Air Crash SA 252

Air Crash SA 252

By Siegfried Walther

Published by Siegfried Walther at Smashwords

Text copyright © 2013 Siegfried Walther

All Rights Reserved

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be sold

or given away. It may not be reproduced copied or distributed for commercial or

non-commercial purposes.

Smashwords Edition

Foreword

Most of what you are about to read correctly reflects the aviation or legally related material traversed. However, accuracy has been sacrificed in favour of dramatic effect in certain instances. No reliance should be placed on anything herein for any aviation or legally related purpose.

Although some of the events set out herein are inspired by or loosely based upon actual events, this work is entirely fictional.

Chapter 1

Eric Gates awoke to find that all of the cabin lights had been turned up to maximum brightness. A chorus of creaking seats, coughs and yawns grew louder as the ranks of the rudely awakened swelled. He glanced at his watch. Four in the morning. Another three hours to Cape Town. Too early for the breakfast service.

‘They'd better have a very good reason for this, if they know what's good for them,’ a woman exclaimed.

‘Madam, for what do you want a good reason?’ asked an elderly man seated in the middle row. His long grey beard and his orthodox attire led Eric to assume that he was possibly a Rabbi. ‘They wake us like this in the middle of an overnight flight. God forbid that it should be for a good reason.’

The remark provoked nervous laughter from a few passengers, but no response from its target.

An assured female voice crackled through the cabin.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, we apologise for the interruption. This is a precautionary announcement.’ A momentary pause. ‘If we have a commercial pilot on board, would he kindly announce himself to a member of the cabin crew by pressing the service button located in the panel above. Our co-pilot is unwell and the Captain considers it prudent to have a replacement on standby in the unlikely event of an emergency.’

Muted conversations gradually replaced the stunned silence.

‘Don't they usually have two crews on long-haul flights?’ asked the man in the next seat. He had earlier introduced himself as Norman something or other, a retired detective who now free-lanced as a private investigator.

‘I wondered about that too,’ Eric said.

‘Then why the fuss about one ill pilot?’ Norman spoke with a noticeable Afrikaans accent. ‘Something more serious must have happened.’

Eric's brows furrowed. He kept pinching his chin.

‘Surely they know they can't wake us in the middle of the night to ask us that without causing alarm or panic?’

‘You're right,’ said Norman. ‘It would have been a damn side less worrying coming from the guy doing the actual flying. Maybe the Captain had his hands full-’ Norman interrupted himself and glanced at Eric. ‘You're looking a little green yourself. Can't say I'm surprised.’ He shifted his gaze to the bulging seatback pocket in front of Eric's seat.

Eric wondered about how many of those little plastic whisky bottles it had taken to cause the protrusion. He recalled Norman's enthusiastic participation in securing the bottles and during the ensuing toasts. Judging from his throbbing head, however, Norman's contribution to the plastic mound had been the more modest.

‘Pressing the button for an aspirin now is probably not a good idea?’ Eric held his head.

‘Definitely not!’ A grin followed Norman’s admonition. ‘Ask not what they can do for your hangover.’

Eric ignored the remark.

An eerie silence persisted for several minutes. It was interrupted by the public address system.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, we repeat that if there is a pilot on board, kindly advise the crew by pressing the service button in the overhead panel.’

‘Hell's teeth!’ Eric exclaimed under his breath. ‘First they wanted a commercial pilot. Now just a pilot.’

‘Ja,’ Norman agreed. ‘Well then I’ll say what we both are thinking. Something must be wrong. Maybe something happened to the pilots. They must need someone to fly the plane.’ He turned towards Eric. ‘It's up to you to respond.’

‘I think they are looking for a real pilot,’ Eric replied.

‘Well, then they must come over here and say so,’ Norman declared and he pressed the button in the overhead panel.

Eric felt strangely self-conscious as dozens of pairs of eyes turned towards the two of them. Before long, a blonde flight attendant arrived. Her well-rehearsed smile could not disguise a hint of anxiety in her pale blue eyes.

‘Hello, I’m Michelle, the senior flight attendant.’ She glanced at the lit service light on the panel above Norman’s seat and reached to extinguish it. ‘Which of you is the pilot then?’

