Shadow of Eden (4 page)

Steve shook the copilot again. “McElroy, wake up!”

McElroy’s eyes opened slightly and stared ahead blankly. “Leave me alone.” He batted at Steve’s hands. “Ohhh . . . my head.” He raised his hand to his scalp and touched it gingerly.

“You’ve got to help us.”

He turned to Steve with a glazed look, “Huh?”

Verness bellowed up. “We’re on dead stick. We need your help.”

“What?” McElroy sat up, more alert, and quickly glanced around trying to absorb what was every pilot’s worst nightmare. “Holy shit.”

“Number two’s gone somehow,” Verness announced. “Starting number three. Take over.”

“Roger.” Reaching with his left hand, McElroy yelped and grabbed his wrist. “Is this right? he asked incredulously, “six hundred feet and five-thirty knots?”

“Speed’s dropping fast.” Verness added acerbically, “Not to mention getting shot.”

Verness twisted a dial on the radio transmitter and spoke. “Washington tower, this is United 1733.”

The reply was immediate. “United 1733, this is Washington Approach.”

“Tower, we’ve flamed out,” Verness’s controlled voice reported. “Request emergency landing priority.”

“Roger, United 1733. Head for runway one-eight, heading one-seven-zero. Priority approach. You’ve got two F-16s escorting you. Good luck.”

“Call off the dogs if you can. I plan to walk away from this, God willing.”

“Washington National?” McElroy protested. “They’re not rated for wide bodies.”

Verness made another course adjustment before replying, “I know.”

Oliveros, now awake and mobile, enlisted Steve to wrestle the still unconscious Captain Palmer into the passenger cabin. Oliveros motioned the two passengers on the left side of the aisle to stand up and Steve and Oliveros slid Palmer into one. After buckling Palmer in, Oliveros motioned Steve to take the aisle seat.

“Stay here and keep an eye on him,” Oliveros instructed. He then hustled the two displaced passengers farther back in the cabin. Steve plopped into the aisle seat beside Palmer, but sudden bolts of pain from his back made him quickly lean forward.

Only then did Steve notice the groans and cries for help. He realized with a shock there had to be lots of injuries back there, there might even be some deaths. Remembering Oliveros’ command, he examined the slumped Captain and found him breathing easily and with a normal, steady pulse. Steve next checked the captain’s scalp and saw some sluggish oozing from a laceration, but it did not appear to be serious.

Satisfied with Palmer’s condition, Steve tried to relax, but his back hurt too much. Shifting his position back and forth, he soon realized that he could lean far enough into the aisle to see McElroy through the still opened cockpit door. He leaned over even more for a better view and almost bumped heads with a white-haired man with nearly black eyebrows wearing a grey suit, sitting across the aisle from him, doing exactly the same thing. It was the man he had seen earlier from the pilot’s seat, the terrified face in the first row. They traded glances, and then turned their attention back to the activity in the cockpit. Steve soon realized he could hear the cockpit conversation through the overhead intercom.

“United 1733, you must deviate twenty degrees to the west.”

“Negative. We’ll stall.”

“United 1733, deviate now, or I will shoot.”

“I’ve almost got my engine. Hold your horses.”

“You’ve got fifteen seconds. No more.”

Chapter 6

“N
umber three turning,” McElroy reported. “Ignition in one.”

“Make it quick,” growled Verness, sweat rolling down his forehead. They were lower now, less than 300 feet. He traded a little more altitude for speed. He had to maintain their velocity over 240 knots, the airspeed that would spin the engine fast enough to start.

Verness examined the horizon ahead for buildings in their path. Something massive and dark lay in front of them, but he couldn’t quite make it out. He knew he should recognize it, but . . .

“Fuel pressure’s up,” reported McElroy. He leaned over awkwardly to use his right hand, the left one being useless. Absently wiping some coagulated blood off his forehead, he stared at his instruments.

“I’m giving more altitude,” Verness said as he tilted the control yoke forward. “Down to one-twenty.”

The vast, nearly-black mass loomed up in front of them.

“What’s that?” McElroy asked.

Verness just then identified it, “Shit. The Pentagon. Cripes, no wonder that stick jockey is so touchy. Gimme that engine now or we’ll get a sidewinder up our ass.”

He eyed the altimeter—one hundred feet and dropping.

“Seven seconds. Turn now!” Kuss could see the headlines if he failed to protect the Pentagon. He knew it would take at least two of their radar-guided Phoenix missiles to stop the jetliner. The air-to-air missiles were designed for much smaller fighter aircraft; their explosive payload would not easily take down a huge 747.

