John Nance - Headwind

The controller swallowed hard and looked over at his supervisor. “Alert DIA to get the fire trucks ready to look for touchdown short of runway nine left.”

“Okay.”

“He might still make it.”

The supervisor picked up the tie-line handset without comment and punched the appropriate buttons.

Captain Swanson took the unexpected call from the foreign minister of Italy at his desk, where he’d been sitting in thought, rubbing his eyes and wondering if there was anything else he should be doing to defuse the situation on his ramp.

“Yes, sir?”

“Commander Swanson?”

“Captain, actually.”

“Very well. This is Giuseppe Anselmo, and this call has never happened.”

“Ah, you mean this is completely off the record?”

“If that’s the correct phrase.”

“Very well, sir. Go ahead.”

“I will be brief. I am aware that you know all the appropriate names. Mr. Campbell’s representatives have been at the home of one of our highest judges asking that our interpretation of the lease on your base be changed to include immediate Italian jurisdiction over the flight line.”

“Yes?” Swanson said with a sinking feeling.

“The judge is considering his request. We have no control over that, any more than you control your courts in the United States.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. If the captain of that aircraft wants to leave Italy, will you protest?”

“That’s a diplomatic question, Captain,” Anselmo replied with a chuckle. “A military officer should not be so astute. Let me answer in this manner. As of this moment, no request for an air traffic clearance for that aircraft would be handled in any other manner than normal and routine. In other words, the government of Italy has no interest in blocking or interfering with air traffic at Sigonella at this moment.”

“But… if the judge rules otherwise…”

“Then we shall behave in accordance with the law, and even though our government may appeal any court order or decision, we may still have to honor it in the meantime.”

“How long, sir? When is the judge likely to rule?”

“Not until noon on the day after tomorrow. He has refused to make a decision until then, and has set this for a hearing. Nothing changes until then. After that, who knows?”

“Understood. Thank you.”

David Carmichael looked closely at the temperature gauge on the end of the vent above the dash panel and shook his head.

“What?” Jay asked.

“I was hoping it’d warm up and we could shed the ice, but there’s a temperature inversion, and it’s getting colder as we descend.”

“Five miles to go, David,” the controller was saying.

David looked at the altimeter, now reading five thousand six hundred fifty feet, the rate of descent steady at two hundred ninety. If he tried to stretch his flight path a bit farther by pulling more back pressure, he ran the risk of stalling again, and a stall so close to the ground would undoubtedly be fatal. But all he needed was to stay in the air a short distance more.

“What can I do?” Jay asked.

“Pray,” was the response.

“Four miles,” the controller told him. “You might pick up a small tailwind that will help you. Just a couple of knots.”

“Good.”

David forced his eyes around the panel as he fought through the wall of panic obscuring the other thing he knew he was forgetting. Was there anything else he could do to make the airplane fly more efficiently?

Wait a minute! He glanced at the mixture control. He had set it just after takeoff and it was partially lean, but nowhere close to maximum performance!

He reached over and pulled the knob carefully, watching the cylinder temperature gauge as he felt the power increase slightly.

“Only two miles to go, David,” the controller said, his voice utterly calm and reassuring.

The engine power suddenly diminished and David backed off on the mixture control, pushing it in slightly, his heart almost stopping before the power revved again. He pulled his hand away and returned his eyes to the gauges as the stall warning sounded momentarily, then stopped.

One hundred twenty indicated and I can’t slow! I must be carrying a ton of ice!

“One mile now, David. I show you right on centerline.”

“Roger.”

“It’s a huge runway, and it should come swimming into view in just twenty seconds or so.”

There was nothing but gray in front of the windscreen.

“Can’t I do anything?” Jay asked.

“Yeah,” David replied. “Look hard. It’ll show up just ahead of us.”

“I see fuzzy lights!” Jay replied. “They just appeared.”

Splotches of red and white and something flashing furiously swam into view just ahead of the aircraft, and visions of setting the Cessna down in a tangle of steel approach light towers sent yet another shudder through David as he worked to resist the tendency to pull back on the yoke, a move that would instantly stall the airplane and kill them for certain.

“Half a mile to go,” the controller said.

David couldn’t force himself to push the transmit button to answer. All his concentration was focused on keeping the airspeed precisely the same, the airplane aligned, and praying they’d stay clear of the metal approach light structures that were reaching up to grab his airplane, closer and closer with every second. All he could see ahead were the approach lights, the sequential strobes leading him forward, the galaxy of lights steadily flattening.

We’re not going to make it! he felt himself think, rejecting the idea in the same microsecond.

The last approach light tower was just ahead, coming up at him, the lights bright and threatening, the metal structure unyielding and unforgiving to the thin skin of a Cessna. If the landing gear snagged those…

And just as suddenly they were past the structure with concrete coming up at them and the runway visible ahead of them, the main wheels of the 172 passing just two feet over the lip of the runway’s threshold before David yanked the yoke back to break the descent. The aircraft shuddered, the wings losing the battle to stay airborne with the wheels less than six inches off the pavement.

And suddenly they were rolling down the runway after a bone-jarring touchdown.

David found the top of the rudder pedals with his toes and pressed forward to apply the brakes, wondering why the pedals were shaking before realizing his feet were doing the vibrating, propelled by a bloodstream full of adrenaline.

There was a turnoff just ahead and he guided the little Cessna toward it, remembering at the same moment the Denver controller who was probably not breathing.

“Denver… ah… we’re down okay. We’re on the runway.”

The transmitter came on without a voice, but he and Jay could hear cheering in the background at Denver Center and a long sigh on the controller’s headset microphone.

“Understood, David. Great job,” he said simply.

“You, too,” David managed. “Thank you, sir.”

“No problem. Turn off when you can. Call Denver ground now on one one nine point two, and we’ll give them back their airport.”

Sherry Lincoln punched off the GSM cell phone and looked up at the starfield above Sigonella as she stood on the small platform topping the portable airstairs. She’d stepped out into the night for better reception, but the air had cooled considerably and she was shivering now in the light breeze.