Название: Flight of the Forgotten
Автор: Mark A. Vance
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Зарубежная драматургия
isbn: 9780615473765
isbn:
At that moment something almost as horrifying struck the plane. A tremendous bolt of lightning abruptly tore through the right wing and ran down the forward instrument panel, leaving me blinded and disoriented.
The smell of burned wiring and fiberglass filled the air. With the tiny Cessna just 30 feet above the ground, in rain so heavy I couldn’t hear the passenger behind me screaming at the top of his lungs, we gyrated wildly. As we did, I struggled with the controls, blinded, unable to climb and unsure of what lay ahead. It was lucky I suppose that we hadn’t been blown out of the sky by the lightning itself, but the heat and energy somehow missed the explosive charges in the drilling pipe. Nonetheless, I needed help and I needed it fast if we were going to survive.
“Please, God! Don’t let this happen!” I cried out, bracing for what I now believed was an inevitable crash. It was then I felt another pair of hands on the control wheel and heard a strangely familiar voice.
“You’re okay. You’re okay. Just hold on. You need to turn slightly left. Keep the nose up. That’s it. Keep turning to the left.” the voice implored as I felt strong hands guide mine through the turn. “Everything’s going to be fine.” the voice insisted as my shattered vision began returning slowly.
As I followed the instructions, my eyes eventually focused on the arms holding the control wheel with me. At first, I thought it was the arms of the passenger behind me, but as we flew on, I could see unusual symbols on the sleeves - sergeant’s stripes. As I stared at them, the arms kept guiding me at the controls.
“Nothing’s going to harm you. Just do as I do.” Buster implored as I nodded and let him guide me. “You’ll be out of this weather soon.”
“Buster? Is it really you?” I asked as he held the controls like an autopilot.
“I’m here.” he whispered, as I gazed at the small Eighth Air Force symbol on his left sleeve.
Almost as suddenly, the rain ceased, and I could hear the passenger behind me screaming again. Turning instinctively, the strong arms that had been holding the controls with mine suddenly disappeared and I found myself alone again in the cockpit.
“It’s going to be alright.” I managed to shout as I eased the tiny Cessna back up to 500 feet and glanced around repeatedly for the strong arms with the sergeant stripes.
“How … how did you do that? I thought we were going to crash.” my distraught passenger cried out, quivering badly.
“We were.” I uttered, holding the control wheel tightly to keep my hands from trembling.
August 3, 1987, Piedmont Airlines flight #335, Boston to Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina
Several years after that dramatic encounter, I was finally a jet pilot, flying captain on a Boeing 737. I hadn’t felt Buster’s presence in some time and had become engrossed in the day to day routine of airline flying. The pattern was mind-numbing, and this day was no different than dozens of others, except for what was about to happen as we started rolling down the runway.
The sun was a blinding fireball on the end of the runway that evening as I taxied into position for takeoff at sunset. Boston was departing to the West and there was a lot of radio confusion at the time. Several flights jammed the tower frequency with transmissions. The Boston airport was also using intersecting runways for takeoffs and landings, further adding to the confusion and potential for conflict.
Nonetheless, my first officer and I heard our takeoff clearance very distinctly, acknowledged it and began rolling down the long Western runway. The juncture where the intersecting runways met was invisible ahead in the blinding sunlight as was the Boston downtown area a short distance off the end of the runway. I knew the tall buildings were there, of course. Their towering presence required a left turn shortly after takeoff whenever you departed to the West.
As we accelerated through 100 knots, two thousand feet from the runway intersection and still well below flying speed, I heard a desperate, pleading voice over the loudspeaker that evening above the roar of my engines.
“I can’t stop it, Piedmont! I can’t stop it, Piedmont!” a high pitched, frantic voice declared as a large passenger turboprop suddenly materialized to my left. Appearing out of nowhere in the blinding sun, the huge turboprop was closing rapidly on the intersection ahead and appeared to have both engines in full reverse in an all-out effort to avoid hitting us at the intersection. It called for a split-second decision, leaving no time to think. Fortunately, my first officer and I saw it the same way and reacted accordingly, instantly electing to clear the intersection ahead of the other plane.
“Go!” he shouted, not realizing that I had already firewalled both thrust levers full forward to maximum thrust as we hurtled ahead into the blinding sun. The Boeing 737 was still too slow to fly, but as the huge turboprop neared from the left, that no longer mattered. We would collide at the intersection if something wasn’t done to get us out of his way fast. So, with my engines straining at firewall thrust and a collision imminent, I pulled back sharply on the control wheel, forcing the big jet into the air well below flying speed. Seconds later, we augured through the intersection above the turboprop airliner as it flashed by below us and I braced for impact. Somehow, with everyone doing just the right thing at the right time, we missed each other.
From the moment we lifted-off well below flying speed, the stick shaker activated, warning me of an impending stall. It was a miracle we hadn’t hit the other airplane of course, but our problems were far from over. None of us had any way of knowing at the time that our near-accident was all due to an air traffic controller operational error.
The first officer and I were busy working to get control of the airplane and keep from crashing. Auguring toward downtown Boston, blinded by sunlight and unable to turn, neither of us had time to acknowledge the first miracle as we prayed hard for a second one. The slightest turn now to avoid the tall buildings, with the jet on stick-shaker, would mean a stall and a total loss of control.
Working desperately to regain control of the airplane and keep from crashing, I held the vibrating control column tightly as my eyes strained to read the flight instruments. Blinded by the sun just above the horizon, I searched for a glimpse of the downtown sky scrapers as my eyes watered profusely and I struggled with the controls. Tears began rolling heavily down my cheeks as I searched in the blinding light for the buildings, glancing intermittently at the first officer’s flight instruments. My own were invisible in the blinding glare.
It was truly the ragged edge. I needed help. I needed it bad, and there wasn’t much time left for it to arrive. In the passenger cabin, over one hundred people were counting on us to salvage things and pull them through safely, not to mention those ahead of us on the ground.
“Holy Jesus! Jesus! Watch the buildings!” I shouted as we wallowed out of control and I began to feel more and more like a crash was imminent. That feeling enveloped me as events seemed to slow around me, and my mind continued racing at warp speed.
“You do have a way of making me feel needed.” Buster suddenly announced, leaning over my right shoulder. “Okay … now you need to start turning left, Mark.” he directed, as I eased the control column into a gradual turn and felt the ailerons and spoilers respond. “Hold your nose down and power through the turn.” he instructed as the stick-shaker continued rattling and tears kept streaming down my face.
“Okay, СКАЧАТЬ