Eric attempted to reply, but Norman interjected.

‘If you don’t have anyone else, then this is your man.’ Norman pointed at Eric. ‘Last night he told me that he often flies 747s on his computer. Seems he also owns several books on flying airliners.’

Eric glared at Norman.

‘Are you speaking about a computer game?’ Michelle’s forehead creased and her smile retreated. Her tone remained polite.

‘More of a simulation than a game,’ Eric said.

The attendant’s eyes narrowed.

‘Look, I don’t wish to waste anyone’s time. I’m not a pilot. I’ve never flown anything except for the aircraft on my computer,’ Eric volunteered.

‘I’m sorry, but we are trying to determine whether anyone on board is a qualified pilot who flies real aircraft.’ A hint of condescension marred her otherwise professional tone.

Heat rushed to Eric's cheeks as he realised that all of the passengers in his section of the cabin were focused on their exchange. His jaw clenched. A ready retort to the patronising remark escaped him.

‘But I’ll mention you to the Captain, just in case,’ she added. Her smile returned and she departed down the aisle.

‘Man, I'm sorry about that.’ Norman spoke quietly. ‘I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I thought you were serious when you said that you could fly this plane.’ He paused. ‘I suppose it was all that whisky.’

‘I guess I’m not immune to a spot of spirit-infused bravado.’ Eric grinned contritely.

‘Who knows? They might still call on you.’

‘Seriously, I hope not. I’d prefer to be left with my delusions intact.’ Eric’s thoughts returned to aspirin and water, but the idea of more unwelcome attention discouraged him from pressing the button.

A tense quiet prevailed for a while as everyone waited for a further announcement. It never came. The main cabin lights dimmed a few minutes later, suggesting that if there had been a problem, it was now resolved.

‘That must be the end of it then,’ Norman said. ‘Probably wasn’t serious after all.’ After emitting an audible sigh of relief, he closed his eyes.

Eric switched between the channels on the mini-screen in front of him without focusing on anything at all. He became distracted by the head flight attendant making her way back down the now dimly lit aisle. Her eyes were firmly fixed on him.

He drew a deep breath.

She leant over towards him, smiling feebly.

‘I mentioned you to the Captain,’ she whispered. ‘He thought you might find it interesting to visit a real cockpit. Would you care to follow me?’

‘I thought that, since 9/11, visits to the cockpit by passengers were strictly prohibited,’ Eric replied nonchalantly. He made no effort to rise.

She blinked. Her jaw dropped fleetingly. A few seconds passed.

‘Ultimately, the Captain is the one in charge of the cockpit,’ she spluttered. She ceased blinking and glared at him instead. Her tightly pursed lips did not detract from her appealing facial features.

Eric estimated her age at around thirty-five, making her his junior by about ten years. He considered himself to be in reasonable shape for a man of his age, and not unattractive, yet he could not help feeling rather ordinary in her presence.

‘Look here my dear, we're not fools!’ Norman spoke firmly and without raising his voice. ‘At least have the courtesy of telling us what the devil is going on. Is the Captain still in charge of this plane?’

‘Sir, I must ask you to remain calm,’ Michelle whispered. ‘I can assure you that the Captain is flying the plane.’

‘What about the reserve crew?’ Norman asked.

Eric studied Michelle's body language as she replied.

‘We don’t have a reserve crew on this flight. Our allocated reserve crew exceeded their maximum flying hours.’ Michelle’s eyes darted to the right for an instant.

You’re lying through your teeth, Eric thought. But he did not interject.

‘Surely you're not supposed to depart without a reserve crew?’ Norman asked.

‘Sometimes we do. Regulations only require two pilots.’ She glanced expectantly at Eric.

Norman seemed less than convinced, but he left it at that.

***

Eric followed Michelle down the aisle. He drew close enough to speak without being overheard.

‘You may have convinced him, but you haven't convinced me.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘I am a trial attorney. You lied back there. I could tell.’

Resignation flickered across her deadpan face.

‘Everything will be explained shortly,’ she whispered. Without warning she turned towards him. ‘And you took your sweet time back there, didn't you?’ she hissed in his ear.

