Millennium (12 page)

There were several exchanges, all routine, and some of the usual cockpit chatter, though by and large the two in the DC-10 didn’t have a lot to say to each other. We heard a stewardess come in at one point, and heard the door shut behind her.

This sort of thing went on for ten or fifteen minutes. It was useful to get the names associated with the voices. We had the chief pilots for Pan Am and United in the room to help us with that, and by the time things started to get interesting I had them sorted out.

In the DC-10 had been Captain Vern Rockwell, First Officer Harold Davis, and Flight Engineer Thomas Abayta. I wondered what nationality he was. Every once in a while we’d hear the voice of Captain Gilbert Crain, the pilot of the Pan Am 747, coming over the radio, responding to calls from Janz. There were also many other planes in the area, and we heard the parts of their communications that reached the DC-10 cockpit through their radio.

United 35 was descending, coming through cloud layers from the north and east, and Janz was guiding it through a series of turns that would have it heading almost due west when he handed it over to the Oakland tower for landing. Davis said something about the clouds, and Rockwell griped about the weather in Oakland. It seemed he didn’t care much for the city. Abayta said something about a date he had that night, and it sounded like the other two laughed. Then things started to happen.

Janz said, “United three-five, I make you too far south. There is another aircraft in your path. Advise you increase speed and turn left.”

Rockwell said, “Roger, Oakland, but—” and that was it, because Janz was on the air again immediately.

“Pan Am eight-eight-oh, advise you initiate left turn and decrease speed at once. What is your altitude, eight-eight-oh?”

I glanced at Janz again. He wouldn’t have had to ask that
unless his computer was down. It would be displaying altitude right next to 880’s blip. Janz had no reaction. I wasn’t even sure he was hearing anymore.

Somebody—I’m pretty sure it was Davis, the copilot—said, “What the hell?”

“I don’t know,” Rockwell said. “I better do it. Call him back.”

“Oakland, this is United three-five, turning—”

But he was cut off again by Janz, who said, “United three-five, can you see anything out your right window?”

There was a pause. I could imagine Davis looking out the window. He’d have to get his face real close to it, because with the plane already in a left turn his side would be tilted sharply.

“Negative, Oakland,” Davis said. “We are in a cloud layer at this time. Do you advise—”

“Jesus! Right over—”

That was Rockwell again, and that’s all he had time to say. We could hear the screech of metal, far away and indistinct, and instantly alarms started to go off. That’s all we heard for maybe five seconds. Then Rockwell came back on.

“Uh…Oakland, this is…uh-oh, get that, get it!”

The engineer, Abayta, was shouting something in the background. We might retrieve his words in the lab; we’d listen to it over and over and eventually work up a fairly complete script. For now, we all listened to Vern Rockwell’s last words, delivered in a calm, almost bored voice.

“Oakland, this is United three-five…uh, we have collided with something and the…uh, the aircraft is not responding…uh, to control. No rudder function. Ah…no response from the elevators. We have lost most of our left wing and the aircraft is on fire, repeat, the aircraft is on fire.”

“Out of the clouds now,” Davis put in. “Come on, come on, pull it up, get up, get up, get up.”

Rockwell again: “The aircraft is in a tight roll to the left.”

Abayta: “Fifteen hundred feet.”

Rockwell: “Applying…right aileron…the stick is shaking.”

Davis: “Get the nose up…we’re going down, Vern.”

Rockwell: “Looks like it.”

Abayta: “Hydraulic pressure is gone, backup hydraulics…”

Rockwell: “I’m trying to…I’m going to try…that didn’t do it, okay, uh, let’s try…shit.”

*    *    *

I’ve never yet heard a pilot crying about it on the way down. Some of them are more exicted than Rockwell was, but there’s never anything that sounds like panic. These are men who have learned there is always something else you can do, something that, if you forget to do it, you’re going to feel pretty silly. So they try and they try and they keep on trying until the ground is about an inch from the windshield, and then what I think they tend to feel is foolish. They finally realize they don’t have time to do anything about anything. They’ve missed it. They’ve fucked up. They feel disgusted that they didn’t solve the problem in time, and they say
Aw, shit!

