Flight to Heaven Page 14

  For only the second time in my more than twelve thousand hours of flying, the option of diverting to our alternate airport is no longer viable. In my seventeen years of flying hundreds of Christian ministry flights to over fifty countries, many unusual, awesome, and wonderful things have occurred. But never anything like this.

  I stare out the window into the darkness. I can’t comprehend what I am not seeing. In spite of the lack of apparent weather, we aren’t seeing anything. No runway, no airport—not even a city—a city of over a million people that should be right below us.

  For the first time ever, our long-range navigational instruments are not working at all. The communication radios are out as well. With the short-range navigational aids that do work, we assume we are flying over the capital of Zambia, but nothing is certain.

  “Steve, we’re going to stay in the holding pattern until I’m ready to shoot this approach.”

  Chewing on my words, Steve wipes the sweat from his palms.

  “OK, fine, but we’re not going to be able to stay here long, right?”

  “Absolutely, but by staying high and clean earlier, we’ve got a little more fuel than I thought we would have. Here’s what I need now. Confirm again that we’re holding over Joppa, the Outer Marker for Lusaka, Zambia. Check the ADF on your RMI and, using your number two radio only, go ahead and triangulate with two remotely located VORs and of course your DME. Make sure you verify, very carefully, the frequencies using the AUDIO IDENT. I want to know if you believe—without doubt—that we’re holding over Lusaka.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’m going to check my instruments the same way using the number one radio. I’ll do the same thing you’re doing but independently. Try the COMM radios one last time.”

  “You know, Dale, we’ve been checking all those things during the last hour.”

  “I know, but I still have some doubt about our location. I mean, look outside, Steve. Have you ever seen or heard of anything like this before?”

  Steve slowly shakes his head, squeezing the arm of his copilot’s chair as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

  “See, that’s my point. I want you to use all three frequencies, approach control, the tower, and emergency one-twenty-one point five. And recycle the transponder; make sure we’re squawking 7-7-0-0, the emergency code. Also, don’t click just five times, but seven or more times with your MIC button on the tower frequency—just in case the runway lights can be activated that way.”

  “We’ve done all that before too, you know.”

  “Steve, come on, let’s work together. Let’s do it all again. I want to know we’ll be shooting our last approach into a runway environment—not into oblivion, or into that lake . . . what’s it called?” I glance again at the navigational charts. “Yeah, Lake Kariba.”

  My pulse quickens as I scan the instruments while we both go to work twisting dials and penciling marks on charts to calculate our position independently.

  Another part of my brain is reflecting on the combination of events that have brought us to this in-flight emergency. Our alternate airport was Livingstone. There we had adequate runway, good elevation, and a good place to RON (Remain Over Night) if necessary. Only thirty minutes’ flying time from Lusaka.

  We departed Sudan with tanks topped, enough fuel to fly to Lusaka, execute a full approach with a Missed Approach, then fly to Livingstone, our alternate, and then hold for one hour if we needed to. That should have given us adequate fuel reserves. But things started going wrong an hour or so after takeoff. First, we were required to hold over southern Sudan because the air traffic controllers, who don’t have radar, got confused. That used twenty-eight minutes of our fuel reserves. Shortly thereafter we lost the first, then a second Global Navigation System. The GNS units help us navigate, with pinpoint accuracy, to anywhere on the globe. Plus they provide invaluable fuel management and winds aloft data. It’s highly unusual for either unit to malfunction, but we’ve lost both and don’t know why.

  We then flew via Dead Reckoning navigation over Uganda and Rwanda. We had no permission to land in either place. We still had no reason to believe things would deteriorate any further. But due to the inaccuracies of our limited means of navigation, we had burned nine more minutes of our precious fuel reserves.

  Next, we lost total radio communication over Northern Zambia. This, again, made no sense. We have three COMM radios onboard. All indications from the cockpit indicate our radios are working just fine. Still, no one has responded to our calls. Without the GNS systems giving us the jet stream wind information, we lack valuable flight planning data. The high altitude winds, stronger than expected, accounted for consuming another eleven minutes of reserve fuel.

