Skyhammer (2 page)

“I’m not paying those bastards for what they do when things are routine. I’m paying them for when things aren’t routine.”

—
John H. Farraday

Flight Deck, New World 554

25:46 GMT/120:46 EST

Tuesday Evening

The dials and gauges jittered, swam, multiplied. The panel seemed to press forward, thrusting the yoke at Captain Boyd, as
if the plane meant to crush him. It was incredible. Even so high above the ground—surrounded by all that empty space—claustrophobia
had set in. All afternoon Boyd had felt the MD-80’s small cockpit becoming even smaller, shrinking in around him, squeezing
his endurance to the breaking point.

Boyd blinked hard and shook his head to force the instruments back into focus. Everything was still normal, the MD-80 running
perfectly, its autopilot tracking Jet Route 518 into Cleveland, altitude steady at 33,000 feet, all the engine needles aligned.
Thank God, this was the final leg. They were still a hundred and fifty miles out, but at seven miles a minute they had less
than a half hour to go. Unless they were jacked around in the pattern, Boyd thought miserably, or put into a hold. The first
big winter storm of the season, a real “Canadian express” had rolled down from the north, socking in all the airports in the
upper Ohio River valley, Hopkins International included. Already ATIS was reporting one mile of visibility and blowing snow.
Such weather could quickly back up the flow into the terminal and easily add an extra twenty minutes to the flight—when all
Boyd wanted was to be out of the cockpit as soon as possible. As far away from his first officer as he could get. The man
was a nightmare, not only ex-Westar but a former Westar captain. Worse still, he was Emil Pate.

Before Boyd had even seen the name typed in after his own on the flight roster, he had heard about Pate. Other new captains
like Boyd, fellow replacement pilots who had flown with Pate, had told horror stories. It went without saying that all the
ex-Westar pilots were sore about the New World takeover, the strike, the demotions. Especially the older ones, the ex-captains.
They hated jerking gear for younger pilots. Still, most were trying to make the best of it. They knew their necks were on
the line, that their new boss Jack Farraday wanted them gone altogether. But Pate didn’t seem to care. He was putting the
royal screws to anyone who had helped break the New World strike. Anyone he chose to blame for his demotion. Not by calling
names, not with outright insubordination or in any way you could easily nail him for—no, instead he drove you nuts by sitting
absolutely still for hours at a time, speaking only to make a required call, grinding you down with stone-cold silence.

The stories had turned out all too true. On the first day, coming into the cockpit, Boyd had tried a few friendly openers,
but Pate had instantly put an end to that. “Let’s cut the soft talk,” he’d said flatly. “Just do your job. I’ll do mine.”
Since then, he had said nothing except what he had to.

Boyd had decided this was fine. Pate was a write-off anyway, an old dog, a used-up leftover from another era. A retread. And
he was scruffy as hell, an ethnic of some kind. Mexican maybe—he didn’t look clean. The lank black hair on the back of his
neck spilled over the collar of an unpressed shirt. He had a drinker’s bruised eyes squinting through his creased, leather-brown
face. He was an embarrassment to his uniform.

But a decent pilot—Boyd had to give him that. For three days Pate had demonstrated flawless judgment, and his aircraft control
was incredibly smooth. Former military, Boyd had decided at some point. Which only made matters worse. He hated flying with
the ex-military types. Almost all of them projected an air of superiority, as if a few years of yanking and banking a fighter
around the sky had somehow made them better pilots.

So the trip had been sheer torture, sitting there strapped in a narrow seat, elbow to elbow with a bitter has-been who somehow
had it in his head Boyd had cheated him out of his job, that Boyd didn’t deserve to be captain just because he was fifteen
years younger. No matter how it had happened,
He
was the captain of this flight, not Pate.

Boyd’s headset crackled. “New World Five fifty-four, descend and maintain flight level two eight zero.”

Finally the descent. As Boyd acknowledged the Indianapolis controller’s instruction, he saw Pate’s hand reach up to the glareshield
to reset the autopilot. Boyd verified the altitude, then shifted against his lapbelt, trying to find a comfortable position.
The cockpit was growing dark now. Outside, night was coming on fast, the cobalt dome of sky overhead fading to star-studded
black. But ahead of them the horizon was wild-looking, obscured by ragged cloud, and below the plane, the cloud layer had
become a solid, rumpled mass, bluish in the twilight. Boyd was suddenly glad it was Pate’s turn to fly and his to talk and
run the checklists.

