Unable to buckle her seat belt in time, Molly was thrown against her mother. Then the force of the dive tossed her up off the seat. Her head slammed into the ceiling. She fell back to the seat unconscious.
“Molly. Molly!” Joanne, shook her daughter’s shoulder. “Oh my God. Molly’s hurt – she’s unconscious!”
Ron managed to right the plane.
Howard turned around in his seat as Joanne tried to straighten Molly’s slumped figure.
Joanne looked up, terror shining through the tears in her eyes. “Help me, Howard. I can’t get Molly to sit up. HELP US!” She pulled her daughter’s limp body into her arms.
“Joanne, you have to get her buckled into her seat belt.” Howard shouted. “Please.
“Howard, the engine’s frozen. It won’t turn over.”
Howard spun his attention back to Ron at the panicked note in his voice. “Bleed off your airspeed and maintain your altitude.”
“We’ll overshoot the airport if I do that. I’ve got to bring us down in order to land on the runway.” Beads of sweat had collected on Ron’s brow. “I’m trying to get us into a solid glide.”
“Try switching to the other gas tank. If the gas is contaminated, it may be gumming up the engine,” Howard said.
“You do it.” Ron shouted back. “I’m afraid to let go of the yoke. I barely have control now.” Sweat trickled into his eyes, and he shook his head, trying to clear his vision.
With a trembling hand. Howard flipped the level to the second gas tank, but the engine remained silent.
“Try the auxiliary pump.” Ron’s heart was in his throat as he watched Howard move in what seemed like slow motion. Howard reached for the switch and moved it to the ON position. The pump started immediately.
“There we go, baby, there we go,” Ron encouraged, but the engine failed to respond.
Howard leaned fond and tapped the fuel gauges. The dial on both tanks showed full.
“This doesn’t make sense. Switch back to the primary tank,” Ron said, fighting to hold the plane steady.
Howard switched back, but the engine was dead. “You’re right, we’re too high.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ron said “I’ll have to slip her down. Everybody prepare for a rough ride. Joanne, how’s Molly?”
“Unconscious, Ron, but I can feel a pulse.” Joanne replied shakily. “She’s buckled in.”
“Howard, turn the radio to the emergency frequency for me, one-two-one-point-five.”
Howard did as instructed.
“Mayday, mayday, Columbia Flight Service, this is Cessna three-eight-six-seven Whiskey, plane in trouble. I repeat, we’re in trouble!” Behind him, Ron could hear Joanne saying the Hail Mary.
‘Three-eight-six-seven Whiskey, copy your mayday. Transponder code five-five-two-two and ident.“
Howard leaned over, programming the Transponder and activating the identification button.
“ Columbia, copy your five-five-two-two and ident,” Ron radioed back.
“Three-eight-six-seven Whiskey, we do not read your Transponder. Please ident.”
“ Columbia, we have. It must not be working,” Ron’s voice rose with fear.
“Three-eight-six-seven Whiskey, can you give us your location?”
“Four to five miles from the Jeff City Airport coming in from Sedalia.”
“Copy, three-eight-six-seven Whiskey, four to five miles west of the Jeff City Airport. State your emergency.”
“We’re in a glide without power, but our altitude is too high. I’m going to try slipping her down for a landing, and we need an ambulance.” Ron felt the plane shudder as he nosed the plane downward while pushing his left foot down on the rudder pedal and applying the right aileron.
“Copy, three-eight-six-seven Whiskey. Ambulance requested. Jeff City Airport.”
“You’re gaining airspeed, Ron. Watch your airspeed. We’re dropping too fast,” Howard urged.
“I know. I know,” Ron responded, his voice cracking.
“Use your flaps! Slow us down!”
The airport loomed ahead.
“We’re almost there,” Howard encouraged. “Just use the flaps.”
Ron leached for the flap lever and gave the plane ten degrees of flaps. Suddenly, the plane rolled hard to the right.
“Ron, the flaps are split!” Howard screamed.
The stall horn sounded in the cockpit as the plane flipped and dove.
The Jefferson City Democrat
October 15,1990 Plane Crash Kills Four
THIRTEEN
Carolyn strode into her office at the courthouse after a long day of depositions, and phoned campaign headquarters. The election was only one week away.
“Has anyone seen Warner?” she asked.
“No. Mrs. Lane, we haven’t.”
Carolyn severed the connection without another word. “Damn it, where is he?”
She picked up the receiver again and phoned the troopers’ office. The whole idea of security for Warner seemed ridiculous, Carolyn thought. Very few senators required protection. In this instance, she knew the taxpayers’ money could be put to better use, but Edmund insisted on a permanent escort for his son. And when Edmund made a request, few elected officials would deny him.
“This is Carolyn Lane. I need to find Warner,” she said when the call was answered.
“Is there an emergency, ma’am?” the trooper asked. “Can I be of assistance?”
“Please, find Warner and have him call me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” Carolyn hung up. She suspected the troopers were covering for Warner, and possibly protecting her feelings. The pain of failure and embarrassment gripped her heart. Why couldn’t she be as strong and competent in her personal life as she was in her professional life?
She wondered then how many people, aside from the troopers, knew about his infidelity. How was she supposed to live with this constant humiliation? Publicly, she played the role of the loving wife. In private, she died a little bit more each day.
“Good evening, ma’am.” the trooper said. “Is the Senator there, please?”
“This better be good.” Warner cautioned a few seconds later.
“ Mrs. Lane called, sir. She’s looking for you.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Warner cursed under his breath. Carolyn knew the situation. He’d essentially been honest with her. Why
