Crisis

Crisis(Carl Brooks) CRISIS
By
Carl Brooks

Ross claimed his space in the airport parking lot and prepared for the cold, hundred yard walk to the terminal building and the air traffic control radar room. His breath became visible as the December chill engulfed his body.
The usual hive of Christmas travelers swarmed the terminal in an effort to get tagged, searched, insulted, fed, excited, and sometimes hijacked; all in preparation for an hour and seven minute flight. He walked past the main lobby and paused in front of a red door. Ignoring the “Warning – U.S. Government Restricted Area” signs, Ross walked with deliberate focus through the maze of hallways and into the administrative section of the airport’s nerve center. It was Saturday, so no one except controllers were in the building. He immediately sought out the nearest telephone, lifted the receiver and dialed.
“Methodist Hospital,” an impersonal, female voice responded.
“Hello, about two hours ago, my son was admitted through the emergency room. Could you tell me how he’s doing?”
“Give me his name and the attending physician’s name, please”
“David Moore; our doctor is Melvin Casford.”
“One moment, please.”
Ross looked up and down the hall, hoping for continued privacy. This was a personal problem and he wanted to keep it that way. He had called Bill Walraven, his Watch Supervisor, from the hospital and explained the situation in an attempt to be excused from duty. The leave quota had already been filled, so Ross had no choice but to work his assigned shift. Everyone wanted to spend Christmas with their families. So did Ross, but his only family was lying in the hospital and he was not filled with the joy of the holiday season.
“This is Doctor Casford,” a voice finally said.
“Mel, this is Ross Moore. Is there any change in Dave’s condition? How is he?”
“Still in a coma, Ross, Dr. Casford answered. The technicians are working on his tests, and we’re watching him very closely. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
A heavy silence followed the doctor’s report.
“Ross, I’ve known Dave for a very long time, and he’s the healthiest kid around. Try not to worry; we’re doing everything possible to help him get through this.”
“Mel… What kind of stuff did he take?”
“A variety of amphetamines,” Dr. Casford began, “and some others we haven’t identified yet; all bad quality street-drugs. He couldn’t have been taking any of them for very long; the pattern smacks of inexperience.”
“Just how bad is he?” Ross’s voice was breaking, along with his heart.
“He’s critical right now, Ross, but we think the crisis will pass. He needs time to get through this and we know it won’t be easy. There’s nothing you can do here, so stay at home until I call you.”
“I’m at work now, but I’ll be at the hospital around eleven,” Ross informed.
“We should know something by then,” Dr. Casford assured.
“Mel… If there’s any change at all… call me, will you?”
“Count on it, Ross.”
“Mel… thanks… for everything.”

After Ross completed the official sign-in process required by government employees, he checked his position assignment, grabbed his headset, and entered the darkened radar control room. Hundreds of red, green, and amber lights flashed on and off, keeping cadence with instructions issued by the half-dozen radar controllers, each staring intently at his own radar scope.
Ross noticed the two men on the far left of the line were having a tough time of it. They had issued different headings and altitudes to no less than ten separate aircraft in an effort to keep them apart at least three miles horizontally, or one thousand feet vertically, while expediting them inbound toward a landing at Lubbock Airport, or outbound to another airport. The task demanded one hundred per cent concentration, with no exceptions.
Ross stood behind his assigned position for several minutes, watching the radar scope, forming a three dimensional picture of the two dimensional radar traffic display. Finally, having made himself aware of all radar targets within his assigned area of jurisdiction, he assumed responsibility of the control position. The controller being relieved from duty pointed out each of the moving targets, explained what they wanted to do, along with any special instructions, or conditions affecting its flight, then, unplugged his headset from the console. Ross slid into his chair, plugged in his headset and immediately began issuing clearances and control instructions. Silently, he wondered about his son.
Much of Ross’s profession was routine and could be considered repetitious, while at the same time every aircraft’s situation was different from any other; kind of like a set of fingerprints, the same, but unique to every individual along a proposed route of flight. Doing his job was never a problem for Ross, even under this new, severe pressure of family crisis.
.
Part II

