Lila worked to produce an answer. “If Jay pulls the throttle back without trimming, the airplane won't slow down, it'll just descend. If he pulls the throttle back and then uses the trim wheel to pitch the nose up, the plane will slow down but stay up.”
Joyce gave Lila a teasing little poke. “I thought you didn't care for flying.”
Lila shrugged. “I figured if I was going to be riding with my Dad and Jay in our airplane, I'd better know what to do if something terrible happened . . .” Her voice trailed off and pain filled her face. “Like right now.”
Joyce touched her shoulder. “Hey, Lila, come on, now . . .”
Lila swallowed a wave of emotion and said, “I should have gone with them. I could have been there. I could have helped.”
Joyce gripped her shoulder. “You're helping me. We're helping each other. That counts for a lot.”
Lila reached up and gripped Joyce's hand on her shoulder. Together they continued to listen.
There were other people in the Seattle area with radio scanners: the television and radio stations, the newspapers, anyone whose job it was to know when something newsworthy was happening. As soon as a radio call went out for emergency vehicles at Boeing Field, the media people heard it. The telephones at the tower began to ring incessantly. Media vehicles began to arrive, cluttering up the parking area in front of the control tower. First came the small white vans and station wagons with big logos painted on their sidesâ News 7, Channel 4, Eyewitness 11âbringing in a multitude of reporters and camerapeople. Right behind them came the big news trucks with satellite dishes atop their roofs. All of this was attracting the attention from passing motorists, who stopped to follow the story. And they were all taking up a lot of space.
“The media are storming the place,” Johnny Adair reported as he came up the stairs into the control room.
“Get the airport manager on that one,” said Ben Parker. “We're busy.”
“I just talked to him,” said Adair. “He wants somebody from the tower to tell the press what's going on.”
Parker rolled his eyes. “Okay, Johnny, that's you.”
Adair wasn't ready for that. “But . . . what do I â
“You're the go-between. Answer their questions, give them interviews, appear on camera, do whatever you have to. Just keep them out of our hair.”
Adair replied “Will do,” and headed down the stairs.
Parker looked out at the sky. “Any moment the choppers are going to be calling.”
Bob Konishi waved. “I've got Channel Seven's news chopper on the radio.”
“Yep, here they come.”
“And now I'm getting a call from Channel Eleven. Same thing. They want permission to televise the two airplanes.”
Parker smiled resignedly and shook his head. “Give them a squawk code so we can tell which radar blip they are. They have permission to approach within one mile, they are to see and avoid all traffic, and make sure they know that if they get any closer than that I'm going to bust them from here to tomorrow.”
Konishi smiled. “I'll tell them.”
All over the Pacific Northwest the network soap operas and game shows were bumped off the air by the drama taking place in the skies over Puget Sound. Television images from cameras aboard the news helicopters showed the two Skylanes flying in formation as reporters and news anchors narrated over the picture: “. . . a beautiful setting for such a tense drama . . . with limited fuel and slim chances for a successful landing, the young man's father in the white and green Skylane is now trying to teach his son in the white and red Skylane how to fly the airplane. . . .”
A reporter on the television asked Adair, “What are the chances that this young man with limited flying experience will be able to safely land the airplane?”
Adair hesitated and fumbled, staring at his notes as if he might find the answer there. Finally he answered, “I'd rather not comment on that. If you'll excuse me now, I have to get back to the tower. We'll keep you posted.”
In the tower employees' lounge, Lila and Joyce were watching the news coverage, including live pictures of the two airplanes, on the lounge television. Adair had allowed a limited number of reporters into the room, and they were quite eager to hear Lila's comment. She turned from the television and looked directly at them as she answered, “I've seen my brother do a lot of wild things. With God's help, he'll make it.”
As Jay sat in that noisy airplane without eyesight, every little motion of the airplane sent him a different message:
you're turning, you're sinking, you're climbing, you're slowing down, speeding up, flipping over . . .
