A Time for Patriots Read online

  “You mean the diaper, Dad! I’m not wearing a diaper!”

  “The astronauts wear them, and you want to be a Space Defense Force astronaut, right?”

  “When I have to do a four-hour space walk, then I’ll wear it,” Jeremy said.

  “All right, all right,” Kara said with growing impatience. “If you make a skid mark in your pants, let’s hope your grandparents don’t see it. Pick up your stuff and let’s go.”

  It took another few minutes for Jeremy to collect his stuff. While he waited, Frank took his iPhone out of his pocket and punched up an app that downloaded NexRad radar images. He immediately saw the line of thunderstorms that had been forecast, and noted they were farther north than anticipated.

  “How’s it look?” Kara asked.

  “Mean and nasty—we’ll definitely have to deviate around them to the north,” her husband replied. He was suddenly very anxious to get going, so he skipped his intended bathroom visit. “C’mon, guys, we need to go,” he urged his family. Soon they were on their way to the plane, the boy’s hands filled with stray colored pencils.

  Outside they were greeted with brilliant sunshine, a welcome change to the past two days of booming thunderstorms and swirling winds. Frank noted that the wind was from the southwest and breezy on occasion, which would mean a slight crosswind takeoff, but nothing he couldn’t handle. In minutes, he started the Cessna 182 Skylane’s engine, received his IFR clearance and taxi clearance from Elko Ground Control, and was soon on his way, splashing through a few large puddles, taxiing a little bit faster than he normally did in order to get airborne as quickly as possible.

  There was no one else in the pattern or on the taxiways. Frank did a hurried run-up check of the magnetos, then hustled through the rest of the checklist. “Everyone ready to go?” he asked over the intercom.

  “Ready, Dad!” Jeremy replied enthusiastically.

  “I’m ready,” Kara replied, turning and checking to be sure her son’s seat belt was tight.

  “Here we go.” He pressed the microphone button: “Elko Tower, Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, number one, runway two-three, ready to go,” he radioed.

  “Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, Elko Tower, runway two-three, cleared for takeoff.”

  “Three-Four Lima, cleared for takeoff, runway two-three.” Frank taxied onto Runway 23, and instead of locking the brakes, running the engine up to full power, and then releasing the brakes, he kept on rolling, then applied full power as he turned onto the runway centerline. The engine smoothly roared to full power, and the four-seat Cessna responded as spritely as ever, accelerating quickly . . .

  . . . except there was a sharp banging sound on the left side of the plane, from the direction of the left main gear tire, getting louder and louder as he accelerated. “What the . . . something’s wrong,” Frank muttered, and he jerked the throttle lever to idle.

  “What’s wrong?” Kara asked, the concern evident in her voice. “What’s going on, Frank?”

  “Why are we stopping, Dad?” Jeremy asked.

  “Sterile cockpit, guys, remember—no talking until level-off except for an emergency,” Frank said. He pressed the mike button: “Elko Tower, Three-Four Lima is aborting the takeoff, possible flat tire.”

  “Roger, Three-Four Lima,” the tower controller said. “Cancel takeoff clearance, turn right at the next taxiway, and contact Ground.”

  “Three-Four Lima, wilco.”

  “Hey, Dad?”

  “I said no talking, Jeremy.”

  “But, Dad . . . ?”

  “This better be important, Jeremy!”

  “I think it’s your seat belt, Dad. Something’s hanging out of the plane.” The pilot looked out his left side window, and sure enough, there it was: in his haste to depart, he forgot to fasten his seat belt, and the buckle end had started banging on the side of the plane. How in hell could he miss that?

  “Thank you, buddy,” Frank said in a low, contrite monotone. “Good call.” He taxied off the runway, contacted Ground Control, and received a clearance back to takeoff position. In the run-up area, he pulled power to idle, pulled the parking-brake handle, had Kara hold the toe brakes on her set of rudder pedals just in case—her husband was usually admonishing her to keep her feet off the pedals, and now he wanted her feet on them—unlatched the door, and pushed it open. With the propeller turning, it required a lot more strength than he thought to open it, and the noise was a lot louder than he expected.

