’s proficiency.

Kingery rearmed the Master Caution light.  “Talk to me, Pete.  Tell me what’s happening with that engine.”

Savage scanned the readouts on the video display and checked the numbers twice against those in the Quick Reference Handbook.  “Normal,” he said.  “Everything’s normal.  Temperature.  Oil pressure.  Hydraulics.  Hell if I can find anything wrong.”

Suddenly the port engine warning light came on, followed by another series of sharp beeps.  The chorus of the two alarms was frightening.

“Pete, goddammit,” Kingery spat, “tell me what’s happening!”

Savage felt the pressure to give the captain information, reliable information, which he simply couldn’t produce.  He set and reset the aircraft’s diagnostic system, and scanned the flight deck’s eight-color CRT displays, searching for a reason for the warnings. 

Savage’s mouth dried, making it difficult to speak.  “Nothing, Al.  I can’t find anything.”

“Jesus H.,” Kingery spat.  He keyed his headset’s microphone.  “Dulles, this is TCA 256 on final approach.  We may have a problem.  Requesting emergency priority landing.  I’ve got both engine warning lights.”

***

Control Tower
Dulles International Airport

Arrival Air Traffic Controller Douglas Sheridan logged Flight 256’s request for emergency priority landing.  He read off the triangle of data superimposed on his radar screen, which identified the aircraft, its altitude and ground speed.  He checked the airliner’s information against traffic in the area before issuing clearance for Flight 256 to land, Priority One.

“TCA 256, you’re cleared for direct Dulles on Runway Two.  Maintain 6000, descend at your discretion.  Do you need fire equipment or ambulances?”

“Negative,” Kingery replied.  “I’ve got port and starboard engine warning lights.  Can’t confirm.  Readouts are normal.  This is precautionary.”

“Roger.”

As the 767 sank toward the cloud cover below, Kingery could already feel beads of perspiration accumulating on his forehead.  It was an automatic reaction, like Pavlov’s dog.  The sound of a cockpit alarm automatically tightened the muscles in his back and made him perspire.  There was nothing he could do about it, and he knew it was just a matter of time before the first bead rolled down his temple and forged a tributary to his eye.

He keyed the intercom to the cabin.  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to his one hundred and sixty seven passengers and five attendants.  “This is Captain Kingery.  We’re making our final approach to Dulles International.  We have reports of some bumpy air around ten-thousand feet.  I need you all to return to your seats, fasten your seatbelts, and secure any loose objects.  Thanks.”

“What’s going on?  Why the rush?”  It was Sandra Cummings, the in-charge flight attendant, standing in the doorway.  She noted Kingery’s vexed look, heard the beeps and saw amber lights on the annunciator panel.  Her eyes widened.  Although she didn’t know what they meant, she had spent enough years on commercial airline flights to know they had a potential emergency here.

“Warning system’s gone nuts,” Kingery said over his shoulder.  “Damn if I can find anything wrong, though.  Probably nothing.  Do me a favor – brief your flight attendants for a possible emergency landing.  Be discreet; I don’t want the passengers alarmed.”

“Of course,” she said and withdrew, closing the bulkhead door securely behind her.

Four more warning beeps screeched through the cockpit’s increasingly anxious atmosphere.  More amber lights glowed on the annunciator panel.  Kingery’s anxiety turned to genuine fear.  He disengaged the autopilot and took the controls.  He would hand-fly the remainder of the flight, landing at Dulles on a straight-in approach.  For the first time in his life, Al Kingery wanted to be on the ground – now!

***

“Please stow all belongings and fasten your seat belts,” Cummings instructed each row of passengers.  Her mind was spinning.  What if Kingery was wrong?  What if it wasn’t “nothing?”  The snug aisle leading aft seemed to shrink around her, making her feel claustrophobic.  She ordered herself to remain calm, to attend to her passengers.

In the coach cabin, two other flight attendants were working their way back, clearing away littered dinner trays and chatting with the passengers.  Cummings noticed the aisle floor beneath her tilting forward as the aircraft began to descend.  She thought about her family and her friends as she staggered aft as briskly as possible without alerting anyone.  Most of the passengers seemed to be vaguely uneasy, she noticed.  She thought about her husband who didn’t care for her flying.

“Please put away your belongings and fasten your seat belts,” she told each row of business-class passengers.

