Sojourners of the Sky (4 page)

Charles had wisely delayed retracting the landing gear until the airplane was positively climbing, since it seemed likely that it might settle back onto the runway. But realizing the landing gear was hindering their performance, and since there was nothing beneath them except the frigid waters of Jamaica Bay, Charles decided to take a chance.

“Gear up,” ordered the Captain in a very calm voice that concealed his fear.

“Gear up,” replied John with a pitch in his voice that clearly gave away his feelings.

The airplane buffeted wildly and the nose began swinging to the left and right. They were moving forward, but not accelerating or climbing. The DC6 skimmed the wave-tops, seemingly suspended in time. With the exception of the roiling waves and foamy spray, the view through the windshield was a dark void. Near total darkness surrounded them.

John could not completely comprehend the eerie picture he was seeing through the front window. The whitecaps of an unforgiving sea, illuminated by two small tunnels of white light emanating from the DC6’s lights, seemed a contradiction of reality. It reminded him of a Hollywood movie. A motion picture that he desperately hoped the pilots lived through.

“G.R., give me a couple degrees of flaps,” ordered Captain Pratt.

G.R. reached down and extended the flaps three additional degrees as ordered. He knew by extending the flaps the captain was attempting to give the wings a little more surface area, thereby increasing their lifting capability.

“That ocean spray ought to help,” observed Charles.

John managed a very faint chuckle, not knowing if his captain was serious or not about the salt water melting the ice off the wings.

G.R. watched anxiously as the oil and cylinder head temperatures all entered the mid-range of their respective red arcs. He knew he had to open the cowl flaps and force cool air through the engine compartments soon. But opening them at such a critical moment would likely increase the drag on the airframe to an untenable amount. Since the overburdened airliner was clearly unable to accelerate, the added resistance would likely force the DC6 to slowly sink into the icy water beneath them. He held his breath, hoping the airplane would climb before the furnace-like temperatures inside the four engine compartments escalated out of control.

Charles and John were so preoccupied with trying to get the airplane to climb, neither noticed the red-lining temperatures.

The airplane continued to shudder, hanging precariously on the edge of a stall. It was clear that the four-engine Douglas was unhappy.

The DC6 was barely twenty feet above the water and Charles knew that he’d been backed into a corner. If he pushed just a little forward on the control yoke to reduce the pitch angle, the airplane would almost immediately strike the waves. Likewise, if he pulled back a little to climb, the airplane would undoubtedly stall and then crash into the water out of control. Either way, he knew he had to use a gentle touch or it would all be over in a New York minute.

Pilots and passengers alike could feel, and indeed hear, a thunderous rumbling sound as it passed through the nearly silent, yet deafeningly loud aircraft interior.

The airspeed needles advanced four knots and then fell six, all while the altimeters refused to cooperate and indicate a climb. The instrument ballet was a torturous thing for the pilots to endure.

Clearing his voice before he could speak, John softly muttered, “Speed’s up ten knots.”

“Keep both fingers crossed,” replied Charles.

“And toes,” added G.R.

Their wait was agonizing, but eventually the old reliable DC6 came through for them. The combination of extending the flaps and flying through the salty ocean spray, along with G.R.’s quick action with the cowl flaps, gave the airplane what it needed to fly.

The apprehension in the cockpit dissipated with each knot of airspeed and each additional foot of altitude the airplane achieved. When the airplane’s altimeter indicated one hundred feet, Charles said,

“Double check the frequency for the Islip beacon, John. I’m going direct.”

They made it.

Three

Earlier in the summer of 2002

“J
ack, make sure you’re holding that socket wrench tight. We can’t allow any slack in these aileron cables,” shouted Bill Pratt from inside the small cockpit of his Cessna 150.

“OK, Grandpa,” replied Jack.

“Lucy, tell me again. How many degrees does the book say the ailerons should deflect up?” asked Bill.

“Oh, I lost the page,” said Lucy, sitting on a small ladder outside the airplane. “Hang on.”

“My hands are so big and this space is so tight, I keep banging my knuckles,” said Bill.

Getting their grandfather’s old Cessna back into the air was proving to be a difficult task. Much like its owner, N63626 had been in retirement for a long time. The dusty old two-seater had sat alone and in pieces in the back of the barn for years. The trio ended up spending much of the summer on the ground turning wrenches and polishing, but no one ever complained. The work became a catalyst that would eventually bind them together as airmen for the rest of their lives.

“Grandpa,” said Lucy as she scanned the pages of the aircraft maintenance manual. “I still don’t understand why you and your neighbor hate each other. Didn’t you say you guys used to be best friends?”