Just for a moment he let his eyes drift shut. He was tired, really tired. He wanted to think about his upcoming vacation,
not brood anymore about the situation.

But even now he felt the hatred radiating from Pate. For all his coldness the man was a furnace of hate. For three long days
Boyd had suffered from it. And he would have to suffer it the entire month if he didn’t do something. Talking out the problem
was no option, that was for certain.

He opened his eyes long enough to scan the panel. They were passing 29,000.

“Twenty-nine for twenty-eight,” he called, more or less to himself. He closed his eyes again. For a few more minutes he could
rest. He tried again to think of something pleasant. Another minute went by. He felt the aircraft leveling off, heard the
faint whine of the engines spooling up.

In the next instant he was bolt upright, eyes wide, heart punching hard—the quiet of the cockpit shattered by the high-pitched
warble of the alarm bell. In the center of the panel, the right engine fire handle glowed bright red. Now the voice synthesizer
began to chant, “Fire, right engine ... Fire, right engine . ..”

For the sheerest moment Boyd didn’t believe it. The chanting even made him angry. Then his heart leaped into his throat. This
was
real. And serious. His mind stumbled. He had trained a dozen times for engine fires but never faced an actual warning. What
was
the first step?

“Silence the bell!” Pate shouted suddenly over the shriek of the alarm. He had already taken the yoke, disengaged the autopilot.

Boyd shot a hand to the panel and turned off the alarm.

“Bell is silenced,” Pate said. “Engine Fire checklist.”

The checklist was in the pocket above the glareshield. Boyd searched for it, trying to remember the procedure. In the sudden
quiet he could hear his blood pounding in his ears. They had to assume there was a fire, or at least an overheat, and that
meant shutting down the engine. He found the card. “Memory items,” he read out, although Pate was already completing them.
He had disconnected the autothrottles, retarded the right engine throttle to idle.

“Warnings are silenced,” Boyd read. “Throttle—number two engine—retard to idle.”

“In idle,” Pate answered.

“Fuel lever—number two engine—off.” Boyd took hold of the lever just behind the throttle, then remembered. “Confirm number
two?”

Pate glanced down at Boyd’s hand. “Confirmed.”

Boyd snapped the lever back, letting go his breath at the same time. Even in training it had always been a relief to get this
far. Now the row of amber caution lights and red warning lights above the windscreen began to come on—fuel line,generator,
hydraulic systems, all shutting down. So far so good.

“Engine fire handle—pull,” he read. Again he waited for Pate’s confirmation, then pulled the handle out to its stop. The light
inside the handle flickered and disappeared.

Boyd settled back into his seat. “Looks like it’s out.”

“Maybe.” Pate glanced over at him. “Test the loops.”

Boyd sat up again. The fire could have burned through the sensing cables, might still be raging. But no, the test showed the
loops still intact. He sat back a second time, his face chilly now as his sweat slowly dried. His heart was still beating
fast, but everything would be okay. He had reacted all right to his first real emergency—no panic anyway. Pate had done all
right, too. Better than all right, in fact. Even now Pate showed no sign he might be rattled. He was holding the plane dead
level, on heading, in spite of the lopsided thrust. But after all, he
was
a good pilot. He’d handled the plane without a mistake for three straight days. Knew his job. Or was just too old to get wound
up? Suddenly Boyd remembered they were facing more than a single engine approach: they’d be landing through an ice storm,
onto a slick runway. His gut clenched as adrenalin shot through him. Didn’t Pate understand what they were headed into?

“You heard the weather report, didn’t you?” Boyd looked down at the storm again, then at Pate. “They’ve got freezing rain
at Hopkins, vis down to a mile.”

Pate glanced over, scowling. “Finish the list and make the call. Tell ATC we’re comin’ in on one engine.”

Now Boyd’s face went hot. He hadn’t forgotten the checklist—he’d only wanted to consider the situation.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” he answered before running quickly through the rest of the items. When he finished, he keyed his
microphone.

