Kirk Upshaw gave Bolton a fleeting glance, but found he’d suddenly lost his voice. I wonder what the president is going to say when we taxi in at Dobbins instead of Hartsfield?
Bolton shook his head in frustration. “Kirk, try Dobbins again. We’re Air Force One. We can’t waste any more time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have the president onboard,” Bolton said dryly. “We have to have positive control — don’t take no for an answer.”
Upshaw nodded. “You want to go ahead and declare an emergency?”
“Damn right! The president is onboard and we’re flyin’ blind.”
Relaxing in the elaborate presidential office, the chief executive sat his coffee cup down and wrote the final words to his speech on racial harmony. Pleased with his efforts at spearheading a major race initiative, he unfolded his morning paper and studied the New York Stock Exchange composite transactions. Turning to look out the window, the president was shocked to see an airplane flash beneath the wing.
Captain Fred Oliver could occasionally see a few hundred feet in front of United 1147, but he couldn’t see the ground because of the haze and thick clouds. The continuous choppy turbulence prompted him to recheck the seat-belt sign. Pleased to see that it was in the on position, Oliver didn’t consciously remember toggling the switch. He also checked to make sure he had all the 727’s external lights on.
Pete Taylor momentarily swallowed his fear and looked at Oliver. “I’ve never seen anything like—”
“Traffic! Traffic!” TCAS suddenly warned as Oliver, Taylor, and Ingraham shot a look at the TCAS scope. ‘Traffic! Traffic!”
Oliver glanced through his side window. “We’ve got one at ten o’clock.”
“I’m looking,” Taylor replied in a voice laced with fear. He scanned the dark clouds out the left side of the cockpit, hoping to get a glimpse of the conflicting traffic. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
“Keep looking,” the captain said as he deactivated the autopilot and took manual control of the airplane. “He’s probably level at five thousand.”
“He’s closing on us,” Zeke Ingraham warned while he joined in the search efforts. “He’s headed straight for us!”
“Descend! Descend! Descend!” ordered TCAS.
Both pilots shared a quick glance as Fred Oliver began a smooth descent from 4,500 feet. He felt remiss in not telling the flight attendants about the situation. There wasn’t anything they could do to alleviate the problem, and he didn’t want to worry them needlessly.
“Increase descent!” shouted TCAS at a level that shocked the flight crew into instantaneous action.
“Oh, shit!” Taylor yelled.
The relatively smooth ride was over for the time being. Oliver reduced power and forced the yoke forward while he cross-controlled the tri-engined jet. The Boeing sliced downward as the TCAS continued its urgent warning.
“Increase descent!”
“There he goes!” Pete Taylor said with genuine relief in his voice.
“Increase descent!”
“Okay, goddammit!” Oliver swore in frustration.
A half second later, while passing through 4,200 feet, Oliver saw the lights of a large aircraft as it roared over the top of their airplane. The encounter with the Delta jet was extremely close. The captain of the other airliner was also cheating on the altitude rules in order to increase his chances of avoiding a midair collision.
It’s getting exciting up here,” Pete Taylor uttered, and looked at the TCAS scope. “I’ll try Dobbins again.”
“Okay,” Oliver replied while he added a small amount of power and began a smooth climb back to 4,500 feet. “We gotta get somethin’ going or we’re going to be in deep shit.”
“Dobbins approach,” Taylor radioed when the controller paused for a breath of air. “United Eleven-Forty-Seven.”
The controller again ignored him and rapidly issued commands to a number of flights that were in close proximity to each other. “American Two-Sixty-Two, turn west and slow to your final approach speed. Citation Six-One-Charlie Mike, turn to zero-three-zero and give me your safest slow speed. American Four-Sixteen, turn east and give me your slowest speed. Delta Eight-Twenty-Eight, turn west now! Descend and maintain six thousand — give me your best rate!”
“Traffic! Traffic!” advised TCAS as Oliver and Taylor stared bug-eyed at the scope.
Zeke Ingraham forced himself not to look at the screen, thinking instead about his wife and son.
“Traffic! Traffic!”
“Here we go again,” Taylor commented as he studied the collision avoidance system.
“Do you see him?” Oliver asked.
“No!”
“Keep looking.”
“I am.”
“Traffic! Traffic!”
With his attention riveted to the TCAS scope, Oliver took his eyes off the altimeter for a few seconds. “Where is he?”
“I’m not sure. Looks like, ah, four to five o’clock at—”
“Descend! Descend! Descend!”
“United Eleven-Forty-Seven,” the air traffic controller screamed, “turn left two-three-zero now!”
“Increase descent!” shouted TCAS. “Increase descent!”
Oliver pulled the throttles back. “Gotta do it.”
“This is getting crazy!” Taylor exclaimed.
Ingraham stiffened and glanced at his flight engineer panel. “Yeah — too damned crazy.”
“Increase descent!”
“Eleven-Forty-Seven turn left!” the controller shouted as he saw two blips on his radar screen merging at the same altitude. “Turn left now!”
“Increase descent!” screamed TCAS.
Pete Taylor attempted to answer the controller while Oliver immediately initiated a steep, descending turn to the left.
“Aw, shit!” Oliver swore to himself when he saw that he’d drifted up to 4,700 feet. “Pay attention — fly the airplane.”
“Dobbins approach,” Taylor tried again. “United Eleven-Forty-Seven is coming left to two-three—”
The urgent radio transmission was abruptly interrupted when the two left engines and the bottom of the fuselage of Air Force One smashed through the first-class section of United 1147, ripping the entire flight deck of the 727 away from the rest of the airplane.
The frightened passengers in the first-class section of the United jet died instantly as the airliner exploded in a huge fireball. The violent collision produced a reverberating sound similar to a thunderclap. Fiery scraps of metal plummeted from the skies as the aircraft tumbled tail over nose toward the ground.
The stunned pilots died when the remains of their cockpit slammed into the roof of a home a quarter of a mile from where the main wreckage of Flight 1147 landed.
38
Shocked by the violent collision, Colonel Bolton froze on the controls when the Boeing rolled slightly left wing down and yawed to the left. He instantly recognized what had happened, but his mind was reeling from the seriousness of the situation. Air Force One had had a midair collision and he was the pilot in command. It was hard to comprehend the magnitude of the accident.
The cockpit was aglow with warning lights as he and Kirk Upshaw mechanically went through the emergency procedures to secure the two left engines. Upshaw maintained his professionalism while handling the checklist, but he was suffering from a combination of disbelief and horror.
“Get us priority at Dobbins!” Bolton exclaimed as he struggled to fly the 747 on the two starboard engines. “We’re goin’ straight in! I can’t hold this — I can’t maintain altitude!”
“Mayday! Mayday!” Upshaw urgently radioed. “Air Force One has had a midair! I repeat — Air Force One has had a midair collision! We’ve been hit. We’re turning… we’re heading straight in to Dobbins. The president is onboard and we need priority handling and the equipment standing by!”