Jay could only be sure of one thing: all this motion, real or not, was making him sick, and not just
kind of
sick. He was way past
kind of
sick and tumbling headlong into
seriously
sick with no hope of putting it off any longer, much less recovering. The fresh air blowing in the open window no longer helped. Sitting still and relaxing no longer helped. The sound of his father's voice could no longer calm his stomach or bring clarity to his mind.
I'm going to lose it,
he thought.
I'm going to conk out.
In a last desperate move, he returned the autopilot knob to center, wings level.
Then a deeper kind of darkness settled over him and he slumped over, his head drooping, his chest suspended against the shoulder restraint. The noise of the airplane ebbed from his consciousness along with all the pain.
Dr. Cooper saw Jay slump over. “Jay! Jay, come in!”
There was no response.
Dr. Cooper grabbed his binoculars and got a closer look at his son. “Oh no. He's out, Brock. He's passed out.”
Brock took back the binoculars from Dr. Cooper and focused on Jay. He pressed his talk button and called, “Jay! Jay, come on now. Snap out of it. Heads up.”
The boy didn't stir or respond.
Brock looked at Dr. Cooper, who could only return his horrified expression. They both knew what this could mean.
Skylane Eight Yankee Tango continued westward at four thousand feet, straight and level on autopilot, and with both occupants unconscious. Up ahead were the Olympic Mountains; beyond them, the Pacific Ocean.
And now there was no way to turn The Yank around.
B
en Parker listened to Dr. Cooper's report with a stony grimness. “Roger, Niner Zulu Mike, we copy that.”
There was a deathlike silence in the control tower. The other controllers had heard Dr. Cooper's report and were stunned. Finally, Bob Konishi voiced the question they were all wondering, “So what now?”
Parker asked Barbara Maxwell, “Which way is it heading?”
Maxwell glanced at her radar screen. “Course is two six five.”
Josie Fleming was already unfolding an aviation chart and spreading it out on her desk. “Course two six five,” she repeated, laying a plotter on the chart and drawing a line to indicate the airplane's path. “Ninety knots . . . one and a half hours of fuel. . . .”
Parker came up to her table to have a look. “What about those mountains?”
Josie Fleming ran a nervous finger over her hair and whistled a quiet sigh. “At four thousand feet it'll be close. The plane's flight path passes close to some mountains of more than five thousand feet. If he misses those peaks, he'll continue out until he's over the ocean.” She took out a calculator and tapped in some numbers. “About sixty miles beyond the coastline, to be more exact. He'll be in international waters.”
Parker shook his head. Fleming continued, “It all depends on how straight Yankee Tango flies. I don't think they had the boy set the autopilot to hold a heading, but just to keep the wings level. All it takes is a gust of wind or some turbulence to nudge that plane to a different course.”
“And hit the mountains,” Parker stated.
“Either that or crash in the ocean.” Sorrowfully, Fleming shook her head. “If somebody in that airplane doesn't wake up, I guess it won't matter which one happens.”
Brock and Dr. Cooper kept following alongside Eight Yankee Tango, praying, watching for any stirring inside the cabin, and wishing there was something else they could do.
“Wish I could walk over there, open that stupid door, and climb in and fly that thing!” Brock said in frustration and anger.
Dr. Cooper could see the Olympic Mountains looming ahead. He switched to the tower radio. “Boeing Tower, any ideas? We are rapidly approaching the mountains.”
Ben Parker was pacing around the control room, thinking, scowling. “Stand by, Zulu Mike, we're working on it.”
Bob Konishi let out a loud sigh, tapping his desktop impatiently. “Working on what?”
Parker was angry. “Options, Bob, options! Let's go through our options and if we have to come up with more, we will. There must be a way to keep the plane from hitting the mountains.”
“Or landing in the ocean,” Fleming added.
Parker shot a glance at Fleming. “Suppose it does land in the ocean. What are the chances of survival?”
