“A little right aileron, Jay. You're starting to turn left again.”
Jay gave the yoke a short little tweak to the right.
“Good. That's real good.” The man's voice calmed a bit. “You must know what an aileron is.”
“Sure. Ailerons are those little panels on the back edge of the wing that tilt up and down and make the airplane bank.” Giving that little explanation helped calm Jay's nerves. Maybe that was why this guy in his headset brought up the subject.
“Okay, Jay, you get an
A
for the day.” Jay had to smile at the silly rhyme. “Now let's try that throttle.”
Jay could feel terror gripping him. “What if it's the wrong knob?”
“Just pull it slowly, just an inch or so, and listen
to the engine.”
He took hold of the knob and pulled it out slowly.
He couldn't tell if it was making a difference or not.
“How's it going?” came the voice.
“I can't tell if anything's happening.”
“Pull some more,” Chuck said.
Jay pulled the knob out another inch. Now the engine seemed to calm a little. “I . . . I think it's the throttle. The engine's easing up a little.”
“Pull just a little more.”
Oh Lord, don't let it be the mixture knob!
He pulled another inch. The engine quieted. He thought he felt a sinking feeling. “Am I diving again?”
“No, you're just starting to level off from your climb. You're doing good. Just leave the throttle there a moment. Right aileron again, just a touch.”
Jay rested back in his seat and gave the yoke another tilt to the right. He told himself out loud, “All right Jay, now just be cool and pretend you're flying with Dad.” Then he prayed, “And Lord, please help me. I'm in trouble.”
“What happened to Rex?” came the voice.
Jay reached over with his left hand and could feel Rex sitting there, slumped over, his head bowed, not moving. “Uncle Rex? Uncle Rex, can you hear me?”
“Is he breathing?”
Jay's hand groped upward and found his uncle's jaw and mouth. He could feel warm breath coming from Rex's nose. “Yeah, he's breathing. But he must be unconscious. I'm poking him right now and he doesn't do anything.”
“Jay, does that airplane have an autopilot?”
“I don't know. I've never
Now that would be nice!
been in this plane before.”
“Give it a touch of right aileron.”
Jay gave it a touch. “What happened?”
“A big 757 came right over the top of you and you got caught in its wake turbulence. It wasn't your fault. The jet wasn't supposed to be flying that low. It looked to me like it was having engine trouble. Aside from not being able to see, how are you?”
“I'm sick. I feel like I'm going to throw up, and . . .” Jay felt his head again. “My head's bleeding and it hurts like crazy.”
“Give her some more right aileron, Jay.”
Jay tilted the yoke to the right just a moment, then returned it to neutral.
Chuck could see the Skylane's wings level up again as it continued a gradual, slower climb. “Jay, you're doing terrific. Just keep giving it that much correction whenever I tell you. Just a touch, okay?”
“Okay. By the way, who are you and where are you?”
Chuck laughed. “Sorry for not introducing myself. I'm Chuck Westmore, a friend of your uncle's. I'm following you right now in my airplane.”
“Are you the guy in the Piper Cub?”
“Yeah, that's right. Have you ever flown an airplane before?”
“Yeah, my Dad's airplane.”
“Is it like your uncle's?”
“Pretty much. They both have a 182.”
“That's great. Have you ever landed a plane?”
“Yeah, my Dad's.”
Chuck felt a touch of relief, of hope. He knew they weren't out of the woods yet, but at least they had a fighting chance. “That's great, Jay. That'll sure help. Now let's work out a little code, all right? If I say left, you give it just a little bit of left aileron and then come back to neutral, okay? If I say right, then you do the same thing to the right. Same for up and down, you understand?”
“Yeah, all right.”
“The biggest danger is overcorrecting, doing too much of something. We have to do it in small pieces, slow and easy.” The Skylane was starting to veer to the right. “Okay, give it a touch of left.”
Now the airplane rocked back to level again. Good. This kid was doing all right so far.
He had to call for help, but there was no time to do that and still talk to the lad to keep him flying safe and level.