Eric found it a little disconcerting and yet strangely sensual in equal measure.

‘I hardly defied some pre-arranged signal.’ He could smell her conditioner.

‘Come off it. You were obstructive and you know it. Couldn’t you read between the lines?’

‘I didn’t want to intrude and get in the way of any real pilots.’ Eric allowed himself a slight grin. ‘You know, like the ones you mentioned earlier...who fly real aircraft.’ He paused and became more serious. He continued to speak in a whisper. ‘Look, I can see you’re upset about something. But you’re in no position to lecture to me. You appear to have misled the passengers. You were initially dismissive towards me. And now that it appears you may need me, you expect me to jump to accept some obviously phoney invitation to visit the cockpit. But, I’ll reserve further comment until you can tell me what’s actually happening.’

‘Thank you,’ Michelle said abruptly. ‘Keep up.’

As they progressed down the aisle, Eric became aware of the gentle rumble of the four enormous Rolls Royce jet engines as their combined thrust propelled the Boeing 747-400 airliner through the night sky at high velocity. Ordinarily he found it to be a comforting and nearly musical noise. Now, the sound of all that raw power seemed strangely ominous.

‘Is he a pilot?’ a young stewardess asked as she approached from the opposite direction.

‘Only a computer pilot,’ Michelle whispered. ‘Has anyone else come forward?’

‘Nobody.’ The young stewardess shrugged and sighed.

Her response caused a knot in his stomach as he sensed destiny summoning him towards something more ominous than he had initially imagined.

Michelle’s pace increased appreciably. They lost no time ascending the stairs to the upper deck. They reached a door marked PRIVATE. CREW ONLY. She used a key to open it and gestured that Eric should enter. Once in the crew’s quarters, they moved through a narrow galley towards the cockpit door. To the right was another door, marked BUNKS.

A flushing sound emanated from one of the two crew toilets to the left. The door opened and a fit looking young man in his late twenties emerged.

‘This is our air marshal, Harry Sykes,’ Michelle said. As she turned towards Eric, she blushed. ‘I’m sorry, but I forgot to ask your name.’

‘Eric Gates.’

Harry Sykes shook Eric’s hand with a firm grip.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Gates. We don’t have much time so I’ll be brief.’ He paused as if unsure where to begin. ‘About half an hour ago, our co-pilot left the cockpit, apparently to relieve himself. Instead he killed both reserve pilots in their bunks. At this stage we're not sure quite how or why. There was no commotion. Both seem to have broken necks. No one heard anything.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ Eric declared before he could stop himself.

Harry ignored Eric's remark and continued.

‘He then returned to the cockpit. Attacked the Captain, using a screwdriver. Fortunately, our Captain is ex-Special Forces. He gave as good as he got. He managed to kill the co-pilot. But the Captain was injured. Two puncture wounds to his abdomen.’

‘Abdomen? You’d think he would have gone straight for the Captain’s head.’ Eric’s eyes narrowed.

‘Oh, he did. It’s lucky the Captain turned to ask something, and managed to duck.’

‘How did the co-pilot manage to sneak a screwdriver through security?’

‘We don’t have time for all that.’

‘Sorry Harry. I want to help. But all this sounds incredible. If you want my help, you need to answer my questions.’ He paused. ‘I need to be sure that you are not involved. There’s no way I’m assisting you if you are.’

‘He’s not,’ Michelle intervened.

Harry raised his hand slightly to silence her.

‘He’s right,’ Harry said. ‘Fair enough. I think he took the screwdriver from the small emergency tool-kit in the cockpit. I haven’t had time to check, though.’

‘Where is the Captain now?’ Eric inquired.

‘In the cockpit. His condition is serious. One of the passengers, a medical doctor, is doing what he can. The worst of it is that the autopilot control panel has been damaged.’ He paused. ‘The Captain is flying manually. Although the doctor managed to stop the blood flow, he says the Captain won't remain conscious for too much longer. He requires urgent surgery.’