  “Hopefully I’ll never do that again,” Frank said after he had everything retrieved and reconnected. He took a moment to catch his breath—he noticed his heart pumping rapidly just from the excitement of being in all that noise and windblast. “I’m sure the guys in the tower got a big laugh out of that.” He made sure he fastened his seat belt this time, then looked around at everyone else’s belts. “Okay, everyone ready to go?”

  “Dad, I need to use the bathroom,” Jeremy said.

  “What?” Frank thundered, then immediately felt bad for shouting. “But you just went!”

  “I just gotta go, Dad.”

  “If we go back, will we miss those thunderstorms?” Kara asked. “Will we have to spend another night here?”

  “We might.”

  “Then we’ll have to skip seeing my parents in Reno,” Kara said cross-cockpit. “We can’t stay in Reno—we have to go straight home from Carson City. Jeremy can’t miss any school, and I have no more vacation days off left on the books.”

  Frank didn’t reply to her, but instead asked, “Is it number one or number two?”

  “Number one,” the boy said, but if the father had turned back to look at his son, he would’ve noticed the little anxious expression that meant that number two might be stirring as well.

  “Then you’ll have to do it in the piddle pack,” Frank said. “We’re leaving. Hold it as long as you can.”

  “Okay, Dad,” Jeremy responded meekly. Frank called Elko Tower, received another takeoff clearance, and in moments they were rolling down the runway again. This time there was no banging or anything else gone wrong, and they were airborne.

  The skies were bright and sunny until thirty minutes into the flight, but soon Frank saw it—a dark white, gray, and brown mass of clouds on the horizon. He could see the northern edge of the squall line, but it was far to the right of course, not to the left as he had hoped. The thunderheads were towering skyward, and as he flew closer he swore he could see them rolling up even higher, driven by enough heat and raw energy to light up a city.

  “Salt Lake Center, Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima.”

  “Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center, go ahead.”

  “I’d like to deviate twenty degrees north for weather.”

  “Deviation right approved, report when direct Winnemucca again.”

  “Three-Four Lima, wilco.”

  “Why are we turning?” Kara asked.

  “To get as far away from those buildups as we can,” Frank said. “If we start turning now, we won’t be as far off course when we pass them, and we won’t have to make as big turns. It’s a fairly slow-moving system—we should miss it easily.”

  “Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center . . . uh, verify that you do not have weather-avoidance or -detection equipment?” the air traffic control controller radioed.

  “That’s affirmative, Three-Four Lima does not have weather equipment,” Frank admitted. Several times this summer, which seemed to be particularly thunderstorm-active in the West, he wished he had spent the extra money on the portable navigation unit that also downloaded weather and NexRad radar images via XM satellite radio. But it wasn’t required equipment, he rarely flew in bad weather or at night, it was a lot more money than the unit he had purchased, and the monthly subscription costs were astronomical—the wife was already pissed about how much all the airplane stuff cost already.

  “Roger,” the controller responded. “On your new heading off the airway, I’m going to need you higher to stay in radar coverage.
Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, climb and maintain one-two thousand.”

  “Leaving one-zero thousand, climbing to one-two thousand, Three-Four Lima,” Frank responded. He pushed in the mixture and propeller controls, fed in power, and started a shallow climb.

  “Do we have to go on oxygen now?” Kara asked.

  “Only if you feel you need to,” Frank replied. “Go ahead and get the masks out.” The portable oxygen bottle and the three masks were in a canvas bag behind the pilot’s seat, so it was easy to open it up and get the masks out. Kara swabbed the inside of each mask with an alcohol pad, making sure to wipe hers twice—she always thought it was a veritable germ breeding ground.

  As soon as they passed eleven thousand feet, the turbulence began. They felt an occasional light bump at ten thousand, but now it was a consistent light chop with an occasional moderate bump, and the higher they climbed, the worse it got.

  “Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake Center, how’s your ride?” the controller asked as they leveled off at twelve thousand feet.

  “Light, occasional moderate turbulence,” Frank reported. “When can I go back down to ten thousand?”

  “Not until after Battle Mountain, sir,” the controller replied.

