Ben Parker replied, “Roger, Zulu Mike, we copy.” He stole a glance at Barbara Maxwell, who was searching her radar screen and talking to any other aircraft in the area. “We are advising other traffic to leave the area. The sky's all yours.”
“Interesting day,” Parker observed to Maxwell, who nodded.
“Okay,” said Dr. Cooper. “One more half a finger joint out on that throttle and you should be about there.”
Brock and Dr. Cooper watched carefully as The Yank's nose eased down and the airplane began to level out of the climb. The two Skylanes, accompanied by the three news helicopters, were at fifteen hundred feetâthe blue waters of Puget Sound below them, the impressive Seattle skyline off to their right. They were heading north toward a point of land commonly called West Point, a peninsula that jutted into the Sound and had the distinction of being Seattle's westernmost piece of real estate. From there, an aviator could look southeast and see right down Runway One Three Right at Boeing Field, about nine miles away.
“Winds one six zero,” Brock mused. “That means he's going to have a thirty degree crosswind coming from his right. He's going to drift sideways over that runway.”
“How wide is the runway?” Dr. Cooper asked.
“Two hundred feet, I think. And ten thousand feet long.”
“Looks like we'll have a little bit of roomâif the wind doesn't kick up any worse.”
“Well, he doesn't have to use a runway, I suppose,” Brock considered out loud. “Just as long as he lands somewhere that's flat and doesn't hit any people or runway lights or signs or vehicles or parked airplanes or buildings.”
“We're not asking for much, are we?”
They reached West Point and all five aircraft made a slow, steady turn like a flock of birds to the southeast. Brock maneuvered Zulu Mike to a position slightly above and behind Yankee Tango. From there, Dr. Cooper had a good view of The Yank and what it was doing. Five miles away was the south shore of Elliot Bay, prickly with wharves, shipyards, and warehouses. Beyond that lay the wide, flat Duwamish Valley covered with low-structured factories, warehouses, freeways, and overpasses. Beyond that, nine miles in the distance, Runway One Three Right lay like a big gray stripe on a field of smog-hazed green.
Jay closed his eyes to pray out of habit, but again, it made little difference in what he could see. He prayed along as he heard his father pray, “Dear Lord, Rex and Jay are in Your hands. We ask You for Your mercy and protection, and we trust You for the outcome. We love You, Lord, no matter what. Amen.”
“Amen.”
“Amen,” said Ben Parker and all his crew.
As soon as Joyce and Lila said “Amen” and opened their eyes, they were on their feet.
“We've got to get out there!” said Joyce.
“Please, get us out there!” Lila told Johnny Adair.
Adair nodded and then led a paradeâJoyce, Lila, and about twenty television and newspaper reporters with notepads, mikes, and camerasâout into the hall to the elevators and then down to the street level. A security fence stood between them and the vast apron where light planes, cargo planes, and commercial airliners were all parked. Beyond all those parked airplanes was Runway One Three Right.
While the reporters and camera people spread out along the fence looking for the best possible view through all the parked aircraft, Johnny Adair led Joyce and Lila to a gate, punched in a security code, and led them through. In a moment, they stood with nothing between them and the runway but a wide field of grass.
Traffic on the West Seattle Freeway was coming to a standstill as motorists, informed by their car radios, stopped to see the spectacle: two nearly identical Skylane aircraft flying in formation, followed by three news helicopters, all moving slowly over the bay and then right overhead, the airplane engines droning, the chopper blades wop-wop-wopping, heading for Boeing Field to the south. Horns began to honk, people waved, and a paint salesman leaned out the window of his van and hollered, “Godspeed, Jay Cooper!”
As Joyce and Lila continued to watch through binoculars, the two Skylanes grew to a clear and discernible shape; even their markings were recognizable: Eight Yankee Tango, white with red stripes, flying on the lower left of their view, and Niner Zulu Mike, white with green stripes, flying on the upper right.
The image blurred as tears filled Lila's eyes. She wiped them clear and kept watching.
“I can't take this, “ Joyce moaned. “I don't think I can take this.” Nevertheless, she remained standing where she was, solid as a post, peering through her binoculars. “Come on, Jay. Come on. I love that big guy!”