“Indianapolis, New World five-fifty-four has lost an engine.”

“Are you declaring an emergency?” The controller’s voice was as flat as ever.

Boyd pressed the key of his mike but released it. He’d better think about this. There would be the paperwork, the reports.
With the fire out they wouldn’t need the fire trucks, would they? All their other systems were operating normally. He didn’t
want to do anything stupid while he was still in his first months as a captain.

“Declare it,” Pate said abruptly. “Weather’s dogshit, and you’re down to one motor.” He scowled at Boyd again. “Either way
you fill out the same paperwork.”

Pate was right. And with the weather so bad it was stupid not to declare. Any problems at all and his butt would be in a sling.
He keyed his mike. “That’s affirmative, Center. New World five-fifty-four is declaring an emergency at this time.”

Immediately the controller asked him to restate the emergency. “Say your souls on board and fuel remaining.”

How many passengers were there? Boyd couldn’t remember. And the controller wanted fuel in hours and minutes. He stared at
the fuel totalizer’s glowing red LED’s, frantically calculating.

“Seventy-six on the passengers and crew,” Pate transmitted almost immediately. “Two hours on the fuel.”

For a moment Boyd was furious with himself for not remembering the passenger count, for not realizing the controller only
needed an estimate on the fuel. But he was even angrier at Pate for jumping in.

“
I’ve
got the radios,” he told Pate. “You do your job and fly the plane.”

Pate only glanced at him. The controller was on again, giving a weather update. Conditions had worsened. Visibility was down
to three-quarters of a mile, with fog and blowing snow.

“Runway five-right RVR is four thousand,” the controller reported. “Say your intentions please, Five-fifty-four.”

This time Pate stayed quiet while Boyd checked the alternate airports, hoping he could find one with better conditions. But
Akron was getting clobbered, Fort Wayne too. He called Center and told them 554 would continue to Cleveland.

Immediately the controller put them on a new heading and cleared them down to nine thousand. Boyd peered at the deep gloom
ahead and then stared down through his side window at the undercast, dense and dark, tops billowing up, beguiling in their
still softness. They would be into it soon enough. But he wasn’t scared any more, he decided. The plane was made to fly through
such stuff, even on one engine. They’d do all right. For a moment he even considered taking the yoke, simply commanding it—his
right as captain. He could use the experience. It would be nice to say he’d been the pilot. But even during emergencies, by
unwritten rule, you let the pilot flying continue to fly. Besides, Pate
did
have the edge on experience. And how would it look afterward if he took the plane, then screwed the first approach? No, he
wouldn’t chance it, Boyd decided, just as Pate interrupted again, saying something.

“What?” Boyd glared at him.

Pate faced forward as he spoke. “I said we need to do the single-engine landing check. But I’d PA the passengers first, if
I were you—and brief the number one.”

Christ
! Boyd thought. He’d forgotten the passengers! Some must have heard the engine spool down, felt the plane yaw. They’d probably
already be badgering the cabin crew. He was lucky the number-one flight attendant hadn’t called the cockpit already. Boyd
snatched the PA phone from its holder. But not yet, he decided. Pate was no doubt feeling too smug about all this, and that
couldn’t go unchecked.

“Look,” Boyd said. “You just fly the plane. I’ll decide when to do what. Got that?”

Pate said nothing. He did not turn his head or even flinch, but somehow Boyd could tell that he, too, was boiling inside.
Good, Boyd thought. “Just do your job,” he said, wanting to say a lot more, but they were less than thirty minutes out and
the voice recorder was taping.

He sat back and glared at Pate, challenging him, but Pate kept quiet, staring straight ahead. Boyd waited another minute,
collecting himself, then keyed the PA phone and announced the engine shutdown, explaining that the plane could safely fly
on a single engine. It was important that he sound calm and confident, and he accomplished that, he felt, despite the rage
Pate had forced him into. “This is why we carry a spare,” he concluded before summoning the number-one flight attendant. He
told her to prepare the cabin for emergency evacuation. “For God’s sake, Julie, don’t pop the slides unless you hear from
us or the plane goes off the runway,” he reminded her. Afterward he waited another minute, just to prove to Pate they had
time. Then he got out the single-engine landing checklist.