Chapter 6
The passengers knew instantly that something was wrong.
The steady, reassuring hum of the engines changed.
The overhead lights stuttered. Most disconcerting of all was the look on the flight attendants’ faces.
They had frozen mannequin-like while handing out plates of seared Wagyu steak and sole meunière.
Something was very wrong.
Kasey looked across the aisle and saw the concern she felt mirrored on Chen’s face. They weren’t merely worried about what was happening. They were wondering why it was happening.
For days they had been on high alert, every sense tuned for threats. Now, just as their guard was coming down, a crisis had struck out of nowhere. Like a bolt of lightning on a clear day. And the coincidence of it happening here, happening now, was too ominous to ignore.
Up on the flight deck, both pilots felt the loss of thrust. The sound of the giant turbines spooling down was like a low-pitch death rattle, the last breath of life leaving a dying corpse.
As the engine generators fell offline and battery power took over, the lights flickered. Then the autopilot disconnected, and its frantic alarm added to the cacophony.
Captain Fowler took charge, running the memory procedure for dual engine failure. Hands were racing over controls. Procedures were being run. None of it was helping. They were flying a 200-ton glider.
“Not getting a relight on either engine,” Sharpe stated. With the procedures not working, experience became their last resort. “What do you think? Not many things that’d cause both engines to quit. Volcanic ash?”
“Nope, that would have shown high engine temperatures. And the fuel is warm enough, nowhere near the freezing point. All I can figure is contaminated fuel.”
“If that’s the case, we’re not going to get a restart.”
The two exchanged a grave look. They were running out of options. The aircraft had been at 35,000 feet when the engines died. Now they were at 28,000. Battling mushy controls, Fowler had reduced the airspeed for a better glide ratio. It would buy a little more time, but not much.
“I’ll keep trying for a relight,” Fowler said. “Get Burnsy up here—maybe he’ll have an idea.”
Thirty seconds later, Captain Scott Burns, the relief pilot who had been taking a break in back, entered the flight deck and hopped into the jump seat. They filled him in on the situation. Warnings kept coming, audible alerts and amber lights.
At 20,000 feet the stars disappeared as the aircraft was swallowed by dense clouds. They were no longer above the storm. They were in it.
The jet began rocking in turbulence.
Fowler instructed Sharpe to send a mayday. Position, course, speed, situation. Since they were on a polar route, it couldn’t be done by radio; it had to be via satellite.
After three attempts, Sharpe said, “Bill, the mayday’s not going through.”
“What do you mean?”
He pointed to a series of MESSAGE FAIL responses. “I don’t get it. It was working fine earlier.”
“Keep trying!”
Sharpe complied while the two senior pilots fought to regain the use of at least one engine.
At 10,000 feet, Fowler made the call they all knew was coming. “Okay, change of plan. Forget about getting the engines back. We’re going down and it’s not going to be pretty.”
Sharpe expanded his electronic map. “I show the nearest land three hundred and ten miles south.” He didn’t even bother to look for an airfield, which would have doubled the distance.
“From this altitude, we can glide maybe twenty miles.”
“Ditching it is,” Burns said, flipping through the handbook to find the correct checklist.
“I guess that’s our only choice,” Fowler stated. “Problem is, this won’t be a straight water landing. We’ll be putting down on an ice floe.”
It was a situation none of them had ever contemplated. No one had. It wasn’t even in the book.
“Will the ice hold if we use the landing gear?” Sharpe asked.
“Four hundred thousand pounds on ten tires? Not a chance.”
“Then we’re looking at a belly landing,” Sharpe ventured.
Fowler looked at the other two pilots. In a silent vote, both nodded.
“I guess it’s the best bad option. Spreads the weight out.
I don’t see any way the ice is going to support the jet, but it might help us float a little longer.
And once we evacuate it should be strong enough to support our passengers and some survival equipment.
Run the ditching checklist, but let’s tell the flight attendants that the plan is to evacuate onto the ice. ”
The captain ordered Sharpe to keep sending maydays, including blind calls on the VHF radio emergency frequency, 121.5 MHz.
Sharpe did so repeatedly but heard no aircraft or ships reply. He wasn’t surprised. The top of the world was a lonely place, and there was likely no one within range.
Burns coordinated with the flight attendants to prepare the cabin for ditching. When he finished, he asked, “What about dumping fuel? Seems like we ought to make her as light as possible.”
“Do it!” the captain ordered.
Burns worked a few switches and tons of fuel began venting from the wings.
The jet shuddered in a fierce gust of wind. The airframe groaned as if it knew what was coming.
Working the spongy controls, Fowler muttered, “Now I know how Sully Sullenberger felt. Except my Hudson River is going to be a frozen sheet of ice.”