Dr. Cooper could see the runway getting closer, and his heart was pounding so hard he could feel it. “All right, Jay, descent power again. We'll start down.”
“Okay, descent power.”
“Four miles,” said Brock. “Nine hundred feet. We might need a steeper descent rate before long.”
Dr. Cooper instructed Jay, “Remember now, right before touchdown you'll probably have to pull off the power and raise the nose, but you have to do it slowly, gently. You've landed our plane before, you know how it feels.”
Jay could feel his heart beginning to race. His hands were beginning to shake a little despite his efforts to steady them. “I know how it feels . . . I'll try to remember.” He reached out and took hold of the control yoke. It felt familiar in his hands, but he dared not tug or push on it, not yet.
Oh Lord, help me to remember, help me to feel it.
There was no sensation quite like being blind in a hurtling piece of flying machinery, having no real sense of where you were or where you were going or what might be in front of you. Jay tried to imagine what it was like outside the windows as he asked, “Where are we?”
“Three and half miles from the runway,” said his father. “The I-5 freeway is off to your left, the Duwamish River is off to your right. You're about eight hundred feet up. It's a sunny day so far. I can see the numbers on the end of the runway, a big one three. Give me a touch of right.”
Now Ben Parker and his crew were all watching through binoculars, looking out the huge windows of the control tower.
“We have you in sight, Yankee Tango,” said Parker. “You look good so far. Winds one seven zero.
“Two mile final,” said Brock. “Five hundred feet. Lots of room, just hold her steady.”
Dr. Cooper peered through the windshield. Runway One Three Right was almost two miles long, and yet from up here it looked so small, so narrow, like a little sidewalk with a strip of green grass on either side. Outside the strip of grass on the right were a taxiway, huge 747s and 757s parked in a long row, light aircraft, a huge hanger. Straight down, the buildings, streets and houses of Georgetown were passing rapidly under them, getting bigger and closer and faster with each passing second.
The two airplanes passed over the north airport boundary and their shadows appeared on the grass just north of the runway threshold. The broad, white-striped end of One Three spread out before them, coming up fast.
Yankee Tango veered to the right.
“Touch left,” said Cooper.
Jay twisted the autopilot knob to the left, waited just a moment, then returned it to neutral.
“Touch right,” came his father's voice again.
He twisted the knob to the right. The airplane hit a bump in the air and lurched. Jay's hand fell from the knob. He groped to find it again. Precious time passed.
The Yank banked over into a steep right turn.
Dr. Cooper tried to keep his voice calm, but his words shot out with rapid-fire urgency. “You're turning right, Jay! Back to neutral, back to neutral!”
Jay groped for the knob with his left hand, grabbed the yoke with his right. He turned the yoke to the left momentarily, trying to override the autopilot.
“No . . . no, straighten it out!” Lila cried as she watched Yankee Tango pass over the runway and then beyond it, rocking this way, then that, caught in ground turbulence.
Jay found the knob and twisted it back to neutral.
The Yank snapped out of the turn, but now the airplane was fifty feet off the ground, still sinking, and headed for a row of 747s parked to the right of the runway.
This landing was too far gone to save.
“Full throttle, Jay,” said Dr. Cooper. “Go around.”
With a grimace of disappointment, Jay jammed the throttle forward and felt pressed into his seat as the airplane roared and rattled to life.
Through the telephoto lens of a television camera on the field, the Skylane appeared to drop behind the monstrous tail fin of a 747âas if it was sure to collide with it.
Then, like a barn swallow in a graceful upswoop, it shot up from behind the tail fin and into the sky, nose high, wings level.
Audiences all over the Northwest could hear a sigh of relief from the reporter and his cameraman.
Ben Parker let his head droop for just a moment of quiet relief, then looked out the window again as the Skylane climbed toward them. “Keep climbing, baby, keep climbing.”
If the Skylane did not continue climbing, it would certainly fly right through the tower windows.
Trust, trust, TRUST!
Jay kept telling himself as he forced himself to hold still, keep his hands off the yoke, and not panic as he waited for the next word of instruction from his father.
