The Truth About Global Warming
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The Hijacking Of Global 7749 free porn video
Ken Taylor had pulled the call button in spite of the terse warning from the flight attendant not to do so. He was at the very back of the giant 747—the cheap seats that his company always seemed to acquire at a deep discount.
Something had occurred at the front of the airplane. The first class passengers had been flushed from their upscale seating. There had been screams—male and female. The plane had briefly shuddered and lost altitude—then recovered. He had heard the unmistakable sharp report of the SIG .357—the air marshal’s issue weapon—several times.
After several minutes, a grim faced man came down the aisle toward him accompanied by one of the younger flight attendants. He slammed the call bell above Ken’s head off with his fist.
‘Didn’t you get the fucking word?’ The man, said, pushing his identification in front of Ken’s face, it indicated that he was an NYPD detective, a sergeant.
Ken offered him his own ID from the wallet on his lap that he had previously removed from his rear pant’s pocket. ‘Sergeant I apologize for bothering you. I am a Lieutenant Colonel, USMC reserve—and I’m a military pilot with nearly thirty years of multi-engine flying experience. Something serious appears to have happened up front. I’m just offering my services to the flight crew if needed. I heard the weapons fire.’
The police detective relaxed his scowl but maintained a grim countenance. ‘Colonel, I think you’d better come with me.’ Ken unfastened his seat belt, following the young flight attendant as the detective followed closely behind.
As Ken entered the curtain to First Class he surveyed a scene of unspeakable carnage. A flight attendant lay dead across three seats in the middle section—her throat slashed. A young Marine gunnery sergeant was carrying the body of a member of the flight crew and laying his obviously inert body across another bank of seats.
Another young man in a cheap suit and close cropped hair occupied a third bank of three seats. The decease air marshal, Ken assumed. As he approached the flight deck a man, he assumed a doctor, nurse or EMT was feverishly working on another member of the flight crew. This 747 had three officers on the flight deck, the youngest, probably this man would normally be the flight engineer. There was a pile of three male bodies in front of the front right seats by the door neither clean shaven nor wearing suits. The hijackers, he presumed.
Ken realized the man futilely attending to the stricken crewman was a doctor, a Pakistani. He had obviously been administering CPR for some time. There was no evidence of success. Greeting the man in Urdu, the national language of Pakistan but then switching to English, the official language of Pakistan, Ken asked for the prognosis. The young doctor shook his head. At that moment the gunny brought another body back from the flight deck to the first class cabin. Not good, Ken thought to himself—not good at all.
The flight deck was spattered with blood in all directions, there were drying blood pools on the floor. The senior flight attendant, a striking woman who he judged to be in her late thirties—or a well maintained forty—was seated in the right seat, talking on the radio. He assumed she was notifying the airline company of what had happened.
He remembered her name as Melanie, he had noted it when he boarded. As a ten year divorced man coming up on the big 50, dating a forty year old woman was almost cradle robbing. She was his type, she was a tall leggy brunette with a great smile but also a look that said—‘don’t fuck with me.’ He loved strong women who told you what they expected—in or out of bed.
At the moment bedding down the long and lanky Ms. Melanie was the farthest thought from his mind. He needed to assess the situation. It did not look promising. The automatic flight and landing system or LAS visual displays were smashed beyond recognition. Someone had unscrewed and partially severed the wires on one of the auto pilot control boxes. He surmised that the auto pilot would probably hold the last heading, airspeed and altitude entered, but could not be used to fly the plane.
The old familiar, ‘antique’ flight instruments were still installed in this older aircraft, it was essentially an analog cockpit with electro-mechanical instruments, the newer models had digital displays—eight TV screens. This bird had had some digital displays added—all smashed—but had retained the old style instrumentation.
Ken found comfort in that fact, since that is what he was used to depending on in the C130 Hercules. Still there were over 970 lights, gauges and switches on this flight deck. Digitalization on newer models had cut that number by 70%. All of the old stuff still appeared to work.
He had bootlegged a few hours with an Air Force buddy in a KC135—the Air Force version of the venerable 707 but in an aerial refueling configuration. He’d also flown the KC10 with the same friend, legitimately a Jumbo Jet. He had thousands of hours and tens of thousands of landings in the four engine turbo prop C130. He also knew that even for an experienced 747 pilot, landing the giant machine manually was an emergency procedure. He fully realized that he was about to take the controls of something that was much more than just a very big version of a C130.
