Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (34 page)

 
          
And
now there was a glitch developing and, no surprise, it was from the Universal
Express newcomer. There was a noticeable gap in the sequence of landing
lights—the Universal Express plane had no lights on, which meant its landing
gear was probably not down. “Express-107, check wheels down, wind calm.” No
response. “Universal Express-107,
Memphis
Tower
, check wheels down and verify, over.” Gayze
didn’t wait for tin answer this time, but said to the tower supervisor in a
loud voice, “John, number four for landing three-six left has no lights—and I
get no response.”

 
          
Simultaneously,
someone else shouted out, “John, I got a NORDO and possible no gear down on
two-mile final on two-seven. I think he’s going missed approach.” This was
incredible—two radio-out planes landing at once with no radios and no landing
lights! The chances of that happening were astronomically high—and so was the
potential for disaster.

 
          
“Bill,
what’s your NORDO’s altitude?” the supervisor shouted.

 
          
Gayze
checked the BRITE scope: “Five hundred and level—he might be going missed too.”

 
          
“Is
he turning?”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“Damn
it. Conflict alert procedures!” the supervisor shouted. “Abort all departures!
Clear the runways, get on the lights, give those pilots some safe options.”

 
          
The
tower supervisor calmly stepped over to his communications console while
watching his radarscope. The phone and radio buttons on his console were
arranged precisely in conflict alert procedures order, which connected with
Memphis International’s two fire departments, the airport security office, the
Memphis
fire department, and with dispatchers for
Universal Express and all of the major airlines on the field. One by one, he
hit the buttons without looking at them and calmly started talking: “Victor,
Gayze at
Memphis
Tower
, conflict alert procedures, runways
three-six left and two-seven, two NORDO aircraft, three inbounds going missed,
one takeoff abort... Atlanta Center, Memphis Tower, conflict alert procedures,
stand by . . . Memphis Crash Network, Memphis Crash Network, this is Memphis
International Control Tower, we have an aircraft collision conflict alert, two
no-radio airliners, possible landing-gear malfunction on both, on runways
three-six left and two-seven, estimated six souls on board, all stations stand
by.” By the time he finished all those calls, the pilots flying the affected
planes should have gotten to the “What was that? What the hell did he say?”
stage, and the supervisor went through all the buttons once again and repeated
his instructions and notifications.

 
          
“Two
miles out,” someone called out. With a phone in one ear and the radio earpiece
in the other, Gayze scanned the BRITE scope. Both no-radio airplanes had
accelerated and climbed slightly, both at about five hundred feet above ground.
On the radio, Gayze said, “Express-107, are you able to execute the published
missed approach? Ident if you are executing the missed approach.” No response,
either on the radio or on the radarscope.

 
          
“Three-six
left’s clear!” someone in the tower shouted.

 
          
Thank God
, Gayze thought. On the radio,
he called, “Express-107, you are clear to land, runway three-six left, winds
calm, eight thousand three hundred feet available, rescue equipment has been
alerted. Ident if you can hear me, over.” Still no response.

 
          
“107’s
deviating right,” the tower supervisor shouted. “The other inbound is deviating
right. Neither one of them is executing the proper missed approach, but at
least they’re not on a collision course. Still at about five hundred feet.. .
Jesus, the other Universal flight is accelerating past two- forty.” There was a
speed limit of 240 miles per hour inside Class B airspace—the aircraft that was
trying to land on runway two-seven was about to blow past that. “What in hell
is going on? They look like they’re doing the exact same thing—they’re both
accelerating, both flying at five hundred feet, both screaming towards the
runway—”

 
          
“Like
a friggin’ air show,” someone else remarked.

 
          
“Think
they got stuck flight controls?” another controller wondered aloud. “Or are
they trying to rendezvous? Maybe they’re military.”

 
          
“I
hope this isn’t some kind of joke,” the tower supervisor said. “I’m gonna kick
some asses up in Universal if this is some kind of company stunt.”

 
          
Gayze
was still talking on the radios, trying to coach a few of the inbound flights
on the proper go-around procedures and coordinating with Memphis Approach for
handing off all these airplanes into
their
lap again. Suddenly he paused, and he looked at the spot of dark sky where
Universal flight 107 was, as if he could see directly into the cockpit at the
pilot. That voice, the pilot’s voice—not the young kid, but the newcomer, the
older, more experienced voice . ..

 
          
It
was foreign, slightly French, although the pilot tried hard to conceal it under
a phony southern accent. Phony accent, phony call sign, now radio-out and
coming in hot... “Jesus, I think this is an attack!” Gayze shouted. “/
think we
’re under attack! ”

 
          
“What?
What did you say, Bill?”

 
          
“Damn
it, we gotta warn—” But he stopped, confused. Who could they warn? There was
nobody to notify. “I think we should wave off Universal-107 and the other
inbound Universal flight until we straighten this out.”

 
          
“That’s
not the proper procedure,” the tower supervisor said. “The best place for a
NORDO plane is on the ground.”

 
          
“They’re
not NORDO, they’re
attacking
Gayze
shouted.

 
          
“Now
hold on, Bill.. .”