A hundred miles north, a battered sports car slid to a halt in front of the telephone booth. Tom’s six foot two inch frame uncoiled from behind the wheel and hurried toward the booth. Jamming his hand into his trouser pocket for a handful of change, he inserted the proper coins and dialed the eleven numbers.
Tom flinched at several clicks in his ear. He noticed the phone booth was a mess. Graffiti covered the glass walls, promising impending sex at that number anytime after 5PM.
“Hello, Sonny?” Tom anxiously inquired.
“Wait a minute, stupid!” The other voice barked. After several more clicks…
“OK, now, what’s up?”
“Who are you calling stupid?” Tom challenged.
“Hey, nothing personal, but this is the last time I’m warning you about name-dropping on the phone. Now, what’s up?” Sonny impatiently inquired.
“Can you handle a load this evening?” Tom asked, more gently now.
“That depends,” Sonny evaded. “I can’t take just anything right now. What kind of stuff is it?”
Tom spoke very slowly, aware of the special importance the merchandise carried with it.
“Ten keys of grass and two thousand hits of speed. It’s real good stuff.”
Sonny paused for a long moment, his silence humming along the wire, then mumbled something inaudible.
“Well… how about it, Tom prodded?”
“Okay,” said Sonny… at our old prices?”
Tom agreed, possibly too quickly. There was an air of desperation in his voice that he’d preferred Sonny not recognize. But Tom needed money and he needed it tonight. He had often found himself in these desperate situations that certainly had not been planned, but here he was again. Now he must resort to doing the one thing that he did best; hauling and selling drugs. It was about the only occupation Tom had ever truly succeeded in doing, but it was very dangerous. It seemed easy enough; just load an airplane with the drugs from his source somewhere outside of town and then unload them at a prearranged location for a very handsome profit. Tom wasn’t concerned about the morality of his actions. Right and wrong never entered the equation, and as for the damage he was causing to the poor slobs who were addicted, well, that was their problem. His biggest worry was, of course, getting caught. Money! That’s the only reason Tom kept doing this, week in and week out. It had always been about the money.
“No!” Tom snapped, in a strained voice. “I’ve got to have ten “K” more for this load… it’s important to me. I’ll throw in some meth to sweeten the deal. The stuff’s worth it, you know it is…. I need the money … This might be my last run.” If you don’t like what I bring to you, we can discuss it then.”
The silence weighted Tom’s body. He knew he had to try for every nickel possible, even if Sonny turned him down sharply. But he hadn’t done that yet. Sonny’s hesitation meant he had a chance, and Tom was familiar with chances. He knew them better than anything else. Every time he hauled a load, the cops might be waiting for him at his departure point, or when he landed at the other end. How many chances had he taken unnecessarily… flying in and out of dirt strip airports, in all kinds of weather and usually one very short jump ahead of the Narcs. Several times they had gotten too close, forcing him to suspend operations for awhile. This meant good contacts lost, and taking more chances to establish new ones. It was the age-old story; money ruled everything… especially tonight. Tom needed the money and was willing to do anything to get it. He knew he was wallowing in human slime by dealing drugs to people who were also desperate, but for different reasons, and that kind of slime was hard to wash off. The only cleanser, or at least catalyst, for this condition was money… and lots of it.
“Alright,” Sonny said, as if granting a favor, “I can get only so much for the stuff on my end. I’ll take a look at it and maybe we can work something out. That quality of that last batch you brought me was pretty bad. I can’t have my customers ending up in the hospital, or what is worse… dead. If it happens again, we’ll have a serious talk. Understand what I mean by talk? I’ll meet you at ten o’clock… the usual place.”

