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  “You’ve got a decent reputation with us, Scotty. The chief says he remembers that great article you did on us years back, so, you may ride along, Glad to have you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Get in that gear I laid out on the chair there, and we’ll roll in about five minutes.”

  Scott struggled to don the oversized overalls and boots and clambered up the side of the behemoth fire fighting machine built especially for airports, plopping himself in the back seat of the cab. He’d never been inside a so-called Crash Tender before, but the specialized machines had been described as a fire truck on steroids – capable of speeding over rugged terrain with a huge load of water and fire suppressant, the floor of the cab some four feet off the ground. Within minutes, the other members of the crew were aboard and the diesel engine roared to life as the firehouse door lifted on what could have been Prudhoe Bay in the dead of a winter storm.

  Scott turned to the firefighter seated beside him.

  “You know the details of what’s apparently happened here?”

  “Yes, sir. A midair collision and somehow the little airplane is on their wing, or something. We’re calling this a red alert. Most of our precautionary landings are called amber alerts – not to be confused with saving kidnapped kids – but we call them as red when there’s a real possibility of death or injury. We’re stationing ourselves and three other trucks along Runway Seven.”

  “Is all the plowing complete? At least whatever they’re going to do?”

  “I think they’re bringing the plows in now. They gave up on all but Runway Seven almost an hour ago.”

  Scott watched as the huge fire truck crunched resolutely through the fresh powder, negotiating several turns onto now-abandoned taxiways on the way to the southernmost east-west runway. For some unfathomable reason, Scott’s eyes fixated on a pair of fresh tire tracks leading off to the north as they passed the end of Runway 34R. The tracks immediately disappeared into the whiteness, heading off in the rough direction of where the approach end of the closed runway should be.

  Scott turned to the young firefighter. “Do they send airport cars and trucks around checking on all parts of the airfield on a night like this?”

  He shook his head. “No, sir. When they abandon an area to a major snowfall, they turn off the runway lights and kind of keep it what I would call sterile. What you’re seeing now is an all-but-shuttered airport.”

  The taxiway along the only remaining runway at Denver International was ahead of them now, but the visibility through the blowing curtains of snow was less than a few hundred feet.

  “All units, the flight is ten minutes out for Runway Seven. Engine Three, you’re on the eastern end, but stay back on the north edge of the parallel taxiway, and be prepared to go into the ravine at the east end if necessary.”

  “Ravine?” Scott asked.

  Josh handed back a map, his finger on the dropoff from the eastern end.

  “Too bad they didn’t keep the sixteen thousand foot runway open. You roll off the end of that, all you’re going to tear up are prairie dog towns and a few fences.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Seven Months before – January 21st

  Regal 12

  With the good news that the conga line of snow plows was now off the runway, Denver Approach passed the unwelcome information that the visibility conditions for Runway 7 were now well below legal minimums and hovering at 300 feet.

  “Denver, we’re going to make this a Category 3B approach,” Marty replied, referring to the high-precision approach procedure that would let a crew fly to fifty feet above the concrete before seeing the runway and landing.

  “Regal, that runway is not certified for a Cat-3.”

  “We have no choice, Denver. Please ask tower to turn up all the lights to the highest step but be ready to bring them down if we ask at the last minute.”

  “Roger, Twelve. Turn right now to zero four five degrees, intercept the localizer at seven thousand, and you’re cleared for the approach. Tower is coming up this frequency so just stay with me.”

  Mountaineer 2612

  Living with the seismic bouncing of the Beech fuselage and the occasion screech of torn metal was becoming familiar, or perhaps she was just going numb. Michelle kept forward pressure on the control yoke and had become used to her feet on the rudder pedals as they vibrated and shook, the still-intact rudder of the regional aircraft’s fuselage being battered by the roiled airflow over the 757’s wing.

  There was something new, however, and she had tried to convince herself that it was just hypersensitivity…but it was real. Almost a rotating moment, as if the aircraft was trying to rotate left just a bit.

  As an almost unconscious remedy Michelle held her feet firmly on the vibrating rudder pedals.

  With no warning a deafening screech was accompanied by a severe swing to the left, and in the space of a split second Michelle realized the Beech had lost the connection of torn metal to torn metal on the left side, and was now being held on by only the main gear strut on the right. She jammed her right foot on the right rudder pedal instantly, meeting the rotating force with a counter rotation back to the right, and realized with a sinking feeling that she was now reduced to flying the wreckage of her plane to stay on the wing.

  “What was that?” Luke asked, his voice squeezed by fear.

  “I’m…hard right rudder, Luke. Get your feet down there…feel it with me.”

  “I don’t understand!” he answered, wide-eyed.

  “Only thing holding us now is the right gear strut and holding her straight with the rudder. Nose down on the elevator, full right rudder. Help me, Luke! Keep flying her…we have to keep her attached.”

