Mayday at Two Thousand Five Hundred (2 page)

The WestAir 757 was heading skyward like a rocket, climbing through 500 feet, 1,000, 1,500. . . .

ALARMS! The plane shuddered. Red lights flashed on the instrument panel. The 757 lurched to the right.

Captain Crylor corrected with the control yoke and jammed on the left rudder pedal as he scanned the engine instruments and adjusted the throttles.
“Loss of fuel pressure, right engine.”

“Pump malfunction,” the co-pilot shouted, his hands darting all over his control panel, “switching to auxiliary, manual override. . . .”

The airliner's right engine was winding down, losing power. With only the left engine running, the aircraft was slowing, shuddering, weaving crazily, and finally forced to the right. Crylor kept his foot on the left rudder pedal to hold a straight course. He pushed the yoke forward, lowering the nose to pick up some speed. It would cost him some altitude but he had to keep the airplane flying.

Chuck Westmore was purring lazily along in his Piper Cub, getting ready to land, when the huge jet caught his attention. He'd lived, worked, and flown near Seattle-Tacoma for years. He knew what the takeoff of a big jet was supposed to look like. When he saw the 757 wobbling and dropping instead of climbing, he immediately knew something was wrong.

He canceled his landing, applied power, and circled around to keep the jet in view. It was in trouble, all right. It was losing altitude, wobbling, and exhaust was coming from only one engine. The other must have malfunctioned. If the pilot didn't get control soon. . . .

Oh no!
Chuck thought his heart would stop. Was that little white speck over there Rex Kramer's Skylane? The 757 was heading right for it!

Chuck fumbled for his handheld radio microphone. Was Rex still on the Auburn frequency?

“Rex! Can you hear me?”

Rex's voice came back, “Yeah, Chuck?”

Chuck thought. “Heads up, Rex,

Thank God!
there's a jet coming at you at three o'clock! He's low. He's really low.”

Rex and Jay looked to the right in time to see a string of black jet exhaust trailing out of sight above their right wing. A shadow swept over them. Theycaught just a glimpse of a wingtip bigger than their whole airplane.

Quicker than their next thought, the horizon went crazy, the ground and sky traded places, and the walls and ceiling of the cockpit came at them with freight train force, bashing their skulls.

“NOOO!”
Chuck screamed as he saw the Skylane flip over like a leaf in the wind, tumbling totally out of control. “Dear God, no! Rex! Rex!

Can you hear me?”

On the flight deck of the 757, Captain Crylor and his co-pilot didn't see or feel a thing.

“Negative function, Cap,” reported the co-pilot.

“The right engine is out cold.”

“Roger that,” said Captain Crylor. He'd been trained to handle the loss of an engine on takeoff and had already made the necessary corrections. The big jet stabilized, flying on one engine. “Easy does it. We're low, but we're flying. We'll take her back around for an emergency landing.”

The copilot noticed the rooftops not so far below. “We'll give the people in those houses a scare, I suppose.” He radioed the Seattle-Tacoma tower. “Seattle Tower. Emergency. WestAir 271 has lost an engine.”

Jay felt numb, dizzy, sleepy. No pain, no fear. Looking straight ahead through the windshield, the roofs of a suburban neighborhood seemed to be spinning, coming closer and closer. It wasn't real. It seemed more like a movie playing in front of his dazed eyes. Wow, he thought.

Then everything went black.

As Chuck watched in horror, the big jet continued on, climbing slowly, unaffected, like a big truck that has just run over a small animal and left it tumbling onto the road's shoulder. The 757 had not touched Rex Kramer's plane. It didn't have to. Just as the wake from a big ship can upset a canoe, so the terrible wake turbulence kicked up by such a monstrous aircraft can wash like a tidal wave over a light plane close behind and below it.

The Skylane was right side up again after flipping completely over, but now it was banked sharply to the left with the nose down, spiraling in a tight, corkscrew turn.

“Rex!” Chuck shouted. “Rex! Can you hear me? You're spiraling, Rex! You're going to crash! Rex, come in!”

No answer.

The plane just kept circling tightly, dropping lower and lower toward the rooftops.