Dr. Cooper managed to keep his voice so calm he surprised even himself as he said, “Okay, Jay, now let's give it a touch of left so you don't run into the control tower.”
The Skylane made a neat, brief bank to the left.
“Perfect.”
Jay's voice came back. “Dad, I'm sorry. My hand slipped off the knob.”
Dr. Cooper drew a deep breath. He didn't want his voice to sound unsteady as he replied, “That's okay, son. You did great. We're going to go around and try it again.”
Just then, Ben Parker's voice came over the other radio, the one Jay would not hear. “Niner Zulu Mike, call me on this frequency.”
Brock switched radios. “Niner Zulu Mike here.”
Ben Parker spoke through his headset as he and his crew watched Eight Yankee Tango fly by the tower, safely to one side. “Be advised that by our best figures, Eight Yankee Tango has enough fuel for only one more attempted landing. Do you copy?”
Brock shot a glance at Dr. Cooper, then replied, “Roger, we copy.”
Parker's face was stony and grim, his voice even. “If the aircraft runs out of fuel over a populated area, some innocent people on the ground could be hurt or killed. I'm sure you understand that.”
Brock looked at Dr. Cooper, who nodded.
Brock replied, “Roger, we understand.”
“If this attempt fails, you are instructed to guide the aircraft back to Alki Point where the Coast Guard is standing by. You are to follow through with the previous plan to ditch. Please acknowledge.”
Reluctantly, Brock pressed his talk button. “We acknowledge. If this attempt fails, we ditch the aircraft.”
Dr. Cooper looked at Brock, and then out the window at Eight Yankee Tango, still climbing. “One more attempt. Let's make it good.”
T
he flying armada climbed to one thousand feet, leveled off, turned to the north, and flew out over Puget Sound once again. For want of fuelâand out of fear for Jay's dwindling strengthâthey decided against going clear to West Point. They turned inbound over Elliot Bay, seven miles out, holding steady at one thousand feet. Brock and Dr. Cooper did not tell Jay this would be his last attempt; he had enough on his mind.
Dr. Cooper tried to keep his voice strong and even. He didn't want to pass any fear on to his son.
“It looked good, Jay, it really did.”
Jay was feeling tired and starting to get sick again, but more than that, a creeping terror was sneaking into his soul, giving him a gnawing pain in his gut and making his hands tremble. “What happened last time? It felt real bumpy.”
His father explained, “We think it was turbulence coming around that big hangar. We're going to keep you up higher this time and land you farther down the runway. It's a trade-off. We won't have as much runway to play with, but hopefully the wind will be a little more steady and you won't get knocked around quite so much.”
“I just . . . ,” Jay's emotions were getting raw. “I just want to get on the ground again, that's all. I want to get out of this airplane! I want to use my eyes and walk with my own feet on solid ground!”
“I want the same thing for you, son.” Dr. Cooper spoke soothingly. “As a matter of fact, we were all supposed to go down to the waterfront tonight, remember? We were going to get fish and chips and share it with the seagulls, then walk through the aquarium. Does that sound good to you?”
His father had mentioned the right things. It warmed Jay's heart just to think of them. “I'd love it.”
“So what do you say? Let's get this plane on the ground and go home.”
Jay drew a breath and sighed loudly as he let it out. Now he began gathering whatever strength and resolve he had left. “Let's do it.”
“Right turn.”
Jay twisted the knob for what seemed like the zillionth time. “Right turn.”
A few seconds passed, and then his father said, “Stop turn.”
Jay repeated, “Stop turn,” and returned the knob to neutral.
And then he sat there, isolated from the world in a tight aluminum cocoon that to him had no windows. He was in the dark, surrounded by noise and rushing wind.
“Now when you're about to touch down, have one hand on the yoke and one hand on the throttle. You'll have to pull the power back when I tell you, and then you'll have to hold the nose up. It'll be tricky. But hey, if we can get you within a few feet of the runway, a few bumps aren't going to hurt anybody.”
His father sounded so calm about all this, as if he'd done it every day of his life!
I wish I could see, Dad, like you.