“We were indeed,” replied Bill, taking a moment to look his granddaughter in the eye. “But I don’t hate him, dear; I just think he’s a jerk. He definitely hates me though. I guess sometimes people allow life’s challenges to cloud their view. Mr. Tacker had a choice and he chose to be bitter.”

Lucy’s first few weeks at the farm were difficult and boring beyond belief. Just the thought of leaving New York for the rolling farmland of northeast Pennsylvania seemed, at first anyway, to be a death sentence. Lucy was fourteen, on the verge of womanhood, and had no desire whatsoever to leave all she knew behind simply to make her parents’ life a little less complicated. But in reality, Lucy had grown tired of the arguing and secretly welcomed the peace and quiet she found while living away from home. She never actually asked, but knew that her brother Jack, two years her junior, felt much the same.

There was much trepidation inside the two city dwellers when they first arrived. After all, as far as they were concerned their grandparents were ancient, probably born shortly after the last of the dinosaurs roamed the earth. Besides that, the tiny old people with white hair were practically strangers. But all that was in the past. The two siblings were happy now. They were at peace.

A small commotion sprang up outside the cockpit. Both Lucy and her grandfather could hear Jack giggling, and Bill could feel the aileron cables moving in his hand. “What’s going on out there?” he yelled.

Through the laughter, Jack replied, “It’s Emily; she’s biting my ankles.”

“Well, kick that stupid cat away. We have work to do.”

“OK, Grandpa, but Emily isn’t stupid. I think she’s smarter than me,” claimed Jack.

Both Lucy and her grandfather looked at each other and laughed. “You may be right,” said Bill with a smile.

When the laughter died down, Lucy asked, “What happened between you and Mr. Tacker?”

After a moment to gather his thoughts, Bill looked at his granddaughter and continued, “Well…”

Four

New York to London

“N
ew York radar this is Idlewild tower. Clipper forty-two is at the airport boundary,” stated the Idlewild tower controller into the telephone line that was linked directly to the departure controller’s speaker, located twenty miles away.

“Clipper forty-two is radar contact. Frequency one two-two point four,” said the New York radar controller.

“Roger,” answered the tower controller. Then, keying his microphone to transmit over the radio, the Idlewild controller said, “Clipper forty-two, contact New York radar on one two-two decimal four.”

“Clipper forty-two, one two-two-four. Goodnight,” said John.

On the ground at the New York radar control facility located at the Newark, New Jersey airport, Roscoe Jones watched as Clipper forty-two’s primary radar target suddenly appeared off the end of runway two-two. He had no idea what flight forty-two’s altitude was, nor of the difficulties they’d encountered during their takeoff. The only thing he saw on his scope was a bright green dot that he knew was a Pan Am DC6 enroute to London Heathrow. He would rely on his memory regarding which dots represented which airplanes while they were under his control. On a narrow strip of green paper, Roscoe noted the flight’s proposed route and altitude.

Roscoe’s shift was nearly over and he hoped to get the Pan Am DC6 off his frequency as rapidly as possible. Though he didn’t much relish the idea of going home and dealing with a pregnant wife who was convinced that she was the size of a bus, he figured a few brews on the way there would take the edge off of his spouse’s hormones. He loved his wife deeply, but very much looked forward to the day when her familiar personality returned.

“New York radar, Clipper forty-two is off Idlewild,” stated John. “We’re proceeding to Islip and climbing to eight thousand.”

“Clipper forty-two, New York, radar contact. Report level at eight thousand,” ordered Roscoe.

“Roger wilco,” responded John, advising the controller that he would comply.

“Set climb power, G.R. The engines are yours,” advised Charles.

G.R. set the throttles to the recommended horsepower for climb and then slowly pulled aft on the master propeller pitch control lever, increasing the pitch on each of the four propellers. Next, using one finger per propeller, he fine tuned the prop pitch using four small toggle switches on the center pedestal. Once everything was stabilized, G.R. adjusted the four mixture levers to reduce the fuel consumption of the engines. The last thing the flight engineer did was to open the engine cowl flaps, reminding himself to close them once the engine temperatures were back in the green. If he forgot, when the airplane’s speed increased they would cause the entire airframe to shake and everyone in the cockpit would know that he’d screwed up.

With the most important tasks complete, G.R. stood and returned to his small panel where he could monitor the engines more precisely. Off and on during the course of the flight, G.R. would have to switch between his forward and aft positions in order to make any necessary adjustments.