  “Can I get VFR on top at ten-five?” “VFR on top” was an option for pilots on an IFR flight plan to fly at VFR altitudes—even-numbered altitudes plus five hundred feet flying westbound—if they were clear of clouds.

  “Negative, Three-Four Lima, that’s below my minimum vectoring altitude in your present area,” the controller responded. “You’ll have to wait until you get into Battle Mountain Approach’s airspace. Maintain one-two thousand.”

  “Maintain one-two thousand, wilco, Three-Four Lima,” Frank replied. His only other option to fly at a lower altitude out of the turbulence was to cancel his IFR flight plan, but he didn’t feel comfortable with that until he was around those thunderstorms—the mountain ranges in this area were pretty high, and if he lost contact with the ground, he’d be in a world of danger.

  “Dad, I don’t feel so good,” Jeremy said. His wife immediately found an airsick bag, opened it, and gave it to her son. The turbulence was gradually increasing in intensity—it was now getting close to continuous moderate turbulence with an occasional jolt that made their bodies strain against their shoulder harnesses.

  “Can we get out of this turbulence?” Kara asked.

  “Not for another twenty minutes or so.”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “ ’Fraid so.” He looked out his left window and was surprised to see how close he was to the thunderheads—probably less than twenty miles now, the minimum recommended spacing. The turbulence was undoubtedly being caused by the spillover from the tops of the thunderstorm anvil pounding at them from above—the spillover could toss hail and ice as far as twenty miles or more from the center of the storm. “Those thunderstorms are moving a lot faster than forecast.” He looked at his GPS navigation device—sure enough, they were fighting a fifty-knot crosswind. The storm was catching up to them.

  For a moment Frank thought about turning back toward Elko. But that would really screw up their schedule. And if they had to spend more than one night in Elko—the forecast for tomorrow had the thunderstorms moving back in and staying for days—he could get reprimanded for missing that much work. He could take an airline flight from Elko to Oakland, but that meant more money wasted, and then he would have to take the airlines back to Elko to get his plane. Turning around was an option, but not a very good one.

  “Three-Four Lima, Salt Lake, are you still VMC?” the controller asked.

  “Affirmative, Three-Four Lima,” Frank responded. “We’re getting a little bit of rain.”

  “How’s your ride?”

  “Light, occasional moderate,” Frank lied. It was more like continuous moderate, with more frequent bumps hard enough to make the top of his headset hit the headliner.

  “The closest cell is at your ten o’clock, fifteen miles,” the controller said. “You may need to turn southeast to avoid it.”

  “Roger,” Frank replied. “Can you vector me around the cells? Can you keep me away from the cells?”

  “Three-Four Lima, turn left heading one-seven-zero, vector for weather, maintain one-two thousand, clear to deviate as necessary to stay VMC if possible.”

  “Heading one-seven-zero, Three-Four Lima.” Now they were paralleling the storm, actually flying away from their destination. If the controller was making a strong suggestion to the pilot to turn back toward Elko, this was it. But the storm seemed to know it. Now that they were on a clear avoidance track, the storm seemed to awaken, transforming into the snarling ugly beast it really was and turning to pursue. But the storm had one more trick up its sleeve first.

  Frank was relieved to actually see breaks in the cloud wall and decided to steer right for them. “I can see blue skies on the other side,” he said. “We can get through this.” He tried to aim right for those breaks, but it seemed as if he was almost flying sideways. The severe turbulence was more persistent now. He heard a BEEP BEEP BEEP! and saw a yellow flashing light—the turbulence had caused the autopilot to disconnect. He grabbed the control yoke tighter and fought to maintain control. He knew enough to let the plane wander in altitude a bit and not try to fight the up- and downdrafts.

  “Three-Four Lima, turn left heading one-five-zero, vectors for weather, cleared in the block one-two thousand to one-four thousand,” the controller radioed. Frank realized with shock that he was flying almost north in his vain attempt to fly through the break in the storm, but now he could see nothing but a mass of dark gray. The turbulence had eased up a bit, but now the plane was being pelted by heavy rain and gravel-size hailstones. He had no idea what his altitude was—it took every ounce of concentration to steer to the heading and keep the wings relatively level.

