Starting Over in Savannah

Starting Over in Savannah

Willard White

Published by Willard White at Smashwords.

Copyright 2011 Willard White

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The events, characters and organizations in this book are fictitious.

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Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

White, Willard

Starting Over in Savannah/Willard White - 1st ed.

This book is dedicated to Diane, who is very patient and keeps an open mind.

Starting Over in Savannah

Prologue

The weather was awful. The Tower called the visibility a quarter mile in snow. We could have waited until the weather was better, but we were legal. I was even comfortable. My first clue that John was over his head was when he had difficulty finding the performance data. It took me a while, using the charted data from the Airplane Flight Manual to show him we had performance enough for the departure. We had eleven passengers and enough fuel to comfortably make St. Louis, so we were operating pretty light for a 737. Runway 24 at Trenton is 6006 feet long, so I was OK with it. My prior job was flying freight. Night takeoffs in poor weather were routine.

Our passengers were two hours late. Darkness arrived on schedule and the weather continued to deteriorate. John started engines without the checklist. He was the flight department manager, my boss, and I was the new guy so I just tried to make sure he did everything that needed doing. When we began to taxi, I initiated the taxi checklist without waiting for him to ask for it. He was in the middle of a harangue about how inappropriate it was to have an airplane this big in a place like Trenton.

I called out: Probe Heat.

He responded ON without breaking stride in his diatribe. He began to complain about the passengers being late.

ﾁBoeing 225 Hotel Quebec, cleared for takeoff, have a good flight.

ﾁ225 Hotel Quebec, cleared for takeoff. I acknowledged the clearance and looked out, as we always do, for traffic on final. There was nothing to be seen of course. I finished the checklist as we lined up on the runway. I could see six runway lights down the runway so visibility was 1,200 feet.

John stood up the throttles and called: Auto-throttles ON.

After a few seconds, the pressure ratio gauges came up to their pre-computed takeoff settings, and latched. I called Power set.

The acceleration wasn’t normal. I'd been flying the Gulfstream, so I wasn’t totally familiar with how the Boeing handled, but the initial acceleration seemed pretty weak to me. I glanced outside and saw the 4000 foot remaining marker pass by. I checked the airspeed and we were just approaching 80 knots. I looked at the engine secondary gauges. The exhaust gas temp was lower than normal and the RPM tachs were down around 90%, too low.

Abort! Abort! I called. It was plenty loud but John didn’t respond.

I glanced at him in the left seat. He was looking intently out the windshield. Either he didn’t hear me, or something was wrong with him.

Abort, Goddammit! This time I disengaged the auto-throttles and pulled the power levers back myself.

Damn you! He pushed the power levers forward.

The 3000 foot remaining sign flashed by. There was no time left for politics. I grabbed the thrust reversers and pulled the power levers back with them. I pulled them into max reverse and stood on the brakes.

John swung out then with the back of his hand and hit me in the face. Idiot! he said.

I kept the engines in reverse and let the auto-brake take care of cycling the brakes. The airplane was slowing and tracking down the runway center-line lights, but it would soon be going too slow for aerodynamic control. The nose wheel steering control was on John's side of the cockpit so I couldn’t reach it. The 2000 foot remaining marker went by. I looked inside. We were down to 60 knots. I began to think we were going to make it.

At this point that John reached down and set the parking brake. The parking brake is designed primarily for parking, and in theory can be modulated for emergency braking. It is totally inappropriate to use the parking brake to stop on an ice covered runway. Just like that we became passengers on the airplane. We were just as helpless as the eleven big-shots in the back.

The airplane began to slide, it weathervaned left into the crosswind and drifted downwind toward the right side runway lights.

There was nothing else to be done. I selected my mic to cabin and called Brace. Brace.

The runway edge lights were all red, indicating the last 1000 feet of runway. Worse, they were passing right under my seat; the right wing and landing gear were off the edge of the runway.

