Airport

The radio crackled with a burst of static. “Washington Center, this is Beech…” Abruptly the transmission stopped.

Irving Redfern was a consulting engineer-economist. He was a competent amateur pilot, but not a commercial one.

An airline pilot, receiving the Washington Center message, would have flung his aircraft instantly into a steep right turn. He would have caught the urgency in Keith’s voice, would have acted, without waiting to trim, or acknowledge, or — until later — question. An airline pilot would have ignored all minor consequences except the overriding urgency of escaping the nearby peril which the route center message unmistakably implied. Behind him, is the passenger cabin, scalding coffee might have spilled, meals scattered, even minor injuries resulted. Later there would have been complaints, apologies, denunciations, perhaps a Civil Aeronautics Board inquiry. But — with ordinary luck — there could have been survival. Quick action could have insured it. It would have insured it for the Redfern family, too.

Airline pilots were conditioned, by training and usage, to swift, sure reflexes. Irving Redfern was not. He was a precise, scholarly man, accustomed to think before acting, and to following correct procedures. His first thought was to acknowledge the Washington Center message. Thus, he used up two or three seconds — all the time he had. The National Guard T-33, swooping upward from the bottom of its loop, struck the Redfern’s Beech Bonanza on the left side, slicing off the private aircraft’s port wing with a single screeching rip of metal. The T-33, mortally damaged itself, continued upward briefly while its forward section disintegrated. Scarcely knowing what was happening — he had caught only the briefest glimpse of the other plane — Lieutenant Neel ejected and waited for his parachute to open. Far below, out of control and spinning crazily, the Beechcraft Bonanza, with the Redfern family still inside, was plummeting to earth .

Keith’s hands were trembling as he tried again. “Beech Bonanza NC-403, this is Washington Center. Do you read?”

Beside Keith, George Wallace’s lips moved silently. His face was drained of color.

As they watched in horror, the dots on the radarscope converged, blossomed suddenly, then faded.

Perry Yount, aware of something wrong, had joined them. “What is it?”

Keith’s mouth was dry. “I think we’ve had a midair.”

It was then it happened: the nightmarish sound which those who heard it wished that they had not, yet afterward would not be able to erase from memory.

In the pilot’s seat of the doomed, spinning Beech Bonanza, Irving Redfern — perhaps involuntarily, perhaps as a last despairing act — pressed the transmit button of his microphone and held it down. The radio still worked .

At Washington Center, the transmission was heard on a console speaker which Keith had switched in when his emergency transmissions began. At first there was a burst of static, then immediately a succession of piercing, frantic, chilling screams. Elsewhere in the control room, heads turned. Faces nearby paled. George Wallace was sobbing hysterically. Senior supervisors came hurrying from other sections.

Suddenly, clearly above the screaming, a single voice — terrified, forlorn, beseeching. At first, not every word was audible. Only later, when the tape recording of the last transmission was played and replayed many times, were the full words put together, the voice identified as that of Valerie Redfern, nine years old.

“… Mummy! Daddy! … Do something! I don’t want to die … Oh, Gentle Jesus, I’ve been good … Please, I don’t want …”

Mercifully, the transmission stopped.

The Beech Bonanza crashed and burned near the village of Lisbon, Maryland. What remained from the four bodies was unrecognizable and was buried in a common grave.

Lieutenant Neel landed safely by parachute, five miles away.

* * *

All three controllers involved in the tragedy — George Wallace, Keith Bakersfeld, Perry Yount — were at once suspended from duty, pending investigation.

Later, the trainee, George Wallace, was held technically not to blame, since he was not a qualified controller when the accident occurred. He was, however, dismissed from government service and barred forever for further employment in air traffic control.

The African-American supervisor, Perry Yount, was held wholly responsible. The investigating board — taking days and weeks to play back tapes, examine evidence, and review decisions which Yount himself had had to make in seconds, under pressure — decided he should have spent less time on the emergency involving the Northwest Orient 727 and more in supervising George Wallace during the absence of Keith Bakersfeld. The fact that Perry Yount was doing double duty — which, had he been less cooperative, he could have refused — was ruled not relevant. Yount was officially reprimanded, and reduced in civil service grade.

Keith Bakersfeld was totally exonerated. The investigating board was at pains to point out that Keith had requested to be temporarily relieved from duty, that his request was reasonable, and he followed regulations in signing out and in. Furthermore, immediately on return, he perceived the possibility of a midair collision and tried to prevent it. For his quick thinking and action — though the attempt was unsuccessful — he was commended by the board.

The question of the length of Keith’s absence from the control room did not arise initially. Near the end of the investigation — perceiving the way things were going for Perry Yount — Keith attempted to raise it himself, and to accept the major share of blame. His attempt was treated kindly, but it was clear that the investigating board regarded it as a chivalrous gesture — and no more. Keith’s testimony, once its direction became clear, was cut off summarily. His attempted intervention was not referred to in the board’s final report.

An independent Air National Guard inquiry produced evidence that Lieutenant Henry Neel had been guilty of contributory negligence in failing to remain in the vicinity of Middletown Air Base, and for allowing his T-33 to drift near Airway V44. However, since his actual position could not be proved conclusively, no charges were preferred. The lieutenant went on selling automobiles, and flying during weekends.

On learning of the investigating board’s decision, the supervisor, Perry Yount, suffered a nervous collapse. He was hospitalized and placed under psychiatric care. He appeared to be moving toward recovery when he received by mail, from an anonymous source, a printed bulletin of a California right-wing group opposing — among other things — black civil rights. The bulletin contained a viciously biased account of the Redfern tragedy. It portrayed Perry Yount as an incompetent, bumbling dullard, indifferent to his responsibilities, and uncaring about the Redfern family’s death. The entire incident, the bulletin argued, should be a warning to “bleeding heart liberals” who aided “racial second raters” in attaining responsible positions for which they were not mentally equipped. A “housecleaning” was urged of “others of that ilk” employed in air traffic control, “before the same thing happens again.”

At any other time, a man of Perry Yount’s intelligence would have dismissed the bulletin as a maniacal diatribe, which it was. But because of his condition, he suffered a relapse after reading it, and might have remained under treatment indefinitely if a government review board had not refused to pay hospital bills for his care, maintaining that his mental illness had not been caused through government employment. Yount was discharged from the hospital but did not return to air traffic control. When Keith Bakersfeld last heard of him, he was working in a Baltimore waterfront bar, and drinking heavily.

George Wallace disappeared from sight. There were rumors that the former trainee controller had reenlisted — in the U.S. Army Infantry, not the Air Force — and was now in serious trouble with the Military Police. According to stories, Wallace repeatedly started fistfights and brawls in which he appeared to go out of his way to bring physical punishment on himself. The rumors were not confirmed.

For Keith Bakersfeld, it seemed for a while as if life would go on as usual. When the investigation ended, his temporary suspension was lifted; his qualifications and government service rating remained intact. He returned to work at Leesburg. Colleagues, aware that Keith’s experience could easily have been their own, were friendly and