  All these factors taken one by one would be relatively minor and normally wouldn’t pose a serious threat to the safety of this flight. But combined, they become a viable force against our fuel supply and our flight-planning options. That’s exactly how aviation accidents happen. I know all too well. And it’s generally not just one factor, but a combination of factors, that cause aircraft accidents.

  This most recent factor, certainly not one we had ever considered, was that now flying over the Lusaka area, we cannot see a runway, an airport, or even the lights of the city. The weather report and forecast called for clear skies with visibility of over fifty miles. So why can’t we see Lusaka? It’s the capital. But there are no lights coming from any direction, not from Lusaka or from any of the three adjacent cities, as far as the eye can see. Through the cockpit window there is only blackness beneath us.

  Steve and I compare our findings.

  “Captain, I show we’re holding at Joppa, directly over Lusaka, Zambia.”

  “OK, Steve, I concur.”

  Even though there still exists some disturbing, unanswered questions, we believe we are flying nine miles southeast above Lusaka’s International Airport.

  Looking down at the fuel gauges, I verify that we have enough fuel for another turn in the holding pattern, plus one full approach, and a little extra. There’s not enough fuel for another Missed Approach. There is not enough fuel to fly to an alternate airport. But there is enough for another turn and one slow, deliberate and controlled precision ILS approach into Lusaka. Presuming it is there. It has to be.

  “Steve, we’ll do one more turn in the hold.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am. Steve, you’ve got the aircraft.”

  “Roger, I have the controls.”

  “Steve, I’m going to dim my instrument lights even further. You stay in the hold, level at twelve thousand—use the autopilot.”

  “May I hand-fly it instead?”

  “Negative. Stay on autopilot, and make sure you select and remain on Altitude Hold.”

  I want to know that we won’t unknowingly drift from our safe altitude of twelve thousand feet. I want the assurance that by using the autopilot, if we drift from our assigned altitude, an aural warning horn will sound, and a very bright light in the center of both instrument panels will illuminate. That will alert us that we are not where we need to be.

  My mind immediately references one of the aviation accidents I studied. In 1972, an Eastern Airlines L-1011, holding near the Miami International Airport late at night, crashed into the Florida Everglades partially due to both pilots not knowing that the autopilot Altitude Hold function had been inadvertently disengaged. If Steve varies from our altitude, I will hear the audible warning horn, plus Steve will see the Master Warning Light Illumination.

  “Steve, I’m going to close my eyes for the next turn.”

  I grab my uniform jacket from the coatrack and pull it over my head, making it even darker. Allowing my eyes every opportunity to adjust to the utter blackness outside, I’m hoping that in a few moments my dilated pupils will be better able to pick up any small light on the ground that might be visible.

  “OK, Dale, turning right heading one-one-zero degrees, level at one-two thousand, speed two-one-zero k
nots—established in the hold. I’m on autopilot.”

  Although it takes about thirty minutes for the human eye to fully adjust for maximum night vision, I only have a fraction of that much time. But five or ten minutes of complete darkness will certainly help. At least, I hope it will.

  After a few minutes I remove my jacket and rub my eyes. I focus outside with the interior cockpit lights at full dim. Moving my eyes side to side, up and down, I strain to allow my peripheral vision to pick up any sort of light. Even the faintest, tiniest light will help.

  I jerk forward. “Wait a minute, Steve.”

  “Do you see something?”

  “I think I see something . . . wait. Yeah, it’s a light . . . maybe a flashlight . . . maybe a lantern. OK, I just saw another flash of light. It’s gone now, but it was a light.

  “There is a small light that is still on,” I continue, as I stretch and twist my neck, now looking far back through the cockpit’s left side window panel. The light is extremely dim and visible only in the periphery. “But I’m satisfied, Steve. We are over land.”

  We still, however, have no clue as to why we can’t see the city.

