“The left one, O great white lucky-ass tracker,” Ron replied.
“Alter the track ten degrees to the left,” Ralph said. “New bearing two-five-zero. Sir, radio the search plane that we have found an artifact from a survivor, we are altering the search track to two-five-zero, and recommend they switch to a creeping-line search along that track.” The creeping-line search would fly one mile on either side of the track, going back and forth away from where the sneaker was found.
“Roger that, Sergeant,” Bellville said, after a slightly stunned nod of his head and an impressed smile.
“Way to kick butt, guys,” Patrick said cross-cockpit. On intercom he said: “We’re switching to a creeping-line search, one mile each side of track, quarter-mile spacing — the ground team found a sneaker along the track they predicted.” John reprogrammed the GPS for the new search pattern. A creeping-line search was a series of turns perpendicular to the search bearing, moving outward along the search bearing from a known point such as a crash site, road, or runway — useful when a target’s direction of movement or travel was known.
“Fitzgerald brought his A-game today,” Leo commented.
“It’s not Fid — Cadet Sergeant Markham is leading this search,” Patrick said.
“You mean ‘Little Marky’?”
“You bet,” Patrick said. “He may act a little mousy now, but he’s sharp as a freakin’ tack. I predict ‘Little Marky’ may be leading this squadron in a few years.”
“Cactus Two-Zero-Three-Three, Reno Approach, roger,” the air traffic controller radioed after receiving the check-in call from an inbound airliner. “Descend and maintain one-three-thousand feet, Reno altimeter three-zero-zero-one. There’s VFR traffic inbound to Reno at your eight o’clock, six miles, primary target only, and I’m not talking to him yet, so I’ll have to keep you a little high for now.”
“Three-three passing seventeen descending to thirteen,” the airliner first officer responded. “Negative contact on the traffic.”
The controller hit a button on his panel that connected him instantly to Oakland Center controllers: “Oakland, Reno Approach, I’m looking at a primary target fifteen miles southeast of Mustang. He’s doing about two-sixty. Was he talking to you and missed a handoff?”
“Stand by, Reno,” the other controller responded. A moment later: “Negative, Reno, everybody’s checked in.”
“Copy, thanks, JT,” the Reno controller said. He punched a button for his supervisor, and a moment later the shift supervisor came over and plugged his headset into the console. The controller pointed to his screen: “Ted, this guy is blasting straight in for the runway and he’s not talking to anyone,” he said. “I’m going to have to send this Southwest flight into holding over Mustang and back up the other inbound GA flights until he’s clear.”
“Did you try raising him in the clear and on GUARD?” the supervisor asked.
“That was my next move.” The controller hit a button on his console that allowed him to talk both on his assigned frequency and on the UHF and VHF GUARD emergency frequencies. “Aircraft on the one-five-zero-degree radial and fifteen DME from Mustang, airspeed two-six-zero, heading two-eight-zero, this is Reno Approach Control on GUARD,” he radioed. “If you can hear me, turn to a heading of one-eight-zero to remain clear of Reno Class-C airspace and contact me on this channel or switch to one-one-niner-point-two. There is traffic at your two o’clock position, less than four miles.” No reply; he repeated the instructions several times, in between vectoring other traffic away from the unidentified airplane. “No answer, Ted,” the controller told his supervisor. “He’s going to bust right through the Class C.”
“Everyone out of his way?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think he’ll do?”
“He’s got to be NORDO or a pinch hitter,” the controller replied. NORDO meant “no radio,” meaning the pilot was unable to talk to anyone on the radios; a “pinch hitter” was someone other than a pilot at the controls. “I’m betting he’ll see the runways Reno or Stead and try to make a landing, or just circle and decide what to do.”
“This is not good,” the supervisor said. “He could close us down for hours.” He punched a button on the console: “Tower, TF, we’ve got a NORDO inbound, about eleven miles to the southeast.”
“We’ve got him on the scope,” the Reno Tower controller responded. “He’s at seven thousand eight hundred and level, just southeast of Dayton Valley.”
“We’ve got him at two-fifty knots airspeed now.”
“Same up here.”
“Okay, I’ve got the Southwest flight set up to orbit over Mustang, and I’ll keep all of the other inbounds outside of the Class C until this guy either calls or zooms through,” the approach controller said. “I’m hoping he’ll see a runway and go for it.”
“I’ll activate the crash net here and at Stead, just in case,” the tower controller said. “This could be a mess.”
Carl was relying on the King Air’s autopilot and his extensive rehearsals for the last few minutes of this mission, because his vision was all but gone and the cramps in his stomach and back were making it impossible to concentrate on flying. He had flown this route a hundred times in the past couple months, using desktop-PC flight simulators and Google Earth to study the terrain and obstructions.
Once clear of the mountains around Virginia City southeast of Reno, Carl started a slow descent to 4,600 feet, just a hundred feet above the Truckee Meadows. Letting the autopilot handle the flying tasks for now, he used the socket wrench to start loosening the bolts atop the large canister in the aisle beside him. The ground crew must have already loosened the bolts, because they were easier to turn than he anticipated, especially in his weakened state. There were a dozen bolts securing the top; he managed to remove half of them before he had to turn his full attention to flying.
Only seconds to go now…
“Holy shit!” the tower controller cried, and he involuntarily ducked his head as the King Air zoomed past, missing the control tower by less than two hundred yards, flying no higher than the tower cab itself. It was in a slight left turn and appeared to be maneuvering to stay away from both the control tower and the Grand Sierra Resort casino just north of the field. “Is that pilot insane ?” He picked up the telephone handset marked CRASH . “Aircraft is overflying the field at about a hundred feet AGL, heading northwest at two hundred knots, gear and flaps retracted. He missed the tower by less than a couple hundred feet! Somebody call the police and fire departments — if that guy doesn’t climb, he’s going to hit something right in downtown Reno.”
Once he was past the control tower, the Grand Sierra Resort, and the Peppermill Casino, there were no other tall buildings or obstacles around him until reaching his objective. The lid was loosened as much as he could loosen it on the canister, and he could feel something that felt like an exposed lightbulb being held close to the right side of his face.
The mission could not have gone better. All of his preflight preparation, study, and careful consideration of every possible problem ensured success. After the series of bad thunderstorms threatened to cancel the mission, the weather cooperated. Even the old autopilot on this bird worked. The Lord was indeed guiding him, endorsing this mission with great weather and working components, and allowing him to live long enough to see the mission’s end.