and pedestrians turned to gawk and point at the huge aircraft lumbering over the bay. On Nob Hill and Telegraph Hill, people watched the aircraft sail past at eye level. Vehicles pulled off the road, and children shouted. Many of the onlookers spotted the holes in the sides of the Straton, the jagged wounds highlighted by the low angle of the sun. Even those who had not seen the damage could see that the low-flying Trans-United airliner was in trouble.
Berry saw the silvery San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge lying straight ahead across the Straton’s flight path. He knew that this bridge was the last obstacle to a successful ditching in the bay. He held his breath until he was certain that the Straton’s glide path in a sudden flame out would carry it over the bridge.
As he passed over the bridge, he allowed himself to look out at San Francisco International Airport. It sat on a small piece of lowland jutting into the bay, less than fifteen miles ahead. “There it is.” He knew he should be applying the flaps if he was going to try for the airport. But the flaps would cause extra drag and burn off too much fuel. He thought he wanted to get as close to the airport as possible before he made the decision on where to come down, or had it made for him by a flame out. He let the Straton streak along at 340 knots.
Crandall looked at the rapidly approaching airport. Instinctively, she knew they were coming in too fast. “John, too fast. Too fast.”
Berry tried to calm himself. There were so many things to do and so little flight time left in which to do them. Everything had to be a trade-off from here on; every maneuver would be a compromise between the right thing and the expedient thing, always trying to avoid the dead-wrong thing. “All right. All right. I’m going for distance. We can hit the brakes later.” He looked at his fuel gauge. The electronic needles were lying dead against the empty mark.
Berry recalled his first solo landing in a Cessna 140, an older tail-wheeled aircraft he had some trouble checking out in. When the instructor finally got out, Berry kept finding excuses to continue with other kinds of practice rather than land, until his fuel was too low to put the landing off any longer. No excuses this time. Bring it right in. Sweat started to form on his brow and neck, and his hands were starting to become unsteady on the control wheel.
Berry yanked back on the four throttles, putting the engines at idle power. He watched as the ship’s airspeed began to bleed off to a lower, more reasonable indication for landing. Intent on the cockpit instruments, Berry failed to see what was passing a few miles to his left. On the east side of the bay was the Naval Air Station at Alameda, and farther south was Oakland’s giant airport. Either one of those airports was a minute or two closer, but John Berry was focused, physically and mentally, on San Francisco International. That was where he had started, and that was where he intended to end. He hoped that the emergency equipment would be waiting there. “All right,” he said softly, “all right. No ditching. We’re going into San Francisco International.” Berry saw that the airspeed was now low enough. “Flaps down.”
Sharon sat motionless for a second, mesmerized by the sight of the rapidly approaching airport jutting into the bay in front of her. In her mind she had already arrived home safely. The realization that they were still hundreds of feet off the ground and miles from the runway jarred her.
“Flaps down! Flaps!”
She reached out mechanically with her left hand, as she had done dozens of times in practice during the last three hours, and grabbed the flap handle.
“Pull it to the first notch. Quickly.”
She pulled the handle, and the flaps dropped.
Berry felt the aircraft slow even more and saw the speed bleed off on his airspeed indicator: 225 knots. Altitude 700 feet. To his right he saw Candlestick Park pass beneath his wingtip. “About five miles. We’re coming home. Coming home. Put out more flap. Go ahead. Now.”
Crandall pulled back at the flap lever and moved it to the next setting.
The Straton began to decelerate more quickly, and the nose jumped up. The aircraft began to pitch up toward the sky.
“John!”
Linda screamed.
“Calm down! It’s all right. It’s all right. I’ve got it under control That was normal. Just relax. We’re doing okay. Okay. Coming home. A couple more minutes.” The giant airliner was more of a handful than Berry imagined. It was heavy, ponderous, a hell of a lot different from the Skymaster… yet the principles of flight were the same. It is the Skymaster, he said with conviction. Nothing is different.
Suddenly, the wheel began to vibrate violently in his hands and the stall warning synthetic voice filled the cockpit. AIRSPEED… AIRSPEED. “Oh, Christ.” He had allowed the Straton to slow too much. The airframe began to shake badly. “Power, Sharon, power.” He held on to the wheel with both hands, knowing that if he let go with even one, the aircraft might get away from him.
Crandall reached out and grabbed the four throttles. She pushed them a few inches forward. “Power.”
“Not too much. Easy, easy. We don’t have much fuel.” Berry lowered the nose of the Straton to pick up airspeed. He prayed that he hadn’t asked for too much from the fuel-starved engines. The control wheel in his hands stopped vibrating and the flight smoothed out. But Berry could see that he had very little altitude left; he certainly couldn’t afford another approaching stall. Yet he had to ration every ounce of fuel, to balance engine power against altitude, altitude against speed, speed against lift and drag. The airport was coming up fast. He reached out and pulled the throttle back to a lower setting. “Okay, coming home, coming home, Sharon, full flaps.”
Crandall pulled the flap lever to its last notch. “Full flaps.”
Suddenly, another cockpit horn sounded, followed by another synthetic electronic voice. LANDING GEAR.
Berry looked down at the instrument panel. “Damn…” He realized now that he had put out full flaps without lowering the landing gear, and that had automatically triggered the warning. A gentle reminder to pilots like himself who had too many problems to think about trivialities like landing gear. “Sharon-the landing gear. Put it down. Down!”
Crandall knew she also should have remembered-it had been part of the drill they had practiced. She reached out and lowered the big handle directly in front of her. “Gear down.”
The airport was almost beneath the nose of the Straton, and Berry knew it was too late to try to put it down on the shorter runway in front of him. He swung the Straton to the left, toward the widest part of the bay, away from the airport.
“John. The airport.”
“No good, I need room to maneuver.” The landing-gear voice continued, and he wondered if the gear was functioning. He focused on the three unlit landing-gear lights directly in front of him. “Forget it. No gear. We’re going to put it down in the bay.” Suddenly, the horn stopped and three bright green lights glowed in front of him. “Gear down! Gear down. Okay. Hold on. We’re turning in.” Berry banked the aircraft back to the right, but as soon as the airport came into sight again, he saw that his turn had been too wide. Christ, Berry, do something right. Get a grip on yourself.
“John, we’re too far left of the airport.”
“I know. Take it easy. I can slide it back.” He applied the proper amounts of rudder and aileron, and the Straton began sliding back toward the airport. “We’re okay. Coming in, everything is all right.” Berry felt that he could negotiate the approach with some degree of skill and confidence. But it was the last five or ten seconds to touchdown that killed-that transition between approach and landing, those moments when the lift of the aircraft had to end and the forces of gravity had to fully take over again.
He looked down at the airport, a right-angle cross of double runways jutting into the bay. He could see the main terminal and the long passageways radiating from it to connect the satellite terminals. He saw movement and activity on the ground, and knew they were waiting for him. There were two parallel runways in front of him now. He expected to see the runways foamed, but remembered that it was no longer considered useful in a crash situation. The white approach lights that ran out into the bay were blinking to show him they wanted him to use the left runway. “Okay, I read you. I read you.”
The touchdown zone lights embedded into the runway were on and the green runway lights were visible even in the daylight. There was no question about where they wanted him to land. The only question was what kind of landing it would be. All he could promise them was that he wouldn’t kill anyone on the ground.
The Straton kept sliding right as it descended on its long, shallow glide slope toward the runway in front of it.
