The worst was also planned for when considering mechanical performance. Everything assumed that the most important part of the aircraft would fail at the most crucial time during takeoff or landing. Where takeoff was concerned, the engines were the major system. Their performance, or lack of it, was the basis for calculating several variable airspeed ‘barriers’ that aided a pilot when deciding whether to go ahead with or abort a takeoff. V-l was the speed at which the decision to proceed had to be made and the last point at which a takeoff could be aborted by reversing the engines and applying full braking power. Beyond V-l an abort would surely end up in a fiery slide past the runway’s end. V-R indicated the speed at which the aircraft would be generating sufficient lift for a safe takeoff and climb-out, allowing the pilots to nose up — or rotate — the aircraft.
There was a gentle forward push on the back of the captain’s right hand as he and Buzz advanced the numbers one and four engine throttle levers. The Maiden lurched up and forward, coming back down on the nose gear shocks with a pronounced bounce. Turbine compression increased in the two outboards, moving the aircraft slowly onto the taxiway, where the captain turned her to the right, lining up on the yellow center line. The ground speed crawled upward.
“Jesus, Bart. We should be rolling easy at this thrust-to-weight.”
They were an eighth of the way to the threshold area, and rolling way too slowly. Captain Hendrickson moved his aircraft to the left side of the taxiway, then to the extreme right, testing the feel of the Maiden. She was heavy. Sluggish was a good word, but not completely descriptive. The bird was…unbalanced, almost like she wanted to do a wheel stand. He touched the throttles forward a bit, then backed off, getting the same forward rise and lurch as before. Buzz looked over to him, and they both knew. Their aircraft was too heavy, and misloaded. Her center of gravity had been altered, by how much they would find out once airborne — if they got that far.
“We’re damn heavy,” Buzz said. “I didn’t figure on this. Man, we feel real heavy.”
“I know.” The captain brought her back to center. “She’s mushy on the ground, like we’re steering with a flat nose wheel.”
Buzz checked the overhead panels for any reds: There were none. The weight of the new cargo was going to present a big enough problem without having to worry about any minor system glitches. And just what was the weight? He wanted to ask — politely deferent, if necessary — but remembered the wrath of the hijacker. Buzz would love to get a crack at him, just a chance to snap his shit-brown neck, but not at the risk of another passenger’s death. Not him. The handiwork was readily apparent on the wing, and he tried not to think about what was going to happen to the body when the aircraft accelerated down the runway.
The nose of the big Boeing came sharply left at the end of the taxiway, and a hundred yards farther came left again onto the runway. Brakes were applied and the throttles brought back to hold the Maiden steady. The strip before them was too short for their weight. Both pilots knew it. They would never leave pavement.
“We’re beyond spec,” Buzz pointed out, referring to the hot, thin air of the midday desert that would further complicate a liftoff. “What do you think?”
The captain analyzed the question. Conventional approaches could be cast aside for now. After all, the only certainty was that they were going to dig a long trench in the desert sand at the end of the ten-thousand-foot runway. He figured they would need at least twelve thousand feet to get enough speed up. Unless…
“Buzz, we need speed, right?”
“Yeah,” he answered quizzically
It was a radical idea for a non afterburning jet, possibly ludicrous when applied to the 747. “We’re going to roll with the flaps retracted, smooth-skinned. That’ll give us speed.”
“But lift? We can’t rotate without flaps.”
The captain pointed to the console. “Look, you call out speed, like usual. Just add ten knots to rotation. We’ll use up a hell of a lot of runway, I know, but we’ll be fast enough. At V-R you hit the flaps — ten degrees.”
“That can rip the wings off.” But it might work. Buzz smiled at the runway and sighed a dry breath. In a way the thought excited him. “Just like flying a Harrier off a jump ramp.”
They would trade assured lift for speed, and throw lift in at the last moment, a risky move that very well could bring the first officer’s worry to reality. No one knew if the wings could take the stress, or even if the flaps would extend under the force created by the forward motion. Commercial aircraft were not designed for this.
“You ready?”
Buzz nodded.
“We firewall them on my mark.”
“Okay.”
Hendrickson stretched his hand around the four levers, arching his fingers to touch each of the plastic caps. His palm tensed. “Now!”
They pushed the throttles forward as quickly as the built-in resistance would allow. The cockpit rose up as before and settled down as the aircraft began moving.
Hadad heard the words from his seat behind the pilots, but he was not concerned. Everything had been prepared for. All the calculations were long since made. The plane would fly. The added load could be handled easily by the giant jet — his knowledgeable comrades had assured him of this. It would be so.
The jet blast from the Maiden’s four engines sent rocks and other debris flying from the runway and its edges as the aircraft gained speed.
“Come on…” The captain watched the airspeed increase slowly — too slowly.
Buzz pushed on the captain’s hand, holding the throttles full open. The turbines were sucking fuel from the integral wing tanks in huge gulps as they approached 100 percent capacity, a measure of performance they would surpass. Operating beyond full capacity was possible, but not recommended for any period of time. “It’s gonna be close,” he said, louder than he realized. The aircraft passed the halfway point on the runway.
Those who flew did so with an instinctive ability to sense performance beyond what the mechanical indicators told them. For some it was a feeling in the gut, literally, one that told them whether the aircraft was going too slow or fast, or if some meteorological condition was affecting it. Captain Hendrickson felt the Maiden’s bulk beneath. It moved slowly, but there was increasing acceleration.
“V-one,” Buzz called out. The 747 was already beyond the halfway marker by a thousand feet.
“We go,” the captain decided, though that had been fated. He held the throttles forward.
Buzz kept his eyes on the rising speed indicator, not the ever-shortening slab of pavement which was now three quarters gone. The electronic needle crept past the first calculated V-R speed…less than ten knots to go.
A uneasy expression covered Michael’s face. He gripped Sandy’s arm with one hand, and the armrest with the other. Something felt wrong. The speed was too high. His stomach told him so. His hand squeezed, feeling his wife’s soft flesh.
Silently, he willed the jet to fly.
Captain Hendrickson was invoking the same prayer when his first officer shouted, “V-R!”
“Rotate.” Hendrickson pulled the stick back in a smooth motion while Buzz brought the flaps down.
The Clipper Atlantic Maiden’s nose rose in response to the downward pressure on the elevators, which were located on the trailing edge of the horizontal stabilizers at the jet’s rear. The most obvious motion, though, was the vertical jump that accompanied the lowering of the flaps. Buzz’s body bent slightly forward from the force of the upward surge.
“Shit!”