We were down to perhaps 20 knots. The runway end identifier lights went by in slow-motion. The left wing hit something solid, an approach light stanchion I suppose. The violence of the blow surprised me. I hit my shoulder harness hard. A white-hot pain flooded my neck and right shoulder, so hot that I thought I had been burned.

The left main landing gear must have collapsed then. The left side dropped and the airplane pivoted left. A metal structure loomed up out of the dark and struck the airplane on the nose. I was convinced the airplane was stopped and the approach light structure came out of the gloom and stuck us, that was my perception at the time. The instrument panel came at my face. I really wanted this to be over.

We stopped with the instrument panel practically in my lap, the yoke pressed against my stomach. I was aware that John was steadily cursing me, but I really had to get out of that seat. I managed to work my legs around and over the yoke, and get out of the cockpit. John didn’t appear to be trapped. He just sat there, cursing.

Joyce was in the entryway when I opened the cockpit door. Her eyes were wide and frightened in the dim red glow of the emergency lighting system. We didn't speak and she turned away and looked out the small window in the left side door for a fire as she had been trained to do. I passed by into the cabin where our passengers were white faced, but seemed to be physically OK. Susan came forward up the aisle and followed me through the door into the entryway. I went to the right side door and looked out the window, I saw nothing but snow passing by. The cabin was tilted to the left, which would make the right side slide difficult if not dangerous to use.

We’ll evacuate the passengers out this door, I said and indicated the boarding door. Joyce, get your coat on. Take two flashlights. I want you to be the first one down the slide. Send each passenger exactly fifty steps directly away from the door. Let me get you another flashlight.

I returned to the cockpit. Are you all right John?

No thanks to you. He began to get out of his seat.

Susan, issue each passenger his coat before he goes down the slide.

I was afraid the door wouldn't open because of cabin distortion, but it opened without trouble and the slide deployed just like it does in training.

Joyce, give this flashlight to the first passenger down. Direct him straight out fifty steps and have him signal the other passengers. We don’t want to lose anyone now.

Is John OK? she asked.

I think so, I said. We’ll get him out after the passengers go down. Now go!

The evacuation went smoothly. The passengers were amazing. They came forward down the aisle one by one, picked out their coat, put it on and went down the slide like they did it every day. No doubt they were motivated by the strong smell of jet fuel which filled the cabin as soon as the door opened. The airport policeman on duty claimed he arrived five minutes after getting the call from the tower. He found us all standing upwind from the airplane, watching it burn.

The fire began under the left wing. I couldn’t see it because the airplane was lying down on the left wing tip, but I know what happened. The fuel from the burst fuel cell had reached the red-hot left brake disc, sizzled a little bit to get above its flash point then lit off.

The airplane didn’t blow sky high the way they do in the movies. As each fuel cell burst because of the heat, and sprayed its fuel into the air, there would be a soft explosion, a whoosh, and the fireball would appear momentarily, ascend and then disappear. By the time a van arrived and we bundled in, the airplane was fully engulfed. I begged the firemen to try to save the cockpit. That's where the cockpit voice recorder is located. Without that CVR, my career is finished.

Excerpted from the First Officer’s statement given to the National Transportation Safety Board December 3rd, 2009, the morning after the above described accident.

Chapter 1

It was Brett’s favorite section of canyon road, and it was a good time of day to be on it. The sun was just beginning to brighten the eastern sky, and there was no traffic this time of the I. A moderate speed switchback stretched in front him, curving first left then to the right. The curve opened up slightly as he went up the hill, ideal for second gear in the Porsche. He had to modulate the throttle until, at the apex of the second curve, he could get all of the pedal down. Then it was hang on and steer as the boost and torque went up and the limited slip differential assured that both big tires broke loose at the same time. The rear end slid out to the left toward the verge, and he corrected automatically setting up the drift. If he did it all correctly, the left rear tire just clipped the grass at the edge of the highway as he accelerated up the hill. If he was just a little late with the throttle, the g forces didn’t carry him all the way to the edge, and if he was early with the throttle… well, he hadn’t made that mistake yet.