‘Hell’s teeth,’ Eric said. He pinched his chin. ‘Why did the Captain not use the last half hour to descend and make an emergency landing at the nearest airport rather than hand over control to someone like me?’ As he spoke it dawned on him that they would probably be flying over the Atlantic Ocean at this stage of the flight.’

‘I asked him the same thing. We aren’t near any airports. We’re over the Atlantic. Worse still, the Captain told me that we departed from our normal course earlier to avoid a huge thunderstorm. We are considerably to the west of our usual track.’

‘Heading for?’

‘Don’t know. You’ll have to ask the Captain. The Doctor wants him out before he loses consciousness. With medical attention, and some rest, he might be able to return later for long enough to land the plane. We need someone who can handle a 747 in manual flight from now until then.’ Harry broke off. ‘But to be frank, Mr Gates, I doubt that the Captain will be in any state to fly later. We've asked if there are any pilots aboard. Simply put, you’re all we have. A computer game pilot, I understand.’

‘A flight simulator, rather than a game,’ Eric explained.

‘Well, all those buttons, lights, levers and displays in there scare the living shit out of me. If you know what most of them do and if you have some idea about how to fly and land, then we must count our blessings. We may have a fighting chance of surviving this. Now, let’s get you in there.’

‘Before you do, how can you be certain I’m not involved?’

‘We're pretty sure he acted alone. A cockpit is a confined space. Makes it difficult to take control. I doubt that he would have risked taking on the Captain alone if he’d had the choice. Easier to first admit his collaborator to the crew’s quarters and then to the cockpit. Would have been a different outcome with two against one.’ Harry opened his jacket and revealed a concealed firearm. ‘But I do have this if I’m wrong.’

‘And yet you seem to have excluded me?’

‘Easy. If you were involved, you'd have posed as a real pilot. Makes no sense for you to pose as a simulator pilot, since we'd only use a simulator pilot as a last resort...if no other pilot came forward.’ Harry smiled apologetically. ‘No offence intended.’

‘None taken,’ Eric replied.

‘Of course, it would make no difference if you were involved,’ Michelle added.

Eric frowned.

‘Why ever not?’ he asked.

‘Because you’re all we have.’ Harry said.

Eric had dreamed of flying a Boeing 747-400. As a young boy he had often watched these massive, yet elegant aircraft landing and taking off from the viewing decks at Cape Town International.

And now he found himself at the cockpit door of a real Boeing 747-400. The cold reality of it seemed more of a nightmare instead of a dream. In flight simulator he always had the option to press the escape button, and this would instantly interrupt or reset a problematic flight. Of course, no such button lurked anywhere on the other side of that door.

Michelle drew closer.

‘Well now you’ll understand why I acted as I did earlier,’ she whispered quietly so only he could hear. ‘But if you manage to get us on the ground in one piece, I’ll be sure to make it up to you.’

All of Eric's faculties were focused on the enormity of the challenge ahead. Michelle's words scarcely registered. He turned to her.

‘Michelle, please fetch the gentleman who was sitting next to me. He is a retired detective. Former South African Police.’

Michelle glanced at Harry.

‘You can vouch for him?’ Harry asked.

‘We only met on board a few hours ago. Still, I think I can. Seems in good nick for someone who is recently retired and he'd be useful to have around if we have any trouble.’

‘I am not expecting any. But it can't do any harm to be safe.’ Harry glanced at Michelle. ‘Fetch him.’

After Michelle departed Eric turned to Harry.

‘Where were you during all this?’

‘I’m always seated amongst the passengers, posing as one.’

‘Do you have any idea as to what the co-pilot's intentions were?’

‘None at all. Perhaps a hijacking. Perhaps a suicide mission, although I doubt it.’

‘Why?’

‘Suicide attacks are usually anti-western. Can’t think of any country around here which is particularly pro-western?’ Without waiting for an answer, Harry spoke to someone in the cockpit on the intercom.

As the cockpit door opened, a small bespectacled man in his late fifties emerged.

‘Dr Barker, this is Eric Gates.’

‘I hope you have some idea about what to do in there, young man,’ the Doctor said to Eric in a tone which seemed neither friendly nor confrontational.

‘How is the Captain?’ Eric enquired, changing the subject. He had no appetite for adding the misgivings of others to the weight of his own doubts.