 
          
The
Shorts Sherpa was a military utility and cargo plane, and had been fitted with
a simple drop system for paratroop and small-cargo parachute drops. A long boom
mounted below the pilot mast on the nose of the aircraft had three arrows on
it, calibrated for drops between eight hundred and two thousand feet and two
hundred knots airspeed.

 
          
One
minute before drop time, Cazaux ordered Roberts to open the cargo doors and
extend the ramp. When the first arrow passed across the intended drop target,
Cazaux issued the get-ready signal, pushed the throttles up to full power, and
hit the first green release button.

 
          
Ken
Roberts watched as a small cannon shot the pilot parachute out the open cargo
ramp into the slipstream, and it instantly inflated behind the airplane,
putting tension on the release system. When the target—the large main terminal building
at the junction of the two angled concourses— passed under the second arrow on
the pilot boom, Cazaux hit a red, guarded button. The packing doors on the main
parachute case popped open, the pilot parachute pulled the main parachute out
of its case, and the latches holding the cargo containers released. As soon as
the main parachute was fully inflated, it pulled the cargo containers out of
the Shorts’ cargo bay with a tremendous thundering sound, like a freight train
whizzing by at full speed.

 
          
The
chains connecting the cargo containers immediately began to break from the
immense strain of the slipstream as soon as the wheels of the container ahead
of it left the ramp, so the explosives did not drop together. There was nothing
clean or aerodynamic about the containers—they cartwheeled, Frisbeed, and spun
all across the sky during their fall to earth. The last two containers, with
less inertia than the others, almost did not have enough energy to roll out of
the cargo bay, but Cazaux lifted the Shorts’ nose skyward, providing the last
nudge necessary. The last two explosives containers weren’t going to hit
Cazaux’s intended target—but it was still going to do the job.

 
          
The
eighteen-story control tower at Memphis International was located just north of
the main terminal complex, where it had a clear view of most of the gates at
the main, cargo, and Universal Express terminals and full view of all runways
and taxiways.

 
          
Half
the tower crew was staring out the windows to the east, waiting to catch a glimpse
of the first emergency aircraft; Gayze and the other half were watching out
toward the south, staring out into the darkness for the second Universal
Express plane and alternately answering questions and vectoring aircraft away
from the field. Gayze had a junior controller shining a red signal light at
approximately where the northbound Universal flight should be, telling the pilot
not to land. Another controller was doing the same toward the east.

 
          
Still
no radio contact.

 
          
The
southern part of runway three-six left’s hammerhead parking area was
brilliantly lit with maintenance floodlights, and as soon as Universal
Express-107 crossed just a few hundred yards east of that area, Gayze caught a
glimpse of the plane and shouted, “I see 107! Jesus Christ, what is he doing?”
The plane was low, but obviously too high to land unless he dumped power and
the nose and made a dive for the runway. “I can see him easy—the pilot
must
be able to see the runway, but he’s
gonna miss three- six left by a hundred yards.”

 
          
“He
could be going for the right,” the tower supervisor said. Gayze got on the
radio and announced that 107 was not cleared to land on runway three-six right.
The eastern parallel runway’s approach end was a quarter mile farther north
than three-six left, but the Universal pilot was still going to have to do some
aerobatics to make it on that runway too. He looked as if he was going to
overfly the main commercial terminal building—if he wasn’t careful, he could
hit some of the tall antennas on top of the building. From the tower, he looked
as if he was going nearly three hundred knots—there was no way he’d make it to
the runway now. His altitude was not much higher than the control
tower.                                                                                                  
.

 
          
Suddenly,
Gayze saw—well, he wasn’t sure what it was ... “Trouble with Universal-107,” he
said aloud. “I see debris, something falling out of the plane ... I think it’s
his landing gear ... no, I see ... a
parachute!
Damn it, someone’s parachuting out of the plane!”

 
          
“Here
he comes,” someone in the tower cab shouted, pointing to the east. “Looks like
he’s going to land on two- seven. I see a landing gear—no, it’s not a landing
gear. Jesus, he’s screaming in! Is he going around? What in
hell
is he doing?”

 
          
Gayze
turned. The westbound airliner was descending rapidly, aiming for the end of
the runway. He was still off a bit to the right of centerline on radar, but his
wheels were down and he looked like he was on a fast but good approach. It
definitely appeared as if a low-time pilot or perhaps a stricken pilot was
flying the westbound flight.

 
          
The
tower supervisor punched the crash button: “
Memphis
crash network, this is
Memphis
Tower
, one Universal Express 727 aircraft landing
hot on runway two-seven. His gear is down. Be advised, the northbound aircraft
is—”

 
          
He
was going to miss the runway. At less than a halfmile to touchdown, the 727
would not be able to turn fast enough at his present speed to make the runway unless
he landed well past midfield. “Crash, be advised, the 727 landing on two-seven
is well north of centerline and fast. He may be going into the Air National
Guard parking ramp. If he tries to turn back to the runway, he’ll mush in with
his left wing . . . oh, shit . . . climb, damn you, climb ...
climb
...”

 
          
And
then the 727 hit the Universal Express package shipping center.