  The storm had sucked him in with fleeting glimpses of clear skies, and now its jaws were closing fast. “Salt Lake, Three-Four Lima, this is not good,” Frank said. “I need to get out of this.”

  “Say again, Three-Four Lima?”

  “Dad?”

  “Not now, Jeremy.”

  “Three-Four Lima, Battle Mountain Joint Air Base is at your six o’clock, fifty-five miles, turn right heading one-six-zero.”

  “Dad?”

  “Jeremy, what is it?”

  “Ice on the pitot tube!” Frank looked and found the pitot tube and the leading edges of both wings covered in ice. It was July, and Elko had to be ninety degrees when they left . . . how could there be ice? Frank turned on the pitot heat, then started a right turn . . .

  . . . and then a gust of wind and turbulence lifted the left wing up so suddenly and so severely that they rolled completely inverted. Frank heard someone scream . . . and realized it might have been himself. He fought to roll wings-level again, but the artificial horizon was tumbling uncontrollably and the turn-and bank indicator seemed frozen in a full-scale right turn. The nose shot skyward—or it might have been earthward, he couldn’t tell for sure. Pulling and turning the yoke in any direction didn’t seem to do a thing.

  “Dad?” Jeremy asked.

  “Not now, Jeremy.”

  “But, Dad, your heading indicator, your turn-and-bank . . . look at your—”

  “I said not now, Jeremy, I’m trying to fly.” Suddenly more light seemed to come in through the windscreen. The pilot realized that a thin film of ice was obscuring the view outside, but he could see! They were out of the thunderstorm! “Okay, okay, I got it,” Frank said on intercom. “We made it. We . . .”

  And just then he realized that the ground was rushing up to meet them—they were in a nearly vertical spinning dive heading straight for the ground. The pilot centered the controls and shoved in the left rudder, managed to somehow stop the spin, pulled back on the power, and raised the nose almost to level . . . just before the plane smashed into the ground.

  “Cessna Two-Eight-Three-Four Lima, radar contact lost, how do yo
u hear Salt Lake Center?” the controller radioed. He waited a few moments, feeling his skin turn cold, his throat turn dry, and little hairs stand up on the back of his neck. “Three-Four Lima, how do you hear Salt Lake Center?” His supervisor was already standing beside him. “Shit, Bill,” he said, “I think I lost him.”

  “Salt Lake Center, United Twelve-Seventeen.”

  “United Twelve-Seventeen, Salt Lake Center, go ahead.”

  “We’re picking up an ELT beacon on two-four-three-point-zero,” the airline pilot radioed.

  The controller felt his lower lip start to tremble. That UHF frequency was the international emergency channel on which an airplane’s ELT, or emergency locator transmitter, broadcast—and ELTs automatically activated after a crash. A hand touched his shoulder—it was his replacement, come to relieve him so he could get away from the console, pull himself together, and start his grim report. “Copy, Twelve-Seventeen, thank you,” he said.

  “I’ll get on the horn to the Air Force,” the supervisor said.

  “No, I’ll do it,” the controller said. He threw off his headset, kicked himself out of the chair, picked up the phone between his seat and the assistant controller, and hit a red button marked AFRCC. He took a deep breath and waited for the direct line to activate.

  “Rescue Coordination Center, Sergeant Goris,” came the reply from the duty controller at the Air Force Rescue Coordination Center at Tyndall Air Force Base in Florida, which directed all air and sea rescue missions in the United States. “Ready to copy, Salt Lake Center.”

  “This is Adams, Salt Lake Center. Lost radar contact with a Cessna 182, five-five miles north-northwest of Battle Mountain, Nevada, in an area of heavy thunderstorms. Airliner at flight level three-five-zero reports picking up a VHF ELT overhead that vicinity.”

  “We’re on it, Salt Lake,” the voice on the other end of the line said. The controller could hear an alarm sounding in the background. “Colors, fuel on board, pilot’s name, and souls on board?”

  The controller picked up the flight-plan strip from its holder. “White with blue stripes, five hours, three . . . three souls on board,” he read, his voice catching when he read the grim number off the flight’s data strip.