Fog Bastards 1 Intention by Bill Robinson Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Robinson
his finger's on the button to talk to the passengers, but he waits a second. Just because we practice this stuff all the time, doesn't mean our hearts don't get to racing. I am watching the instruments, and trying to get back to calm as well.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Captain Montara. You may have noticed we took a slight deviation in our routing. Once we are this far over water there are no radar stations tracking us and keeping other planes away. Instead, we work with a control center in Oakland who is talking to every aircraft out here, and in theory, plotting their courses, altitudes, and speeds to make sure they stay away from each other."
"As you are now aware, that system is imperfect. Fortunately, we saw other aircraft far enough away. I've been flying this route for eight years, and today is the first time this has ever happened to me, and I sincerely hope it's the last. I apologize for any inconvenience, and suggest you sit back, relax, and enjoy the rest of our flight."
Not long after he finished, we hear a bell, which means that the chief flight attendant wants to chat. I only hear one side of that conversation, but from Ken's description after he hangs up, all hell had broken loose. No one was seriously hurt, though a couple passengers, and all the flight attendants, had bruises. They were starting free alcohol service, so soon no one would be feeling any pain.
Now we have work to do. First we send Oakland a really nasty email. We have both electronic and voice communication, but the voice is full of static, and we never use it if we can avoid it. Then we send our company an email, letting them know what had happened.
Finally, all our work done, Ken looks over at me.
"How the hell did you know?"
"I have no fucking idea. Maybe I caught the diamond in my peripheral vision and my subconscious wigged out on it."
Our high frequency radio starts chirping, meaning that Oakland is trying for voice communication. We can barely make it out, but it's an apology, and notice that the Gulfstream was both off course and at the wrong altitude. Nice of them to make the effort to say it, not just email it, even though it wasn't their fault.
I still can't quite get back to normal. It's like I have to burp, but it won't come out.
We're about 300 miles out when our email dings us, and the company tells us our maintenance people have flown from Honolulu and are in Kona, and they want to inspect the aircraft. They also will have paramedics ready on landing, though we are sure now that no one needs them.
At the usual spot, we contact Hawaii approach.
"Hawaii, Mountain 4-6-1 with you flight level 3-9-0."
"Mountain 4-6-1, Hawaii approach, radar contact, descend pilot's discretion 8-thousand, direct Kona, cleared visual approach runway 1-7."
Apparently, they've cleared everyone out of our way, and we are number one with a bullet. Radar contact has a nice sound to it. Between LA and Cleveland, you are in radar contact all the way. Maybe that's not such a bad route after all.
Twenty minutes later we're stopped at gate 9 running the after landing checklist, when our flight deck (cockpit to you old school folks) is unexpectedly full. The two pilots flying our bird back to LA, a maintenance person, and the Honolulu operations manager are all trying to crowd their way in.
Ken tells them to get out. Captain Amos is there, chief pilot, so that doesn't work on him, but everybody else leaves. Ken gets "the look," and starts talking. He gives me all the credit for catching it before the electronics, and for flying through it without killing anybody.
I add my two cents, "It handled normally during descent and landing, no sign that I could tell of any damage." Ken agrees.
The three of us go join the maintenance crew (apparently two had stayed outside when the one had tried to crash out party) and the
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Captain Montara. You may have noticed we took a slight deviation in our routing. Once we are this far over water there are no radar stations tracking us and keeping other planes away. Instead, we work with a control center in Oakland who is talking to every aircraft out here, and in theory, plotting their courses, altitudes, and speeds to make sure they stay away from each other."
"As you are now aware, that system is imperfect. Fortunately, we saw other aircraft far enough away. I've been flying this route for eight years, and today is the first time this has ever happened to me, and I sincerely hope it's the last. I apologize for any inconvenience, and suggest you sit back, relax, and enjoy the rest of our flight."
Not long after he finished, we hear a bell, which means that the chief flight attendant wants to chat. I only hear one side of that conversation, but from Ken's description after he hangs up, all hell had broken loose. No one was seriously hurt, though a couple passengers, and all the flight attendants, had bruises. They were starting free alcohol service, so soon no one would be feeling any pain.
Now we have work to do. First we send Oakland a really nasty email. We have both electronic and voice communication, but the voice is full of static, and we never use it if we can avoid it. Then we send our company an email, letting them know what had happened.
Finally, all our work done, Ken looks over at me.
"How the hell did you know?"
"I have no fucking idea. Maybe I caught the diamond in my peripheral vision and my subconscious wigged out on it."
Our high frequency radio starts chirping, meaning that Oakland is trying for voice communication. We can barely make it out, but it's an apology, and notice that the Gulfstream was both off course and at the wrong altitude. Nice of them to make the effort to say it, not just email it, even though it wasn't their fault.
I still can't quite get back to normal. It's like I have to burp, but it won't come out.
We're about 300 miles out when our email dings us, and the company tells us our maintenance people have flown from Honolulu and are in Kona, and they want to inspect the aircraft. They also will have paramedics ready on landing, though we are sure now that no one needs them.
At the usual spot, we contact Hawaii approach.
"Hawaii, Mountain 4-6-1 with you flight level 3-9-0."
"Mountain 4-6-1, Hawaii approach, radar contact, descend pilot's discretion 8-thousand, direct Kona, cleared visual approach runway 1-7."
Apparently, they've cleared everyone out of our way, and we are number one with a bullet. Radar contact has a nice sound to it. Between LA and Cleveland, you are in radar contact all the way. Maybe that's not such a bad route after all.
Twenty minutes later we're stopped at gate 9 running the after landing checklist, when our flight deck (cockpit to you old school folks) is unexpectedly full. The two pilots flying our bird back to LA, a maintenance person, and the Honolulu operations manager are all trying to crowd their way in.
Ken tells them to get out. Captain Amos is there, chief pilot, so that doesn't work on him, but everybody else leaves. Ken gets "the look," and starts talking. He gives me all the credit for catching it before the electronics, and for flying through it without killing anybody.
I add my two cents, "It handled normally during descent and landing, no sign that I could tell of any damage." Ken agrees.
The three of us go join the maintenance crew (apparently two had stayed outside when the one had tried to crash out party) and the
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