The Captain had been an old timer, he’d kept track of his flight progress on paper—not fully trusting the computers. The old ADF and VOR were still installed and appeared to be functioning. Examining the blood spattered map the dead pilot had left him he guessed that they were generally South of Pittsburgh approximately 150 miles. Columbus or Cleveland would be up ahead, but farther away. It would be Pittsburgh then.
He found the paper bound book of approach charts next to the seat—thank God for old timers. He turned on all of the radios that had been shut off and turned on the transponder and tuned it to 7700. It was customary to use 7600 for a hijacking and 7700 for an in-flight emergency. The hijacking was over, the emergency was just beginning. The young air marshal had succeed and failed. The airplane was still in the air—but it had no crew—just Ken.
Melanie paused in her discussion with her flight operations and turned toward him. ‘Hi Melanie, I’m Ken. I assume you’re talking to flight ops. Have you contacted center yet?’
She shook her head—she had not.
‘Melanie.’ Ken smiled slightly, trying to will his most calm and confident visage. ‘I hope you can stay up here with me for a while. Please handle your flight ops people for me and relay—I don’t have time to talk to them. I need to get in touch with Pittsburgh center, get some clear air space below us and get this big puppy safely on the ground. Are you good to go?’
Ken took command. That’s what United States Marine Corps light colonels did— instinctively. Could he put this big baby on the ground in one piece? Absolutely. He needed a little luck and a bit of help but he knew in his heart that there wasn’t an airplane in existence that he could not fly—and land.
He hit the ident button on the transponder for good measure, tuned the radio to transmit on guard and on the frequency that was listed as primary for Pittsburgh center, keyed his mike and began to transmit.
‘Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Global 7749 is declaring an emergency approximately 150 miles South of Pittsburgh, heading 270 at 3-1-0 thousand—over.’ He delivered the emergency call with no more emotion than he would have used to order a double latte.
Ken breathed a sigh of relief when his call was immediately answered. ‘Global 7749 what is the nature of your emergency?’
‘We’ve had an attempted hijacking. We have casualties—fatalities on board. I need vectors to turn and clearance to descend and proceed direct Pittsburgh for landing. Do you have me?’ Ken replied.
‘I have radar contact 161 miles SSW of Pittsburgh. Squawk
3333, and ident. Radar contact confirmed. You are cleared to turn right to 015—hold your altitude and let me move some tin. Standby.’ The controller instructed him.
Ken hadn’t given all the bad news. He’d do that after he was heading in the right direction. Ken disengaged the auto pilot and started a standard rate turn to the assigned heading. It was smoother than the C130—he had known it should be and had avoided over controlling. He rolled out on the NNE heading. As he glanced at Melanie, he noted a very small sign of relief.
As he attempted to reengage the auto pilot he realized that he had been correct—the only heading that particular computer wanted to fly was the last one. The auto trim worked and the airplane held on course and altitude with minimal interference from him.
‘Global, switch to frequency 122.6. If I lose you, come back to primary.’ Ken changed the VHF radio and again found himself talking to the same controller.
‘Global 7749, descend and maintain 1-9-0 thousand, maintain current heading—I’m still diverting other aircraft. Weather at Pittsburgh is five hundred broken and 1,500 overcast. Wind is out of the North East at 15 knots. You will be cleared for and vectored to a straight in on runway 10 right—over.’
Ken complied with the controller’s directive, getting a little more feel for the big jet in the descent. It was now time to tell center the rest of the bad news.
‘Center—I know you’re busy—but if you’ve got a supervisor with a free hand standing behind you I need to chat.’ Ken said, calmly.
A new, obviously older voice came on the radio. ‘What can we do for you Global?’ The supervisor inquired.
‘Center—all three members of the flight deck crew are out of action. I’m a reserve military C130 pilot—a very senior pilot with lots of four engine turbo prop hours. I have a handful of bootleg hours in multi-engine turbo fans—but I am not rated in this aircraft. The automated landing system is a no go. I am confident that I can get her down—but I’d sure like to have a 747 captain on the other end of the horn to guide me. Can you assist?’ Again, Ken showed no sign of panic in his voice—although Melanie certainly did a double take.
