16 SOULS Read online

  CHAPTER SIX

  Seven Months before – January 21st

  Air Traffic Control Tower, Denver International Airport

  “Regal Twelve, Denver Ground. Runway Two-Six is now closed. You’re cleared to Runway Two-Five via Taxiway Golf. Caution, snow removal men and equipment off to the east of Golf.”

  “Roger,” the unseen pilot reported, his tone slightly more cheerful than the situation justified. “Regal Twelve is cleared to Runway Two-Five via Golf.”

  The shift supervisor in Denver International’s control tower had been pulled into the ground control position when two of his controllers couldn’t get to the airport. Now it was getting irritating with the airport progressively losing control of the blizzard’s assault. The last straw was hearing one of his controllers replace the approach control tie line and announce that one of the regional flights was coming back.

  “Who?” Jimmy Toulon asked, a bit too sharply. Too much time in the office and too little in a control position meant his temper was unduly short.

  “It’s Mountaineer 2612. He can’t get his gear to retract. Tracon wanted to bring him back to Two-Six, but...”

  “Runway Two-Five is all we got.”

  “They already know.”

  “But,” Jimmy added, “Tell Tracon to give me at least ten minutes to clear out these other departures.”

  “Will do.”

  The controller picked up the tie line again as Jimmy struggled to make out the fuzzy lights through the snow obscuring almost all the visibility from the tower cab. The ground radar was the basic tool they had in situations this bad, and he was appreciative of how easy it now was to see the data block of each moving aircraft.

  The voice of the snow removal boss came through his headset at the same moment.

  “Tower, be advised, if it keeps up at this rate, we’ve got, tops, an hour before we’re going to have to give up on Two Five between Bravo Four and Golf.”

  Great! Jimmy thought. We’ll be down to nine thousand feet of slick concrete on one remaining runway.

  Complete closure of the airport before 10 pm was a real possibility.

  Several floors below in the Terminal Approach Control Radar room the computer-generated blip representing the Beech 1900 regional airliner known as Mountaineer 2612 had completed the course reversal ordered two minutes before. The controller issued a turn for an inbound British Air Boeing 777 before refocusing her thoughts on Mountaineer. He was doing around a hundred fifty knots with the gear hanging out, but he’d undoubtedly have enough fuel, and the tower wanted an extra ten minutes, so...

  I’ll bring him northwest past the airport, then I’ll turn him east, she decided. “Mountaineer Twenty-six-twelve, Denver Approach, turn left now Three-two-zero, maintain twelve thousand.”

  “Roger, Mountaineer Twenty-six-twelve, left to Three-two-zero, maintain twelve.”

  The controller mentally acknowledged Mountaineer’s compliance and focused on the approaching 777. “Speedbird Sixty-two, cleared ILS Runway Two-Five now, contact Denver Tower One-three-two-point-three-five.”

  “Speedbird Six-two, cleared approach, Tower on One-three-two-point-three-five. Cheerio, ma’am.”

  She started to respond in kind, then stopped herself. Too much competing traffic and a rapidly deteriorating airport for casual exchanges. Keeping the picture was more important than radioed niceties, even though she always loved acknowledging the professionalism of the British crews.

  In the tower cab, Jimmy Toulon verified the position of the outbound Regal 757 and issued the directive to contact the tower controller standing next to him. He heard the pilot acknowledge in that same too-happy voice and wondered why it irritated him so.

  The controller in the tower position issued the takeoff clearance along with the standard warnings about slick concrete and poor braking action, and Jimmy noticed the electronic blip begin moving down the east-west runway as the big Boeing accelerated to flying speed and lifted off to the west.

  In many ways, he envied the pilots climbing out of a storm. In thirty minutes they’d be miles above the weather and looking at stars, and he’d still be in the middle of an arctic blizzard, all his instincts on red alert against anyone making a mistake. A complete airport shutdown would be a relief. Nights like this really worried him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Seven Months before – January 21st

  Regal 12

  Marty Mitchell glanced over at the copilot, wondering why he hadn’t reacted.

  “Ryan? I said flaps up, set Two-Ten.”

  “Oh! Sorry!” Ryan Borkowsky replied, hurriedly raising the flap handle before reaching for the dial on the forward panel to set the airspeed for the autothrottle system. “Flaps up and setting Two-Hundred-Ten.”

  There was nothing but snow streaking past the cockpit windows now, the lights of Denver lost in the surreal streams as the tower controller handed them off to the departure controller. Marty was still flying it manually, holding his altitude at fourteen degrees nose up as they climbed.

  “Regal One Two, contact departure now, One-Twenty-Three-Five.”

  “Regal one-two to one-two-three-five,” Ryan responded. “Have a great night,” he added, changing the radio frequency. “Denver departure, your friendly Regal Twelve with you, climbing through seven for eight thousand.”

  “Regal twelve, radar contact. Turn right, Three-Two-Zero degrees, climb to and maintain nine thousand.”

  “Roger, cleared to nine,” he said turning to Marty. “One to go, Cap-i-tán.”

  Marty nodded, ignoring the copilot’s attempt at humor. It was grating on his concentration.

