Tim Washburn - Powerless

“We’re going to watch him over the next two hours and then release him to your care. Everything should be just fine,” the nurse says as she turns to the door.

“What’s up with the power?” Zeke asks.

“Don’t know. The whole town is without power.”

TransJet Flight 62, approaching London Heathrow Airport

Wednesday, September 29, 2:51 P.M.

Copilot Cheryl Wilson is rereading landing procedures while keeping a very close eye on the plane’s TCAS system. The Traffic Alert and Collision Avoidance System uses radar to locate the transponders of other aircraft in the area, provided the other plane has the same system installed. “I count six aircraft within range of TCAS.”

Captain Steve Henderson wipes the sleeve of his shirt across his face. “Well, that’s just fucking great. Are we clear of them?”

“Yes. Let’s hope everyone follows the normal landing procedure. Take us down to twenty thousand.”

“Descending to twenty thousand. How far are we from London?”

“About seventy miles. Maintain a heading of one-eight-zero. Are we going to maintain the normal rate of descent or do you want to steepen it?”

“Let’s go with normal descent and pray everyone else is doing the same.”

Cheryl quickly calculates their distance from the airport and writes the numbers down on the margins of the map. “Take us down to eighteen.”

“Descending to eighteen thousand.” He glances in Cheryl’s direction. “This could get dicey. I want your eyes on the sky around us in case there’s an aircraft out there with their transponder off.”

She leans forward and scans the horizon before looking back to the TCAS system. “We’re clear for now, but I have some bad news. Heavy cloud cover at about twelve thousand.”

“The good news just keeps coming.”

“You’re doing fine, Steve. You should be nearing fifteen thousand.”

Steve glances at the altimeter. “We’re at fifteen.”

“Good. Maintain your descent.” Within a minute, the plane enters the heavy cloud cover and the cabin is shrouded in whiteness.

The TCAS screen turns amber as an audible alarm announces, “Traffic… traffic.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Steve shouts. “Pull up, turn, or descend?”

“Pull up! Pull up! There’s a plane below us.”

Steve pulls on the wheel and the nose of the large plane eases up.

“Throttle up!”

While pulling on the wheel, Steve jams the throttles forward as the warning continues—“Traffic, traffic.”

Steve glances at the altitude indicator. “Where the hell is it?” The plane shudders and the light for engine four flashes red. “We’re hit! Shut four down now!”

Cheryl scrambles to kill the number four engine by cutting off the fuel supply, then strains to look out the side window. “How bad is the damage?”

The audible warning from the TCAS system goes silent, but a series of red lights on the instrument panel flashes repeatedly.

“Don’t know.” Steve’s jaw is clenched as he struggles to maintain control. “She’s a wobbly bitch. I don’t know how much longer I can keep her in the air.”

Cheryl puts a hand on his arm. “You’re doing good, Steve.”

Steve works the throttles, trying to balance engine thrust. “We have to get out of this cloud cover.” He pushes the wheel forward and the nose of the plane tips forward.

“Easy, Steve. Level off a little.”

“Find me another airport. We’re not going to make London.”

Cheryl quickly searches her map, trying to pinpoint their position. She scans the instruments, looking at the altimeter and compass heading then back to the maps.

“I found a small field near Northampton.”

“How small?” Steve says as he uses every ounce of energy to control the plane. They’re still socked in with clouds.

“The runway’s about forty-one hundred feet. I don’t know if we can make that.”

“We’re going to have to. We’ve burned off most of the fuel, so maybe. What’s my heading?”

“Come to two-one-zero. By my calculations we’re about five miles from the landing strip.” She stares at the dense whiteness surrounding them.

At thirty-two hundred feet they break through the heavy cloud cover, and both exhale an audible breath.

“You see the runway?” Steve looks out the side window, and the damage to the outermost left wing becomes apparent. “The tip of the left wing is sheared off and she’s yawing to the right. I need full flaps to bleed off some speed.”

Cheryl pushes down the handle that controls flap settings. “Full flaps. Make your heading two-three-zero. We should be about four miles from Northampton.” She points out the window. “I see the airport.”

Steve follows her outstretched hand and centers his gaze on the long strip of concrete.

“This is going to be nearly impossible. See any other traffic?”

Cheryl sweeps the horizon. “No, it looks clear. Slow and steady, Steve. We’re almost there.” Her voice is reassuring, calm.

He banks the plane in a short, right turn, lining up on the runway as Cheryl deploys the landing gear. A nasty crosswind is playing havoc with his efforts to control the wounded jet. Steve’s feet are pushing one way then the other, using the rudder to control the side-to-side drift. He eases back on the throttles. “Damn, that’s a narrow son of a bitch.” He struggles to keep the nose centered on the runway.

A computer voice in the cockpit says, “One hundred.”

“It’s wide enough,” Cheryl says. “Sit her down, nice and easy, like every other time.”

“Fifty… forty… thirty…”

The captain eases back on the throttles a little more and pulls up the nose.

“Twenty… ten…”

“C’mon, damn it.” With a squeal, the tires make contact and the nose slowly lowers, touching down. He slams the throttles to the reverse thrust position and uses both feet to stand on the brakes. Sweat is pouring down his face as the jet shudders.

“Don’t know if I can get her stopped.” His legs are Jell-O as every item not tied down in the cockpit slams against the front bulkhead.

Steve glances out the window as the rushing scenery begins to slow. His legs are locked against the pedals. “Oh shit,” he says when he glances back toward the front.

At the very end of the tarmac is a large excavator parked perpendicular to the runway, surrounded by piles of earth. The brakes howl in protest as he continues to stand on the pedals. Slowly, the giant plane loses speed.

Only a hundred feet of runway remain as the large excavator looms ever larger in the windshield. The plane jerks to a stop. Steve sucks a deep breath and hits the cutoff switches for the three remaining engines. He looks out the cockpit window to see a lone car approaching, lights flashing. He turns to look at the small cluster of industrial buildings, and for some reason the fact that all the buildings are dark registers on his subconscious.

The Oval Office

Wednesday, September 29, 3:36 P.M.

Scott Alexander is keeping an eye on the breaking news playing on the television in the Oval Office. He triggers the remote and the volume increases as the mayor of New Orleans conducts a live press conference.

“Mr. President, I’m asking for your help now. Don’t leave us stranded like your predecessor did during Katrina. We need immediate federal help. Half of the Ninth Ward is underwater and the water level is rising. Please, Mr. President, the time to act is now…”

The intercom buzzes. President Harris stabs the button.