  By switching the fuel selector on the jet’s pedestal, I make a quick study of the fuel levels in the Learjet’s five tanks. I’m mortified. I try to swallow but can’t. My mouth is completely dry. Taking a deep breath while leaning to my right, I speak matter-of-factly. “We will land this Learjet now, Steve—no matter what. If we don’t see the airport by two hundred feet above the ground, we’ll descend below minimums. Do you understand? Steve, I will descend below minimums.”

  “Roger, understand. We’ll fly below minimums, regardless.”

  “Correct. I’ll land on a street, a field, sand, or anything. And if for some reason we see only water, then I’ll spend three minutes searching for land. If we don’t see land within three minutes, I’ll make a gear-up, controlled landing into the water. Make sure you look for anything. . . . And all outside lights are ON. Landing, RECOG, NAV, and Strobe lights. Make sure all remain on.”

  Then in a voice just above a whisper, “Be on the lookout for buildings, you know.”

  My voice is strangely calm, but internally I am almost in shock. I can hardly believe this flight has deteriorated to this nightmarish level.

  Steve squirms and shakes his head. “Roger, you’ve got it.”

  I crack open the door into the cabin and look back at the passengers, huddled in the center of the cabin, praying as a group. No one looks up, but I overhear one of the prayers.

  “. . . and Father, we know that if we pray according to Your will, You hear us, and if You hear us, whatever we ask, we know that we already have, in faith, the petitions we asked of You. We thank You, Lord, for a safe landing. Father, use this experience for our good and Your glory.”

  Then, turning my attention to the passengers in as calm a voice as possible, I speak: “Make sure you guys are strapped in tightly for landing. And please, continue with your prayers, OK?”

  Another shot of adrenaline fires through my veins, knowing that the next few minutes will be the most crucial minutes of my life. This is it. There is no turning back now.

  “OK, Steve, let’s do it.”

  “Now ?”

  “Now. I have the flight controls.”

  “Roger, you’ve got the controls.”

  “Give me the Before Landing Checklist.”

  With sweat pouring down his face, Steve goes into action, performing the checklist and the many duties required of him before landing.

  I am once again flying inbound on the electronic beams of the runway’s ILS approach. All checklists are now complete. The sleek, glistening jet is in the landing configuration. The flaps are down; the landing gear, down and locked, verified by three green lights. Both engine igniters are ON as they should be, helping prevent possible engine flameout. I double-check everything again, especially that all our outside lights are ON. I want every available light ON to hopefully reflect off of any early sign of the ground or surroundings. I want to see something—sand, pavement, anything. Hopefully not water. Hopefully not a skyscraper.

  “A thousand feet above minimums.” Again Steve makes first officer callouts as we descend, following both horizontal and vertical electronic guidance to some invisible runway. Still we see nothing but blackness.

  “Five hundred feet above minimums.”

  Moments later . . . “One hundred feet above.”

  A second passes.

  “Minimums, no ground contact. Minimums.”

  “Can you see anything?”

  “Negative.”

  “Going below minimums, Steve.”

  “Roger, no contact.”

  Suddenly, warning tones and commands from the flight instruments scream out from the cockpit speakers overhead: GLIDE SLOPE, GLIDE SLOPE—PULL UP.

  “Below minimums, one hundred feet below.”

  “Can you see anything?”

  “Negative. No contact.”

  GLIDE SLOPE, GLIDE SLOPE—PULL UP.

  I try hard to ignore the automatic warnings built into our executive jet.

  “Leveling at one hundred feet, Steve. Can’t go lower. Keep your eyes outside. Advise when you see something.”

  I can’t take my eyes off the instruments; we’re too close to the ground. I can’t take my eyes away from the cockpit.

  “Steve, tell me you see something. We can’t stay here, not at this altitude.”

  “Steve, I need an answer . . . NOW.”

  The instruments scream out again.

  GLIDE SLOPE, GLIDE SLOPE—PULL UP.

  “Steve!”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see that Steve’s face is only inches from the windshield, yet he isn’t making a sound. The shock of what he doesn’t see freezes him in place. I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me.