The sun was fading behind a cloud as Tom reached the small airport outside of Amarillo. A Piper Cherokee was parked, facing the hanger, with its wings tied to the ramp. A large sign topped the wide hanger doors, advertising the Ferris Flying School. The place was nearly deserted, a fact that Tom had counted on.
Over the past year, Tom had rented the single engine Cherokee from Roger Ferris, a friend of his father’s. He had taken good care of the craft and after earning his pilot’s license, Mr. Ferris continued to let him rent it, not knowing how the craft was being used. Tom was taking full advantage of the situation. He wasn’t a particularly good pilot, but he could get from point A to point B if there were no mechanical problems with the airplane, and the weather was good. Tom wasn’t qualified to fly in the soup, or when the visibility was bad.
Near the rear of the hanger, Tom found the line-boy having his sack-supper. A lazy type, the boy saw Tom approaching, knew his presence there meant work and turned away.
“Get the Cherokee gassed up,” Tom ordered. “I’ll be back in an hour and I want it flight checked and ready to go.”
The boy looked at Tom with a mixture of bother and visible stubbornness, silently defying Tom’s authority. “Yeah, okay, just as soon as I finish eatin’ my supper.”
Tom had already started walking away, but hearing the boy’s retort, turned sharply. He gave a hard stare, challenging the challenger, then, moved closer in an obvious threatening manner.
“When I tell you to do something,” he spoke very distinctly, “I don’t want excuses or smart answers. Now, if you like working here, get off your lazy ass and get it done.”
The boy sat still for a long moment, daring Tom’s threat. He swallowed his mouthful of sandwich and walked toward the door as slowly as possible. Tom had bossed the boy around very harshly on several occasions and he was not exactly Tom’s best friend. Without looking back, Tom drove out the gate and disappeared down the highway.





Part III

Ross finished his coffee, and looked at the wall-clock, deciding if he had time to call the hospital before his coffee break ended. He entered the deserted front office, lifted the telephone receiver and dialed. The familiar clicks sounded with mechanical cruelty. Ross closed his eyes and waited.
“Methodist Hospital” a pleasant but harried female voice reported.
“Doctor Casford, please.”
“One moment, please, I’ll page him.”
Four short chimes sounded, announcing a phone call for Dr. Casford. Ross tried to visualize the hyper-activity within the hospital. He had grown up with a profound fear of such places. As a boy, his parents had been taken there, one by one, and never returned; his younger sister with a terrible fever, and finally his wife, when Dave was only a baby. All had gone to the hospital, trusted the doctors and their miracle medicines, but they had all died anyway… but not this time… not Dave. Often, Ross wondered if it was something he had done. His parents, whom he had greatly depended upon and his wife whom he had loved so dearly and who was the true source of strength in their lives. There had been a closeness between them which could never be duplicated. Dave was all he had left, and Ross would gladly give his own life to save him.
“I’m sorry, sir, Dr. Casford doesn’t answer,” the business-like voice broke into his thoughts. “Shall I keep trying?”
Disappointed, Ross glanced at the clock.
“No, I guess not. Is there anyone who can give me the condition of a patient?”
A buzzer sounded in his ear.
“Intensive care, this is Nurse Allen.”
“My name is Moore, could you tell me the condition of my son, David?”
“Are you a relative, sir?”
“Yes, I’m his father.”
“The boy is still listed as critical, sir.”
“No change at all?”
“Dr. Casford is with him now, if you could call back in an hour, I’m sure he will be able to give you more information then.”
“I see… thank you,” Ross’s voice trailed off into a whisper.
Ross tried to wipe the frustration from his face. Apparently, he thought, the worst had happened. The wall-clock read 8:30PM.
Again, Ross plugged his headset into the radio console and tried to forget his personal crisis. The controller being relieved, explained the traffic picture, then added,
“No new developments, Ross, except for one notable item: Fort Worth Center alerted us about a twin Cessna that departed Houston on his way to Lubbock. Shortly after takeoff, he encountered a line of heavy weather and lost an engine. He’s having to get around it any way he can.” He pointed to the Radar. The entire eastern quadrant of the scope glared brightly with weather echoes, blocking out most aircraft radar returns.
“They said he couldn’t land anywhere enroute, due to heavy thunderstorms, high winds and reduced visibility, so he’s going to try and make it here before we get socked-in.”
The controller stared at the scope, as if trying to remember anything he’d left out, then added, “That mess reaches all the way from Kansas City to Galveston, and is drifting this way,” he continued. “We have quite a few scattered clouds outside right now, with the worst part only forty miles away. The snow should be here any time now.”
Ross nodded in acknowledgment, and directed concentration toward his duties. The brightly lit radar scope illuminated his face, exposing concern for his son. This was no time to get distracted with personal problems. Others needed his attention right now. Visibility in the sky outside was drastically reduced during night time. Add to that, the forecast of a weather front moving in and the predicted snow that was less than 40 miles away and moving toward Lubbock. Concentration during this crisis wasn’t easy, but Ross had no choice.

