Technical Difficulty

“Houston, we have a problem! Houston, Houston, come in!”

           “Houston, Houston Come in”.

Captain Charlie McHue barked into the mike once more. Then crackling static cut short any further communication. McHue looked over at his co- pilot John McAlister, almost screaming at him.

“Ease down on the throttle. We’ve got to land this thing soon. We’re losing altitude!”

“The gears are stuck, nothing’s happening.”

“ Try getting Houston International again. This time you’d better be successful or else we’re in for some really serious shit.”

Both McHue and McAlister were seasoned pilots. They often flew together and had thousands of miles under their belts, but nothing would have prepared them for what they would encounter on the morning of February seventh. A light rain was falling, but according to the weather report nothing that would be cause for concern. They cleared take off from Grantley Adams airport and had an uneventful flight until now.

A shrill whistling sound reverberated over the radio, signaling some hope. But no sooner than it sounded, it was off again, cold, and silent. Dead! All the panel lights that were switched to auto pilot mode suddenly blacked out. Before take-off, the ailerons, the flaps, and rudder were in good working order. That was three hours ago from Grantley Adams Airport. Routine. They had another hour before they began their descent. But now their system panel indicated that something was deathly wrong. Fuel was sufficient, but what good was that knowledge if they didn’t know how long they would be in this present position.

The yoke, anchored on the panel did not yield to a push or pull. The Artificial Horizon showed the craft banking towards the left, contrary to the orientation of the craft’s attitude, with its Vertical Speed Indicator stuck at an altitude of zero. But they were descending, and he needed to keep the craft steady. The speed and air flow were not in a cooperative mood. If he over-corrected, he could potentially compromise their safety and the craft’s integrity. If only he could keep the craft in cruising mode while McAlister fumbled with the communication radio, they would have a chance to keep things steady. Under control.

           “Hey Charlie, think I got something”, McAlister grinned.

McHue kept at the communication panel, ignoring McAlister. His eyes peeled on the control board. He adjusted the mike from his headset closer to his mouth. Jaws tense.

           “Houston, Houston HT, over. We’ve got a problem, over. Can you hear me, over”.

They would have to reduce speed and maintain cruise altitude for now, but didn’t know for how much longer.

           “Damn, No connection!” McAlister’s grin turned to one of horror.

McHue was busy trying to get some sort of connection or communication to somebody. Anybody. He was desperate. Here they were, only God knew where with no coordinates and no working controls. With all the training he had he felt hopeless and helpless.

He remembered his dare-devil days. Flying fighter jets over Hanoi. He remembered being shot down over South America, trekking through the rain forest in Panama. Rescued by the Embera natives, he and his companion were given food and shelter and guided on their way. He had survived poisonous snakes, wasps and spiders in Costa Rica and …

But never anything like this.

McAlister, on the other hand had been lost at sea off the coast of Bermuda. His parents were the only ones who held out hope of him being found alive after everyone else in the Search and rescue operation had packed up and aborted the mission. Days later he was spotted on shore on one of the tiny islands signaling with a tin can to a Cessna -22. His plane had taken a nose-dive, so he was lucky to be alive. He had used his floatation device which aided him on the larger part of the journey. The he made the arduous decision to swim to shore and landed on what was Portsmouth Island. Luckily, he found a piece of glass and anchored it between some rocks. The fear of not being found had cemented him to that spot. The glass, catching the reflection of the sun, would alert someone flying overhead who would be sure to see him.  

The plan worked because several days later, one pilot scouting the area, thought he saw something flickering and signaled for help. The Searchers got him to a hospital in Cape Hatteras until he could be medivac to the General Hospital Specialty Center the next day. Though battered, badly bruised, and dehydrated, he was alive. Near call, but he had survived.

Meanwhile at the Houston Air base Control center, the computers were going haywire. There had been Seismic activity in the area, but until this was confirmed by the USGS( United States Geologic Survey) no one knew for sure what was going on. All everyone knew for now was that data was scrambled and Air Traffic Control Operations were at a standstill. Everyone sat helplessly staring at the terminals pushing buttons, pulling levers, and jabbing at crackling communication devices.  

Five airports within a 100- mile radius was affected. Passengers’ necks were craned at the flight boards. Someone was yelling into a bullhorn to control the passengers, while desperately trying to maintain a semblance of calm. Mothers were shushing babies as they looked appealingly into the eyes of airport staff asking for information and reassurance. Fathers grasped the hands of little ones as they tried, to no avail, to get their devices working.

Fright froze in the faces of elderly patrons. Teens and young adults sat about on the floor with bored, forlorn looks on their faces. Bags were left where they landed before the disturbance. Some like solitary rocks, others in clusters of disarray. Each piece of luggage telling its own story.

