If hijackers
If there was anybody on the plane, even hijackers, Hammer was sure he would have heard from them or seen them by now. Something else was happening, but he couldn’t guess what it was. And with no one on board, the airliner would simply do what Stewart’s private jet did: fly in a straight line until it ran out of gas.
“LA Control,” he said, “what’s the latest on that fuel estimate for N-348 Zulu?
“CALIF 32, it got about 1500 miles out when the pilot decided to head back. Flights were reporting a pretty strong easterly headwind, so they probably burned more fuel going out than coming back. They also sat on the runway for forty minutes, so we’re guessing they should be on fumes in about ten minutes.”
Hammer checked his flight map. The airliner would be over northwestern Arizona when it went dry.
“CALIF 32, you’re sure no one is on board?”
“As sure as I can get without going over there myself. It’s a derelict.”
He knew why they were asking. His standing orders, revised after 9/11, were to use his judgment on whether the aircraft posed a risk to populated areas. If it did, he was authorized to shoot it down. He just thought he’d never be in that situation.
“CALIF 32, let us know if N-348 Zulu makes any course corrections or altitude changes.”
“Copy.”
All Hammer could do now was follow the airliner and keep trying the radio. Fifteen minutes passed and then he saw what he feared. Seventy miles southeast of Las Vegas, when they were just passing over Lake Mohave into Arizona, the exhaust from the port engine abruptly stopped.
“LA Control, I’ve got a flameout on the target’s port engine,” he radioed. “How about you, Fuzz?”
“Starboard engine is still running,” Fuzzy replied. “Starboard tank must have a few extra gallons in it.”
By increasing power to the starboard engine, the autopilot would be able to maintain airspeed and altitude, but it would gulp the remaining fuel quickly. Two minutes later, Fuzzy radioed.
“Hammer, the starboard engine just cut out.”
With the thrust gone, the 737 lost speed rapidly. It had become a 150,000-pound glider. A moment later, LA Control came on the line.
“CALIF 32, we’re showing a decrease in speed for N-348 Zulu. Can you confirm?”
“Affirmative. She’s flying silent. Fuel must be gone.”
“Be advised, the trajectory will take N-348 Zulu over uninhabited land.”
Hammer breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t have to make the decision between shooting down the airliner and letting it hit a residential area. “Acknowledged.”
All he could do now was watch the plane’s final few minutes.
Modern airliners were built with huge wing spans that allowed them to glide for long distances, even without power. Using the hydraulic flight systems, a human pilot could keep the plane on an optimum glide path.
Hammer remembered a 747 that lost power after it flew through the ash from a volcanic eruption over Indonesia. All four engines were snuffed out by the dense ash cloud, and it took the pilot 15 minutes to get them restarted. When they finally did, the airliner was at an altitude of less than 2000 feet, but with a wing area the size of a football field, they were able to glide during their frantic efforts.
Without a human pilot to take over, the powerless 737 wouldn’t glide for long. The autopilot did what it was designed to do: maintain altitude and heading, sacrificing speed to stay at 35,000 feet. Hammer could see the elevators in the tail lower as the autopilot compensated for the loss of velocity. He had to throttle back to keep pace with the slowing airliner. When he neared 200 knots, he was close to the F-16’s stall speed.
“Fuzz, we can’t fly alongside any more. Stay on me.”
Hammer increased his speed and went into a wide circle around the 737, Fuzzy on his wing.
A minute later, with the autopilot no longer able to compensate for the loss of speed, the 737 began to porpoise up and down. The nose would pitch down to gain speed, then pitch back up in an attempt to regain altitude. The third time the nose pitched up, the airliner reached its stall speed of 160 knots.
“This is it,” Fuzzy said.
Hammer and Fuzzy banked away to give the airliner more room. Abruptly, the 737 flipped over as if it were starting a Split S maneuver and then began to spin wildly, its nose pointed straight at the ground.
Hammer tried to keep his voice professional, but he had never seen the death of an airplane before. He felt frustrated that all he could do was be a witness.
“LA Control,” he said, “the target just went into a dive. It’s in a severe descending spiral and will soon impact the ground. Fuzzy and I will follow the target in emergency descent.”
“Copy, CALIF 32. Keep us advised.”
“Keep your distance, Fuzz,” Hammer said. He was afraid the plane would break apart.
“Roger that.”
Hammer narrated for LA Control as they descended. When the 737 plunged below five thousand feet, the ground seemed close enough to touch. Hammer struggled to keep his voice calm, but the adrenaline was making it impossible.
“The target is still spinning…still intact,” he said. “Below three thousand feet now…Two thousand. Damn, they build strong planes. Approaching the ground…My God!”
Hammer pulled up on the stick, but he kept looking at the stricken airliner as it finally met its doom.
One second, it was a 737 just like any other he had flown in on countless trips, then it plowed into the desert floor and became a churning mass of metal and dust. The 737 was torn apart by the impact, flinging pieces high into the air, its two massive engines tumbling away from the rest of the wreckage. No fuel was left to ignite any fires or explosions. The debris simply ran out of momentum and came to a stop, obscured by the cloud of desert sand thrown into the air by the impact.
There were no structures of any kind in sight, but in the distance, Hammer could see a lone ribbon of concrete plied by a few vehicles. According to his map, it was US 93, northwest of Chloride, Arizona.
Hammer circled the crash site with Fuzzy on his wing.
“That was a hell of a thing to watch,” Fuzzy said.
Hammer didn’t reply. What could he say? He’d just watched a plane with 27 souls on board auger into the ground.
He relayed the exact coordinates to LA Control.
“Copy that,” LA Control replied. “We’ve already got emergency vehicles en route.”
Not that it would do any good. No one could have survived that crash.
“CALIF 32 returning to base,” Hammer said. He dreaded the debriefing. It would be a long and dismal one.
As he turned his F-16 back home, Hammer took one last look at the wreckage of flight N-348 Zulu, soon to be pored over by accident investigators. He didn’t envy them because this investigation would be like nothing they’d seen before. For once, the question wouldn’t be why the plane crashed. That was obvious. The question would be, what could make a planeload of people disappear?
EIGHT
By the time the lifeboat got back to Scotia One, night had fallen and fog shrouded the rig. Because seas in the north Atlantic are so dangerous, the rig’s lowest level was 70 feet above the water to minimize the chance that waves would damage the platform. In the reduced visibility and rough seas, it was difficult to keep the lifeboat directly under the personnel basket, and it took more than 30 minutes to lift everyone up safely.
Locke was looking forward to stripping out of the wet survival suit, but he couldn’t let anyone else be the last one out of the lifeboat. It was partly his military training and partly his innate sense of responsibility again. It just wouldn’t sit well with him to ride up to safety while others were still on the boat. Before he climbed into the basket, he closed the hatch so that the lifeboat could be salvaged at a later time. There was no way to tie it up to the rig, so it floated out into the open ocean.
The pilot had regained consciousness and was carried to the platform’s infirmary accompanied by the