“It’s time to put that away,” Nora told her daughter, Gina.

The eleven-year-old gave a sulking expression and reluctantly began powering down her dad’s ThinkPad computer.  She enjoyed playing solitaire and landmine on it, and her dad, Senator Michael Lloyd, was gratified the device worked so well as a babysitter, especially on these long flights from the West Coast.  Gina reluctantly gave the computer back to her dad, then put on a pair of headphones to listen to the pilot talk with the tower as they landed.

The Senator checked his watch.  “It’s going to be tight.”

“You’re driving me nuts with this meeting,” Nora said.  “Stop worrying about it.  You won’t be late.”

The Senator checked his watch again.  On one level he knew his wife was right; there still was plenty of time.  Deeper, though, his emotions wouldn’t let him relax.  How could anyone relax on their way to a meeting with the President of the United States, especially when air travel was involved?  Flights were too unpredictable; too many variables out of his control.  He hated when he wasn’t in control.

Perhaps it was the subject matter: asking the President to shut down Wall Street was no trivial matter.  It was imperative for the U.S. economy, he kept telling himself.  Representing Congress’ Finance Committee, Senator Lloyd would recommend a moratorium on financial trading.  Every hour closer to the new millennium brought increased risks of computer complications and malfunctions, some with deep financial consequences, a few with catastrophic implications.  In this fragile, suspicious environment, a single computer error in the wrong place at the wrong time could literally topple the U.S. economy.  White House computer consultants had certified Wall Street’s systems to be Year 2000 compliant more than six months ago.  But there was no predicting that the computers of other traders, other companies, other brokerage houses would be every bit as reliable.  No one would be sure until the clocks actually changed.  And no one was willing to issue a guarantee.

Now he possessed information about a new threat.  Highly confidential, he was on strict instructions from his Congressional subcommittee to brief the President personally.

As an eleventh-hour favor, the President had cleared a half-hour to meet with him.  A very generous time allotment, and precious little time to convince the President of the extreme importance of this matter.  With luck the President would see it his way and issue the moratorium.  And the sooner he acted the better.

The senator looked at his watch again.  “We’ll probably circle the airport for two more hours.”

Nora looked across her daughter and out the cabin’s window.  “You’re in luck; so far we haven’t turned.  Perhaps we won’t need to circle.”

***

Inside the cockpit, Captain Kingery wiped the bead of perspiration stinging his right eye.  The annunciator panel’s warning lights were lit up like Christmas, telling him to get his aircraft down fast.  The controls had become sluggish and unresponsive in his hands.  He could feel a vibration in the yoke which, over the course of several minutes, had grown steadily worse.  This was no short circuit.  Whatever the source, it was causing real control problems.

“We’re losing the hydraulics,” Kingery said.  “Raise the flaps.”

Savage pulled the flap lever.  Nothing.  “Oh, Jesus.”  He tried it again.  Still nothing.  The ADC and VGR annunciator lights came on, something Savage had never seen before.  He knew they monitored the computers that created the flight instrument displays, but little else; he didn’t have time to get clarification from his handbook.  His hands were shaking.  He glanced at Kingery, wrestling with the controls. I’m not going to help anyone by being afraid, he thought.  He willed his hands to stop shaking.

“I’m powering down,” Kingery said.  He grabbed the throttles and, with white knuckles, pulled back the levers.  The whine of the twin turbine jet engines didn’t vary.  The RPM indicators remained stubbornly unchanged.

“I don’t believe this,” Kingery said.  “How can this be happening?”  He pulled back the throttles even further, much further than safety would allow.  Still there was no change in the engines’ RPMs.

Four more beeps sounded, followed by moments of stark silence, then four more beeps.  Eight seemingly endless minutes had passed since the first alarm.  Now the two were being assailed by eerie warning sounds and foreboding amber lights.

“I need drag,” Kingery said.  “Put down the landing gear.”

Savage engaged the landing gear; there was no response.  “Negative.”

“Well, that makes it unanimous,” Kingery said.  “Reboot the computer.”

“Jesus—”

“Just do it!” Kingery snapped.

Savage reached for the keypad and, with shaking fingers, initiated the master computer reboot sequence.  The color readouts on the CRTs blinked off and were replaced with the phrase: PLEASE WAIT …

Suddenly, the cockpit plunged into darkness.  The bank of digital readouts that reported airspeed, altitude, compass direction, pressure and temperature vanished.  Savage waited an interminable five seconds for the main computer to power up, but there still were no signs of life on the displays.  He was too frightened to speak.