“None,” she responded. “Right now the plane's trimmed for ninety knots. That's the speed at which it'll hit the water, steeply nose down. Upon impact it will either nose over, cartwheel, or both. In any case it'll disintegrate and the passengers won't survive.” Her face sank into a genuinely remorseful expression. “And even if we could somehow make a controlled landing, these planes don't float. There's a real question whether the occupants would be strong enough to escape the cockpit before the airplane sinks. We know the pilot won't be able to get out unless he wakes up. As for the kid, who knows
what
condition he's in?”
Konishi concluded, “The Coast Guard is ready with a chopper, but all they can do at this point is follow the plane, wait for it to crashâwherever it crashesâand then do what they can.”
Parker's eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. “Okay, let's reach a bit. Think of something outlandish. It could still work, you never know.”
“Okay,” said Konishi, “how about lowering a pilot from another airplane?”
“It's a high-wing light aircraft,” Fleming objected. “ The doors are under the wing. The guy being lowered couldn't get to them. Besides that, if you open a door on a plane that size, the door becomes a rudder and throws the plane sideways. Then there's the problem of the two front seats being full of bodies. How's the guy going to pack himself in there?” Exasperated, she added, “And finally, he'd be only a few feet from a spinning prop that could cut him to pieces if a gust of wind wiggled him or the airplane the wrong direction. . . . Oh, and after that, the prop will be ruined and the plane will crash.”
“So, forget the pilot. Just lower a hook or something and grab the airplane out of the sky.”
Fleming thought Konishi was kidding. “Oh yeah,
right!”
“No, now wait a minute.” Parker said, raising his hand. They all stopped to listen. “That could be it. A chopper with a skyhook, a sling, something to grab the airplane, maybe lasso it around the tail section.”
Fleming was about to object, but stopped short.
“How about it, Fleming?”
She gave half a shrug. “Might work. Tons of risk, though. A light plane is pretty small up there in the sky. You couldn't just lasso it. Somebody would have to be lowered on a harness to attach the sling, encountering the risks we've already mentioned. Meanwhile, the rotor wash from the chopper could throw the plane out of control. And then, as far as attaching anything to the tail section, it would have to be done without touching the tail fin or stabilizer. Any force or weight from a full-grown body back there would be enough to throw the airplane completely out of control. And if you want the sling around the tail section, that will probably damage the airplane so it would not be able to fly.”
“So we'll only get one shot at it,” Parker said grimly.
She leaned back and thoughtfully tapped her desk with her pencil. “Once that sling goes around the tail section, there's no turning back. Keep in mind the plane's engine is still running. If the chopper can snag the Skylane, it'll have a live fish on the line, buzzing around in circles and pulling. But if the chopper can handle thatâ”
Parker slapped his desktop.“I say it's worth a try. Bob, get the Coast Guard on the phone. Tell them we need their biggest chopper and somebody's who's crazy enough to try it.”
Dr. Cooper consulted his aeronautical chart. “That peak up ahead is five thousand fifty-four feet. The one beyond it is four thousand nine hundred sixty feet.”
“We're at four thousand two hundred fifty, right now,” said Brock.
“Jay, wake up,” Cooper radioed. But Jay remained slumped against the window.
“Well, you never know,” said Brock. “Yankee Tango might pass to one side of those peaks.”
“Oh Lord, make it happen,” Dr. Cooper prayed.
It was a different sensation having the ground come up to meet them instead of descending to the ground themselves. Below them, the mountain slopes began to rise and the treetops began to pass under them closer and faster. Straight ahead, the view of a forested ridge filled the windshield.
Brock finally pushed in the throttle. “We've got to climb or we won't make it over that thing.”
Dr. Cooper craned his neck to keep The Yank in sight. He could see it below them now, purring along at a steady altitude, heading for the ridge.
Aboard Eight Yankee Tango, Rex Kramer sat motionless, chin on his chest, the victim of a severe concussion, while Jay Cooper remained slumped over in a faint. The altimeter indicated four thousand three hundred feet. The very tops of tall firs and hemlocks began to appear now and again outside the windows as the mountain rose up beneath them. The airplane began to wobble in air rippling like stream water over the ridge. The ground below reached to four thousand feet, then climbed to four thousand two hundred. Now the tallest treetops nearly brushed The Yank's wheels.