throttle down to twenty-five percent. As he does the radio chirps in his ear. It distracts him from the fuel flow meter and he misses the waggle the needle makes as the engine spools down.
“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower.”
“Voodoo Solo, go.”
“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower, winds are one-eight-zero at one five now, still gusting to two three. Fly runway heading, climb and maintain ten thousand feet. Cleared for take off. Enjoy.”
“Runway heading to ten, cleared to go. Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell pushes the power lever forward and holds the brakes. When the engine spins up to full power, he lets go the brakes and begins his take off roll. Seconds later he is airborne. He raises the gear and levels off at fifty feet of altitude. Once he has the proper speed, he pulls back on the stick and points the nose of his aircraft straight up. He is level at ten thousand feet before he reaches the opposite end of the runway.
“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower. Nicely done, sir. Contact Departure and have a nice day.”
Captain McConnell clicks the microphone button twice in rapid succession as an acknowledgement, something that is generally frowned upon but often done anyway, then switches to the departure frequency. “Voodoo Tracker, this is Voodoo Solo, flight of one, with you level ten, requesting direct Indianapolis.”
“Voodoo Solo, Voodoo Tracker, good morning, Sir. Radar contact. Maintain ten thousand feet, fly heading one eight zero, radar vectors direct Indianapolis.”
“Level ten, one eight zero on the vector, Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell banks his aircraft to the left until the HSI reads 180 degrees, then runs through his after take-off and cruise checklists. His speed is four hundred knots and he will be ready for descent at Indy in no time at all. Because of this, he completes his descent checklist as well. Things happen fast in an A-7D.
As if on cue, the radio chirps in his ear. “Voodoo Solo, Voodoo Tracker, slow to 250 knots, descend and maintain five thousand feet, contact Indianapolis Approach Control on one-one-nine point three. Good day, Sir.”
“Two-fifty speed, down to five, approach on one-nineteen three. Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell pulls the power back to ten percent and drops the nose, then calls Indianapolis Approach. Approach Control gives him a heading direct to the airport and tells him to expect a visual approach once he is beneath the cloud cover. He turns to the assigned heading and when he is five miles out he contacts the tower to get clearance for his touch and go. He will not stop. Instead, he will just set the wheels down then power up and take off toward Fort Wayne and repeat the procedure
there before heading back to Grissom AFB.
Still slightly high on the approach, he pulls the power back to idle for just a moment to slow the aircraft before dropping the landing gear. Once he has the proper speed he pushes the power lever back up to maintain his desired rate of descent. Traffic is light this morning and the tower clears him to circle in close to land on the active runway.
He has less than half a mile to go on his approach to the end of the runway when the fuel control unit fails and the jet’s engine spools down, then dies.
Nine people have less than sixty seconds to live.
Days later, after dozens of post accident investigative interviews, Captain Hewitt McConnell will tell his story for the final time to his commanding officer. He will tell him how, while on final approach to land, the fuel flow dropped off and the engine cut out. He will tell him that there just wasn’t enough time or altitude to attempt a restart. He will tell him that the only thing he could do was to point the aircraft away from the airport and toward the empty fields. He will tell him how it felt to reach down between his legs and pull the yellow loop that would fire the ejection seat and jettison himself from his crippled craft, something his commanding officer had never done. He will tell him he did everything he could, all by the book, to ensure his safety and the lives of anyone in the vicinity of his aircraft. He will tell him how his training kicked in, how he did not panic, and how he acted with professionalism and conduct becoming a flight officer of the United States Air Force during his emergency.
But mostly he will tell him again and again how it was just dumb luck that his knee knocked the stick sideways and sent the aircraft along the path it flew after he fired the ejection seat and punched out. Then in a voice so soft and quiet the commander would have to lean in close, the way a lover might as they listen to their mate’s most intimate desire, Captain McConnell tells him how relieved he was when he heard the pop and felt the chute inflate above his head even as he watched the horror unfold below him.
Watch now as the cab driver, the very first to die, exits his cab to open the trunk for the bags he’ll carry from the lobby. Watch as he unlocks the trunk then happens to look upward, across the street at the bank building. Imagine what thoughts must run through his mind as he tries to process what he sees. Watch the way his jaw unhinges and his mouth forms a perfect O so large you could fit three fingers in there and pull him away from the danger of the approaching aircraft if only there were enough time.
The jet is no longer flying-it is falling. It falls on top of the bank building and bounces upward slightly after this initial impact. It is this upward movement which causes our cab driver to make the O with his mouth. He turns his head toward the hotel, not in denial of what will come, but out of curiosity of what is about to happen. His life does not flash before his eyes, nor does he think with regret of the things not yet accomplished in his life so short. The last thought his brain processes is no more complicated than the shape his mouth has formed. It is simply “Oh.”
See the jet now, it’s fuel tanks ruptured from the impact with the roof of the bank building. Watch if you dare as it crosses the street and its kinetic energy seeks out the victims in its path. Observe the jagged edge of its broken wing as it decapitates our cab driver with such efficiency that for an instant, even while his head flies back toward the lobby his body remains standing erect as his heart refuses to go where the head knows it must. Feel the heat as the fire ball erupts and follows the twisted hulk of the aircraft into the lobby of the hotel as if the jet’s auto pilot and navigation systems were set to home in on a free continental breakfast. See the looks upon the faces of the victims as their clocks come to an end on a final tick or a tock. See it, and feel the flash of pain the way the victim’s family members will feel it most every waking moment for the rest of their lives.
Watch the news stories as the days turn to weeks, then watch as the story, sensational as it may have been in the moment, is all but forgotten. It is, off the radar you might say.
But you would be mistaken.
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
As far as the Sids were concerned, there really was no other way they could do it. Their target, Franklin Dugan, CEO of Sunrise National Bank in Indianapolis, Indiana was just too private, too protected, and too damn stubborn to vary from his routine. So in the end they said fuck it and did it the hard way.
At forty-two years old, Sidney Wells Sr. had planned, waited, prepared, and dreamed of this moment for half his life. He raised Sid Jr. in the same manner, which is to say he raised her to hate. Worse still, he raised her to hide her hatred from those with whom she sought her revenge. “Raised her right,” he’d say, if anyone ever asked him. No one ever did.
Morning came, and the light of a cloudless dawn filtered through the windshield of the Sid’s van. They were parked about a block and a half away on a side street that cornered the property line of the Governor’s mansion. Sid Jr. was checking the time on the dashboard clock while alternately looking through binoculars at the State Police cruiser parked across the street from the mansion. Junior made sure the time on the dash matched the wrist watch Senior had bought just yesterday. It did. They had twelve minutes to go.
“You ready?” Senior said.
“Yep. Pull around the corner so I can get out without Barney Fife up there seeing me. You sure you’re up for what you have to do?”
“I’ve been waiting for this for almost twenty-five years,” Senior said. “I’m more than ready. Just make sure you do your part.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy-O. I’ve got the easy part, remember?”