Part IV

Just over a hundred miles away, the small airport was discernible only by symmetrical rows of color-coded lights that outlined the runway and taxiway. Hurriedly, Tom retrieved several battered suitcases and bundles from his car’s trunk, loaded them aboard the aircraft and deposited himself in the pilot’s seat. He’d considered driving the hundred miles into Lubbock, but having been alerted to the intense scrutiny of drug enforcement road-blocks, dismissed the idea.
He knew that weather was moving in from the north, but the type of people he dealt with didn’t tolerate such luxuries as personal caution. He was committed. The scattered cloud layer overhead was becoming more solid every minute. His plan was to climb above the first cloud layer and remain there until over Lubbock airport. This would allow him to avoid the high concentration of jet traffic at Reese Air Force Base, which lay just to the west of his destination, using the clouds to shield his movements from unwanted surveillance. When over Lubbock airport, he would descend and land, unnoticed. The plan should work. This had been his modus operandi in the past and he felt reasonably safe with it. The only flaw in his plan would be if he were caught in the clouds and couldn’t see. Tom’s flight instruction hadn’t progressed to the point of receiving instrument training. He had experienced vertigo several times in the past when flying through clouds and had decided to put it off for as long as he could.
Normally, Tom would have checked the aircraft thoroughly before takeoff, but this time he was in a hurry to try and beat the weather. Besides, he had told the line boy to check out the craft, so everything should be in order. The aircraft lifted off of runway 12 in a smooth easy motion. Tom pulled the correct lever, which promptly brought up the landing gear. He banked slightly right until 180 degrees appeared in the gyro-compass, while simultaneously establishing an acceptable rate of climb. Precise coordination was involved, as the critical goal of stabilization was sought and found. Ironically, its weakest link was built-in: The unpredictable element of man which was required to make it perform.

The line-boy at Ferris Flying School ambled through the office door, jammed two quarters into the coke machine and retrieved his bounty.
“Did you tell Tom about the gyro-compass in the Cherokee being faulty?” The question was being asked in a routine manner by the distracted manager behind the service counter. The line-boy took a long swig from his soft drink, then, squinted toward the darkening sky.
“Yeah, I told him,” he lied. “Said he was only going to Lubbock and wouldn’t need it anyway. I also checked his gas.”