On this particular morning he got it right. Horsepower carried him right to the edge of disaster, but he didn’t feel the exhilaration that he normally got. For that matter, getting home to Amy didn’t have the excitement for him that it once had. For some reason she'd been getting cooler these last few months. Lately she'd been complaining more about his being gone, and complaining about their finances. She seemed to feel that she was working harder than he was, because she only saw him when he was off, puttering around the house or sleeping at odd times of the day.

It would be interesting to see her reaction this time. He'd called her last night, it was three hours earlier in Burbank, and told her about the accident, and that it was likely he would be fired. She'd been all tears and recriminations on the phone, finally hanging up on him. We’re going to lose the house! had been her parting shot.

The questions and interviews had gone on most of the day. The National Transportation Safety Board and the Federal Aviation Administration had actually taken turns questioning him about what had transpired. Each one had gone through his written statement, asking him the same questions, trying to trip him up, trying to trick him into giving answers that differed. Eventually they tired of their game and allowed him to go.

He'd pleaded exhaustion and they allowed him to book a room in the local airport hotel. However, when he finally stepped out of the airport administration building, he felt exhilaration. The worst had to be over. Things were bad at the moment, but compared to five minutes before - well, suddenly he felt stronger. What he really wanted to do was get out of there, before somebody else decided to question him. He turned toward the airline terminal building. They had rental cars there, he could get to Philadelphia International in an hour and see about red eye flights to LAX.

On his own street Brett drove the Porsche at the speed limit; the turbocharged engine was barely audible as he cruised down the street in second gear. He pushed the button on his remote control to open the gate. He never ceased to be amazed at his house. The house itself, wasn’t so impressive, at least it wouldn’t be in another location. It was a typical four bedroom house with attached two car garage; it had a brick-walled yard all the way around, with landscaping in the front yard and an in-ground pool in the back. However, this house was situated on a south facing hillside, overlooking Los Angeles. Brett had been reluctant to believe that he and Amy needed a four bedroom house, let alone a million dollar one. But she was the realtor, a very successful one, and between his salary, her commissions and some money he'd saved, they had convinced a mortgage company they could swing the payments. He pushed another button on the remote and his garage door lifted, exposing the rear end of Freddie’s Volvo convertible.

He stopped the car and shut off the engine while he contemplated the implications of Freddie’s car being parked in his garage at six AM. Freddie was Amy’s boss. He owned the real estate agency where she worked. Freddie was a flashy Hollywood real estate salesman kind of guy. Brett was fascinated that this lightweight could be so successful. In their few social encounters, Brett had noticed that the guy never really had his own opinion about any subject. He and Amy had occasionally been amused by Freddie’s lack of substance. Brett was quite comfortable flying nine time zones away and leaving Amy behind. The guy was such a flake, Brett wasn’t even sure he wasn’t gay. He certainly never considered Freddie a rival for Amy’s affection.

Yet here was his car in Brett’s garage. Brett took a few seconds to re-evaluate the situation. Surely there was another explanation beyond the obvious one: Husband gets home early, catches wife entertaining her boss. He sighed and got out of the car. He had about twenty more seconds to put his code into the house alarm system.

He walked in through the kitchen door, through the kitchen, then through the dining room. His heart beat rapidly. He was careful to make no sound. The dining room table had the remains of a meal for two. His hands felt cold and clammy. He studied the table. A smart person could learn something here. An empty wine bottle sat on the table, but there were no wine glasses. The wine glasses could have been carried out by the pool. They could be in the living room or they could be in the sink for that matter. Ah, a second cork. There were two corks lying on the table. Two corks, one empty bottle and no glasses. Sherlock would be proud of him.