Once things settled down, Asa stretched out on the lower bunk; the same one that he and Lars had been sitting on for takeoff. Lars, being lower on the totem pole, took the top bunk. They each drew a small curtain around their individual rest area to cut down on the noise and ambient light. The two would rest as best they could until it was time to give the more senior crew members a break.

Lars Larson had spent the previous four years as a DC3 mechanic. He worked hard, impressed the right people, and then managed to pull off a transfer into flight operations. Lars grew up in a very rough Providence, Rhode Island neighborhood--in a household that was often just a few dollars shy of being considered dirt poor. Lars’s father, an immigrant from Norway, served as first mate on the Jane and Irsla, an old wooden dragger that fished the waters off Block Island. Though Lars spoke Norwegian at home and near perfect English to his friends, to survive on the street he possessed the ability to forget there was an “R” in the alphabet. The selectively ignored letter caused his words to sound something like, “Paahking the caah,” when he spoke. He could turn his diction on and off at will, sounding like a thug one minute and a Harvard grad the next.

Rather than follow in his father’s footsteps, Lars made a comfortable living running numbers for the local racketeers. Incorrectly assuming that he was more adept at math than his employers, when told to take five percent off the top for himself, Lars took eight. But he was smart enough to know that there wasn’t much of a future working for the wrong people, so Lars studied hard and used his money to obtain an airplane mechanic’s license. Blond-haired, single and in his mid-twenties, Lars had given up working for the criminal element, but always considered himself to be in their debt. And unknown to Lars, there were some men back in Providence who would quite agree.

Simply thinking about the possibility of actually landing the DC6 kept Asa’s mind far from sleep. At nineteen and a half, Asa was the youngest crew member in the cockpit. He grew up in Danbury, Connecticut and always drove a brand new Chevrolet to work. Asa’s dad was a very successful surgeon in Danbury, and whatever Pan Am’s salary wouldn’t buy for Asa, his dad certainly would. His dad also paid for every one of the one thousand flight hours Asa needed to have in his logbook in order to get hired by Pan Am. It didn’t hurt that his father was also good friends with Juan Trippe, the President of Pan Am. Asa and his dad’s relationship went far beyond father and son, they were practically best friends.

Sitting virtually alone in the back of the darkened cockpit, Ed Vito rolled his eyes and exhaled softly. Their takeoff was one of those times that he despised riding in an airplane as a virtual passenger. Without access to the flight controls, he was forced to watch others control his destiny.

Ed was himself a Pan Am pilot. In fact, he was senior to John by quite a few years. Pan Am’s DC6 copilots could bid a monthly schedule to fly as either a pilot or navigator. Having had his fill of piloting the DC6 across the Atlantic, Ed determined that it was a lot less strenuous to make a couple of star sightings once every hour than to sit and fly an airplane all night. But their white-knuckled departure from Idlewild had him rethinking that decision.

Until their flight was flying over the ocean, the pilots would navigate using ground-based navigation aids. Knowing he would not be required to work for a few hours, Ed sat back in his navigator’s chair and closed his eyes, replaying in his mind what he’d just witnessed and contemplating his next month’s bid.

“New York radar, Clipper forty-two over Islip at five-five, still climbing to eight thousand,” advised John.

“Clipper forty-two, roger; report over Nantucket. You may continue climb to ten thousand and report level,” said Roscoe.

Charles engaged the autopilot, slid his seat back as far as it would go and said, “All right then, John, I’ve had enough fun. Why don’t you fly for a while?” Charles then removed his hands from the controls and raised them up as if he were surrendering to the police.

“I’ve got it,” said John.

Charles was still shaking on the inside after the harrowing takeoff, but refused to allow his crew to see just how much the experience truly frightened him. Continuing to show his airline captain side, Charles pulled the New York Times out of his flight bag and settled back to read while his underlings handled the ship.

After passing the eastern tip of Long Island, John spoke to the controller. “New York radar, Clipper forty-two is level at ten thousand.”

“Roger, Clipper forty-two. What is your Nantucket estimate?” queried the controller.

“Clipper forty-two is estimating Nantucket at two three, three-three,” reported John.

“Roger, Clipper Forty-two. Overhead Nantucket, contact New York Oceanic control on HF frequency five niner zero six, if unable try four four eight two. Have a good crossing,” advised Roscoe. Then without waiting for a reply, he slid his seat back and raised his arm, alerting his supervisor that he was ready to leave.

“Five niner zero six or four four eight two over Nantucket, wilco,” responded John.

Lars, wishing he hadn’t had two cups of coffee during flight planning a few hours earlier, pushed the curtain back and left the cockpit for a bathroom break. He slipped into one of the forward lavs and locked the door behind him.