Sure, he’s afraid. At least the ones I’ve talked to who made it through say they felt something that was an awful lot like fear. But his job is to keep the thing in the air, and he’s still doing his job when he hits.

You can define heroism any way you want, but that’s it for me. It’s sticking in there no matter what. Whether it’s a pilot fighting his plane down through that last mile, or switchboard operators and doctors and nurses staying at their posts while the bombs blitz London, or even the dance band on the
Titanic
playing while the ship goes down…

It’s fulfilling your responsibilities.

*    *    *

The room was silent for a while. Nobody could think of anything to say. Rockwell hadn’t said anything deathless, anything quotable as being a heroic thing to say, but no one wanted to spoil the moment.

That’s
my
job.

“Let’s hear the other tape,” I said, and everyone began murmuring at once. I glanced to my left, where a stenographer from United was sitting with a notepad in her lap. She was pale and
her eyes were shiny. I gave her a smile that I meant to tell her
it’s okay, I understand
, but from the way she looked at me she probably thought I was leering at her. My face is like that, sad to report. I’m told I usually look a little mean, or a little excited.

“They’re still working on the other,” Eli said. He looked meaningfully over at Janz, flanked by his protectors. I sighed, and went to him.

I dragged a chair around and straddled it, facing him. I was introduced to his attorney, but I’m afraid the name has gone clear out of my head.

You can’t run an investigation without lawyers. They’d soon be as thick as maggots in a week-old carcass.

*    *    *

“I had both 35 and 880 where I wanted them,” Janz said, dully. He kept looking at his hands, clasped in his lap. You couldn’t help thinking, looking at him, that the guy would fall over any minute. His eyelids kept drooping, then they’d jerk open and he’d study his hands some more. He had two ways of talking: too fast, and too slow. We’d get a burst of something, then he’d sit there looking vague and mumbling things we couldn’t understand.

“And where was that, Don?” I said, encouragingly.

“Huh?”

“In what order? They were both going toward an approach to Oakland, right? Which one were you going to hand over first?”

“Uh…” His eyes got spacey.

I should have known better. The lawyer cleared his throat again. We’d already listened to a lecture about how this whole interview was against his advice, and at several points he’d broken in, accusing me of manhandling his client. Manhandling! He was a lousy jerk in a three-piece suit, and dammit, I knew better than to push this kid. My big fear was that he’d start to cry.

“Okay, counselor,” I said, holding up my hands. “No more
questions, okay? I’ll just sit back and listen.” It was probably the best course, anyway. Questions just seemed to befuddle Janz.

“You were saying, Don?”

It took him a few minutes to recall where we’d been.

“Oh, right. Which one was ahead. I…I…can’t remember.”

“It’s not important. Go ahead.”

“Huh? Oh, okay.”

He showed no inclination to do so, then started to talk rapidly again.

“I think there were fifteen commercial flights on my board. I don’t know how many private planes. Some military…it was a fast night, but we were doing okay, I was on top of it. I brought them in, and I could see they were going to get close, but I’d have plenty of time to straighten them out.

“Not a collision course. No way. Even if they’d never heard from me again, they should have missed each other by…oh, four, five miles.

“So I gave 35 a…it was a right turn. Just a hair. I was feeling pretty good about it, since I’d just made a bigger hole
behind
35 for somebody else…ah, it was PSA something-or-other from…ah, Bakersfield. Eleven-oh-one, that was it.”

He smiled faintly, remembering how neatly he’d done it. Then his face fell apart.

“That’s when the computer dropped out.

“I got real busy. I think I sort of put 35 and 880 in the back of my mind; I’d just dealt with them, and I knew they were okay. I had another situa—There were a couple other aircraft…uh, a couple others that needed looking after just then.” Janz looked at Carpenter. “How long did the computer stay down?”

“Nine minutes,” Carpenter said, quietly.

“Nine minutes.” Janz shrugged. “Time sort of gets mixed up. I had ’em all labeled…” He looked up at me, puzzled. “You know what it’s like when the computer goes down? You know how we—”

“I know,” I said. “You go back to manual marking.”