Brett stayed on the carpet and walked around the sunken part of the living room. No wine glasses, no clothing either. Not a sound in the house, maybe they weren’t even there. Reluctantly, he continued his silent progress toward the master bedroom. Time to get this over with. Sneaking around his own house, holding his breath while his heart was going 180 beats per minute was silly. He didn’t have to open the bedroom door because it was standing open. With a dry mouth, he moved into the doorway and his fears were realized. The patio curtains were open and sunlight reflected from the pool in crazy patterns on the ceiling. They were, asleep on the king-size bed. The second wine bottle was on the night stand along with the two glasses. Amy’s red hair splayed across the pillow. She was sleeping with her back against Freddie’s stomach.

Brett let out his breath. He must have been holding it for a while. What to do now? His whole life had crashed down around his head in the last thirty hours or so. What was left? What could be salvaged? Anger surged in him like a physical thing. He had never known such rage. He was losing control of his functions, his stomach was in rebellion, his bladder was getting ready to let go. He looked around for a weapon. He would kill them both. He could fly back to Philadelphia; drive back to Trenton before morning. No one would suspect him of the grisly murder that was about to take place. He would kill Freddie immediately, then take his time with Amy. She would beg him to take her back, but it wouldn’t work. There would be no survivors, no witnesses.

Had there been a weapon readily available, he might have carried it off. As it was, all he could find was the new digital camera that Amy used to photograph the homes she listed.

The camera made a slight clicking sound when he operated it, or perhaps it was the sound of his movements that caused Amy to stir. He'd taken perhaps six or seven pictures when her eyes opened. Opened wide. She sat up in the bed, terror quite plain on her face.

No Brett. This isn’t what you think.

Brett kept taking the pictures. Amy was beautiful. Her implanted breasts were outstanding. Freddie awakened and swung his feet down to the floor.

Now don’t do anything stupid. He stood and held his hands out in front of him. It doesn’t mean anything. We were just having a little fun. Everything's cool, right? He reached for his pants.

Brett moved in front of him and his right hand slapped Freddie’s face.

Stop! Amy got out of the bed on the far side and moved around it. Stop it! Please don’t do it Brett.

Freddie offered no resistance, damn him. He held up his hands, his mouth moved rapidly but Brett couldn’t understand what he was saying. He had the impression that Freddie and Amy were begging him not to hit him again.

Brett turned slightly toward Amy. Hell, I haven’t even hit him yet. Watch this. Brett's right fist smashed into Freddie’s nose. He could feel the cartilage break. Freddie’s hands flew wide. He moved backward and crashed into the night stand, smashing the lamp and knocking over the wine bottle. Blood spurted from his nose. He slid down to the floor and sat with his body supported by the table and the bed. The blood and the wine were ruining the beige carpet.

Amy pulled at his left hand. She was trying to get the camera away from him. He faced her and raised his hand to hit her. She was an easy target. Her face was precisely two feet in front of him. Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly.

He couldn’t do it. He was too tired and it was too pointless. Nothing could be salvaged anyway. He just wanted to be away from there. He made his way toward the door.

Amy caught up with him in the kitchen, she had pulled on a robe. What are you going to do? You can’t leave me.

Brett tried to remember what he should take with him. Was there a single thing in this house he really wanted? In light of what had been happening to him, he couldn’t think of a thing that was important. He halted at the door to the garage and faced Amy. She stopped and recoiled, perhaps thinking he would hit her. He couldn’t think of anything to say or do. He stepped out the door and closed it.

In the garage he surveyed his tools scattered on his workbench and the model airplanes hanging from the rafters. He considered putting his tools in the box where they belonged and bringing them with him, but they were heavy and he didn't know where he was going. He finally settled for dragging his key along the side of the Volvo as he walked out.

Chapter 2

Debra surveyed her Fourth Grade class. Their faces were turned up to her. They were participating in her lecture, and they were competing to answer her questions. Some days teaching was almost like she'd thought it would be. It was much better today, without Gleason. She was actually having fun today, she had been asking the class to locate major cities on the globe. She had introduced them to map reading and the Global Positioning System earlier in the week and was quizzing them on their knowledge of the coordinate system. The children were competing