‘Not at all good, I'm afraid. It’s internal bleeding, I suspect. He’s not going to stay conscious for long so you’d better get in there.’

Eric permitted the doctor to pass and then he poked his head into the cockpit. The cockpit lights were partially dimmed, causing the instrument panels and displays to resemble the city lights of Cape Town at night.

The Captain was a stocky man in his early fifties. He occupied the left seat, the seat reserved for the most senior pilot in the cockpit. He had one hand on the steering column.

‘Good morning, Captain, I’m Eric Gates. Permission requested to enter and to take up residence in the right seat.’

‘Hello Eric.’ He only turned to face Eric briefly without smiling. ‘Carry on.’

On first impressions, the Captain struck him as introspective and cautious. Somehow, he had expected the former Special Forces man to be more gregarious and outgoing.

As Eric shifted over the centre console to get to his seat, he noticed the blood spatters and stains on the Captain's white shirt.

‘I’m Mike Langford,’ he said. His eyes were sunken and his face was pale. His drawn expression evidenced the pain and fatigue he continued to endure.

Broken glass, damaged consoles and miscellaneous blood spatters and smears throughout the cockpit bore testament to a struggle and to some effort to clean up afterwards. Eric spent several moments examining the various instruments in the glass cockpit display panels. To his considerable relief, everything looked decidedly familiar.

Predictably, the Captain divided his attention between observing Eric and the task of flying the aircraft. He could hear the latter breathing slowly, heavily. Eric switched from scanning the instrument panels to inspecting the damage. He ran his right hand through his short dark hair as he did so.

‘So we've lost the autopilot console, the flight management computer, and the co-pilot's radio stack,’ Eric eventually noted. ‘Anything else damaged?’

‘No.’

Eric inspected the autopilot console at the top of the dashboard more closely. The entire panel had been smashed inwards. He rubbed his chin.

‘The damage to the auto pilot seems deliberate.’ He posed his question more as a rhetorical one than anything else and then turned to observe the Captain’s reaction.

‘Backhand jab. Screwdriver missed me. Hit the autopilot console. Penetrated it rather deeply.’

Eric considered the explanation. The location of the autopilot on the dashboard did not exclude the possibility of the Captain's version being true.

‘Can’t say whether he intended it, but the automated flight systems are out of order just the same. I've managed to disconnect the auto-pilot master. But the wiring behind the panel is damaged. I hope nothing shorts. We don’t want one of the autopilot systems to re-engage erratically or without warning. You’ll have to watch out for that.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘Your familiarity with the location of the autopilot and the flight management computer… Is this because you mainly use those systems on your computer?’

‘Of course I use the autopilot on long-haul flights. Like airline pilots in the real world,’ Eric conceded. ‘But I’m not short on manual flying hours on the 747.’

‘How do you control the ailerons and the elevator?’ The Captain was referring to the flap-like control surfaces of any aircraft. The former, located on the wings, controlled the plane’s left and right movements, whilst the latter, located on the tail, caused upward and downward movement.

‘With a force feedback motorised joystick. It’s supposed to mimic the feel of the aircraft's real-world handling and response. The joystick also has a number of additional controls on it - flaps, throttle, trim, landing gear, and the rudder.’

‘What do you know about flying a 747?’

‘I started with lessons for light aircraft which were built into the simulator programme. It took time for me to work my way up to flying airliners. I’ve studied books written by real world pilots about flying big jets.’

‘Books are useful, but of limited value without hands-on instruction from experienced instructors,’ the Captain replied. He used his free arm to wipe newly formed beads of sweat from his forehead.

‘I didn’t have the luxury of instructors. When I found the conversion from small turboprops to the bigger jets difficult, the books helped me to understand what I was doing wrong and helped me to fix it.’

‘What were you doing wrong?’ Despite his obvious discomfort, the Captain seemed determined to persist with his interrogation.

‘The secret is to stay ahead of the jet, especially during approach and landing. I tended to react too slowly to deviations from my intended approach path.’

‘Why?’