Tom’s altimeter registered his steady climb. At sixty five hundred feet, mean sea level, he was barely above the clouds. A slight miscalculation, he thought… not important. All the trim controls were set for level flight, as Tom began to settle in for an uneventful trip. Just as he had begun to relax, the engine suddenly coughed in a choking jolt. Quickly scanning the gauges, he cursed out loud, “Fuel!” The right tank showed almost empty, with the left tank indicating just over half full. “Damn that boy!” He rapidly changed to the left tank and shortly the engine changed to a solid purr.
This event, though annoying, normally would mean very little to the success or failure of such a short flight. His entire time enroute was calculated at approximately one hour. He should have enough fuel to last a minimum of one hour and a half in level flight. Normally, this would have been the case, but what in his life had ever been normal. Perhaps a more prudent person would have seen the bad karma developing and turned back. If his judgment hadn’t been so blinded by greed, impatience, or a need to beat the odds just one more time, maybe he could have read the obvious signs. Fate, the terrible hunter, was spinning an invisible web, from which escape was impossible.
Tom’s eyes scanned the cloud-bank below for any sign of a break. For the third time he’d had to climb even higher to stay above the growing mass. His altimeter read 9500 feet. Only minutes before, he had been able to see quite clearly due to the full moon lighting his path. It was almost as if he had been purposely lured aloft while more clouds rapidly formed all around him, engulfing the small craft in a billowing, suffocating fist. His forward visibility was decreasing steadily, and now he found himself surrounded by thick clouds. He was in an area of dense air traffic and with no air traffic control clearance… no one knew he was there, and he was flying blind.
Tom’s stomach tightened into a ball as he admitted to himself the danger in which he had placed himself. He glanced at his watch. The Lubbock airport should be directly below. Picking up the hand microphone, he spoke in a forced tone.
“Lubbock Approach Control, this is Cherokee 1438 Romeo… I should be directly over your airport… request landing instructions, over.”
Ross Moore’s voice confidently responded.
“Cherokee 1438 Romeo, this is Lubbock Approach Control, my radar isn’t picking up a target directly over the airport. Confirm your position, over.”
“Approach, I’m ninety five hundred feet, in and out of the overcast and can’t see the ground. According to my time estimate, I should be very near your airport, over.”
Ross scanned the Radar scope with a trained eye, searching for a stray target.
“Cherokee 38 Romeo, I’m observing an intermittent target thirty miles northwest of Lubbock. For positive Radar identification, squawk 1200 and ident. Could you have drifted off course, over?”
Tom knew he didn’t have the equipment needed to produce the electronic enhancement that would allow the controller to find him with ease, so he couldn’t comply with a “squawk.” He looked at his gyro-compass and cross-checked it with the magnetic compass attached to the top of the instrument panel. His face drained. There was a forty degree error. He was off course. Now, not only was the fuel situation critical, but the surrounding clouds had swallowed him whole.
“Approach, this is Cherokee 38 Romeo. This aircraft has no transponder, and yes I am off course to the northwest. Can you get me in, over?”
“Cherokee 38 Romeo, your primary target often merges with the weather echoes on my Radar, making it impossible to establish positive Radar contact in present conditions.
Lubbock weather is deteriorating rapidly, with a ceiling of three hundred overcast and visibility of three miles, with light snow. Can you fly your aircraft using only your instruments, over?”
“Negative, negative,” Tom shouted. Cold fear gripped his brain. His worst fears were materializing, he thought to himself… but he was mistaken.
“Approach… approach… this is… I’m…” His voice sounded in quick, jerky pants. He opened his mouth, but the words would not unscramble, as he fought for control of himself and the situation. Nausea was setting in, fast. Finally, he mustered a last bit of thin courage.
“Approach,” the voice seemed calm and clear now, “I’m in the clouds and can’t see a thing. My fuel is low and I don’t know what to do. Can you help me? Please, please, help me.”
Tom looked glassy-eyed at his instrument panel. All the needles were swinging wildly, and it was impossible to tell solely by human instinct if he was even in straight and level flight. There were no stationary reference points to focus on. He knew these were ideal conditions for the dreaded vertigo.
“Cherokee 38 Romeo, this is Lubbock Approach Control, all other aircraft are being cleared out of the area. You are not, I repeat, not, in Radar contact at this time. From your last reported position, I know about where you are.” Ross’ voice was calm and unfalteringly steady. It reflected the experience and resolve of a seasoned controller… but it was false. His apprehension and concern was very real, although he tried not to expose it to this obviously distressed pilot. This man’s life was well within Ross’s hands and depended upon his calm judgment.
For a fleeting moment Ross considered asking to be relieved from the position… and the responsibility. With his personal problems weighing heavily on his mind, it might be best for everyone concerned, but that’s what he’d always done; giving up when the chips were down… when it really mattered. His wife had known it all too well. Even Dave had sensed that missing ingredient in his father and perhaps unknowingly, tried to emulate him. Maybe that’s why he was lying in a hospital with an overdose. Maybe he couldn’t face the decisions, take the responsibilities. If Dave dies, Ross thought, it would surely be his fault.