TWO

C
huck flew closer and kept calling over the radio, “Rex! Rex! Please answer, can you hear me? Rex, you've got to pull up or you'll rotate into the ground! Rex, you hear me?” Then he silently prayed, Dear Lord, please wake him up, nudge him, get him on those controls!

Aboard the Skylane, Jay was asleep, dreaming about riding a merry-goround and hearing somebody yelling for his Uncle Rex. Whoever it was just kept yelling and yelling and Jay started wondering,
Why doesn't Rex answer?

Then he became aware of noises: the rush of wind, a loud engine revving and shaking, metallic vibrations and rattles getting louder and louder.

Jay felt sick, like he'd been on the merry-go-round too long.

“Rex!” There was that voice again. “Rex, please answer me!”

“Uncle Rex,” Jay muttered, “somebody wants you. . . .”

“Rex!” came the voice through his headphones.

Jay's hand went to his ear and bumped into the large ear protector of his headset. It finally registered in his mind:
It's the radio! Somebody's calling us!

“Level the wings, Rex! Get that nose up! Come on now!”

Jay's mind cleared enough to think,
Oh man. Something isn't right here. We're in trouble. What's happened?

Fear stung him through the heart. The dream was over and he'd awakened to a nightmare. He groped for the control yoke, found it, and pulled back.

Oof! His body was pressed into the seat as if he weighed a ton. G-forces. Like in tight turns. The kind that make you want to barf.

“Level the wings, Rex!” came the voice.

Level the wings? What was wrong with the wings?
He pressed his radio talk button and asked, “Uh, which way?”

“You're spiraling to the left, Rex! Roll out to the right!”

Jay cranked the yoke to the right.

Oof! G-forces again.
I'm going to barf, I just know it!

Chuck saw the Skylane snap out of the turn and then swoop skyward like a barn swallow, climbing, slowing, climbing, slowing more, hanging from the propeller.

“Get the nose down, Rex! You're going to stall!”

Jay shoved the yoke forward.
Ooooohh,
he felt like his stomach was in his throat.

The plane went over the top of the climb and nosed down, going into the same sickening left spiral. Sweat was trickling down Chuck's face. He felt he was watching the death of Rex Kramer being played out before his very eyes. “Level the wings, Rex, you're spiraling!”

“Which way?” came a voice through Chuck's
headphones.

Suddenly Chuck realized it wasn't Rex Kramer's voice. It must be Rex's nephew! “Level the wings, get the plane level!”

“Which way?” the nephew asked again.

“Right. Bank to the right—NOT TOO MUCH!”

The Skylane teetered to the right and swooped upward again the moment the wings were level.

“Full throttle! Ease the yoke forward, get the nose down!”

The Skylane went into a dive again.
No, no, no! Can't this kid see what he's doing?

This was just like a ride on the world's biggest roller coaster, and Jay was getting sicker and sicker. His stomach was churning. He could feel that awfultingling around his jaws that usually came just before the sudden loss of a meal. He drew in some deep breaths and rubbed his eyes with a free hand. If only he could
see!
Something kept blocking his vision— sweat, or blood, or his hair or something. All around him, The Yank's frame, skin, and engine were roaring, vibrating, screaming louder and louder.

“Pull back the power,” came the voice through his headset. “You're going to overspeed!”

He reached out blindly, groping for the throttle knob somewhere down to his left. He found a knob and yanked it out as far as it would go.

The engine calmed, the noise settled.

On what was usually a quiet street in a neighborhood south of Seattle, a retired mailman and his wife were enjoying a lemonade in their backyard when they heard an aircraft engine come closer, closer, closer, and then suddenly quit, leaving only a rushing, windy sound.

The man rose from his lawn chair and looked up at the sky through the tops of his fruit trees.

WHOOOOSH!
An airplane swooped so low over their yard the wind from its wings made the fruit trees tremble.

“Get the nose up! Ease it back slowly. . . .”

Jay pulled. He could feel himself pressed into hisseat again. The roller coaster was going up another hill.