“Where are my instruments?” Kingery demanded.

Savage checked and rechecked the position of the switches.  The computers controlled the aircraft and, like a stubborn child, they wouldn’t allow humans to intervene.  How was that possible?  “The computers,” he concluded.  “They’re shutting down this aircraft.”

“Nonsense,” Kingery said.  “There are redundancies.”

Savage tried different reboot configurations, all with the same effect.  Nothing.  To the young co-pilot, the cockpit had become the darkest place in the world.

***

Dulles International

Air Controller Sheridan searched the black radar screen in vain for Flight 256.  He radioed in frustration, “TCA 256, I’ve lost your transponder.”  He swept the radar back and forth over the area where Flight 256 should have been.  He watched the screen intently, but the plane remained invisible.

Sheraton lifted the phone receiver and punched in the airport’s command center.  “Dulles, I’ve got an emergency for you.  Got a TCA aircraft coming in.  Apparently he’s lost all power.  He may be having a hard time controlling the aircraft.  He’s out of 9000 right now, descending to Dulles.  Recommend having equipment standing by.”

***

Kingery and Savage heard the sound they had dreaded – a single, sharp bang.  “We’ve lost the right engine,” Savage gasped.

“Power and gear,” Kingery said.

“Check.”

“Throttle closed, auto throttle disengage.”

“Disengaged.”

Kingery keyed his headset.  “Dulles, we’ve lost our Number One engine.  We need all trucks out.”

When he received no acknowledgement, he repeated the message.  Still only silence.  Then the realization struck him.  No power.  The right engine had failed also, halting the generators, stopping production of electricity.  Without power, there would be no hydraulic pressure.  The pilots could no longer control the rudder, elevators, wing flaps and ailerons that steer the jet.

***

In the cabin, Sandra Cummings heard a low but unmistakable ding! and saw the emergency lighting system activate, turning on red and white lights along the aisle floors.  There came a rush of questions from passengers.

***

“Unlock the RAT,” Kingery ordered.

Savage used a manual lever to drop the ram air turbine from its housing next to the right wheel well.  Scooping up wind power, the RAT’s four-foot propeller would provide enough electricity to maintain a minimal level of hydraulic control.

Kingery summoned Cummings to the flight deck.  She no sooner opened the bulkhead door when Kingery, his voice desperate, said, “We’ve lost all power.  We’re going straight into Dulles.  Brief the passengers and crew for a full emergency landing.”

Cummings felt a rush of adrenaline surge through her, producing a momentary wave of dizziness.  There were no lights in the cockpit, and the console appeared dead.  Her hands began shaking violently.  She sprinted aft past Senator Lloyd and his family, avoiding the questioning stares of her passengers.

“Someone probably puked,” Gina said, watching the flight attendant race by.

“Probably,” Nora agreed.  But every instinct in her shouted that this was not the case.  She was very frightened, and she fought to hide her fear from her daughter.

Senator Lloyd did not notice the palpable fear spreading through the cabin.  His mind was already in Washington inside the White House.  He didn’t see the team of flight attendants positioning themselves at even intervals throughout the aircraft.

Cummings grasped the intercom microphone and began to speak, but there was no amplified sound, no power.  She put down the microphone and shouted through cupped hands,  “I want everyone to listen carefully.  Remove your shoes, glasses, false teeth and anything sharp from your pockets.”

Senator looked up, puzzled.  He asked his wife, “What’s going on?  What’s happening?”

“Prepare for an emergency landing … remove shoes … sharp objects….”

Gina, visibly alarmed, wanted to know, “Mom, is this for real?”

“Just do what they tell you, honey, and hold my hand,” Nora said, forcing her voice to remain steady, adding almost in a whisper, “And say a prayer.”

Senator Lloyd watched the flight attendants move through the cabin, talking with passengers, explaining the emergency “brace” position: heads down, hands grasping ankles.  Some responded with anger, others appeared anguished over their impotence.  Some cried softly.

