“Shit!” Jake said, his eyes looking everywhere at once—out the windows, at his gauges, straight ahead, back behind.
“What was that, Jake?” Celia asked, tension in her voice.
“Quiet,” he told her, still searching for any sign of malfunction. Out the window he could see streaks of blood between the left engine nacelle and the fuselage. And there was a rhythmic rattle coming from out there, just audible under the sound of the engine turning.
“We hit something, didn’t we?” Celia asked.
“Quiet!” Jake barked again. “I need to concentrate for a minute.”
She kept quiet and he continued his survey. They were still flying steady on a due south heading, but the plane was trying to pull minutely to the left because the right wing was trying to come up. He compensated for it easily, first with the yoke and then with the trim wheel. Both engines were still turning at the proper RPMs. Both props were still spinning at their proper RPMs and providing thrust. Oil pressure was good. Fuel was good, showing no signs of a leak. They were still airworthy. But there was still that rattle, and that pull to the left.
“Okay,” Jake said. “I think that was a bird strike.”
“A bird?” Celia asked. “We hit a bird?”
“I think so,” he said. “I saw something white flash in front of us just before the bang happened. And there’s blood on the wing.”
“Can that damage us?” she asked.
“It can,” he confirmed. “It was probably a goose at this altitude. Geese are pretty massive and we were traveling at about a hundred and ten knots. That’s a good chunk of kinetic energy.”
“What do we do now?” she asked, her eyes intently staring at him, undoubtedly to see just how nervous he was about this development.
He was nervous about it, but he did not let it show. He commanded himself to keep calm, cool, and collected and work the problem—if there even was a problem—methodically. “We’re going to go back to the airport,” he told her. “We’ll inspect the plane on the ground and see if there is any damage. If there’s not, we’ll take off again and fly home.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “And everything is good right now?”
“We’re still in controlled flight,” Jake said, watching his altimeter. He planned to level off at two thousand feet for the go-around back to the same runway they had taken off from. “That’s always a good thing.”
“Yeah ... I suppose it is,” she said, her hands gripping the seat so hard now that her knuckles were white.
Jake keyed up his radio, which was still set to the airport’s departure frequency. “Hillsboro tower, this is November-Tango four-one-five with priority traffic.”
“Go ahead, four-one-five,” a male voice responded.
“We suffered what I believe was a bird strike on climb out,” he said. “We’re going to circle back around in the pattern and return to Runway one-three left.”
“I copy you had a bird strike on climb-out,” the controller answered, his voice calm, as if they were discussing something mundane, like the weather. “Are you declaring an emergency or a pan-pan?”
“Not at this point,” Jake replied. “We’re in controlled flight and the aircraft seems to be responding well. I have a slight rattle coming from the left wing and a slight pull to the left, but nothing I can’t handle. We’ll level off at two thousand and circle around left for one-three left.”
“Copy that, four-one-five,” the controller said. “I will keep the runway clear for you and have incoming traffic stay out of your way.”
“I appreciate that,” Jake said, pushing down on the yoke and adjusting his throttles as he reached two thousand feet.
The plane responded normally to his inputs so he banked left, turning them ninety degrees. There were no issues with the turn either. Outside on the wing, however, the rattling seemed to get a little louder, hopefully just because the engine noise had gotten quieter.
“We’re cool,” Jake told Celia. “We’ll be back on the ground in less than five minutes.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip a little.
He flew on this heading for about half a mile and then made another left turn, bringing them to a heading of 310, exactly one hundred and eighty degrees from the runway alignment. He maintained 130 knots of airspeed, watching as the airport passed by on his left side. He flew several miles past it, passing over open green fields and the occasional residential area now. He wanted a nice, long approach path in case anything went wrong.
He turned left onto the base leg, flying perpendicular to the runway now, still experiencing no problems except the rattle and the slight pull. It was when he turned back to the runway and began his final approach that a little trouble reared its head.
“Reducing power,” he said, calling out his actions for Celia’s benefit. “Gear down.” He flipped the lever. “Watch my gear status, C.”
“Right,” she said. Checking that the gear was down on approach had been the first thing he had taught her when she started flying regularly with him. Not that he needed someone to check that for him, but it was a little task that made Celia feel she was helping him fly, and when she was helping him fly, she was less nervous.
The machinery whirred and then there was a solid clank as the gear locked into place.
“Three greens on the gear,” Celia reported as the indicator lights came to life on the panel.
“Three greens on the gear,” Jake said, his eyes tracking on the runway ahead and then dropping back to his speed indicator. “Increasing flaps to thirty degrees.” He reached out and pulled the flap lever back one notch.
He knew immediately that something wasn’t right. The motor that drove the flaps sounded strained, as if was pushing against an immovable force. The pull to the left got worse, forcing Jake to correct for it. The motor whine got louder, began to sound like an imminent failure in progress.
“Fuck,” Jake said.
“Fuck what?” Celia asked, her nervousness kicking up considerably. “Why are you fucking over there?”
He put the flap lever back where it had been. “The flaps are jammed in the fifteen degrees position,” he said. “That bird must’ve broke something.”
“What does that mean?” she asked. “Can we land without the flaps?”
“We can land at fifteen degrees,” Jake said. “We’ll just be going a little fast. I need to talk to the tower.” He keyed up. “Hillsboro tower, this is four-one-five. We’re having a little issue with our flaps.”
“Four-one-five, this is Hillsboro tower. What is the issue?”
“Flaps are jammed at one-five degrees,” Jake said. “I cannot fully deploy them for landing. We’re going to have to come in hot.”
“Understood, four-one-five,” the controller said. “State your intentions.”
“I’m continuing the approach,” Jake said, “but I’m requesting to land on one-three right instead.” 13R was 6600 feet in length, as opposed to the 3600 feet of Runway 13L. He might need that extra length.
“You are cleared to land immediately on Runway one-three right,” the controller said. “All traffic on the ground has been held on the taxiways until you’re down.”
“Copy that,” Jake said, throttling down a bit more and adjusting the heading so he could line up with the new runway assignment. “We’re coming in.”
Jake had never landed a plane without his flaps properly deployed before, but it was something he had read up on occasionally and the procedure seemed pretty straightforward. You just came in faster and needed more room to stop. He throttled down so gravity could pull him gently toward the earth and used his yoke to adjust his descent rate and keep him on the glideslope. His airspeed stayed right around one hundred and fifteen knots, thirty knots faster than what he normally touched down at, but still fifteen knots slower than what a 737 touched down at on the same runway—and a 737 was a lot heavier and harder to stop once that touchdown occurred.