John Nance: 16 Souls

“Okay.”

“Can we fly?”

“We are flying.”

“I mean, can we get us both down okay?”

Marty looked around, recognizing the all but feral panic in the young man’s eyes.

“We’ll do out best, Ryan.”

“I mean… I mean… Captain, there are people alive out there!’

Seven Months before — January 21 st

Denver TRACON (Terminal Radar Control Facility)

Denver Approach Controller Jerry LaBlanc responded to Regal 12’s midair report by raising the tie line to his ear — the connection with Mountaineer’s cell phone — hoping for audible confirmation that the regional was still airborne and talking and perfectly okay. He could feel himself praying for reassurance with the same desperation of a gambler hoping for a jackpot with his last dollar.

But Regal had overrun Mountaineer’s faint radar return, and now there was only the 757 on Sandy’s datascreen. And there was the possibility they’d screwed it up somehow as controllers, and that was unacceptable.

“Mountaineer, you still with me?” Jerry asked, his voice clearly strained. The line seemed open but all he could hear in the background was… something. Noise. No voices. Like the phone was being banged around. “Mountaineer, do you copy Denver?”

He was standing partly behind and beside Sandy Sanchez who was hunched over his control position. Sandy’s eyes were riveted on Regal 12’s datablock, his voice issuing the same instruction as a moment before. “Regal Twelve, turn right now to a heading of zero nine zero degrees. Descend to and maintain nine thousand.”

It seemed suddenly cold in the darkened control room.

“He said the word ‘midair,’ right?” Jerry asked, bending down slightly.

Sandy jerked around, startled. “What?”

“He said he’d hit someone?” Jerry LaBlanc insisted.

“Yes!” Sandy replied, taking in the tie line still held to Jerry’s ear. “Do you still have Mountaineer on the line?”

“No… well, I’m not sure.”

Two other supervisors had silently gathered behind them, listening intently.

“I’ve lost his skin paint, and…” Sandy added, his words hanging in agonizing limbo between them, as if finishing the sentence might doom the little turboprop by making the midair real.

Regal 12 broke the icy silence. “Ah… Denver, I’m… having a struggle up here just flying straight, but I’ll start a slow turn to the right to zero-nine-zero. I… ah… did you clear us to nine thousand?”

“Affirmative, Regal Twelve. And please say fuel and souls on board.”

Somewhere inside Sandy knew he was snapping off the routine questions and instructions in order to force the situation itself back to a controllable routine. By the numbers. Get them back by the numbers.

Regal 12 was transmitting again, the voice hesitant and distracted, and almost irritated. “I… the fuel is… I don’t have time right now. When I can, I’ll… read that to you. Our dispatcher knows.”

“What’s your status, Regal?” Sandy insisted. “Are you controllable?”

Each question was followed by a deep silence like the agonizing wait for more clues after a scream in the dark. But each time as Jerry Lablanc was sure he’d have to intercede — grab a headset and say something — Regal 12’s transmitter clicked on again.

“Having a struggle because the right wing’s lost… ah… you know, lift, and… we’ve got all that extra weight out there.”

Sandy Sanchez glanced around at Jerry, searching for help in translating the pilot’s words, but there wasn’t any. Extra weight? He snapped his gaze back to the datablock as if his concentration alone could help the apparently stricken Boeing.

“You’ve lost what , Regal? Your right wing, or… I mean, lift? What’s wrong with your right wing?”

More silence. One of the supervisors was urgently reporting the situation into another tie line alerting a wider circle. Jerry was still pressing the receiver to his ear, almost sure now he heard what sounded like voices among the background noise, and maybe even voices yelling somewhere distant.

“Roger, Approach,” the Regal pilot resumed, “…we’ve got the weight of the other airplane out there, and… I’m having a struggle holding us level.”

“What does he mean, ‘weight of the other plane’?” one of the supervisors asked as they all looked at each other. But Sandy Sanchez’ voice was already asking.

“Regal Twelve, you mean the damage done to your right wing by a collision is giving you control problems? You say you’re controllable and want to return to Denver International immediately, correct?”

One of the supervisors behind Jerry LaBlanc held his hand over a receiver and leaned into the group. “There are no reports of a crash in the vicinity of Broomfield. Mountaineer was over Broomfield when you lost him, right?”

“You mean he might still be airborne?” another asked, as Jerry motioned for quiet.

“Regal Twelve, Denver Approach. I need to know what you want, sir, and I need to understand what’s going on with your right wing so we can assist.”

This time the transmitter came alive with a cockpit conversation — a shrill voice in the background answered by the pilot working the radio.

“………pretty mangled up.”

“ In our airplane?”

“Oh God! What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to make an emergency landing. Get the cabin prepared .”

Their transmitter clicked off and Sandy stabbed at his transmit button

“Regal Twelve, Denver Approach, we… heard part of that exchange and copy you need to make an emergency landing. But… I’m still unclear on the nature of the problem on your right wing?”

The pilot’s voice came back solo this time, more forceful than before, as if he’d finally gained control over the situation.

“Okay, Denver, I haven’t seen it myself… my crew tells me we have the fuselage of a smaller airplane imbedded on top of our right wing from the collision, and that the occupants of that aircraft are apparently alive.”

For a few heartbeats the collection of controllers in Denver Tracon stood in frozen silence, their minds trying to pull from the varied richness of their aviation experience an image of what had just been described.

But there was no image, and no precedent.

Sandy turned to the others briefly, reading the disbelief on each face as confirmation he’d have to figure it out himself.

“Regal, is the other airplane intact?”

“If you mean, can it fly if it falls off? No. Their left wing is gone, or mangled, or something.”

“Roger… what are… I mean… how can we help you?”

The silence rose to a crescendo before Regal’s transmitter cut in again.

“Just… ah… vectors, Denver, to the longest runway you’ve got at DIA.”

Sandy glanced at a note that had been slid in front of him. Denver International had lost the battle trying to keep a second runway open. Runway Two-Six was now closed and they were down to one useable strip of concrete, but the bad news went on: DIA says they may have to close part of the remaining runway in two hours if the snowfall continues at this rate.

There was no point in reading the second part to Regal, Sandy figured. They were going to get him on the ground before then anyway.

“Regal, ah… Regal Twelve, Denver Approach. That’ll be Runway Two-Five. All other runways closed by snow.”

“All twelve thousand feet available on Runway Two-Five?”

“Roger, Regal Twelve. The entire runway is available.”

For now, he thought.