John Nance - 16 Souls

“We may have lost one… a man toward the back… I couldn’t get a response and his head is at a strange angle. Three others are still unconscious but look okay, and people are… are…”

“Asking questions?”

He was nodding. “I told them to get on any coats they had and just wait, that we’re trying to figure it out.”

“Good.”

“Dear God, Captain, what are we going to do?”

Michelle shook her head, the hollow in the pit of her stomach a black hole. They were all freezing to death with no way to get inside the bigger aircraft, and barely attached somehow to the bigger wing, completely unable to communicate.

“Luke, did you see my cell phone? I remember now I was talking to the controller on it.”

He shook his head, his shoulders hunched against the cold soaking the thin white shirt he was wearing. She’d kept her black flight jacket on but he was struggling to pull his on now as he glanced at her feet, and remembered his pocket flashlight. It was already a painful maneuver to lean forward in the mess of the cockpit and try to look at the floor, but the cold made it far worse, and she could see his torso shaking slightly, the leather jacket laid on his seat.

“Luke, get your jacket on first.”

“It’s okay… I’m already down here.” He pushed his body forward, along her left leg, trying to get his head under the dash panel.

“See it?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Damn.”

“I have a cell phone. Want that one?”

“Yes. But get your jacket on.”

He complied finally, zipping it up against the deepening chill. It was already well below freezing in the fuselage, the battering, frozen wind sucking out all remaining heat with every passing second.

Luke fished out his cell phone and handed it to Michelle, who punched it on and once again dialed 911.

Seven Months before — January 21 st

Denver TRACON (Terminal Radar Control Facility)

A highly focused group of controllers and supervisors had closed ranks around Sandy Sanchez, one of them quietly asking whether he wanted to be relieved. After all, the supervisor thought to himself as the controller looked around at him with an uncomprehending stare, Sanchez had been the controller working both flights when the accident occurred. Most of his mind, he figured, was probably preoccupied with whether or not he’d screwed something up and caused the collision.

That’s sure as hell how I’d feel! the supervisor thought.

“No!” Sandy replied, turning back to the screen as if interrupted by an idiot. “I’m fine.”

“I just thought you might be worried about…”

“I said I’m fine! Okay? I didn’t make any mistakes here today,” Sandy fired back, noting the odd look on the supervisor’s face. He was a man who normally triggered deference if not respect wherever he went in Denver Air Traffic Control, but the discipline required to withhold the question “Are you sure?” was almost more than he could manage. The book said replace him, but he decided backing off was the best move.

Two of the assisting controllers were on various phones at the same time: a tie-line to the tower, one to airport operations, and another to Denver Center. Sandy Sanchez was still talking to Regal 12 by radio and vectoring him carefully around to the northeast, setting up a slow turn to the south and then to the west for landing on Runway 25 as fast as possible. Departures had been suspended during the emergency.

Jerry LaBlanc had been standing to one side, holding open the line to Denver International’s operational control center as the group there directed the losing battle against the worsening blizzard. He lowered the receiver now, holding the mouthpiece against his leg as he looked for an opportunity to get the others’ attention.

“Guys…” he began, realizing it would take more. One by one he reached for the shoulders of those around the seated primary controller, Sandy Sanchez, and they all paused their conversations, one of them tapping Sandy on the shoulder as well.

“What, Jerry?”

“The winds have shifted, 20 knots now from the east and we’re going to have to change to Runway Zero-Seven. But… they’re not going to plow anymore between Bravo Four and Golf intersection. They’ve got nine thousand feet of plowed surface left.”

Sandy whirled back to his scope. “Shit!” he said, studying the scope for the best way to reverse course and maneuver Regal 12 back to the west toward the mountains, giving him a wide enough berth to make a shallow turn in for landing on a truncated Runway 7.

Another ten or fifteen minutes in the air!

He relayed the news to Regal 12, not expecting the response.

“No problem, Approach. I was going to need more time anyway. I… have to figure out how to land this thing. I can’t slow her down.”

“Ah… roger, Twelve. Do you want vectors for the new runway or… do you need to hold? State your intentions.”

“To get everyone home alive, Approach. Just stand by, please.” There was an edge to the pilot’s voice, as if he was reaching his pressure saturation point. “I’m working with our company on another phone.”

“Roger, Twelve. Maintain zero… no, turn right when able to one five zero degrees and descend to eight thousand.”

“Right turn to one five zero and eight thousand, roger.”

The blip that represented the combined radar hits and transponder from Regal 12 began to shift its trajectory to the south as directed while the speed block remained constant, and Sandy watched with growing internal alarm. He was only a private pilot but he understood that in the thin air of a mile above sea level, which was Denver, airplanes flew faster over the ground for any given indicated airspeed than at lower altitudes. Damage or no damage, they couldn’t keep shoving that 757 along at just under three hundred miles per hour and expect to land anywhere. Let alone a 9,000 foot slippery runway.

“What’s he doing?” Jerry LaBlanc asked quietly, his face next to Sandy’s as another controller picked up the telephone handset and punched on an incoming call.

“I don’t know, man, but he says he can’t slow down yet.” Sandy looked up, momentarily hopeful. “What’s the ground roll distance on a 757 landing at two hundred fifty on a contaminated runway?”

Jerry was shaking his head. “Not possible. You’d need the dry lake bed at Edwards in California, and even then, your tires would probably explode.”

The third controller broke in, his eyes wide.

“Guys! I’ve got Mountaineer on the phone again!”

Present Day — August 14 th, 7:05pm

Summit of Longs Peak

Like a moviegoer struggling to reconnect to reality moments after a gripping film has ended, Marty Mitchell looked up and around, blinking, momentarily confused at the lengthening shadows on the mountaintop around him, and the incredible contrast to a 757 cockpit.

He was aware of being slightly cold, but that reality was fighting the high definition memory of his first hour with Judith Winston months before, that moment when he’d told the story of Regal 12 in such stomach-churning detail. With the National Transportation Safety Board investigators, it had been clinical and technical. With her, it had been emotional, and to a far greater extent than he’d planned.

Marty’s physical presence on the mountaintop and what he’d come here to do were mere footnotes to the intensity of that memory. It had been incredibly important to make her understand — to make her see — and he felt the burning intensity of that desperate need again as his sight returned inward.