  For a split second I glance outside into the darkness, wince, and hold my breath. Nothing. Complete blackness. Just as quickly I bring my eyes back to the instruments inside the cockpit.

  Frozen in disbelief, Steve can barely think, barely speak, barely move.

  “Wait! I have contact. Ground contact!” Steve shouts while pointing. “There’s a road, a parking lot—straight ahead. Speed one-twenty-nine, V-Ref plus two.”

  I tear my eyes from the instruments again to see us flying just above the blurring desert. Ahead and barely visible is a paved surface that is as dark as the back side of the moon. There are no familiar lines, numbers, or stripes on the pavement, but there it is, a solid surface, the lights of our jet now shining all over it. Not water, not sand—a solid surface.

  Steve winces again and screams, “Abort! Vehicles on the runway. Abort!”

  My eyes dart from side to side along the makeshift runway and find it lined with a dozen military vehicles.

  “We’re landing, Steve.”

  I don’t have the time to look at everything going on outside, but in my split-second view I see military jeeps loaded with soldiers in full battle gear, half-tracks, and other military vehicles. They are scrambling all over the place.

  They better get out of the way, I silently demand as I prepare to bring the jet gently onto the solid surface. Still concerned about fuel, I try to assure myself. Just another few seconds, and we’ll be OK.

  I feel the wheels greet the long-awaited surface, transferring the full weight of the jet from the wings to the landing gear. In that instant my fear throttles down with the engines. My index finger flips a small toggle switch, and spoilers rise above the wings. Panels deploy, adding drag and killing much of the remaining lift. With the palm of my hand resting on top of both thrust levers, I smoothly and quickly pull upwards and aft on the reverse thrust levers, and two jet engines scream again into high rpm. The aircraft’s frame vibrates and shudders from nose to tail as engine thrust is directed forward, helping slow the jet. A sudden applause erupts behind me, coming from the passengers in the cabin, no doubt expressing their relief and joy at the answer t
o their prayers.

  I try to maintain smoothness in controlling the aircraft, but my concerns for a smooth deceleration dissolve in an instant as Steve points, shouting: “Stop! They’ve blocked the runway. Emergency stop!”

  Abruptly yanking the reverse thrust levers even farther back while slamming on the wheel brakes with my toes, I hear everything loose in the cabin crashing against the closed cockpit door. The Learjet skids to a halt, stopping cold, just a few feet from two combat readied military vehicles, each brimming with soldiers.

  Almost in shock, my trembling hand reaches for and sets the parking brake. Instinctively, I study the fuel gauges, curious to know how little fuel remains. An involuntary chill shudders through my body. With adrenaline racing, Steve’s eyes and mine lock for a second, then we look away, shaking our heads, neither of us saying a word.

  We made it. Thank God, we made it.

  I take a deep breath and expel it loudly. As I sit motionless in the cockpit, I am amazed as dozens of tall black fully armed soldiers in battle fatigues scurry into position and surround our aircraft, all wielding rifles that are pointing directly at me. Steve stares in disbelief. In the center and on top of each vehicle is a single-barreled 50-caliber machine gun, each manned by two towering soldiers, again, pointing directly into the cockpit.

  My mind is racing for options as I bring the throttles to cut-off, starving the engines of what little fuel remains. Both engines spool down, and finally . . . it’s over.

  This flight is now at an end.

  But as I peer down the barrels of manned rifles and machine guns . . .

  I realize another adventure has just begun.

  21

  ADVENTURES OF FAITH

  Powerful lights from every direction light up our jet, almost turning the night into day. It feels as if we are on a Hollywood movie set with the lights blaring, the cameras running, and everyone cued for action.

  We are on the ground, half a world away from home. But on precious pavement. And no one has been injured—yet. The thought crosses my mind of the tragic irony—to narrowly escape disaster by landing on unlighted pavement in central Africa, only to be machine-gunned to death by soldiers who misunderstand our purpose.