Flight of the Forgotten. Mark A. Vance

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СКАЧАТЬ coming around to the left, Mark. You need to miss those buildings.” Buster directed as I continued turning the big jet. “Keep your nose down. You don’t want to stall. Go ahead and bring the gear up … let’s get some airspeed.”

      “Gear up!” I ordered as my first officer immediately reached over and raised the gear lever.

      “Take it easy. You’re doing fine. Just do as I tell you and everything is going to be alright.” he continued. “Okay now … easy … easy … easy … roll out on this heading!” he ordered. Suddenly, the stick-shaker, which had been vibrating from the moment we lifted off, abruptly stopped and our airspeed margin increased above a stall. Within moments, we were out of danger from the tall buildings and no longer auguring out of control.

      “I owe you again, Buster.” I announced as my first officer looked at me curiously.

      “Me? You saved it!” he exclaimed, grabbing his microphone to respond to the Boston air traffic control tower.

      “I was just along for the ride.” I gasped, as things began to settle down.

      “Did you hear that asshole in the tower?” my first officer asked excitedly.

      “No, why?”

      “He was reading off their phone number the entire time and demanding a response. Didn’t you hear him? What a jerk!”

      “No, I guess not. I was listening to something else.”

      “Lucky for you.” my first officer grunted.

      “Lucky for all of us.” I corrected him.

      “You’ll be okay now.” Buster interrupted. “I’m here anytime you need me.” he reminded, as I just nodded silently and engaged the jet’s autopilot. “I have to go now, but when the time is right, I’ll be back to ask for your help on an important matter.” he said cryptically.

      September 24, 1988, Houston, Texas

      My first indication that the important matter Buster had in mind was approaching came in the form of a strange query from my wife late one evening. “Do we know anyone that was killed in a fire?” she asked, curiously, staring at me intently as she spoke.

      “A fire? No. Why?” I asked, eyeing her warily.

      “No one you can think of?” she continued.

      “No. Why? What’s going on?”

      “Well, I went for a reading yesterday with these two psychics and they both kept insisting that someone killed in a fire was trying desperately to get in touch with my husband.”

      “What kind of a fire? A house fire?” I asked.

      “They didn’t say. All they said was whoever it was had died in a fire. They said the person didn’t die of the fire, but was surrounded by fire when they died.”

      “Well, I can’t think of anyone.” I replied, dismissing the idea as some kind of fluke and more than a little skeptical about the two local psychics. Three weeks later, I began to understand the significance of that message. Had I known at the time that my uncle and his crew had been killed on impact when their bomber plunged to the ground amid a tremendous flash fire, I would have immediately recognized the source of the communication.

      October 15, 1988, Bradley International Airport, Windsor Locks, Connecticut

      The mystery of that terrible crash had been with me all my life of course, but up to this time I had never seriously thought about trying to uncover its secrets. That was about to change one dark, rainy night as I approached the Bradley International Airport in a rainstorm and high winds. Completely unknown to me at the time, the Bradley International Airport had been the recovery point for most of the heavy bombers of the U.S. Eighth Air Force when they returned from England after World War II. It was the original stateside destination for thousands of homesick, young airmen on their way home after the war, including the Jack B. Ketchum crew and my uncle Buster.

      “I’m going to give it a shot of rain repellent.” I announced as the rain continued pounding heavily against the jet’s cockpit window. “What were the winds again?” I asked.

      “300 degrees at 25 knots, gusting to 30.” my first officer replied.

      “Okay, thanks.” I said as we joined the localizer for the ILS approach.

      “Windshear advisories are in effect. An MD-80 just reported a 20 knot loss of airspeed at 300 feet.” my first officer warned.

      “Got it … thanks.” I said, wrestling with the airplane as it pitched and rolled in the high winds. “Nothing like trying to dock the Queen Mary in a bathtub.” I grumbled.

      “No kidding. I’m glad this is your leg.” my first officer joked as the airplane shuddered repeatedly and I worked the thrust levers to control the airspeed.

      “Well, good evening, Captain Vance.” a familiar voice over my right shoulder suddenly proclaimed and I immediately flinched in response.

      “What’s the matter?” my first officer asked, eyeing me curiously.

      “Huh, oh nothing, nothing. I thought I heard a circuit breaker pop.”

      “Oh, okay. 1,000 feet.” he announced as we continued the approach.

      “I’ve been trying to tell you that it’s time, Mark … time for that seed we planted in you years ago to start growing.” Buster declared. “For the families. There’s too much pain. We need you to help them. And we need you to help us.”

      “I don’t understand!” I blurted out loud.

      “What’s the matter, Skipper?” my first officer asked.

      “Uh, I don’t understand why we haven’t seen the lights yet.” I said, trying to recover from the outburst.

      “Any minute now.” he encouraged.

      “We need your help telling the families what happened.” Buster continued. “We were supposed to land here in 1945. The families need to know why we didn’t.”

      “500 feet. Runway in sight.” my first officer reported.

      “Got it.”

      “They need to know the truth, Mark. We’ll help you find the truth.” my uncle continued as we neared the approach end of the runway and I kept nodding repeatedly. “It’s your destiny.” he insisted.

      Easing the thrust levers to idle and arresting the descent rate, the big jet touched down and began decelerating as I applied reverse thrust and braking. Slowing to eighty knots, we exited on a high speed turnoff and were soon taxiing down the parallel taxiway.

      “Piedmont 225, taxi to parking via Charlie and Echo!” the overhead speaker declared as I turned the jet down the Charlie taxiway and began the trek to the terminal area. It was still raining hard and visibility ahead СКАЧАТЬ