The retired mailman fell to the ground, scared out of his wits. His wife screamed. The airplane just missed the roof of their house and soared upward into the sky again, the engine still quiet.

Jay tried to relax. He was overdoing everything and he knew it, torturing this airplane and his own body. He was climbing again, he was sure of it.

But it was strangely, frighteningly quiet. There was no sound but the wind rushing over the airplane's wings and skin, and now that was getting quieter too. He felt like he was slowing down.

“Okay,” came the voice. “Add some power now and ease the nose down.”

He reached for the throttle and this time found several knobs all side by side. Which one was the throttle? He pushed on one. Nothing happened.

What happened to the engine? Why isn't it running?

Quiet. Nothing but the wind outside.

“You're starting to drop again,” came the voice.
“Get that power in.”

Jay felt a stab in his stomach.
The mixture! I've starved the engine!
His mind was a blank. He groped for the correct knob. He couldn't think.

“Which one is it?” he asked desperately.

“Just shove everything forward.
Everything!”

He groped again, put the palm of his hand across all the knobs, and shoved them all in as far as they would go.

The engine came to life with a roar that surged through the whole airplane. He could feel the nose lurch skyward. That
was
what was happening, wasn't it?

He rubbed his eyes. He still couldn't see where he was going.

He could feel the airplane turning to the right. He turned the yoke left.

“Level those wings,” came the voice. “You're going into a spiral again.”

“Which way should I turn?” Jay asked.

Chuck answered, “To the right, just a little.” The Skylane's left wing came up and it leveled out of the spiral. “That's it, that's it. Now hold the yoke neutral. Don't turn anymore.”

“But I'm turning
now!”
the lad responded.

“No you aren't. I can see you from here and you're—” A thought hit Chuck like the world's worst news: Maybe this kid really
can't
see. “You're not turning. You only think you are.”

“I'm turning!”

“Son, what's your name?”

“Jay Cooper.” He sounded scared.

“Can you see out the window?”

“No. I can't see anything.”

“Can you see the controls in front of you?”

“No.”

Oh no. Oh no,
Chuck thought. “Jay, are you blind?”

Jay rubbed his eyes again, blinked several times, and strained to see something, anything. Sometimes he could sense light coming through the windshield, but that was all. He felt his face again in case a sheet or hat or some other object was blocking his eyes. He found nothing in front of his face, but could feel something wet and sticky running down his forehead. It had to be blood.

“No, I'm not blind. I mean, not usually. I just can't see right now. I think I hit my head.” He could hear Eight Yankee Tango roaring from nose to tail. He felt the airplane was going somewhere in a big, powerful hurry. “What's happening? What's the airplane doing?”

Oh Lord. He
is
blind.
Now Chuck was scared but tried to speak in a calm voice. “Jay, right now you're climbing, and that's good, but you need to be careful to keep those wings level. I'll tell you how, all right? You hear me, Jay?”

“I hear you.”

Chuck was maneuvering, trying to keep the Skylane in sight. He'd opened up his throttle for more speed, but the little Piper Cub was having trouble keeping up. He could feel his heart pounding and the blood pulsing through his fingers as he pressed the button on his microphone to speak. “All right, you're still climbing. You're starting to veer to the left again. Can you give it just a touch of right aileron?”
Does he know what
aileron
means?
“Uh, just a little tilt to the right?”

The airplane tilted back to level again, then past it into a right bank.

“That was a little too much. Give it a touch of left now.”

The Skylane rolled back to almost level.

“Okay, that's good right there. But it won't stay there by itself. Can you find the throttle?”

Jay cringed. The last time he thought he was pulling back the throttle he'd pulled back the fuel mixture and killed the engine. “I . . . I think so. I just can't remember which one it is.”

Chuck winced. He wasn't familiar with a 182 and couldn't be entirely sure himself. He'd flown some smaller Cessnas. He strained to remember, to see the control panel in his mind. “Um . . . let's try the second from the left. The first one with a bigger knob.”

Jay reached down to his left and found the row of knobs again. There were four altogether, a small one on the left end and then three bigger ones. “Okay, I'm going to pull back on the second one.”