Flight of the Forgotten. Mark A. Vance
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my first officer and I saw it the same way and reacted accordingly, instantly electing to clear the intersection ahead of the other plane.
“Go!” he shouted, not realizing that I had already firewalled both thrust levers full forward to maximum thrust as we hurtled ahead into the blinding sun. The Boeing 737 was still too slow to fly, but as the huge turboprop neared from the left, that no longer mattered. We would collide at the intersection if something wasn’t done to get us out of his way fast. So, with my engines straining at firewall thrust and a collision imminent, I pulled back sharply on the control wheel, forcing the big jet into the air well below flying speed. Seconds later, we augured through the intersection above the turboprop airliner as it flashed by below us and I braced for impact. Somehow, with everyone doing just the right thing at the right time, we missed each other.
From the moment we lifted-off well below flying speed, the stick shaker activated, warning me of an impending stall. It was a miracle we hadn’t hit the other airplane of course, but our problems were far from over. None of us had any way of knowing at the time that our near-accident was all due to an air traffic controller operational error.
The first officer and I were busy working to get control of the airplane and keep from crashing. Auguring toward downtown Boston, blinded by sunlight and unable to turn, neither of us had time to acknowledge the first miracle as we prayed hard for a second one. The slightest turn now to avoid the tall buildings, with the jet on stick-shaker, would mean a stall and a total loss of control.
Working desperately to regain control of the airplane and keep from crashing, I held the vibrating control column tightly as my eyes strained to read the flight instruments. Blinded by the sun just above the horizon, I searched for a glimpse of the downtown sky scrapers as my eyes watered profusely and I struggled with the controls. Tears began rolling heavily down my cheeks as I searched in the blinding light for the buildings, glancing intermittently at the first officer’s flight instruments. My own were invisible in the blinding glare.
It was truly the ragged edge. I needed help. I needed it bad, and there wasn’t much time left for it to arrive. In the passenger cabin, over one hundred people were counting on us to salvage things and pull them through safely, not to mention those ahead of us on the ground.
“Holy Jesus! Jesus! Watch the buildings!” I shouted as we wallowed out of control and I began to feel more and more like a crash was imminent. That feeling enveloped me as events seemed to slow around me, and my mind continued racing at warp speed.
“You do have a way of making me feel needed.” Buster suddenly announced, leaning over my right shoulder. “Okay … now you need to start turning left, Mark.” he directed, as I eased the control column into a gradual turn and felt the ailerons and spoilers respond. “Hold your nose down and power through the turn.” he instructed as the stick-shaker continued rattling and tears kept streaming down my face.
“Okay, I’m coming left.” I shouted as my first officer acknowledged, thinking I was talking to him.
“Left? Okay. Easy … easy, now.”
“Keep coming around to the left, Mark. You need to miss those buildings.” Buster directed as I continued turning the big jet. “Keep your nose down. You don’t want to stall. Go ahead and bring the gear up … let’s get some airspeed.”
“Gear up!” I ordered as my first officer immediately reached over and raised the gear lever.
“Take it easy. You’re doing fine. Just do as I tell you and everything is going to be alright.” he continued. “Okay now … easy … easy … easy … roll out on this heading!” he ordered. Suddenly, the stick-shaker, which had been vibrating from the moment we lifted off, abruptly stopped and our airspeed margin increased above a stall. Within moments, we were out of danger from the tall buildings and no longer auguring out of control.
“I owe you again, Buster.” I announced as my first officer looked at me curiously.
“Me? You saved it!” he exclaimed, grabbing his microphone to respond to the Boston air traffic control tower.
“I was just along for the ride.” I gasped, as things began to settle down.
“Did you hear that asshole in the tower?” my first officer asked excitedly.
“No, why?”
“He was reading off their phone number the entire time and demanding a response. Didn’t you hear him? What a jerk!”
“No, I guess not. I was listening to something else.”
“Lucky for you.” my first officer grunted.
“Lucky for all of us.” I corrected him.
“You’ll be okay now.” Buster interrupted. “I’m here anytime you need me.” he reminded, as I just nodded silently and engaged the jet’s autopilot. “I have to go now, but when the time is right, I’ll be back to ask for your help on an important matter.” he said cryptically.
September 24, 1988, Houston, Texas
My first indication that the important matter Buster had in mind was approaching came in the form of a strange query from my wife late one evening. “Do we know anyone that was killed in a fire?” she asked, curiously, staring at me intently as she spoke.
“A fire? No. Why?” I asked, eyeing her warily.
“No one you can think of?” she continued.
“No. Why? What’s going on?”
“Well, I went for a reading yesterday with these two psychics and they both kept insisting that someone killed in a fire was trying desperately to get in touch with my husband.”
“What kind of a fire? A house fire?” I asked.
“They didn’t say. All they said was whoever it was had died in a fire. They said the person didn’t die of the fire, but was surrounded by fire when they died.”
“Well, I can’t think of anyone.” I replied, dismissing the idea as some kind of fluke and more than a little skeptical about the two local psychics. Three weeks later, I began to understand the significance of that message. Had I known at the time that my uncle and his crew had been killed on impact when their bomber plunged to the ground amid a tremendous flash fire, I would have immediately recognized the source of the communication.
October 15, 1988, Bradley International Airport, Windsor Locks, Connecticut
The mystery of that terrible crash had been with me all my life of course, but up to this time I had never seriously thought about trying to uncover its secrets. That was about to change one dark, rainy night as I approached the Bradley International Airport in a rainstorm and high winds. Completely unknown to me at the time, the Bradley International Airport had been the recovery point for most of the heavy bombers of the U.S. Eighth Air Force when they returned from England after World War II. It was the original stateside destination for thousands of homesick, young airmen on their way home after the war, including the Jack B. Ketchum crew and my uncle Buster.
“I’m going to give it a shot of rain repellent.” I announced as the rain continued pounding heavily against the jet’s cockpit window. “What were the winds again?” I asked.
“300 degrees at 25 knots, gusting to 30.” my first officer replied.
“Okay, thanks.” I said as we joined the localizer for the ILS approach.
“Windshear advisories are in effect. An MD-80 just reported a 20 knot loss of airspeed at 300 feet.” my first officer warned.
“Got it … thanks.” I said, wrestling with the airplane as it pitched and rolled in the high winds. “Nothing like trying to dock the Queen Mary in a bathtub.” I grumbled.
“No kidding. I’m glad this is your leg.” my first officer joked as the airplane