Thomas Scott - Voodoo Daddy

October, 1987

Indianapolis, Indiana

Nine people have less than sixty seconds to live. They are strangers to each other, but death will unite them in a way life never did. From the time it becomes apparent that they are among the helpless and doomed, a span of only a few seconds, some will hunch their backs and cover their faces with their hands as if to shield their eyes from a sight that must surely belong to someone else. Some will not utter a sound as they remain defiant of their immediate fate, while others will remain oblivious to the end, their bodies turned away from death in ignorance as their clocks come to an end on a final tick or a tock they otherwise would have never bothered to notice, much less count.

Some will scream.

Together they will die in what the media will later call, among other things, a ‘horrific and largely unavoidable tragedy.’ In the aftermath investigations will take place, witnesses will be interviewed, evidence will be examined, blame will be assigned, lawsuits will be filed, stories will be written, and groundless accusations will fly. All of that will follow what happens less than a minute from now.

Nine people have fifty seconds to live.

Eight of the nine people stand in the lobby of the Airport Ramada Inn at the Indianapolis International Airport. Six are guests waiting to settle their account and check out of the hotel. Two are hotel employees. The remaining victim is a taxi driver dispatched to the hotel to take one of the waiting guests across the street to the departure area. Were it not for the weather this October morning-patchy fog and a persistent mist-the hotel guest could have easily walked to the departure area instead of taking a cab. Had the weather cooperated and the passenger decided to walk, the record would show only eight deaths this October morning and the cabbie might still be alive today. But weather rarely cooperates, bitch that she often is, and so the cabbie makes nine.

Nine people now have thirty seconds to live.

One of the hotel guests at the front of the line is disputing a charge on his itemized bill. The hotel clerk tries to reverse the charge but fails in her efforts to do so. The computer tells her she needs authorization from the manager to complete this task. She tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear and smiles at the man on the guest side of the counter and informs him the manager is on the way. The man consults his watch and smiles back at the pretty red-headed woman. He wonders how old she is. He notices the name badge on her jacket. Sara. He also notices the plain silver wedding band on her finger and feels his face flush just a bit as she catches his silent inquiry of her marital status. He clears his throat and then glances at his watch once again. He tells her it’s alright. He has plenty of time.

He is, of course, mistaken.

Nine people now have only twenty seconds to live. Somewhere overhead, the sound of an aircraft’s jet engine can be heard. But the sound is ignored by the people in the lobby the way one learns to ignore such sounds. It is an airport, after all.

The hotel manager appears from her office around the corner from the reception area, greets the guest at the front of the line by name, then offers her apologies at the delay as she inputs her approval code into the computer. From the time she comes around the corner, inputs the code and reverses the charge, a mere eighteen seconds have elapsed.

It has already started. The cabbie sees it.

In two seconds nine people are going to die.

Captain Hewitt McConnell, USAF, needs his three and three. Three take-offs and three landings within thirty days to stay current. He isn’t due to fly this day, except one of the pilots in the rotation has called off sick, so that bumps McConnell up one spot in the line. He sits on the corner of the desk in the ready room, the way pilots do, and listens to his commander’s final instructions before heading out to the flight line at Grissom Air Force Base, in Peru, Indiana.

“We’ve been having a little trouble with some of the new fuel control units, Captain. Be sure you’ve got a steady state of fuel flow before you depart. I don’t want anything going wrong on a simple three and three.”

“Don’t worry, Major,” says Captain McConnell. “I’ll keep it right side up.”

“See that you do, Captain. You’re loaded with two five-hundred pounders. They’re dummies, but try not to lose them.” He smiles at his own joke. “Call sign today is ‘Voodoo.’ Designation is Solo, flight of one. Report back to me upon return.” The Major tosses a casual salute to Captain McConnell who returns it in kind. He walks away to leave the pilot to his pre-flight routine.

Captain McConnell files his flight plan, then walks out across the tarmac at Grissom Air Force Base and climbs aboard the A-7D Corsair jet. The ground crew members remove the ladder and un-chock the wheels as Captain McConnell starts the jet’s massive engine and runs through his pre-taxi checklist. He pays special attention to the fuel flow meter but sees nothing out of the ordinary. He pulls the canopy shut, checks that the latch is secure and then keys the microphone button on the joystick, his voice calm, detached. “Grissom Clearance, Voodoo Solo, how copy?”

“Five by five, Voodoo Solo. Clearance when ready.”

“Go.”

“Voodoo Solo, you are cleared back to Grissom AFB via direct Indianapolis, direct Fort Wayne, then direct. Contact ground and have a safe flight.”

“Roger that clearance, Grissom AFB via direct Indy, direct Fort Wayne, then direct. So long.” Captain McConnell reaches down and twists a dial to switch frequencies then keys the microphone again. “Grissom Ground Control, Voodoo Solo, ready for taxi.”

“Good morning Voodoo Solo, this is Grissom Ground Control. Taxi to runway 23 via Gulf, then Alpha. Hold short and contact the tower when ready.”

“23 via Gulf then Alpha. Hold short, tower at the end. Voodoo solo.”

Captain McConnell bumps the power lever forward just enough to get the big jet rolling along the apron. He performs his pre-flight checks on the roll and when he approaches the end of the runway he stops short of the hold line as instructed by the ground controller and switches over to the tower frequency. “Grissom Tower, Voodoo Solo, holding short of runway 23 at Alpha, ready for departure.”

“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower, good morning, sir. Winds are one-eight-zero at one four, gusting to two three. Fly runway heading, climb and maintain three thousand feet. Cleared for take off.”

Captain McConnell bumps the throttle again and gets the plane rolling. “Roger Grissom Tower. Any chance for an unrestricted to ten?” McConnell knew the after-burners would eat through the fuel, but with both tanks filled to capacity he could afford a little fun, and there was nothing quite like pouring on the power and pointing the nose straight up.

“Voodoo Solo, disregard previous clearance, taxi into position and hold. I’ll check with departure. Repeat, position and hold.”

“Position and hold. Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell positions his A-7D Corsair along the center line of the runway and runs the engine up to fifty percent power while he waits for the tower controller. The fuel flow holds steady. He pushes the throttle to one-hundred percent and feels the aircraft strain against its brakes, but the fuel flow looks fine. Maintenance might be having trouble with the flow control units, but this one appears to be operating just as it should. When the jet starts to slide a bit against the power output, Captain McConnell backs the throttle down to twenty-five percent. As he does the radio chirps in his ear. It distracts him from the fuel flow meter and he misses the waggle the needle makes as the engine spools down.