Free End of Enemies by Grant Blackwood Page B

got him, he will talk. How long he holds out is the only question.”
    â€œAnd the network?”
    â€œWe’d have to assume it’s blown.”
    The president took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Dick, we’ve got a lot riding on this thing—on that whole damned region—and SYMMETRY is part of the big picture. You know that.”
    â€œYes, Mr. President.”
    â€œThen fix it, Dick. Whatever it takes, fix it.”

7
    La Guardia Airport, New York
    If polled, any pilot, military or civilian would ran takeoff and landing as the worst times for an in-flight emergency. These are times when the plane and its crew are performing their most complex functions, from braking to throttle adjustments to glide-path trimming. It’s also the time when aircraft is most vulnerable, those moments when it’s poised between being a 125-ton aircraft and a lumbering 125-ton bus with wings.
    A former Thud driver in Vietnam, Carl Hotchkins was a seventeen-year veteran of the airline industry, the last five of which he’d spent in aircraft just like this 737. Today he was carrying 104 passengers, most returning from vacation in Kingston, Jamaica, and Orlando, Florida.
    Crossing the runway threshold at 120 feet, Hotchkins was easing back on the throttle when the explosion came. In the cockpit it sounded like a dull crump, but Hotchkins instinctively knew what it was.
    The blast had ripped a hole in the aluminum fuselage just below and aft of the port wing. Fire and shrapnel tore into the passenger cabin, most of it directed upward, but some of it engulfing the passengers on the right side of the aisle. Those opposite them tumbled, still buckled into their seats, through the gaping hole. At the wing root, shrapnel ripped open a pair of fluid lines, both of which immediately began gushing.
    Hotchkins reacted instantly. Even as the 737 heeled over, he throttled down and punched a button that immediately sealed the fuel system. With his airspeed dropping rapidly, the landing gear down, and less than sixty feet of air between them and the Tarmac, his first concern was leveling the aircraft. If he could do that, the 737 could almost drop out of the sky, and they’d still have a fair chance of survival.
    â€œTower, this is Delta nineteen alpha declaring emergency,” Hotchkins radioed.
    â€œRoger, Delta, we see you. Emergency crews rolling. Luck.”
    Hotchkins switched to intercom. “Flight crew, prepare for emergency landing.”
    â€œFuel leak, Carl, port side system,” called the copilot. “Hydraulic malfunction, port side system. The wing took most of it.”
    â€œYeah,” Hotchkins grunted, struggling with the yoke. “Altitude?”
    â€œFifty feet … coming level.”
    â€œMore flap. Landing gear?”
    â€œStarboard and nose are down and locked. … Shit! Port side’s shows half.”
    â€œRight,” Hotchkins said, and thought: Gotta assume we’re streaming fuel. One spark and we’re gone. And they were going to spark when mat gear collapsed.
    The Tarmac loomed before the windshield. Forty feet, Hotchkins judged—ten seconds. Out the side window, he glimpsed fire trucks racing down the opposite runway, their lights flashing and sirens warbling.
    â€œWe’re still losing fuel,” said the copilot.
    That decided it. Their best chance was to lay the wing into the grassy median; if the gear held, good, but if not, the ploy might just keep the wing off the concrete.
    â€œTower, nineteen, be advised, I’ve got a fuel leak. I’m putting her down in the grass.”
    â€œRog, Delta,” was the reply.
    â€œHelp me, Chuck. …” called Hotchkins.
    Altitude dropping through 30 feet, Hotchkins forced the 160-foot, 125-ton Boeing laterally through the air toward the median. Hotchkins eyed the blue border lights as they whipped under the wing. Almost there … steady … steady