‘Global, we’ve got your flight ops on the line. Your senior flight attendant gave them the picture. They have a 747 instructor standing by. We’re going to patch him in on this frequency so you don’t have to listen to two radios. My controller will squelch him when he keys his mike—which he will not do unless it is critical. We’ll have the patch working in less than a minute. You okay with that?’
‘Works for me.’ Ken responded calmly.
Melanie spoke. With what she had witnessed she was on the edge of breaking. Ken neither wanted to be grim nor flip—but he needed her sane. ‘Can you land this plane safely?’
‘Melanie, I’ve been flying for nearly thirty years. From what I know, the 747 is an easier airplane to fly than the C130 and I have thousands of hours in the Hercules. This baby is bigger. It’s got a different landing speed, a different landing angle and a very different sight picture on approach. That’s all just simple physics. I’ll have a guy who knows those important facts on the other end of the horn. The weather could be better—but it’s not awful. I plan to be buying you a drink in the first available bar in the Pittsburgh airport in less than thirty minutes. Are you with me?’
It worked. Melanie smiled, ever so slightly. It had not been bravado. He was a fucking Marine and a damned fine pilot. He’d been in tighter situations. It was unlikely that they would take hostile fire on approach to Pittsburgh. It was not a piece of cake but he had every expectation of landing this beast in one piece.
A new voice came in his ear. ‘Global 7749 this is Captain…this is Bob—Bob Mattson, your friendly neighborhood 747 instructor. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’
Ken introduced him self with his first and last name. ‘Which service, Ken?’ Bob asked.
‘I’m a jar head.’ Ken replied.
Bob instantly replied. ‘That can’t be good news—you guys actually have real airplanes in the USMC?’
Ken had to chuckle—appreciating Bob’s effort to start off on a relaxed footing. Once they got through their brief litany of inter-service gibes, they got down to business. Bob asked about Ken’s experience. He seemed satisfied that he was dealing with a seasoned veteran of two wars who would not crack. Bob briefed him on the critical landing parameters of the 747—Ken had Melanie write them down. Since the Automated Landing System didn’t work, Ken would be depending on air traffic control, then transition to a GCA or ground controlled, radar guided approach—with the old VOR as backup if they lost radio contact, since the ILS was also not functioning.
Bob and the radar controller would have to carefully coordinate their transmissions to avoid walking on each other. Bob signed off to briefly coordinate with the radar controller. The center controller gave them a final course correction and then handed them off to approach control with no frequency change. They were cleared to descend again. In a little over five minutes they would begin their final descent for landing at Pittsburgh.
‘Melanie, do you want to get your cabin ready for landing? Normal parameters hon—I’ve no intention of crashing this perfectly good airplane. We should be on the ground in less than fifteen minutes—I’m going to need you back here in less than five minutes to read off the pre-landing check list—are you with me girl?’ Melanie nodded unwinding her fine, lean body from the right seat to give her cabin crew final instructions. She was back in her seat in under three minutes.
Melanie read off the check list, Ken performed the required steps. Fortunately most modern aircraft are laid out in a very familiar fashion. He was able to perform his duties without too much hunting or fumbling. Melanie’s confidence had improved.
‘Melanie, one other minor problem presents itself. Normally one pilot flies the instruments—head inside—while the other looks for the landing lights and the runway. It’s damned hard to do both. I need your pretty little head outside. I need to know when you see the landing lights, the flashing, sequential lights on the centerline of the runway which begin around 2,000 feet out from the landing threshold—just say, ‘lights’. I’ll have a couple of seconds to go visual before you say, ‘field in sight’—and that has to mean that you see a runway in front of us—not just a vague indication of the earth. At 200 feet above the ground, I’ve got to execute the missed approach and go around for another shot—I don’t want to do that. Are you ready, First Officer?’ Melanie smiled and nodded as Ken finished his instructions.
