The Coffin Dancer

Percey nodded. “Calculate it.”

The young man punched numbers with a steady hand.

He sighed, his first visible display of emotion. “Five thousand feet at Mamaroneck translates to forty-eight five here.”

She called Bell forward again. “Here’s the situation. There’s a pressure front coming in. By the time we get to the runway, the bomb may be reading the atmosphere as below five thousand feet. It may blow when we’re fifty to a hundred feet above the ground.”

“Okay.” He nodded calmly. “Okay.”

“We don’t have flaps, so we’re going to be landing fast, close to two hundred miles an hour. If it blows we’ll lose control and crash. There won’t be much fire ’cause the tanks are dry. And depending on what’s in front of us, if we’re low enough we may skid a ways before we start tumbling. There’s nothing to do but keep the seat belts tight and keep your head down.”

“All right,” he said, nodding, looking out the window.

She glanced at his face. “Can I ask you something, Roland?”

“You bet.”

“This isn’t your first airplane flight, is it?”

He sighed. “You know, you live mosta your born days in North Carolina, you just don’t have much of a chance to travel. And coming to New York, well, those Amtraks’re nice and comfy.” He paused. “Fact is, I’ve never been higher than an elevator’ll take me.”

“They’re not all like this,” she said.

He squeezed her on the shoulder, whispered, “Don’t drop your candy.” He returned to his seat.

“Okay,” Percey said, looking over the Airman’s Guide information on Denver International. “Brad, this’ll be a nighttime visual approach to runway two eight left. I’ll have command of the aircraft. You’ll lower the gear manually and call out rate of descent, distance to runway, and altitude – give me true altitude above ground, not sea level – and airspeed.” She tried to think of something else. No power, no flaps, no speed brakes. There was nothing else to say; it was the shortest pre-landing briefing in the history of her flying career. She added, “One last thing. When we stop, just get the fuck out as fast as you can.”

“Ten miles to runway,” he called. “Speed two hundred knots. Altitude nine thousand feet. We need to slow descent.”

She pulled up on the yoke slightly and the speed dropped dramatically. The shaker stick vibrated again. Stall now and they died.

Forward again.

Nine miles… Eight…

Sweating like a rainstorm. She wiped her face. Blisters on the soft skin between her thumbs and index fingers.

Seven… Six…

“Five miles from touchdown, forty-five hundred feet. Airspeed two hundred ten knots.”

“Gear down,” Percey commanded.

Brad spun the wheel that manually lowered the heavy gear. He had gravity helping him, but it was nonetheless a major effort. Still, he kept his eyes glued to the instruments and recited, calm as an accountant reading a balance sheet, “Four miles from touchdown, thirty-nine hundred feet…”

She fought the buffeting of the lower altitude and the harsh winds.

“Gear down,” Brad called, panting, “three green.”

The airspeed dropped to one hundred eighty knots – about two hundred miles an hour. It was too fast. Way too fast. Without their reverse thrusters they’d burn up even the longest runway in a streak.

“Denver Approach, what’s the altimeter?”

“Three oh nine eight,” the unflappable ATC controller said.

Rising. Higher and higher.

She took a deep breath. According to the bomb, the runway was slightly less than five thousand feet above sea level. How accurate had the Coffin Dancer been when he’d made the detonator?

“The gear’s dragging. Sink rate’s twenty-six hundred.”

Which meant a vertical speed of about thirty-eight miles per hour. “We’re dropping too fast, Percey,” Brad called. “We’ll hit in front of the approach lights. A hundred yards short. Two, maybe.”

ATC’s voice had noticed this too: “ Foxtrot Bravo, you have to get some altitude. You’re coming in too low.”

Back on the stick. The speed dropped. Stall warning. Forward on the stick.

“Two and a half miles from touchdown, altitude nineteen hundred feet.”

“Too low, Foxtrot Bravo!” the ATC controller warned again.

She looked out over the silver nose. There were all the lights – the strobes of the approach lights beckoning them forward, the blue dots of the taxiway, the orange-red of the runway… And lights that Percey’d never seen before on approach. Hundreds of flashing lights. White and red. All the emergency vehicles.

Lights everywhere.

All the stars of evening…

“Still low,” Brad called. “We’re going to impact two hundred yards short.”

Hands sweating, straining forward, Percey thought again of Lincoln Rhyme, strapped to his seat, himself leaning forward, examining something in the computer screen.

“Too low, Foxtrot Bravo,” ATC repeated. “I’m moving emergency vehicles to the field in front of the runway.”

“Negative that,” Percey said adamantly.

Brad called, “Altitude thirteen hundred feet. One and a half miles from touchdown.”

We’ve got thirty seconds! What do I do?

Ed? Tell me? Brit? Somebody…

Come on, monkey skills… What the hell do I do?

She looked out the cockpit window. In the light of the moon she could see suburbs and towns and some farmland but also, to the left, large patches of desert.

Colorado’s a desert state… Of course!

Suddenly she banked sharply to the left.

Brad, without a clue as to what she was doing, called out, “Rate of descent thirty-two hundred, altitude one thousand feet, nine hundred feet, eight five…”

Banking a powerless aircraft sheds altitude in a hurry.

ATC called, “Foxtrot Bravo, do not turn. Repeat, do not turn! You don’t have enough altitude as is.”

She leveled out over the patch of desert.

Brad gave a fast laugh. “Altitude steady… Altitude rising, we’re at nine hundred feet, one thousand feet, twelve hundred feet. Thirteen hundred feet… I don’t get it.”

“A thermal,” she said. “Desert soaks up heat during the day and releases it all night.”

ATC had figured it out too. “Good, Foxtrot Bravo! Good. You just bought yourself about three hundred yards. Come right two nine oh… good, now left two eight oh. Good. On course. Listen, Foxtrot Bravo, you want to take out those approach lights, you go right ahead.”

“Thanks for the offer, Denver, but I think I’ll set her down a thousand past the numbers.”

“That’s all right too, ma’am.”

They had another problem now. They could reach the runway, but the airspeed was way too high. Flaps were what decreased the stall speed of an aircraft so it could land more slowly. The Lear 35A’s normal stall speed was about 110 miles an hour. Without flaps it was closer to 180. At that speed even a two-mile-long runway vanishes in an instant.

So Percey sideslipped.

This is a simple maneuver in a private plane, used in crosswind landings. You bank to the left and hit the right rudder pedal. It slows the aircraft considerably. Percey didn’t know if anyone had ever used this technique in a seven-ton jet, but she couldn’t think of anything else to do. “Need your help here,” she called to Brad, gasping at the effort and the pain shooting through her raw hands. He gripped the yoke and shoved on the pedal too. This had the effect of slowing the aircraft, though it dropped the left wing precipitously.

She’d straighten it out just before contact with the runway.

She hoped.

“Airspeed?” she called.

“One fifty knots.”

“Looking good, Foxtrot Bravo.”

“Two hundred yards from runway, altitude two hundred eighty feet,” Brad called. “Approach lights, twelve o’clock.”

“Sink rate?” she asked.

“Twenty-six hundred.”

Too fast. Landing at that sink rate could destroy the undercarriage. And might very well set off the bomb too.