Before leaving the lavatory, Lars checked his teeth and straightened his tie. Opening the bathroom door to exit, he hoped to spend a few minutes flirting with one of the stewardesses, but gasped as someone rushed forward and forced him back into the tiny room. Caught off-guard, Lars could feel someone’s fist grasping his collar and he plainly heard the door slam shut, but was too dazed to understand what was happening.

“Lars, me and you got some business to discuss,” announced the attacker.

“Uh, what? I, uh?” muttered Lars, unable to catch his breath.

“A little birdie told me that you’ve been messing with my wife whenever I’m out of town on business, and I’m here to put a stop to it,” said Albert Viscelli, nicknamed Sonny by his friends and coworkers.

Lars gurgled, struggling to breathe. His eyes were wide open, but all he could see was his own fear.

Sonny relaxed his incredibly strong grip, but kept his right fist clenched and ready to strike.

“Sonny, what are you doing here?” asked Lars, using his familiar New England accent.

“I told you why,” he said furiously.

“I never did any such thing. Yeah, I see her walking the dog sometimes. And yeah, we talk, but nothing more; I swear. You gotta believe me,” gasped Lars.

“That isn’t what I’ve been told. And do you know what? I have some Polaroids to prove it.”

“I, I don’t know what to say, Sonny. I, ah...” stuttered Lars.

“Save it, Lars. I don’t want to hear any more lies. I’ve been getting enough of those at home.”

“What do you want from me?” uttered Lars, barely able to speak.

Sonny de-clenched his fist and reached into his right pants pocket. He pulled out a snub-nosed pistol, pushed it as far into Lars’s left nostril as it would go. “I’m going to kill you, Lars. I just wanted you to know that. It might be today or it might be tomorrow. Who knows, it might even happen in some hotel room, say, in London.” snarled Sonny with anger, hate and hurt wrapped around each of his words.

“Sonny, please. We’re neighbors; I would never do that. I like you. I’m telling ya,” said Lars, before having his Adams apple nearly crushed by Sonny’s solid left forearm.

“I can’t hear you,” said Sonny, nearly overcome with the desire to choke Lars to death right then and there. He knew it would feel good to squeeze the life out of the man who’d soiled his sheets. But reluctantly, and ever-so-slowly, he eased up his forearm pressure, telling himself to stick to the plan.

“So why don’t you just kill me now if you’re so sure about this?” asked Lars.

“Because I want you to know fear before you die. I want you to look over your shoulder every day and wonder if today is the day that your life will end. And I want you to feel as much pain as I do right now,” barked Sonny.

Shaking his head, Lars said, “Sonny, I…I swear.”

Sonny placed the gun back into his pants pocket and then grabbed three photographs from his shirt pocket and stuffed them into Lars’s mouth. “Look at these! You’re nothing but a fornicator and a liar.” He glared at his quarry for a moment before adding, “You look good in the uniform. Maybe they can bury you in it.”

Sonny then looked deep into his future victim’s eyes. If there had been any lingering doubts as to whether or not he could do it, they were no longer present. The pain and sorrow he felt about being wronged by his neighbor and the woman he loved was more than he could bear. Lars was going to die, but only after suffering first. After looking the wife-stealer in the eyes, he knew he could do it without regret. His mind was made up. He then released his grip and quietly slipped out the door.

Lars removed the photos from his mouth and stared into the mirror with bulging eyes. He didn’t need to look at the pictures, he knew it was true. He hadn’t felt even a twinge of guilt during the six months he’d been sleeping with Sonny’s wife. In fact, he loved the excitement of it all. The sneaking around, knowing he’d been with his neighbor’s wife only hours before her husband walked through the front door, proved to be quite electrifying. He wasn’t sure who ratted on him, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was figuring out how he could get out of it. He adjusted his shirt, straightened his tie, returned his white cap to its rightful place and then slowly returned to his bunk.

The twenty-five-year-old junior flight engineer spent the next two hours staring at the ceiling of the cockpit, wondering if he could somehow get Sonny first. Lars had no doubts that Sonny was serious; he’d seen the rage in his eyes. Lars had always been the kind of guy who preferred to avoid controversy, but his hand was being forced. He hated admitting it to himself, but he knew that he would have to get rid of Sonny and somehow make it look like an accident. Lars sincerely hoped he could find a peaceful solution, but knew he had to be ready to act. After all, when dealing with a man who’d just discovered his wife has been sleeping around: it was kill or be killed. Sonny, he knew, was a rabid dog.