He searched the face of the radar scope for some signs of target movement outside his line-up of inbound aircraft. If the aircraft had had a transponder and could activate it to enhance the target electronically, Ross could easily locate the lost pilot. But a primary target mixed with the reflection of the solid mass of snow clouds rapidly moving in was a near impossibility. He stared at the scope, becoming increasingly aware of a faint voice in the background.
“Approach, can you hear me?” Tom’s desperation was growing like a parasite, feeding off his fear… devouring him.
“Now listen,” Ross spoke, “Get hold of yourself and keep calm. We’re doing everything possible to get you down safely. Now clear your head and think. How much flying time do you have before your fuel runs out?” Tom had been openly crying, but upon hearing Ross’ words, stopped abruptly and began running numbers through his dazed brain.
“Thirty minutes,” he answered. “About thirty minutes… I think.” The instruments were blurred from new tears forming uncontrollably in his eyes. Fear had turned this man into nothing more than a whimpering mass.
“What is your heading,” Ross asked.
“One two zero degrees.”
“What is your altitude?”
“Ninety seven hundred feet.”
“OK, now turn right, heading one five zero degrees,” Ross ordered. “Do it slow and easy.”
“One five zero,” Tom repeated, mechanically. Ross spoke painfully slow in issuing one set of instructions at a time. Confusion at this point could mean certain disaster. He noticed a figure standing beside him, staring intently at the radar scope.
“Ross,” the Watch Supervisor began, “Got a minute?” Ross nodded his head yes.
“This is Agent Todd, from the Narcotics Bureau. He’s tracking a Piper Cherokee that’s suspected of drug smuggling. The number of the aircraft fits the one you’re working.”
Bill Walraven had been an air traffic supervisor for twenty odd years, and knew his job well.
He also knew people, like few men are capable of knowing them. Bill searched Ross’ eyes for some outward sign of feeling or emotion. He knew Ross’ son was in the hospital, as well as the reason. Right now his main concern was Ross. Would he allow this new development to interfere with his control? The circumstances made it a difficult situation at best, but Bill had to know for sure. Ross was stunned at the new facts. He looked hard at the fading target on the scope, then back at Bill. He had perceived the silent questioning process and for a moment saw red, angry flashes behind his eyes. He squinted hard at Bill.
“What the hell,” he said, “You think I’m going to help this guy crash because he’s a goddamn drug pusher?” He quickly regained control.
“I’m sorry, Bill, what I meant to say was, that I’m alright.”
Bill searched again.
“Really,” Ross said, “I’m alright,”
Bill moved back to his desk and resumed his duties; his way of declaring confidence in Ross’ ability to handle an ever worsening situation.
Ross saw a faint target twenty miles north of the airport and heading approximately one five zero degrees. He watched it for a long moment to clear out any uncertainties in his mind. A picture flashed through his subconscious; an image of Dave, lying dead, covered with a sheet.
“Cherokee 38 Romeo, are you steady heading one five zero degrees?”
“Yes…affirmative,” Tom replied.
“I have a target on radar and I’m reasonably certain it is you. Turn right heading one eight zero; that heading should bring you directly to the airport. Follow my instructions and you will be alright.”
How easy it would be, Ross thought, just give this son-of-a-bitch a slight heading change and he would be lost forever. Use up some of his precious time, and he would eventually fall out of the sky; dead, like he deserves. These things passed through his mind, but they were only fantasies.
“Cherokee 38 Romeo, descend and maintain five thousand feet. Do it slowly and you will be alright. With our airport elevation, that will put you two thousand feet above the ground.”
“Roger, 38 Romeo, five thousand.” Tom reduced power and watched the counter-clockwise motion of the altimeter needles unwind as they registered his descent. A strange dizziness engulfed his mind. He could no longer tell which direction was up or down. He fought to convince himself that the instruments must be wrong. According to them, he was in a hard right turn, but… that couldn’t be. The altimeter needles moved faster, loosing more and more altitude. Then, Tom realized that he was in a diving spin.
“Oh my God,” he guttled. His hands tightened around the controls as his muscles seized in panic. “Help,” he yelled to himself, over and over again. Spotting the microphone, he grabbed it and screamed his fear to the controller on the other end.
“Help me… somebody, please help me. I… I’m in a spin, I think. I… can’t… I…I… Oh my God… Help me, please.”
“Let go of the microphone,” Ross mumbled to himself. “Let go of it so I can talk to you.”
“Oh, Jesus, God, somebody do something. I’m going to die.” Ross heard heavy panting, then, the frequency was suddenly clear. Ross keyed his transmitter, then screamed repeatedly,
“Let go of all controls! Release all controls!… Listen!.. Let go of all the controls and the aircraft will level off by itself.”
The target was barely visible on the radar scope. This, alone, meant he had not crashed. Silence dominated the control room, as every ounce of concentration was focused on the confused pilot. Standing behind Ross, in the darkness, Agent Todd showed no emotion or concern, patiently following the drama, as a hunter waits for his prey to blunder within range. A heavy atmosphere of death hung, waiting only for time to keep its inevitable appointment. An all new voice broke the silence.

