"We're gonna stall!" Ryder warned, his voice breaking.
Kingston gave it more power, hitting the right engine harder. The nose came down, but the aircraft rolled slightly left.
"Miami Approach, this is Atlantica six-four-zero," Kingston said into his mike, while fighting the roll. His voice was calm, but the words were clipped with urgency. "We've lost the two engine and all three hydraulic systems. We declare an emergency six-four-zero."
The voice in his headset was equally composed. "Roger six-four-zero. We'll vector everyone else out of there. Descend to fifteen hundred. Turn left to two-seven-zero and prepare for final approach."
"That's a problem," Kingston responded. "Gonna have to use asymmetrical thrust from number one and three to try and turn."
His matter-of-fact tone masked the tension building inside him. Inconceivable as it seemed, they simply had no control over the aircraft.
How the hell are we going to land this big fat bus?
"Copy that, six-four-zero. Advise when you're ready to turn into final."
"When and if," Ryder muttered.
There was a knock at the cabin door, and Larry Dozier opened it. Senior Flight Attendant Marcia Snyder, a divorcee who had just put her third child through college, rushed in and slammed the door. Her face was pale, and her words came rapidly. "I was in the aft galley. The explosion was right over my head."
"Did you see anything?" Kingston asked.
"No. At first, I thought we'd hit a small plane. There was a puff of smoke, but no fire I could see. I think part of the tail is gone."
"Prepare the passengers for emergency landing," Kingston ordered. "Short briefing procedure. We don't have much time. And get me a souls-on-board count."
"Already did," she said. "Two hundred seventy-five passengers, thirteen crew."
Kingston nodded his thanks. Marcia was already out the door, heading back into the first-class compartment, when Kingston turned to his first officer. "Jim, deploy the ADG. See if we can get some power out of it."
The copilot yanked a lever, and a small propellor-driven generator dropped a few feet out of the aircraft into the jetstream. Dozier kept his eyes on his control panels. After a moment, he said, "We're getting power. But without the hydraulics, it's not going anywhere."
"We have to do it manually," Kingston said.
"How?" his copilot asked.
Kingston didn't know. There was no procedure for this. He'd have to make it up as he went along. "Grab your yoke. We'll work them together. Larry, get up here and handle the throttles. Let's try to turn left. Ease off on number one and give some power to number three. Jim and I will pull like hell on our yokes. Let's go!"
As the pilot and copilot tried turning their two-hundred-ton aircraft with the power in their forearms and wrists, the flight engineer crouched behind them, one hand on each of the working throttles.
The aircraft yawed shakily to the left, and the right wing tilted upward. "Too much!" Kingston warned, his voice rising for the first time. Excessive roll and the plane could flip over. One thing the DC-10 was not was an acrobatic aircraft.
Dozier eased back on the right engine and gave more power to the left. The aircraft rolled in the other direction, leveling off, but the nose pitched upward.
"Miami Control, this is six-four-zero," Kingston said, forcing himself to calm down. "We can't control the aircraft. When we correct pitch, we start to roll and vice versa, and we're yawing like a son of a bitch. Don't know how we'll line it up with the runway."
"Copy that six-four-zero. Got you on radar, forty miles west of the airport. We'll have equipment waiting."
Again, the big aircraft yawed to the right, this time the left wing tilting upward.
Equipment.
The controller meant fire-rescue, paramedics, and enough foam to float a battleship. But without the ability to turn, without a way to control the pitching, rolling, and yawing, they would not so much land as cartwheel across the runway. In that case, the only equipment they would need would be hearses.
"We can't turn your way and we don't have any brakes," Kingston replied, "so I don't know how we'd stop this thing even if we get it there." He pictured the crammed apartment buildings and condos west of the Palmetto Expressway. "We don't want to drop it into a neighborhood." He glanced at his two crewmates and pointed down toward the ground. They both nodded. "We're going to have to ditch." He sighed audibly and signed off, "Six-four-zero."
Below them, in the darkness, was the primordial slough. Kingston hoped for a soft, level spot, not a strand of mahogany or live oak trees. It wasn't the ideal terrain for ditching but better than the side of a mountain.
Dozier was hurriedly thumbing through the flight manual. "Nothing here. Nothing for loss of all hydraulics."
"It's not supposed to happen," Kingston said softly.
# # #
He said his name was Howard Laubach. Rita Zaslavskaya said she was glad to meet him, but she wasn't glad at all. She had heard the explosion and felt the plane shudder. Now, the right wing kept dipping and the nose of the plane was sliding back and forth. She'd asked a flight attendant what happened, but the woman hurried past her and headed toward the cockpit, the color drained from her face.
"It could have been anything," Howard Laubach said, a hopeful note in his voice. "A flock of birds could have been sucked into the engine. Heck, that's brought down planes before. But the captain seems like he has this one under control."
It didn't seem under control to Rita. It seemed as if the plane would veer to one side, then overcorrect and swerve to the other side like a wobbly drunk attempting to walk a straight line. Other passengers were chattering nervously or praying or simply grasping their armrests with bloodless hands. Rita felt queasy, as if she'd eaten piroshki made with spoiled meat,