Aviate, then navigate, then communicate,
went the old pilot safety slogan.
Oh well,
he thought,
one thing at a time. We'll wake âem up with the transponder. At least they'll know where we are.
On the right side of Chuck's control panel was a small black box with four numbers and a little knob under each number. This was his transponder. Every time a beam from a radar station would sweep over the plane, the transponder would send back a signal telling the people in the control tower the number or code on the transponder and the plane's altitude. Right now the four numbers were set to 1200, a code that meant he was just out buzzing around in clear weather. No doubt there were several airplanes in the area with transponders set to that same code, so the people in the control tower wouldn't be able to tell them apart. But that was about to change. He started twisting the knobs until the number was 7700, a universal distress code.
That should wake them up, he thought.
In the control tower at Boeing Field, the controllers had just heard about the WestAir 757 making a safe emergency landing at nearby Seattle-Tacoma International and were breathing a sigh of relief. They'd been on alert in case the 757 needed to land at Boeing, but now that whole mess was over, and they could get back to their regular routine. Ben Parker, the tower chief, a veteran air-traffic controller with a graying crew cut and somber expression, allowed himself at least a slight glint of happiness in his eyes. Apart from that he was silent, his hands on his hips, as he watched his staff of three men and two women cheer and give each other high fives.
Until the alarms went off. Loud beeps and blinking red lights on the control panels filled the room.
“We've got a seven-seven!” someone exclaimed. The cheering and talking stopped.
“Never a dull moment,” Parker muttered, then called out, “All right, let's look alive, let's get on it!”
Every controller manned his or her station, monitoring the radios, searching the radar screens.
“Southeast,” announced Barbara Maxwell, a
dark-haired lady in her thirties wearing a small headset. “About fifteen miles out.”
Ben Parker stared grimly over her shoulder. He could see the blinking target on her radar screen. “Any voice contact?”
Maxwell switched over to the universal emergency frequency and called, “Aircraft in distress, this is Boeing Tower. Come in.” No answer. She repeated the call. Still no answer.
“They're near Auburn. They might be on the Auburn airport frequency,” Parker thought out loud. “Bob, switch over to Auburn frequency. See if you pick up anything.”
Bob Konishi, a youthful Asian-American, manned his radio panel, dialed in the frequency, and listened.
“We have two targets on the radar,” Maxwell reported. “The seven-seven might be following another aircraft.”
Konishi waved his hand. “I've got something!”
“Put it on the speaker,” Parker said.
Konishi flipped a switch and the whole room could hear the voice of Chuck Westmore crackling from the overhead speaker: “You're doing real good, Jay. Now remember, when you can't see the ground outside, your body can lie to you. You can think you're turning when you aren't and think you're flying level when you're turning. You'll just have to ignore what your body is telling you and listen to me. Okay?”
“Okay,” Jay's voice answered.
“Now stand by. I'm going to make a call and get some help. Just hang on.”
Parker looked at Maxwell. She was monitoring the distress frequency. She would most likely get his message.
She nodded back. She was getting it, and switched it to the overhead speaker: “Mayday, Mayday, Piper Cub Eight Eight Niner in distress, anyone who hears me, please respond.”
Maxwell replied through her headset, “November Eight Eight Niner, Boeing Tower, go ahead.”
Chuck had two radios in his Cub. One was tuned to talk to Jay, the second was tuned to talk on the emergency frequency. It was on the second radio that Chuck got the response from Boeing Tower. He answered, “Eight eight niner about ten miles southeast of Auburn Municipal at two thousand five hundred feet. I'm following a Cessna Skylane. I'm in contact with the passenger. The pilot is unconscious. The passenger is conscious but blind.”
The people in the tower were dumbfounded. Parker's eyes narrowed. “Say again,” he prompted Maxwell.
“Say again,” she told Chuck.
Chuck's voice came over the speaker, “The Skylane encountered wake turbulence from a lowflying 757. The pilot was knocked unconscious. His passenger, a young man, is conscious, but is injured and
he can't see.”