“Lubbock Approach Control, this is twin Cessna 4126 Papa. I’m twenty miles east with my right engine out. I’m at six thousand feet and am declaring an emergency. For the last ten miles I’ve been picking up ice and will not, I repeat, will not be able to keep this old bird in the air much longer. Get everybody out of my way… I’m coming down… like it or not.” Ross scanned his radar, scope, located the target, and issued landing information to the disabled aircraft. He observed the target as it responded to his electronic interrogations, then, continued his spiel.
“Twin Cessna 4126 Papa, radar contact. Fly heading two niner zero for a vector to the final approach course for an ILS runway 17 right approach. Descend at pilot’s discretion and maintain five thousand feet.” Bill was aware of the crippled aircraft and, as a precautionary measure, had alerted the fire and crash trucks, just in case. Ross glanced back at the Cherokee’s last position. The target had disappeared.
“Cherokee 38 Romeo, this is Lubbock Approach Control, over.” Ross was more than a little surprised when he heard a reply. The voice was emotionless and mechanical, as if no human feeling were present.
“I’ve leveled off at about three hundred feet above the ground and am heading one six zero degrees. I don’t know where I am, but my gas gauge reads empty.” The voice seemed almost resigned to its fate, as if nothing… nothing could match the terror he had already experienced.
Quickly, Ross told the crippled twin Cessna about the lost Cherokee and gave the pilot a choice of possibly landing somewhere else. With a bad engine and the aircraft taking on ice, the decision had already been made. He had to land at Lubbock, knowing the pilot of the Cherokee was totally out of control and could be… anywhere.
“Twin Cessna 26 Papa, you are twelve miles north of the airport, turn left heading one seven zero, cleared for an ILS runway one seven Right approach. Descend at your discretion to a lower altitude. The lost Cherokee was last reported to be three hundred feet above the ground and radar contact with his target has been lost.”
“Twin Cessna 26 Papa, Roger.”
“Cherokee 38 Romeo,” Ross broadcasted “The cloud bases are at three hundred feet above ground level and you reported at that same altitude. I suggest dropping down another fifty feet and you should be able to see the airport and land visually.”
“No,” the voice cried, “I can’t do it. I might hit something. I just can’t do it.” Tom was frozen in his seat, afraid to make even the slightest control adjustments. “ I won’t do it,” he added, sobbing like a small child.
“Look out!” The twin Cessna pilot screamed into the microphone. “Approach, I think I just had an encounter with your lost Cherokee. He went under me in a shallow dive. We damn near had a head on collision.”
Before Ross could answer, another voice shouted over the radio.
“I’m below the clouds! I made it! I can see the airport!” Tom’s relief was communicated to everyone in the radar room. “Approach, this is Cherokee 38 Romeo, I can see the runway and I’m coming in to land.” His voice was jubilant, now, almost in control.
“Cherokee 38 Romeo, the tower has you in sight three miles from runway eight left. The wind is one three zero degrees at one five knots, you are cleared to land. The tower reports the runway is wet with snow and ice.” Ross looked across the room at Bill without expression, yet saying a great deal. The narcotics agent quietly left the room to meet the aircraft.
“Oh no! Oh hell no! Not now! Approach, my engine just stopped. I must be out of gas… I won’t make it to the runway.” His voice trailed off, “I’m going to crash. Oh God!”