‘On account of their size, big jets will initially resist inputs from flight controls to correct a deviated flight path in favour of continuing along the deviated flight path. This situation is aggravated by the higher speed of a big jet, which means things happen so much more quickly. Then there’s the time delay jet engines take in spooling up or down from one power setting to another. I had to learn to react to the smallest deviations in the approach flight path as they occurred and to make small subtle corrections continuously to avoid coming in too low or too high or to avoid stalling.’ He noticed the Captain wince as he mentioned stalling. ‘Seemed difficult at first, but the books explained ideal power settings, pitch, and airspeed for different landing weights and flap settings. Using what I'd learnt, I soon found myself landing the 747's and other jets effortlessly.’

The Captain focused on the flight displays during an ensuing silence. A bout of turbulence caused the airframe to vibrate and the Captain had to work a little harder on the control column to maintain straight and level flight.

‘I realise my experience is limited to my computer, but the books are written by real world big jets pilots and they worked for me,’ Eric offered.

‘I'm not knocking what you've learnt. This aircraft handles magnificently in trained hands. But it’s easy to lose control if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.’ The Captain breathed deeply, and his face contorted. ‘But if you've learnt how to stay ahead of a big jet, that at least is something.’ He paused to cough. ‘How do you configure the 747 for landing?’

‘If the landing fuel weight is less than 40000 pounds, I use 140 to 150 knots, flaps 25 and pitch at around 0 to 3 degrees. Given adequate runway length at Cape Town, I set the auto break to position one and the spoiler is armed. Thrust is usually around 40-45% N1, depending on landing weight and wind.’

‘Descent rate on final?’

‘Around six hundred to seven hundred feet a minute, slowing to five hundred feet a minute or thereabouts for touchdown. Never exceeding 6 degrees nose up. I fly the plane onto the runway. I don't hold it off like one does with a light aircraft.’

The Captain's eyes closed for a few seconds.

‘Hmmm,’ he mumbled eventually as he stared ahead.

Eric could not determine whether or not this constituted approval.

‘Are the airports in your simulator like the real ones to any extent?’

‘The same. The frequencies of the navigational beacons are also the same.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I have the actual approach charts for Cape Town International and books on South African Air Traffic Control. Everything's the same.’

‘And you've landed the 747 at Cape Town before on your simulator?’

‘Often. It's my home airport.’

‘What about weather? Cross winds on landing, for example?’

‘You can set the weather as you like or you can download real world weather off the internet. I've often landed in real world weather conditions in Cape Town.’

‘How would you deal with a North Westerly on runway zero one, gusting from fifteen to thirty knots?’

The conditions were typical of those which prevailed during passing cold fronts in the Cape winter.

The Captain coughed profusely. His complexion had turned ashen white.

‘You don’t look good at all, Mike. Don’t you think you should get some rest?’

The Captain glared at Eric without replying.

‘We don’t have other candidates waiting back there. I’m it. So perhaps we can skip the interview and let me get on with it while you rest up,’ Eric persisted.

‘You’re forgetting that this aircraft is my responsibility. It took several thousand hours of training and experience before I was allowed to fly her.’ His face contorted as he struggled to breath. ‘They tell me you’ve never flown anything before? Not even a glider. True?’

‘True,’ Eric replied ruefully.

‘If you think that I’m going to hand over to you, and hope for the best, you’re sadly mistaken. Maybe you can land her, maybe you’ll end up killing us all. Lord alone knows. But you’ll forgive me using what strength I have left to find out what you know, and what you don’t. If you do crash, it won’t be because I didn’t do my damnedest to pass along what little advice I was able to in what little time I may have left. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ Eric replied ‘Runway 01's heading is 009 degrees. I'd use left wing low technique with a little opposite rudder, switching to the crabbing technique shortly prior to touchdown, perhaps with a modicum of increased thrust on one of the right engines. I'd also increase landing speed by seven and a half knots being half the difference between the high point and low point of the gust.’

‘Are you familiar with the dash-400’s glass cockpit displays?’ Once again, the Captain had changed the subject without commenting on Eric's response to the previous question.