“Right. Manual.” He laughed, with no humor. “They didn’t tell me it was gonna be that hard. I mean, I just about had it back under control…and the next thing I know the computer was back on. There were even a couple of flights labeled, but not much altitude information available yet. It’s like that, sometimes, when we’re getting back on-line. Some things get lost, and others—”

“I know,” I said. I was visualizing him trying to switch from one system to another, with inadequate data.

“Well, the computer was still slow. It wasn’t real-time yet.”

“It hardly ever is,” Carpenter said, with a scowl directed at me.

The lawyer looked confused, and I thought he was about to make an objection. He was obviously out of his depth, and didn’t know if he ought to let his client talk on about things he couldn’t advise him about. Carpenter noticed it, and shook his head.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Don’s just saying the computer was running behind. We make it about fifteen seconds, which is about average on a busy night.” The lawyer still looked confused, which exasperated Carpenter. “It means the picture Don was seeing on his screen was fifteen seconds old. And it’s all he had to go by. Sometimes the computer falls behind as much as a minute and a half. There’s no way anybody can blame Don because the computer is an antique.”

I could tell from Carpenter’s look that
he
had a pretty good idea who to blame, but he wouldn’t say anything just now. The lawyer seemed satisfied.

Janz didn’t seem to have noticed the exchange. He was still back there in the ARTCC, coping with a new situation.

“Right off, I could see 35 and 88 were a problem. They weren’t close enough yet to set off the alarm, but they were getting that way. Or at least, considering the computer lagtime, I didn’t
think
they were in trouble yet. But they weren’t where they ought to be.

“They were on the wrong side of each other. Damn it, I couldn’t figure out
how
the fuckers had passed each other like
that. It didn’t seem like they’d had enough time, no matter
how
bad my course figures were. But 35 should have been north of 880, and it was the other way around. And they were drifting back toward each other.”

He put his head in his hands again, and shook it slowly.

“There wasn’t a hell of a lot of time to make the decision. I figured they had about three minutes. But the fucking
crash
alarm wasn’t going off, and I couldn’t figure that, either. I turned them away from each other damn quick, and figured I’d sort it out later, in the incident report.

“That’s when they switched places.”

I looked up, and over at Carpenter. He nodded grimly at me.

“You’re saying, Don, that the computer had mislabeled the two planes?”

He was nodding.

“Just for a couple of sweeps. I don’t know…transponder trouble, simultaneous signals…what the hell. Whatever happened, for a minute there the computer was telling me the Pan Am was the United and the United was the Pan Am.” He looked up at me for the first time, and in his eyes was a terrible emptiness.

“And…see, what I had to do…from what the computer was saying…” He choked, but struggled on. “See, I tried to turn them away from each other. But since they were exactly reversed on my screen, what I ended up telling them to do was to steer straight toward each other.”

There was a short silence in the room. A couple of my people looked skeptical—hell, maybe I was, myself, in a way. But it was hard to believe, looking at him, that he was lying. He went on, still calm.

“And then, see, when the computer got them straightened out, there was just time for the alarm to go off, and I looked down and you couldn’t tell the blips apart anymore. They were just one blip.

“And the blip dropped right off my board.”

Testimony of Louise Baltimore

Sherman took me in hand when I finally got home. He didn’t ask any questions, and he didn’t say anything. A very quiet machine, is Sherman. I suppose it’s a result of his near-total identification with me, his near-perfect reading of my moods, and his near-perfect knowledge of what is best to do about them. One might even be moved to call it empathy, if one wasn’t such a cynical bitch.

And of course he read that, too.

“I talk to you when you need talk, Louise,” he said. “And for you, cynicism is probably a necessary armor.”

Maybe I need to talk now, I thought. This, after an hour soaking in a hot tub as Sherman scrubbed and scrubbed at the blood that had vanished long ago but still needed cleansing. Out, damned spot.

“Maybe you
do
need to talk,” he said.

“Ah
ha!
You
do
read minds, you devious android.”

“I read bodies. The print is much clearer. But I know your thought processes, and your education. You just thought of
Macbeth.
”