The watch supervisor immediately picked up the hot line to the fire department and EMS station, alerting them of a second emergency.

Part V

Ross’ relief crew had been briefed, and was assuming control functions. As Ross was relieved from his duty position, the phone rang.
“It’s for you, Ross,” Bill advised, “it’s the hospital”.
“Hello,” Ross said.
“Ross, this is Mel Casford.”
Ross’ hand perspired as he held the receiver tightly to his ear He wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear what the doctor had to say. He closed his eyes and hoped for a miracle, like he had done so many times in the past. This time, it was different. This time he truly believed one would happen.
“He’s past the crisis, Ross, and he’s going to be alright.”
Ross felt a tremendous weight lift from his mind and body.
“Thanks, Mel, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Sloshing through the fresh snow, Ross felt tremendously relieved… and achingly tired. He had been given a another chance to correct some old mistakes and fully intended to take advantage of the opportunity. He could even feel faint sympathy for the pathetic pilot of 38 Romeo.
For a fleeting moment he wondered whether the pilot had survived the crash, or was dead on impact. He really didn’t care. Dave had been spared, so he held no grudges. Later, he might even find it within himself to forgive. Ross had learned much about himself in the last few hours, maybe too much. He learned his capabilities as a man and his limitations as a father. He had experienced a deeper hate than he thought possible and forgiven more than any man should ever be asked to do. He’d found these things inside a crisis, disguised as human weakness. The fate of the pilot was of no further concern to him. He had more important things to do.

Part VI

The Cherokee lay smashed in a grotesque mass of metal, fabric, and glass. Its left wing stood straight up in the air, protruding from the crumpled fuselage, as if reaching for something beyond its grasp. The wreckage rested in an unnatural manner, on its right side, supported four feet off the ground by a small, leafless oak tree and the stub of its right wing. The door hung from a single hinge, exposing the mangled torso of the pilot. His legs were fused to the mashed debris that had once been the cockpit, suspending him upside down from the wreckage. He literally dangled in mid air, as if the situation and the natural force of gravity couldn’t decide what to do with him. As Tom’s mind slowly became aware of consciousness, a faint, shrill, siren whined in the distance… a million miles away. Then… the ferocious beast of pain attacked him, gnawing at his raw flesh. It was unlike anything he had ever imagined. His nerve endings were throbbing, screaming for relief, while his now heightened consciousness realized with dire certainty that there could be none. Bone was scraped clean of flesh from his right elbow to the remains of his hand. A steady flow of warm blood seeped through the shreds of his clothes, slowing, as it met the freezing temperature of gently falling snow. Though yet unaware of it, the flesh on top and down one side of his head had been ripped and mutilated until the formless mass resembled cheap hamburger. One eye filled slowly with blood-beads, while the other was capable of perceiving only blurred images.
Tom was dead, but it was as if, perhaps, some entity had created all the conditions necessary, then suspended time just before the final gasp. He was dead, but he hadn’t died yet… not yet. If horrible, crushing, unrelenting, pain could be felt in a pure sense, without hope of possible cessation, Tom knew it. His mind was shocked at the degree of cruel punishment his body was experiencing, but could do nothing to stop it. He prayed to die.
He prayed for it now, without hope of redemption, should a miracle somehow occur. Death was slowly devouring him. A clear picture flashed through his brain of a water buffalo being eaten by a lioness, as the helpless victim watched the feast of its own viscera. There were no conditions, or feelings of self-pity. He welcomed death with utter capitulation. He begged for it.
The siren wailed nearer, but the sound carried with it no hope for rescue. His only chance to stop the excruciating pain lay in his suitcase. A handful of rainbow colored capsules would allow him to escape further torture. The fingers on his left hand somehow maneuvered the suitcase to an accessible area. The latch sprung open, while his hand grabbed at anything loose. If he could only get to the marvelous, numbing drugs. White powder stuck to the blood on his hand as he guided it toward his eager, waiting mouth. His arm stopped in mid air, then fell to the ground, severed from life. Then, the worst happened. What Tom smelled made him curse his own mother and even God himself. The left-wing fuel tank had been ruptured and the remaining two quarts of gasoline trickled through the fabric and slime, seeking and finding its mark. It seared Tom’s raw flesh and blistered his eyes with fresh spasms of pain until, mercifully, he was allowed to escape. The last thing he saw was a flash of fire.

The End