  Luke felt for the rudder pedals on the right, feeling the right pedal severely displace. He could feel Michelle literally flying the fuselage nose down, and now nose right, in a continuously desperate attempt to hang on.

  How long, he wondered, before the strut failed and they were in free fall?

  Of course, if that happened, both of them would try to fly it all the way to the ground, but it would be no use, and suddenly, that exact fate seemed inevitable.

  Cockpit - Regal 12

  Ryan was shifting in his seat, his hand waving slightly for Marty’s attention.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re down to two thousand five hundred pounds in the center tank,” Ryan said.

  “Understood. But she’ll automatically start feeding both engines from the left tank when we run dry, correct?”

  “Yes, the way I have it set up.”

  ‘Okay. Let’s keep the landing lights off until the last second. I’ll call for them if I need them. Here we go,” Marty said. “I’m going to hold the gear until one mile out. You concur?”

  “I do.”

  Marty had pulled into position the clear slab of blue-green glass called a combiner, adjusting it in front of his eyes. The so-called heads-up display allowed a pilot to focus outside and essentially have the airspeed and altitude and instrument landing system information all projected on the glass as if it were parading across the distant horizon. The HUD had become the essential piece of equipment for landing in near zero-zero conditions.

  “The combiner is working perfectly, Ryan, but I’m changing the normal procedure.”

  “Okay.”

  “Below two hundred feet I want your eyes out, too. Call a go around if we’re dangerously misaligned, otherwise just…help make sure we can see the concrete.”

  “Wilco.”

  “Lowering the gear shouldn’t change the pitch in any way. I’m holding two hundred thirty knots and I’m planning to just barely flare to keep the sink rate from being excessive. I’m also going to duck under the glide slope by one dot to get us on the runway as close to the approach end a
s possible.”

  “Marty, we’re seven miles out, two miles from glide slope intercept.”

  “Roger. I’ll start down…one dot low.”

  “Did we tell the other captain we’re landing?” Ryan asked.

  “She knows. She can feel it.”

  The approach controller’s voice cut the silence.

  “Regal, we show you one mile from intercept,”

  “Roger,” Ryan replied. “And you said cleared approach?”

  “Yes, sir,” the approach controller replied, “… and the tower has cleared you to land.”

  Marty took a deep breath and tried his best to concentrate. Something that had been bothering him was now raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Whatever it was, it was something overlooked, or something they hadn’t considered – but definitely the sort of thing he would be called to account for. He tried again to push the rising feeling out of his mind, but it kept circling his consciousness, like a defiant horsefly.

  “Glide slope intercept, one dot low,” Ryan intoned. Marty had pulled the thrust levers back slightly, watching the airspeed with laser-like intensity as they started exchanging altitude for reduced power to keep the same speed.

  “Should we ask for the current RVR?” Ryan asked.

  “It’s immaterial. We’re landing regardless,” Marty answered, pulling the thrust levers a bit more as the airspeed tried to increase.”

  “Four miles out, Marty.”

  “Got it.”

  What the hell am I forgetting? Marty’s brain again demanded, and once more there were no answers, just the clucking of some distant part of his mind that he would deeply regret ignoring.

  “Three miles, holding one dot low, on speed,” Ryan intoned.

  “Stand by for the gear at one mile.”

  “Standing by. Five hundred feet to go, Marty. No decision height.”

  “Roger.”

  “Coming up on two miles to the runway, on speed, on glide slope minus one.”

  “Roger.”

  “Four hundred above and one mile,” Ryan was saying.

  “Gear down,” Marty commanded, as Ryan’s hand moved the lever downward, starting the hydraulic sequence that lowered the huge main gear trucks and the nose gear into place.

  Whatever had been eating at him loomed suddenly as one of the most profound warnings he had ever ignored, and this time it refused to go away. A very insistent part of his mind screamed “Go Around!” and finally, at a radar altimeter reading of 190 feet above the terrain, the last tumbler between nuance and reality fell into place.

  “GEAR UP!” Marty commanded.

  “What?”

  “Going around. Gear Up! Tell the tower.”

  Marty nursed the throttles forward while pulling gently to arrest the descent of the big jet at 120 feet, starting a shallow climb.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Ryan demanded, eyes wide.

  “Tell them we’re on the go!”

  Ryan froze for a few microseconds before realizing that a protest over how little fuel they had was now too late. The runway was zipping by unseen beneath them, and with it, it felt like their last chance was slipping away.

  “Denver, Regal Twelve is…ah…on the go,” Ryan said as ordered.

  “Roger, Twelve. Climb straight ahead to seven thousand. What are your intentions?”

