Chapter 4 - Mayday Over the Desert
At the Los Angeles Air Route Traffic Control Center in Palmdale, California, Sector 12 was descending into chaos.
Controller Marcus Bradley stared at his high-resolution radar display, his headset clamped tight to his left ear. The little green data block labeled *AAL842* had dropped from thirty-four thousand feet like a stone dropped down a well.
“Trans-Con 842, LA Center, do you read?” Bradley said, his voice tightening. “Trans-Con 842, squawk ident. Radar contact is lost. Say altitude.”
Silence. Just the low, rushing hum of the transoceanic radio lines.
Around Bradley, other controllers stopped talking. The supervisor, a veteran named Dave Kovacs, stepped behind Bradley’s chair, his eyes fixed on the blank patch of desert airspace north of Las Vegas.
“Did he break up?” Kovacs asked under his breath. “What was his last groundspeed?”
“He was dropping at over six thousand feet a minute, Dave. He had an asymmetrical thrust signature right before the transponder went into primary mode. If he went in, he went in fast.”
Suddenly, the speaker on the console popped.
*“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. Los Angeles Center, this is Trans-Continental Flight 842, heavy.”*
Bradley slammed his finger onto the transmit bar. “Trans-Con 842! We have you! We have you loud and clear! Maintain level flight! Say your current altitude and intentions!”
The voice that came back over the frequency was not the strained, middle-aged baritone of Captain Evans. Nor was it the terrified voice of his young first officer.
It was a woman’s voice.
It was crisp, dry, and possessed a glacial, rhythmic cadence that sounded completely alien to modern commercial radio.
*“LA Center, 842 is level at one-one thousand feet,”* the woman said. *“We have suffered a catastrophic compressor disc failure on the number one engine, resulting in an uncontained rupture and total loss of Hydraulic System A. The captain is incapacitated with a suspected massive coronary. First officer is uninjured but currently experiencing acute stress response.”*
Bradley’s mouth fell open. He stared at Kovacs. Kovacs stared back at him.
“Who... who is this speaking?” Bradley asked, his finger slipping slightly on the transmit key. “Is this First Officer Jensen?”
*“Negative, Center. This is seat 14B,”* the voice responded coolly. *“My name is Pauline Sanders. I have the flight controls. We are currently heading two-seven-zero, but we are crabbing heavily due to trim limitations on the single engine. We need an immediate vector to the nearest runway capable of taking three hundred thousand pounds with zero reverse thrust on the port side.”*
“Seat... 14B?” Bradley stuttered. “Ma’am, are you a passenger? Are you an off-duty flight attendant?”
Before Pauline could reply, Mark Jensen’s voice cut in, frantic and cracking with adrenaline over the secondary radio channel:
*“Center! This is First Officer Mark Jensen! We’re in an emergency! I... I have permitted a passenger to assist at the controls, but she’s an elderly civilian! We need vectors to McCarran International immediately! Clear the airspace!”*
Pauline’s hand came down firmly across Jensen’s wrist, pinning it to the armrest. She keyed her own mic.
*“Disregard McCarran, Center,”* Pauline cut in, her voice entirely commanding. *“We do not have the rudder authority to handle the thermal updrafts coming off the Las Vegas strip with this ambient temperature. If we catch a downdraft over the city, I cannot guarantee roll stability without Hydraulic System A. We need a long, flat final with open desert overrun.”*
She paused for half a second.
*“Vector us to Nellis Air Force Base. Runway two-one left. Ten thousand feet of concrete and military arresting gear if our remaining brakes fail.”*
Jensen spun in his seat, his eyes wild with fury. “Nellis? Are you insane? Nellis is a restricted military installation! That’s the home of the Weapons School! It’s restricted airspace! You can’t just land a civilian airliner at Nellis! They’ll scramble fighters! They’ll shoot us down!”
Pauline turned her head slowly, looking Jensen dead in the eyes. Her gaze was as cold and sharp as chipped obsidian.
“Son,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, lethal hum, “if you scream in my ear one more time, I will have the flight attendant come back in here with the fire extinguisher and put you to sleep next to the captain. Do you understand me?”
Jensen swallowed hard. The furious retort died in his throat. There was something terrifying about the utter lack of fear in this woman’s face. She didn't look like an old grandmother anymore. She looked like an executioner who had seen every mistake a human being could make behind a set of controls and had lived through them all.
Back in Palmdale, Dave Kovacs leaned over Bradley’s shoulder, his eyes wide.
“Did she just say Nellis?” Kovacs whispered.
“Yeah,” Bradley said, sweat prickling his forehead. “Dave, look at her track. She’s already turned. She didn't wait for our clearance. She’s heading straight for the border of the Nevada Test and Training Range. She’s flying right into Dreamland’s outer corridor.”
Kovacs grabbed the red telephone on the corner of the console—the direct hotline to Western Air Defense Sector (WADS).
May you like
“Get NORAD on the line,” Kovacs said grimly. “Tell them we have a runaway Boeing 767, single-engine, pilot incapacitated, controlled by a seventy-year-old grandmother, heading straight into the most classified airspace on the North American continent.”
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