“The WestAir 757,” Parker muttered. He started barking out orders. “Bob, declare an emergency for November Eight Eight Niner, ground all aircraft leaving and redirect all aircraft arriving. Johnny, get the airport manager on the phone and tell him what we've got. We need the airport closed.” Johnny Adair, a plump man in his forties, grabbed up the telephone at his station. Parker quickly added, “And tell him we need emergency vehicles on stand-by.” Adair nodded as he punched in the phone number. Parker went to his own station and put on his headset. “Eight Eight Niner, Seattle Tower. Does the Skylane have an autopilot?”
Chuck was straining to see the Skylane, still shrinking as it flew farther and farther ahead of him.
“The passenger doesn't know.”
“Do you know who owns the airplane?”
“Rex Kramer. He keeps it there at Boeing Field.”
“Where
at Boeing Field?”
“I'll have to ask the passenger if he knows. But listen, before the accident, Rex told me he'd just been out to Mount Rainier, so I'm sure he filed a flight plan.”
Parker signaled Josie Fleming, a sharp-looking African-American controller who also worked as a flight instructor. She immediately started putting the information into a computer terminal as she heard it from Chuck.
“Can you give us a spelling on that last name?”
Parker requested.
Chuck spelled it, Fleming tapped it out on the keyboard.
“Say the aircraft again.”
“Cessna 182 Skylane. I don't know the tail number.”
“Got it!” Fleming shouted as the flight plan for Rex Kramer and Skylane N758YT came up on the computer screen. “The plane is based at Jessup Aviation, right across the field from here.”
Fleming was grabbing up a telephone even as Parker said, “We need to talk to someone familiar with that airplane: the guy's wife, his mechanic, anyone who can advise us on what equipment it has on boardâand, does it have an autopilot?” He spoke into his headset again. “Eight Eight Niner, is the passenger flying the plane now?”
“That's affirmative. He's getting guidance from me, but he's getting too far away. I can hardly see him.”
Parker stole a look at Maxwell, who glanced at her radar screen and nodded a confirmation. “The Skylane's pulling far ahead, about two miles now and increasing.” Then she added quickly, “But there's another problem.” Parker was there in an instant, viewing the radar screen over her shoulder as she pointed out the radar blip representing the Skylane. “Currently flying on a course of One-Zero-Five, altitude three thousand two hundred feet and climbing . . . but not climbing fast enough.”
Parker nodded grimly, then spoke into the headset again. “Eight Eight Niner, how's the ceiling over those mountains?”
Chuck was dismayed as he observed, “Not good at all. The clouds are down over the mountaintops now.”
“So the problem is that plane's either going to crash into those mountains or disappear into those clouds and
then
crash into the mountains. We have to get that plane turned around.”
Chuck squinted into the distance. Sometimes he could see the wings of the Skylane like a tiny white dash against the gray slopes of the Cascades, and sometimes it would pass in front of the white clouds, making it hard for Chuck to be sure he was seeing anything at all.
“Jay,” he called on his first radio, “Jay, come in.”
“I hear you,” Jay replied.
“Jay, we needâ”
The Skylane was gone. A cloud, low and gray, and so much closer than Chuck had realized, had swallowed it up.
I
t's gone!” Chuck exclaimed over the radio. “It's gone into the clouds!”
Parker signaled to Maxwell and she took over, still watching the two blips on the radar screen. “Eight Eight Niner, confirm the Skylane is on 122.8.”
Chuck responded, “That's affirmative. We're talking on the Auburn frequency.”
Parker said quickly, quietly, “I'll take Eight Eight Niner, you take the Skylane.” He spoke into his headset, “Eight Eight Niner, we have the Skylane on radar and we're getting an altitude readout from its transponder. We're going to try to turn it around. Please stand by, keep looking.”
“Roger.”
Maxwell asked Chuck, “What's the young man's name?”
“Jay Cooper.”
“Stand by. I'm going to call him.”
Parker flashed a quick look at Josie Fleming. She was on the telephone that very moment. “I have the pilot's wife on the phone,” she said.