was the senior dispatcher, and 52 was his flight. Either way, it was his responsibility. That’s what the handbook said. But things never happened the way they were supposed to. For some reason, this emergency message had come directly to him on the data-link, and not through the normal channels. He was unsure of his next step.
Assistant dispatcher Dennis Evans spoke in a flat monotone that reached him over the noises in the room. “We’d better call someone. Quick.”
Miller frowned. Evans was a pain in the ass, but this time he was right. “All right, Dennis,” Miller said in a sharp tone. “You make the notifications. Use the emergency handbook. Call everyone on the list. Tell them…” Miller looked at the message fluttering in his unsteady hand. He knew that from here on they must be very careful. A thousand people, from their bosses at Trans-United to government officials and media people, would second-guess every move they made, every breath they took. Jack Miller and his dispatch office was suddenly onstage. He looked at Evans. “Tell everyone you call that the nature of 52’s emergency is still unknown. Give them only the barest details. Fifty-two sent a blind message on the link. Aircraft damaged. Need help. But they’re still transmitting, so it might not be too bad.” He paused and looked around the room. “Captain Stuart is the best there is.”
Evans reached for his telephone and began speed-dialing.
“Let’s move.” Miller motioned toward the communications room and led the way through the door.
Miller sat at the data-link console and Brewster stood beside him. A dozen dispatchers squeezed into the small stuffy room and jockeyed for positions around the console.
Miller loosened his tie. “Is the code still set?”
Brewster nodded. “Yes, sir.” He wondered at what point he would confess his negligence. Jack Miller began to type.
TO FLIGHT 52. EXPLAIN NATURE OF EMERGENCY. NATURE OF ASSISTANCE REQUESTED. AMOUNT OF FUEL REMAINING. PRESENT POSITION.
Miller pushed the transmit button and sat back.
The room grew very still. Someone coughed. Some brief remarks were passed in low tones.
The data-link’s bell sounded and everyone crowded closer.
Miller motioned to Brewster. “Turn on the overhead monitor. I’ll work the console and display. Everyone else step back and read the monitor. I need room to work the keys.”
The video screen on the rear wall of the communications room lit up. White letters began to appear on the green repeater screen at the same time they printed on the smaller data-link unit.
FROM FLIGHT 52. TWO PILOTS UNCONSCIOUS. ONE DEAD. I AM A PRIVATE PILOT. AIRCRAFT HAS TWO HOLES IN CABIN. SUSPECT BOMB. NO FIRE. COMPLETE DECOMPRESSION. DEAD AND INJURED. ALL INCOHERENT EXCEPT TWO FLIGHT ATTENDANTS, TWO PASSENGERS AND MYSELF. SEARCHING CABIN FOR OTHERS. NEED INSTRUCTIONS TO FLY AIRCRAFT. AUTOPILOT ON. ALTITUDE 11,000. AIRSPEED 340. MAGNETIC HEADING 325. FUEL APPROX. HALF. POSITION UNKNOWN.
The dispatchers remained motionless staring up at the screen, reading the message through a second, a third time. Each man had been automatically formulating responses to the emergency, but as the words Two pilots unconscious, one dead appeared, all the conventional emergency procedures became invalid. Subconsciously, almost everyone was writing off Flight 52.
Miller stared blankly at the printout. “A bomb. Holes in cabin. Complete decompression. Jesus Christ.” Miller knew that had he called earlier for 52’s fuel and status report, he would have realized much sooner that something was wrong. He wondered if that would make a difference in the outcome. He looked at the printout again. “Decompression. At that altitude. Good God… most of them must be dead or…”
Evans came through the door. “Everyone’s notified. Johnson is on the way. I only told them what you said. Unknown emergency. Might not be too bad.”
“I was wrong,” said Miller quietly. He pointed up at the video screen.
Evans stared at the illuminated words. “Oh, shit. How in the name of God could…?”
“All right,” said Miller abruptly. “The problem now is to get them down. The floor’s open for suggestions. Anyone?”
No one spoke.
Brewster cleared his throat. “Can we figure out their position?”
