The landing gear folded neatly inside.
Fifty-five seconds later, the timer on the laptop screen reached 00:00:00.
Chapter 19
Fifteen and a half volts sparked into the potassium chlorate, and the explosive energy pushed a blast wave out at four thousand feet per second. The force sheared off the nose gear guide struts and retractable side braces, then tore through the gear bay bulkhead aft, destroying three twenty-eight-volt nickel-cadmium batteries, the main A/C power cable, and all hydraulic control points and tubing. The extreme heat melted every protected wire pack, the bus terminal block, and every connection inside the electrical equipment compartment. The blast also ripped through two 3⁄16-inch braided steel cables that ran the length of the plane. The violent downward energy easily blew out both sets of gear bay doors, sending debris spiraling into the external airflow. The pieces were instantly sucked up and over the wing and into the left engine. The debris ripped through the engine’s brittle titanium fan blades, destroying the vortex in the compressor that fed the combustion chamber and the fuel injectors.
The aircraft jumped as though hitting a speed bump and then gave a massive vibration.
“Haas!” Falk exclaimed. “What was that?”
“There’s a problem, Captain. We’re at one thousand feet! We need to climb,” Haas pleaded. “Your control.”
“My control,” Falk confirmed. “Engine status?”
“Exhaust gas temperature is rising on the left. It’s working too hard. We’re losing power, huge. Left side.”
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Delta 771. We have an engine failure.”
“Delta 771, what is your number of souls?” a tower voice responded immediately.
“One-five-two.”
“What are your intentions?”
“We need to land, now.”
“Roger, Delta 771. Runway 1L is clear.”
“Negative,” Falk replied. “I can’t do that.”
It wasn’t that Falk couldn’t turn back for the runway; he wouldn’t turn back. He knew that at this altitude and speed, that was guaranteed to be fatal.
“Delta 771, can you make Batten? There is no conflict.”
“We’re unable. Heading zero-niner-zero. We need something flat. No obstructions. We may end up in Lake Michigan.”
Batten International Airport’s 6,500-foot concrete runway was short, but it would easily handle the emergency. Still, it was twelve miles away and south. The aircraft had drifted eighty degrees and was now heading due east.
“Seven hundred,” Haas said.
“This is the Captain. Brace, brace, brace.”
Falk steadied himself. He’d lost an engine just once before while aligned on Denver approach. This was different. Something was wrong. The controls weren’t responding. His mind flashed back to his training. Stay calm. If there’s time, wait four seconds between decisions.
When an aircraft engine failed, the remaining engine forced a turn in the direction of the failure. Not here, Falk reasoned. Side-to-side movement shouldn’t be dramatic because the MD-90 engines were close together. Still, the aircraft was rolling, and he had to stop it. Bring the wings level. Use right rudder. He glanced ahead. Water. He tightened his grip on the control column and depressed the pedal.
Nothing. No response whatsoever.
“There’s no rudder,” Falk quickly announced.
Recovery logic raced through Falk’s brain. Think. Where was it? Gone. How? From what? Vortex shear? Had it been hit? By what? Was it even there? His heart sank. He thought to use the ailerons to bring the wings back but remembered that was a classic rookie reaction. That would simply increase drag. Stalling would bring him down on terrain for sure, and on this path, that meant houses. He tried to compose himself a second time. The internal panic was too great.
A cacophony of voice and audio alarms from the Flight Warning Computer for engine fire, low altitude, landing gear, and electronic and hydraulic failure filled the cockpit. Falk frantically searched for a way out. A crushing pain suddenly gripped his chest, radiating outward and down his left arm.
The aircraft continued rolling in some surreal aerobatic maneuver gone wrong. The physics produced a 2-G pull toward the ground, one from the weight of the aircraft, and one from the reverse curve of the now inverted wings. At 180 knots, the plane quickly passed Lake Michigan’s shoreline and careened toward the water like some giant twirling lawn dart.
Cocoa sloshed through the cockpit, soaking Falk’s head and face. Some entered his mouth. Warm and semi-sweet, it was opposite of the liquid that was rushing toward the windshield. Upside-down, helpless, but no longer afraid, Falk closed his eyes and focused on the pleasant taste. Only half of his mouth worked. He managed one word.
“Starthucks.”
The jet’s low velocity and angled descent prevented it from exploding into the usual millions of pieces typical of a high-altitude crash. The tail’s vertical stabilizer skimmed the water first, and then the left-side horizontal. The drag of a twenty-foot wide sea anchor split the tail cone’s roof in a gaping crack. The plane briefly skipped back into the air high enough for a one-quarter turn. The right wing sliced the water and the enormous stress broke it away. Weakened by the underside blast, the nose section bent backwards like play dough. Moving in what had appeared to be slow motion, the aircraft now flailed wildly like some out-of-control gymnast, one arm extended, off balance and spinning on a great tumbling mat, somehow attempting to regain control via a clumsy maneuver, trying to make the best out of an awkward position. Completely out of its element, the jet did a final awesome cartwheel, coming to rest standing on end like a rocket preparing for liftoff. With both ends of the fuselage torn away, all buoyancy was lost, and the craft started to sink. The right engine, still roaring like some dying beast, finally choked out on massive amounts of water. The last sound waves raced to the shoreline in a deafening roar and were gone.
Neela Griffin was half-asleep sitting up, a pen in one hand, a cordless mouse in the other. Papers were strewn everywhere. Each time her hand moved, the laptop’s screen saver retreated into its secret hideaway and a Microsoft Word document appeared.
You’re So Vain
Alternate Title: Who are you, Mr. Vain?
By: Neela Griffin
Pointer #1: “Son of a gun”
The whispering introduction of “You’re So Vain” was a tribute to Joey Bishop, your close friend, fellow gang member, and opening act. Joey had this trademark phrase sewn onto his bathrobe.
Pointer #2: Your name has an “e” in it
And also an “a” and “r.” These are Carly Simon’s only public hints. She revealed your first, middle, and last name to just one person, NBC executive Dick Ebersol. He paid $50,000 at a charity function in August 2003. He signed a confidentiality agreement never to tell.
Pointer #3: “Your hat strategically dipped below one eye”
Your classic look. You loved your short-brimmed fedoras and wore them everywhere. Like your song lyrics, you and your hats went together like love and marriage. Or perhaps a horse and carriage. “This I tell ya, brother, you can’t have one without the other.”
Pointer #4: “Your scarf, it was apricot”
So was your world-class Lamborghini Muira. Your favorite color was arancio (Italian orange). You had an excellent eye for those tones in your collection of French impressionist paintings.