           Later that morning, The USGS confirmed that a Seismic disturbance had occurred and threw computers at Houston out of commission. Because it occurred in a remote area and had a magnitude of 3.8, it expressed itself as affecting the highly sensitive computer equipment in the area. All in-coming and out-going communication ceased, and the fiber optic cables malfunctioned in its ability to detect the shocks and redirect them to permanent seismic stations, where they could later be used to collect seismic data. It was this disturbance that threw the aircraft piloted by McHue and McAlister out of Houston’s radar.

McAlister suddenly realized something other than his heart was ticking. He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved his watch. He almost forgot he had it with him. The pocket watch was a gift from his Grandfather, Raymond Friedrich McAlister, also an army pilot. When he retired, he told John that when he graduated it would be his. It was one of the few watches in the world that had many sophisticated features. His Spovan SPV600 waterproof pocket watch was equipped with a barometer, altimeter, and a thermometer. It could also give weather forecasts and storm alarm information. What if he could use the mechanics on his watch to plot coordinates? The altimeter would tell him how high he was above sea level. He could use the barometer to get an idea of the air pressure, then plot coordinates of direction to be outside of the troubled zone. He had nothing to lose but his life and that of his co-pilot if he didn’t at least try.

By this time, unbeknown to them, McHue and McAlister, had entered into a zone that was outside the affected area. Unfortunately, their computer systems were still down, and to reboot them was out of their control. They were steadily cruising at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. This was a good altitude to attempt fixing the situation they were facing and to plot a landing strategy.  McHue reached into the seat pockets and pulled a large, folded paper from its hold.

“Take a look at this.”

“It’s a map, ole boy. What do you expect to do with it?”

McAlister studied the map for a moment.

“We are outside of the Triangle. That’s a trouble spot. You know that. If we can make our way to the Gulf, we have some options.”

McHue’s face was grim. He did not like trouble, and he certainly did not like to feel out of control. For one thing he was glad he was with McAlister. The two worked very well together and knew they could trust each other’s judgement.

           “This might be the answer to our prayers!” McAlister gleefully cried.

McAlister told McHue of his plan. The two poured over the map and found a close approximation of their location. They would use the coordinates from the watch to plan their descent. If they were right, they could land the aircraft safely. One wrong turn could spell disaster. They had no idea what they were getting themselves into, but it was worth a try. Their lives were in each other’s hands.

McHue decided he would be the one to bring the craft out of cruise control, while McAlister would configure the craft for landing, in terms of altitude, distance and speed. He had done this many times before, but not under these circumstances.

McHue peered through the cockpit screen and gently started the descent. The Primary Flight Display computer screen lit up, but all it showed were horizontal blue and green lines. For the first time in his life he second-guessed himself. His stomach engaged a hollow rumble. His head throbbed with a dull ache, he felt a quiver in his loins, and he grasped the yoke, his hands clammy. His heart was in his throat. He swallowed hard, but his tongue stayed stuck to the roof of his mouth. He gritted his teeth. His jaw rigid as steel.

“God!” He breathed deeply then prepared for descent.

McAlister squeezed the buttons on his radio in the “ON” position. Nothing happened. He squeezed it again. “Mayday” Mayday” Mayday” he barked cursing under his breath. He didn’t care who heard him. If they could hear him for that matter. All he knew they were in a damn precarious situation and he couldn’t lose control. The frequency suddenly cackled. A red light appeared on the panel. The transponder on the radio stack was flashing. With his heart beating wildly and his voice hoarse from manning the communication panel, he cleared the craft to initiate descent. He nodded to McHue to proceed with the communication codes.

McHue punched in the emergency code. He jabbed at the buttons angrily. Cooperation was null. Finally, after a few more jabs, the code stuck. This meant that the air traffic controllers would be alerted.

“Sky Hawk Airlines 6-7-8 requesting guided landing. Houston, Come in. Houston, Come

in.”

The airspeed indicator’s needle was in the green zone. Then a very faint voice came over the controls.

           “We are aware of your emergency.” Listen for guidance to begin descent.”

           McHue and McAlister waited for what seemed like an eternity.

           “Begin descent Sky Hawk 6-7-8 over.” Look to your left over. Green Zone for landing. Computers are now coming on. Pull into Green Zone. Over.

Mc Alister held the throttle firmly. This was his only chance to land the craft without incident. McHue got the landing gear down. Firm and slow, easing it carefully, covering the autobrake while arming the spoilers. The craft swung to the left, then to the right and shivered as it steadied itself downward.

McAlister raised the nose of the craft to flare. There was no crosswind! A flare of about twenty feet would be just enough for a moderate landing and to stop the craft from skidding.

           “Pulling into Green Zone. Over. Captain McHue and First Officer McAlister. Coming in for landing. Sky Hawk 6-7-8!”

McAlister and McHue looked at each other thankfully. Each knew what the other was thinking.

           “Think you want to do this again tomorrow?”

           “Not on your life. I’m going to sleep for a week!”

           “Whew, we made it ole boy! We made it!”