“That’s a good idea,” said Miller. “It would help. Do you have their last position?”
Brewster nodded. “Yes, sir. From the last fuel and status report.” He walked over to another computer and punched up some data. “It’s an hour and a half old, but I can plot a probable course and distance from that based on this new information.” He motioned toward the video screen. “It won’t be an exact position, but it’s better than what we have now.”
“Do it,” said Miller.
Brewster nodded and jotted down the information from Flight 52’s emergency message. “One thing’s for certain,” he said as he finished. “They’re headed the wrong way.” He turned and left the room.
“That’s a good point,” said Evans.
“Yes,” Miller agreed coldly. He could see the need for a decision pressing against him.
“Maybe you should tell them to turn around,” said Evans.
Miller kept his eyes focused on the screen. There was no textbook solution here. And even with all his years of experience, he had never had to deal with anything like this. All he could think of were the consequences for him as well as for the Straton, her crew and passengers. “He’s only a private pilot. He could lose control during the turn.” He drummed his fingers on the console. “There’s no need for a decision right now. We can let them fly on autopilot until we get their position. Maybe the pilots will regain consciousness. I wonder which one is dead?” he added.
Evans slapped his hand on the console. “Damn it, Jack. We have no real idea how much fuel is left onboard and they’re headed the wrong way. They’re headed for the Arctic Ocean. Siberia maybe. No matter what happens we’ve got to turn them around before they reach the point of no return.”
Miller shook his head. “The pilot reported half full. That’s enough fuel to get him to this airport or an airfield in Canada or Alaska. We don’t have enough information right now to make a rational decision.”
“We may never have enough information for that. Look, Jack-” Evans abruptly stopped speaking. Badgering old Jack Miller had always been pure sport. Evans enjoyed taking easy shots at the man in charge. But suddenly he realized that this was life or death; he’d never made a decision like that, and he didn’t want to be responsible for making one now. He realized how awesome the responsibility was and realized, too, that Jack Miller, as senior dispatcher, had had to live with the knowledge that one day he would be called on to help decide the fate of an aircraft in distress. “Do what you want, Jack,” he said softly. “You’re the boss.”
Miller nodded. “Need more input.” He knew that his superiors would be there soon. They might say, “Jack, why the hell didn’t you turn them around?” Christ. He didn’t want to look like a procrastinator. That would be the end of him. But he didn’t want to look compulsive either. He needed more facts. How good was the pilot? How badly damaged was the aircraft? How much fuel actually remained? What was their position? He looked at the clock. The bosses would start arriving soon.
Brewster rushed into the room. Everyone turned toward him. He began without preamble. “The Straton’s estimated position is latitude 47 degrees 10 minutes north, longitude 168 degrees 27 minutes west. They are about 2,500 miles out. A conservative estimate of flying time left is 6 hours and 15 minutes, based on last known fuel report and flying time since then. In about 45 minutes they will pass the point of no return regarding this airport. They may have more or less time, depending on the winds. Luckily, they’re already at the best fuel-consumption speed for a low altitude. They’d get better range at a higher altitude, but I guess they can’t go up with those holes in the fuselage. I just hope none of the fuel tanks are damaged. If so,” Brewster said, waving the paper in his hand, “then all this is out the window.”
Miller looked up at the video screen. Flight 52’s last message was still written there in white letters etched across the dark green screen. The words appeared to pulsate with a sense of urgency as he stared at them. He turned to the console and typed out a short message. CAN YOU IDENTIFY AND USE THE AUTOPILOT HEADING KNOB? A few seconds later, the message bell sounded. YES. There was a murmur of excitement in the room. Miller typed again. CAN YOU RECOVER IF YOU LOSE CONTROL OR AUTOPILOT FAILS? The bell sounded almost immediately. DOUBTFUL. Miller swiveled in his chair and faced his fellow dispatchers. “Well?”
Brewster spoke. “I’d trust the autopilot to get through the turns.”
A dispatcher near the door spoke. “The Straton’s control surfaces may be damaged.”
