Chapter 6 - THE DEAD-STICK CALCULATION
In the cockpit, Marcus’s gray undershirt was soaked through with sweat.
His forearms were burning with lactic acid. Because the Boeing 777’s fly-by-wire system was designed with flight envelope protection that constantly fought manual pilot input during multiple system casualties, Marcus was physically wrestling the thrust levers against the mechanical stops every six seconds to keep the wings level.
“Airspeed is fluctuating between 290 and 310,” Davies reported, his voice steadier now, anchored by the cold competence of the veteran beside him. “We’re past the mountains. We’ve cleared the Denver metro airspace. Radar shows us over the plains east of Aurora.”
“Where’s the weather?” Marcus asked, wiping sweat from his eyebrows with the leather back of his glove.
“Denver International has twenty-knot crosswinds with blowing snow and ice on the runways,” Davies said, tapping the weather radar screen. “Buckley Space Force Base is closer, but their primary runway is closed for repaving. That leaves us with runway three-four-right at DIA. Twelve thousand feet of concrete.”
“We can’t stop on twelve thousand feet,” Marcus said flatly.
Davies blinked. “What? Twelve thousand feet is over two miles!”
“Davies, use your head,” Marcus snapped, his eyes never leaving the artificial horizon. “We have no flaps. That means our approach speed won't be one hundred and forty knots; it will be two hundred and twenty knots minimum. We have no thrust reversers because the center hydraulics are dead. We have no speed brakes on the wings. We have no anti-skid on the main gear, and we’re operating on emergency accumulator brake pressure, which gives us exactly three hard pedal applications before the nitrogen runs dry.”
Davies swallowed, the math finally registering in his panicked mind. “We’ll hit the threshold at two hundred and fifty miles an hour. We’ll slide off the end of the runway, cross the perimeter highway, and disintegrate in the prairie.”
“Which is why we aren't going to Denver,” Marcus said.
He reached down to the navigation display and twisted the range knob, expanding the map out to eighty nautical miles. His finger pointed to a long, forgotten gray strip surrounded by the empty brown expanse of eastern Colorado.
“Pueblo Memorial?” Davies asked, squinting. “The old army airfield? It’s abandoned as a commercial hub!”
“Runway eight-left at Pueblo was built as an emergency recovery site for the B-52 Stratofortress during the Cold War,” Marcus said. “It’s ten thousand feet of reinforced slab, but more importantly, the overrun at the far end isn't an embankment or a ditch. It’s four miles of flat, unplanted winter wheat field with soft loam dirt. If we blow our tires and lose our gear, the dirt will catch the belly before the fuel tanks rupture.”
“United 1442,” the Denver controller broke in, his voice urgent. “We are tracking your turn to the south. You are deviating from the approach vector for DIA. Say intentions.”
Marcus pressed his thumb to the radio switch. “Denver, this is Vance on 1442. We are diverting to Pueblo. Roll every fire truck, foam tanker, and rescue chopper within fifty miles of the Arkansas River. We’re coming in hot, we’re coming in heavy, and we’re bringing our own brakes.”
“1442, Pueblo tower is unmanned! The runway lights are on automatic photocell!”
“Then tell the local sheriff to park his cruisers at the numbers and turn his high beams on,” Marcus said. “We’ll be there in twelve minutes.”
As Marcus began the slow, agonizing descent toward the high plains, the fire bell on the right engine began to chime.
FIRE. ENGINE TWO. FIRE.
A red light illuminated inside the right fire cutoff handle on the center glare shield. Through the cockpit rearview mirror, Marcus could see the reflection of bright orange flames licking along the trailing edge of the right wing.
The uncontained fan blade hadn't just severed the hydraulic lines. It had breached the secondary fuel manifold.
“Engine two is burning!” Davies yelled.
“Cut the fuel to two!” Marcus ordered.
Davies slammed the heavy red plastic handle down, cutting the kerosene feed to the right GE90.
The fire subsided, but the consequence was catastrophic. The right engine died.
The Boeing 777 was now flying on a single engine, thirty miles from an empty airstrip, with zero hydraulic control surfaces. The aerodynamic yaw slammed the nose thirty degrees to the left. The remaining left engine, screaming at near-maximum output to keep the three-hundred-ton aircraft aloft, was trying to twist the entire airplane into an unrecoverable flat spin.
Marcus’s left arm locked on the single operating throttle lever. His veins bulged like blue ropes against his tattooed forearms.
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“You wanted combat, Davies?” Marcus snarled through his teeth, fighting the death-roll with every ounce of muscle in his six-foot-three frame. “Welcome to the carrier deck.”
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