  Unaware that his finger had once again pressed the transmit button, Ryan’s thoughts found voice: “I wish the hell I knew!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Present Day – September 3

  The neatly dressed man in a crisp white shirt and well-cut blue suit was a far cry from the disheveled and disillusioned pilot who had plopped down in the firm’s main conference room months before with radioactive toxicity. That version of Marty Mitchell had been a study in smoldering anger and determined, martyred defeat. This version was ready for battle and, if not full of confidence, at least focused on what must be done. His fist-shaking rage atop the mountain had been a primal scream at the loss of his integrity, but without really wanting to admit it to himself, it had been Judith’s caring and determination that had restored the possibility of vindication…however remote. “When everything is black and you see a flicker of light, you follow it – no matter how far and faint it is,” he had explained.

  And that, Judith Winston thought, looking at her client, was a significant victory, and something she could be proud of, however this mess turned out.

  She hesitated for a second, watching him from across the office through the glassed walls of the conference room as she organized her thoughts. Since the Long’s Peak incident and the visits to his hospital room, the contentious barriers between them had slowly dissolved. Even last week’s meeting at the same conference table – a grueling all-day affair to go over every minute detail of the case, the crash, and the critical aspects of the upcoming trial – had been devoid of the fulminating anger at the system that had marked their early meetings. He was still unable to laugh easily – to shed the appearance of a man quietly spooked and ready to run. But at times she had managed to elicit a few genuine smiles.

  Judith moved easily into the room, quietly pleased that Marty’s gentlemanly upbringing brought him to his feet as she motioned him back down.

  “I…dusted off an old suit,” he said, a bit self-consciously.

  “Doesn’t look old to me!” she replied, taking a more detailed look. “Perfect. Quite professional and right for the courtroom.”

  “I thought about wearing my airline uniform,” he added.

  “So did I,” she said, tilting her head. “I’m still mulling over whether that could be interpreted as somehow arrogant or inflammatory. Or it might just focus the jury on the gravity of the situation. You know, you’re not just someone they call a pilot. Here sits a uniformed airline captain with all his experience and gravitas. And, after all, Regal has yet to fire you, therefore it’s not misrepresentation.”

  “Regal would be apoplectic.”

  “Fuck ‘em.”

  He hesitated, smiling slowly at her response. “So… bottom line… you’re not sure about me wearing the formal uniform?” Marty asked.

  She sat down next to him in one of the high-backed leather swivel chairs.

  “Frankly, no. Before we decide, though, I want to consult a friend who does big criminal cases. Actually, I’ve been consulting with her quite a bit to make sure I…don’t screw this up in any way.” A ripple of apprehension twittered down Judith’s spine at the thought that she’d just admitted what every aspect of her prior demeanor had been designed to refute: That criminal defense was neither her familiar territory not an area in which her confidence level was unassailably high. Self-doubt was one thing they both had in common.

  “I appreciate that,” he said, looking down at the table where his fingers were drumming softly. He looked back up. “Judith, I know this is a stretch for you…not your native turf. And I know the damned judge wouldn’t let you withdraw from the case. ”

  She started to protest that she was well prepared now, but something in his eyes told her it was unnecessary, and he’d already raised the palm of his hand to stop her.

  “You’re a damn good corporate lawyer, which means you’re a damn good lawyer, period. You don’t need to say any more. I truly appreciate what you’re doing for me.”

  “Thank you.”

  He cleared his throat, as if to disavow the heartfelt nature of the statement.

  “Speaking of the stupid judge, what happened this morning to our motions?”

  She glanced past him for a second as if taking in what was happening in the reception area, then looked back.

  “It’s more the damned DA than the judge, and of course Grant Richardson was there himself, full of restrained outrage at the mer
e idea that I would dare file a motion to quash the indictment, let alone a motion to dismiss.”

  “I take it both were rejected?”

  “Yes, but…the judge said something interesting, something that makes me think he isn’t rubber stamping the idea that criminal charges are legal in a case like this.”

  Marty was leaning forward. “Tell me.”

  “He said that, without reference to any future appeal, there was a societal interest in determining whether a purposeful act by a captain in discharging official duty constituted even a prima facie case of premeditation sufficient to support a murder charge. In other words, he gave voice to one of my main arguments, that the legislature never meant for the premeditated aspect of murder to include a captain’s decision. Richardson tried to bat it down, but it was there and on the record. It won’t stop the trial, but it’s very well written.”

  “Is my union doing anything?”

  Judith shook her head. “Just monitoring. Someone will be in the courtroom, and they’ll file a friend of the court brief, an “amicus” brief – if we lose and have to appeal. But they’re confused. This isn’t a case of prosecuting a pilot for making a mistake, which always lights a torch under their tails. This is alleging criminal responsibility because you knew the consequences if you didn’t slow down, and you decided not to slow down anyway. Where the union guys jump the track and glaze over is when we talk about Regal’s attempt to intimidate you. The DA says it doesn’t matter, and that this case is not about you following orders, because as a captain in an emergency you don’t have to. It’s about you having been provided the indisputable information of what would happen if you did Plan A versus Plan B, and, knowing the consequences, you still decided to go with Plan A. Since Plan A included a high probability of killing someone, that’s where the theory of premeditated or purposeful murder comes in.”