‘Yes, these displays are much the same as on the simulator,’ Eric replied. To reassure, the Captain, Eric pointed towards one of the panels. ‘This is the primary flight display. We are at flight level 370, our speed is 0.84 Mach, and our heading is 125 degrees. We have 3.25 degrees nose up pitch.’ He glanced at the Captain expectantly.

The Captain persisted in refraining from comment. Eric couldn’t help finding the lack of feedback to be a little annoying. At the same time, it occurred to him that the Captain’s declining condition did not permit him to waste any time. Presumably, the silences indicated an acceptance that Eric had some idea of what he was doing.

‘Do you wish me to take control?’ Eric eventually inquired.

‘Very well. You have control,’ the Captain declared.

‘I have control’ Eric replied.

Eric placed his hands on the right hand control column. As he did so, the aircraft encountered a patch of turbulence and it lurched forwards. Eric pulled the column towards him to prevent the plane from descending. He soon discovered that he had pulled it a little too far back, because the aircraft commenced a gentle ascent.

The Captain's hands drew closer to the left hand column, but without intervention. He watched intently as Eric moved the column forwards and backwards in ever decreasing increments until the aircraft stabilised.

‘I can’t make out the horizon and I can’t see any stars. High altitude cloud?’

‘Yes,’ said the Captain. A slight smile creased his face. ‘You took control without once looking outside. And you managed to stabilise her to straight and level flight without looking outside. You're familiar with flying on instruments?’

‘Yes,’ Eric responded.

‘Good. You may need to fly on instruments for some time until visibility improves. And you may also be required to fly an ILS approach. The forecast for Cape Town when we left London was for instrument conditions.’

The captain was referring to the instrument landing system, a system of radio signals transmitted from the threshold of a runway. Typically an aircraft's navigation radio would be tuned to the frequency of the ILS. This permitted the aircraft's instruments to reveal whether it was flying above or below the approach path required to land on the runway. It also displayed whether an aircraft was flying to the left or the right of the required path to the runway. It allowed an aircraft to approach a runway in weather conditions where no or poor visibility prevented a standard visual approach.

‘I’m familiar with instrument approaches,’ Eric responded.

They were interrupted by a short beeping sound similar to that of a short wave Morse code transmission. It repeated after a few seconds. Eric looked at the Horizontal Situation Display. The NAV 2 radio needle now pointed towards a new beacon, VMO. It was reflected as being one hundred and ninety three nautical miles away at one hundred and seventy four degrees.

‘Are we navigating by VOR radio?’ Eric was referring to an FM type directional transmitter with a maximum range of between one hundred and eighty to two hundred nautical miles and which, prior to GPS, was one of the main navigational tools used by pilots.

‘Yes, the GPS system is linked to the flight management system. Since that's out of order, we're using VOR.’

‘Shall I make a slight course correction to Victor Mike Oscar then?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Changing course to 174.’ Eric added a hint of thrust together with a little back pressure on the steering column whilst he executed a gentle turn to the new course.

The Captain pressed the Ident button on the centre console and the Morse code transmission ceased.

‘I'm familiar with most of the beacons in South Africa. But I don't know this one. Where is VMO?’ Eric started to level off a few degrees before the aircraft’s nose pointed to the new course. He reduced thrust and added downward pressure on the steering column as he did so. Now he would have to watch for course deviations caused by high altitude cross winds, which he expected would come from the West.

‘South Angola. Along the coast. We'll cross it from the Atlantic.’

‘Then on to the Walvis Bay VOR, Alexander Bay, VOR and Charlie Tango Victor, the VOR transmitter at Cape Town?’

‘Correct.’

‘Have we declared an emergency?’

‘No, there's no Air Traffic Control, on our route until we reach Namibia. Luanda Area has been non-operational between 00H30Z and 07H00Z for some time now.’

The Captain was referring to Zulu time, known as GMT in common parlance.

‘I have tuned the COMM 1 radio to Namib Control, and the COMM 2 radio to Cape Town Area.’

‘Given your condition, would it not be wiser to divert to Windhoek? It will save one and a half hours.’

The Captain’s breathlessness grew steadily worse.

‘I don't think I'm likely to make it either way.’ He allowed his words to sink in before he continued. ‘But