The reply actually sounded irritated. “Look, ace, the captain twisted all four fire extinguishers and it takes time to spool up again. I grew up in Norfolk, Virginia, the son of a Navy Captain and became a navy flier, flying F-4s. I’m not a friggin’ terrorist.”

“Who was the civilian in the seat before you?”

“A doctor who pulled us out of a dive while I was KO’ed on the floor.”

Time had run out.
Kuss had to make a choice.

“Kisser?” Piper’s tone demanded a response.

“Fuck, I know.”

“All I know is he’s aiming right for the Pentagon.”

Kuss shook his head trying to decide. The picture of his wife and daughter taped to the left of his instrument cluster caught his eye. There were wives and daughters on that United flight. He recalled the US Airways flight 1549 that ditched in the Hudson River and how the passengers were so grateful to be alive. He absently shook his head. He had to give the United flight passengers the same chance.

Kuss keyed his mike. “Captain Verness, good luck. Make my decision the right one.”

“Roger, buddy.”

The lieutenant pulled back his stick, increasing his altitude to a high vantage point from where he would watch the consequence of his decision.

“Ignition on.” McElroy tried not to show his nerves, but his shaking hands belied his tension.

They had sunk so low, Verness could no longer see the roof of the Pentagon. If they didn’t get that engine soon . . . the Pentagon loomed larger. It’s now or never, thought Verness.

“We’re hot,” McElroy shouted. “Go, go, go!”

Verness shoved the throttle to the stops, but felt a pitiful thrust. It was like accelerating a barge. Verness had never flown with one engine, even in the simulators. Was one engine enough? He was breaking entirely new ground here.

“What a fucking pig.” Verness’s eyes were glued to the altimeter as he wondered how high the Pentagon was. The altimeter digits crept north at a snail’s pace. He risked a gentle turn.

“It’s going to be close.” McElroy’s voice betrayed his tension. “I don’t know . . .”

The enormous mass of the building slowly moved to the left as Verness banked right.

“Nice . . . nice.” McElroy marveled, in a breath of relief, even as the curt ‘Stall, stall’ warning announced their critically low airspeed.

Verness, despite himself, smiled with a touch of satisfaction. It had been close. He straightened the bank and gained more speed silencing the warning. They were now cruising at a mere 75 feet; he scanned the ground carefully for tall power poles and broadcast towers.

The F-16 pilot spoke again. “United 1733, continue on your expected landing approach and do not threaten any more buildings.”

Verness keyed his mike. “Roger and thanks. Washington tower, United 1733, ready for final approach.”

“United 1733, turn right to heading one-seven-zero,” a crisp female voice directed. “You are too low for standard approach.”

“Roger.”

“Number one fuel on,” said McElroy. The two-minute engine start cycle began again. “I think we’ll be on the ground before this one heats up.”

“I’ll need it for the reversers. Hurry it up,” Verness commanded. He had accumulated enough speed now for another slow turn and banked right to line up with the runway.

“Tell the attendants to prepare for landing,” Verness instructed.

McElroy reached for the intercom switch and gasped. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Verness snapped.

“The intercom. It’s been on this entire time.”

Verness lips turned up slightly. “Won’t they have stories?”

A brief smile broke through McElroy’s frown. “Flight attendants, prepare the cabin for landing. Emergency positions. Landing in one minute.”

Verness radioed, “Tower, I’m underpowered for full flaps. I’ll be a little hot coming in.” To McElroy he said, “Gimme that engine.”

“Fuel pressure’s up,” the copilot reported. “Thirty seconds, tops.”

Verness carefully orchestrated the landing sequence in his head. He knew full well that the physics of landing the massive, underpowered aircraft on a wet runway in a brisk crosswind were not in his favor. On approach, there wasn’t enough power to counter the drag of the wing flaps, which would require their landing at a higher than normal speed. Worse, the landing strip was wet and possibly frozen. He noted the critical lack of a second operating engine on the opposite wing. If he applied reverse thrust from the unopposed engine, it would almost certainly rotate the plane off the runway. His tactical plan had to be timed just right and executed in near perfect order if they were to have any chance at all. If they landed safely, it would go down in the books. If they didn’t, well, he probably wouldn’t much care. The runway was fast approaching. It was time.

“Drop the gear on my signal.”

“Roger.”

“Ready . . . Now!”

McElroy twisted the lever and dropped the landing gear into the air stream, instantly decelerating the plane. The jetliner stalled and slammed onto the leading edge of the runway. With squealing tires, the crabbing 747 suddenly rotated into alignment with the runway. The torque pitched Verness hard in his harness, but he managed to drop the flaps and apply his air brakes. With both feet, he stood hard on the landing gear brake pedal. The runway flashed by at an alarming rate.

“Give me that Goddamn engine.”