  “Passing eight thousand for nine thousand,” Marty confirmed, reaching out to rotate a small knob on the forward panel to bring the target to 9,000 feet. He clicked on the autopilot and verified that it was set up to capture the new altitude as a melodic chime confirmed they were one thousand feet below level off. He glanced up at the same moment, confirming all the 757’s anti-ice systems were working, porting 300 degree centigrade hot air from the engines to the leading edges of the wings and tail, and the forward lips of both engines.

  The big jet began automatically shallowing its climb to level at 9,000 feet as the controller returned, his voice a rapid-fire series of instructions intertwined with each reply from the various flights he was handling.

  “Frontier Sixty-Two, right turn now to Zero-Eight-Zero degrees, descend to and maintain one-two thousand.”

  There was a sudden loud squeal and heavy static in their headsets as two radios tried to transmit at the same time. The squeal diminished but didn’t disappear.

  “Frontier Sixty-two, Zero-Eight-Zero and one-two thousand.”

  “All flights, we have a stuck mic on the frequency…please check your radios,” the controller said. “Alaska Eighteen, right turn now to One-Eight-Zero, descend to nine thousand.”

  “Ah, Alaska Eighteen, say again approach? Lot of noise in the background.”

  “Roger, Alaska Eighteen. Turn right now to One-Eight-Zero, and descend to nine thousand.”

  “Roger, Alaska Eighteen down to nine thousand and right turn to One-Eight-Zero, correct?”

  “Affirmative, Alaska.”

  The squeal and static on the frequency was intensifying, and the controller was seriously considering shifting everyone to a different frequency if it continued. A scratching and voices could be heard in the background, characteristic of a microphone stuck in the transmit position.

  The controller tried again: “Everyone on frequency, we have a stuck mic…please check your transmit buttons. Break, Mountaineer Twenty-Six-Twelve, maintain one-one thousand.”

  “Denver, Twenty-Six twelve is level one-two thousand. You want us at one-one?”

  “Say again, Twenty-Six Twelve?”
/>   “Affirmative. You want us to descend?”

  Ah, Twenty-Six Twelve, negative. Break, Regal Twelve, continue your climb to one-two thousand, correction, one-one thousand.”

  Ryan punched the transmit button.

  “Regal One-Two climbing to one two...one…one two thousand.”

  Marty pressed a finger to his earpiece and glanced toward the copilot. “Was that one-two thousand?”

  Ryan returned the glance with a confused expression as he reached for the altitude knob.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Was that one-two, or one-one?”

  “That was for one-two,” he replied, hesitating before dialing 12000 into the window as Marty watched to verify it. “There’s another flight they’re descending to one-one, but there’s so much damned noise with that stuck mic…”

  The 757 responded obediently, continuing the climb as the controller’s voice returned, apparently dealing with a precautionary emergency.

  “Mountaineer Twenty-Six Twelve, do you need the equipment?”

  “Ah, negative, approach. We just can’t retract our gear. It’s down and locked.”

  Suddenly the stuck mic disappeared and the frequency returned to the normal quiet between transmissions.

  “Mountaineer Twenty-Six Twelve, please say fuel remaining and souls on board.”

  “We’ve got four thousand pounds of fuel and sixteen souls on board, including the crew.”

  “Okay, Twenty-Six Twelve, descend now and maintain nine thousand.”

  There was no answer from the other flight, but at the same moment the mechanical voice of the traffic collision avoidance system suddenly rang through the 757’s cockpit.

  “Traffic. Traffic.”

  Marty squinted at the glass display before him at the yellow tagged target ahead which just as quickly disappeared. The TCAS had fallen silent, indicating, he figured, some sort of radar ghost and not a real aircraft.

  “What was that?” Ryan asked.

  “Don’t know. I had a target ahead of us for a split second, but I didn’t see an altitude and it’s gone now. Let’s hope it stays gone,” Marty replied, his eyes riveted on the screen in front of him where the vanished target had been.

  The controller was still calling for the Mountaineer aircraft without success. “Mountaineer Twenty-Six Twelve, do you read Denver Approach? We’ve lost your transponder. If you hear Denver, turn right now to zero-nine-zero degrees.”

  On the flight deck of Mountaineer 2612, Captain Michelle Whittier was working by battery-powered lights as she stuffed a small flashlight in her mouth trying to bring at least one of the aircraft’s generators back on line.

  “What the hell happened?” her copilot was asking.

  “We lost both generators. I don’t know why. Better get out the checklist.”

  “I lost the approach controller, too. Aren’t the radios on your side supposed to still be useable on battery?”

  “Yeah...hold on.” Michelle raised the toggle switch to reconnect the left starter-generator, but it snapped off line instantly, just like the right one. Something was badly wrong. “We’ve got some sort of short. Hey, were you using number two radio?”

  “Yes. I’ll get his frequency in your radio...yours is on battery, right?”

  “Should be. Give me the checklist. Was he trying to give us a clearance when it went off?’

  “He said to descend, but it went off before I heard for sure, but I thought he was saying nine.”

  “Okay, Luke, you’ve got the aircraft. Fly cross-cockpit on my panel while I try to get him back.”