They would be descending at 1,000 feet per minute on final approach and touching down right around 150 knots with the flaps at 30 and slats fully deployed. That was faster than a C130 by almost 50%–the Hercules stalled at around 100 knots. Ken had fooled around with a Flight Simulator version of a somewhat newer model of the 747, the -400 that touched down almost twenty-five knots slower. This -300 model weighed in at 400 tons—five times the gross weight of a C130—and liked a nice long straight in approach for optimum landing. He knew that the ground controller would have the correct glide path punched in for his approach.
He knew that it would be up to him—Ken—to do all the right things during the last two hundred feet of their descent. He would need to adjust the nose of the aircraft to the runway centerline on short final, level the wings accordingly and maintain a constant sight picture to ensure the correct pitch angle for touch down—a sight picture that he had never really witnessed. Landing an aircraft visually in the last few critical seconds came down to sight picture. In the very last critical seconds—when most landings that go wrong are scre
wed up—it is misreading the changes in that sight picture and reacting incorrectly to those changes that bent airplanes. Bob had given him everything he could give him—but he couldn’t send him that actual picture over a radio.
With all the systems working, every modern jet aircraft since the Air Force C5 Galaxy can land by itself plus or minus ten feet of centerline and plus or minus fifty feet longitudinally—if programmed to do so. Modern airline pilots spent more time typing data into a keyboard than actually flying. The Boeing 727 had been virtually the last commercial aircraft in service that the pilot really flew. Unfortunately in this particular 747—those systems were not operational.
There was plenty of runway to work with at Pittsburgh, 11,500 feet on 10R—several thousand feet more than this airplane needed in the hands of an experienced 747 pilot. Landing long would not be a sin—landing short could spell disaster. There were no significant vertical obstacles on approach to this runway at Pittsburgh—a stand of fifty foot trees, but they were a couple thousand feet away from the runway centerline. Ken would keep the throttles at takeoff power until he felt the wheels, several stories below his seat, touch—in case he had to abort. He would let the nose wheels find the tarmac—not get impatient. He would, as they used to say, do his best to, ‘grease her on’. The 747 in all configurations was known as an airplane that wanted to land—wanted to help the men at the controls look good.
He and Bob had considered a practice approach—a touch and go. Ken assured him that if he wasn’t comfortable on short final he would go around. The weather was expected to worsen, this just didn’t seem like the right time for a scheduled practice session. The radio born voice in his ears told Ken it was time to begin their final descent.
It was going well. Ken had a gentle control touch honed over many years and did not over control. Bob was sparse with his comments, occasionally mentioning a critical juncture or a change in flap settings—there was only one of those—flaps from 20 to 30. The weather was deteriorating. The 1500 foot ceiling was a solid overcast. At five hundred feet they were still in the soup. The head wind was very slightly off the nose to the left and presented few problems and the breeze stayed pretty steady. At four hundred feet the hairs on the back of his neck were standing straight up as he wondered where the fuck that damned runway was.
‘Lights’! Melanie exclaimed. Ken brought his head up desperately trying to will his aging short vision to retire and his longer vision to get with it. Lights—he saw them—strobing sequentially along the centerline of the runway. Runway, runway, runway—focus God damn it!
‘Field in sight!’ Melanie said almost in a cry of relief. She had it—he didn’t. Two hundred feet on the altimeter—fuck!
‘Yes, mother fucker, there you are!’ Ken said aloud, as the very end of the landing threshold passed beneath the aircraft.
Ken’s mind raced. A little rudder…level, easy on the ailerons…hold the damned elevators steady. Let her settle. Touch down, God damn it—I said long—not too fucking long! Main gear contact…left…right. Let her do the nose wheel herself…light on the yoke. There it is you sweetheart of an airplane! There it fucking is! Throttles. Brakes—don’t get impatient, there’s lots of room ahead. Check your ground speed. Thrust reverse. Let ’em know. ‘Global 7749 is down safely.’
Bob came on the radio. ‘Ken, sadly I didn’t get to see it—I hope they got it on tape—but tower says you greased it on like a pro. Good job—damned fine job. As much as it pains me to admit it, I guess when the going gets tough—you call a Marine!’
Ken received taxing directions and picked up the follow-me vehicle at mid-field that would lead him to a gate. Normally they would have had him taxi to a clear area following an emergency landing of this type, and then unloaded with the old fashioned rolling stairs—or even the slides. Someone had decided, he surmised, that if he can land the damned thing we might as well let him taxi it.
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