“This is absurd,” the Senator said.  He felt a growing sense of helplessness and a numbness spreading through his body.  He was going into physical shock.  Voices seemed muffled and oddly remote.  He no longer heard his wife’s voice, nor did he feel her hand reach across the aisle to grasp his own.  His breathing became shallow and fast; he felt oddly cold.

***

Savage watched Kingery, his jaw set, working the controls like a rodeo stuntman hanging on to a bull.  “We’re too high,” the co-pilot said.  “At this glide angle we’ll be going in too fast.”

“Can you think of anything we haven’t done?” Kingery asked.

“No, I can’t, Al.”

Kingery’s mind raced with questions.  Okay, what’s the best speed here for descent?  Nothing in the pilots’ manual dealt with gliding a powerless 767 safely to earth.  If not done correctly, he could let the aircraft go down too fast or too slow – both would be fatal mistakes – and he could only guess how fast he was descending.  “I’m no fucking glider pilot,” he said aloud.

With the cloud cover now above them, Kingery and Savage could see the familiar straight-line of runway Number Three at 12 o’clock.

“Maybe seven miles,” Savage estimated.

They were coming in fast with no trailing-edge flaps to slow their speed.  Flight 256 would be attempting to land without anti-skid control on the brakes, and without engines to provide maneuverability.  There would be no circling; they had one chance.

***

Senator Lloyd glanced out the window and saw snow-covered fields drawing closer and closer.  The plane began bouncing more erratically.  He looked to his wife for strength and found her expression a mask of bewilderment and fear.  As he removed the pens from his shirt pocket, he noticed the businessman one row back with a rosary reciting the Act of Contrition aloud.  He wished he carried a cross.  He looked across at his daughter, Gina, sitting rigid against the window, sobbing.

“Holy angels protect us,” he heard her pray.

Dazed, he said to no one in particular, “Everything will be all right, honey.  We’re just going to land.  And then we’ll be all right.”

***

The plane continued to drop at an alarmingly steep angle.  Kingery knew that unless he acted immediately, they would overshoot the runway.  If only they could lower the landing gear to create drag.

“Gear down.”

“Al, what’s the point—”

“Gear down!” Kingery demanded.

Savage pulled the lever to the down position.  Both pilots waited breathlessly for the reassuring whoosh and boom of the gear dropping.  Nothing.

“This should be interesting.  Hold on.”  Kingery turned the yoke to his right and jamming his foot against the left rudder pedal.  Outside, the wing’s left aileron swung up, while the right one dropped.  The opposing forces created by the crossed controls turned the plane sharply onto its right side, creating severe drag, resulting in a drop in airspeed and altitude.  The move also created considerable stress on the airframe.

***

Senator Lloyd felt the plane lurch suddenly to the right and settle at a precarious angle, and then the sensation of falling.  The airframe began to oscillate – shaking, bouncing and rattling.  He looked out the window.  They were low enough to jump down.

***

Every ounce of Kingery’s energy was channeled to his effort to maintain the sideslip.  Perspiration flowed down his temples.  C’mon, honey.  Slow down.  Put us down safely.

Kingery turned the yoke to the left to straighten but was unable to level the plane.  The right wing dipped sharply as the fuselage rolled violently to the right like some scary ride in an amusement park, the right wing tip pointing straight at the ground.

Savage gasped, “My God—”

***

A sickening, crunching thud filled the cabin as the wing dug into the ground.  There came two small explosions, then a large bang at the front of the aircraft.  An orange fireball rushed through the cabin.

Senator Lloyd reached for his daughter.  The flames engulfed and incinerated him.

Sarah Cummings watched transfixed as the fire roared toward her and felt as though she were sitting on the doorstep of hell.  She closed her eyes.  Burning is the worst way to die.  Sweet Jesus, Cummings prayed.  I’m ready.  Please don’t let it hurt.

In a gruesome somersault, the 151-foot plane slammed into the ground, flipped over twice and began a long, grinding skid.  An unremitting crescendo of crunching and scraping filled the cabin – a noise as shattering in its power as that of a derailed freight train.  Cummings flew violently against her seat belt in a whirlwind of gravel, smoke and flying metal.  The plane broke into smaller pieces as its fuselage hurtled across the snow-covered field.

She could feel snow, dirt and gravel digging into her face and body as the smashed fuselage tore apart at its seams.  n

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

© 2003 by Joseph Massucci

This is a work of fiction. Characters, companies, and agencies in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual content.