  “Twelve thousand?”

  “Yes, maintain our last assigned altitude.”

  “I think he was going to clear us to nine. I heard part of nine.”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t complete it and we didn’t acknowledge it. Our last assigned is twelve. Maintain twelve.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” the copilot said.

  “I’m not getting anything on this radio,” she said.

  “I have a cell phone,” the copilot volunteered.

  “Yeah, so do I. Good idea. We’ll try that if we can’t get him.”

  “They probably still have our skin paint on radar, but the transponder’s off if the generators are off,” the copilot added.

  The captain was already pulling out her cell phone and staring at the buttons, wondering just how to call the FAA’s Denver Tracon on a telephone. She punched in “911,” wondering if anyone would believe her.

  In the dimly lit electronic nerve center known as Denver Tracon, Sandy Sanchez had turned and motioned for his supervisor the moment it was apparent he’d lost contact with Mountaineer 2612 . There was a small knot of apprehension in the pit of his stomach as he turned to vocalize the problem.

  “Yeah, Sandy.”

  “Mountaineer Twenty-Six Twelve...I’ve lost his transponder and radio contact, but I think I still have a raw radar return. I tried to turn and descend him but that’s when I lost him.”

  “No turn on the skin paint target?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What’s the plan with Regal Twelve?” Jerry LaBlanc asked, pointing to Regal’s datablock.

  “I’m climbing him to eleven.”

  “Yeah, but he’s right behind Mountaineer, who may not stay at twelve.”

  Someone put a hand on LaBlanc’s shoulder.

  “Jerry, we’ve got the Denver police on line twenty-three wanting to know if they should patch through a call supposedly from Mountaineer.”

  “A call?”

  “Cell phone.”

  “Hell, yes! Which line?”

  “Punch up two-three and hang on.” The controller turned and motioned to an assistant halfway across the room who spoke urgently into the handset he was holding. Jerry ripped the handset out of the cradle and fingered the right button, listening to a series of clicks before a voice came through.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Is this Denver Approach?”

  “Yes! Is this Mountaineer Twenty-Six Twelve?”

  “Roger that,” Michelle Whittier responded with obvious relief. “Denver, in addition to our gear problem, we’ve now had a dual generator failure and are on thirty-minute-rated batteries and need to get down. Radios are out and transponder’s out.”

  “Say heading and altitude,” Jerry ordered.

  “Ah...still at twelve and heading three-two-zero. We need to turn for terrain.”

  “Standby...” Jerry said, turning back to Sandy. “You want to turn him...her...to zero-nine-zero and descend?”

  Sandy started to answer, but he was leaning forward, peering at the datablock for Regal Twelve.

  “What the...?”

  “What?”

  “What the hell is Regal doing?” Sandy Sanchez was stabbing at the transmit button. “Regal Twelve, say altitude!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Seven Months before – January 21st

  Regal 12

  The raw instinct in Marty Mitchell’s mind propelled by decades of experience instantly translated the controller’s tone as an emergency. If a controller was demanding their altitude, something was wrong – and the most likely cause would be a mistake.

  Marty’s eyes raked past the altimeter now showing level at 12,000 feet and he glanced at the copilot in an accusatory microsecond. Had they dialed in the wrong number somehow? Time had already dilated for Marty, whose career was on the line for any FAA violation even if his copilot had led him there.

  Is 12-thousand right? he questioned himself, vaguely remembering the exchange with the copilot as he raised a finger to keep Ryan from responding and buying further trouble. Marty hit the transmit button himself.

  “Regal Twelve is level on
e-two thousand, as instructed.”

  He released the button to listen for the answer, inwardly holding his breath, and wondering somewhere in the periphery of his consciousness what the gray shape rapidly coalescing out of the snow might be. He thought he caught a white light, then a red beacon, and in the space of a second it grew into the nightmare shape of an airplane.

  “Regal Twelve, descend immediately to eleven thousand! Acknowledge!”

  The controller’s voice was somewhere distant, trumped by the rapidly evolving nightmare before him.

  Marty’s hands grabbed the yoke by instinct, shoving violently and automatically snapping off the autopilot as he threw the big Boeing forward into a negative G maneuver trying to dive clear. But the specter was too close and a bit lower he now realized, and before he could even form the intent to yank back on the throttles and the yoke, whatever it was flashed by on the right accompanied by the bone-crushing impact of metal against metal, head-on into to the nose, an impact that threw them forward and then to the left as a flash of fire accompanied by something scraping over the top of the cockpit as the 757’s right wing collided with something big.

  There was another momentary flash of flame on the right and then nothing.

  The noise and shuddering and cacophony of warnings going off in the big Boeing’s cockpit left him nothing to do but react with an aviator’s muscle memory, his hands and feet all over the controls urging the 757 back to some form of stable flight, his eyes taking in the fact that somehow both engines were still running, and somehow they were still flying, though the big jet was yawing horribly to the right even with almost full left rudder. Something was pulling down on the right wing as if they’d lost half their lift on that side. The yoke was almost all the way over to the left, the rudder almost full to the left, and it felt like he was millimeters away from losing control.