Flight to Heaven Page 15

  “Take over the aircraft operations, OK? Keep passengers inside and calm. Release the parking brake when the After Landing Checklist is done, and caution on battery power.”

  Steve sits shivering with fear. “What are you going to do?”

  “Talk. And follow instructions.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back.”

  My heart is racing as I open the top half of the passengers’ cabin door and shield my eyes from the intense lights; I notice that the rifles follow me. The twenty-five to thirty soldiers I can see are wielding weapons pointing directly at my heart and head. The soldiers are backlit, and it’s hard to see their faces, but it’s clear that each vehicle is equipped with enough firepower to start a small war.

  As usual I have no planned speech. I simply pray silently as I have done thousands of times before. God, Your Word says You’ll give me the words to speak when needed . . . so give me those words now . . . please.

  I open the lower half of the door and exit the aircraft alone. Dressed in full uniform, I slowly raise my hands, indicating I am unarmed and submissive; I speak so calmly that even I am surprised.

  “Please, don’t shoot. We are here to help. We bring the love of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, to the African continent.”

  I have never said anything like that before, and the words just tumble from my lips. I wonder if they’ve heard me . . . understood me.

  What language do they speak here? I ask myself.

  Suddenly, a spotlight from one of the military vehicles turns in my direction, jarring and blinding me. Then, in the most official and distinguished use of the English language I have heard since my last visit to London, comes a commanding voice.

  “Why did you land at this airport? No one is permitted to land here. This airport is closed.”

  With my hands still high in the air, I respond, “Sir, I am so sorry to ask this question, believe me, and I’m embarrassed at the same time. But where are we? Is this Lusaka?”

  There is a pause. Some of the soldiers look at each other, then look back at me.

  His voice booms. “Yes, Lusaka International Airport. The capital of Zambia. This airport is closed to all civilian aircraft. The runway is being repaved. It has been closed for many months.”

  “Sir,” I reply, deferring to his authority, “will you allow me to reach into my left jacket pocket and pull out a simple piece of paper that we believe gave us permission to land here? Sir, I am unarmed and would never try to hurt anyone. We have flown many miles, all the way from America to visit your wonderful country. Maybe we can offer some assistance.”

  Although no permission is officially granted, I slowly move my right hand into my uniform jacket. The soldiers’ rifles follow my every move with eager fingers on the triggers.

  “When we left the United States, we were given written permission to land here in Lusaka.”

  With the flight plan in my hand, I carefully open it, revealing its contents to my captors.

  “Walk forward with your hands above your head.”

  As I do, I become increasingly amazed with each step. I see a sight I will never forget. Approaching the soldiers, I become aware of how small a person I truly am. The soldiers tower over me as if they are part of an NBA team. No one in the group appears less than six and a half feet tall. A couple of them have to be over seven feet.

  I focus on the leader of the group, smile at him, and slowly extend my hand. I am relieved as an ever-so-slight smile creeps across his face. Some of the guns are lowered. From somewhere in the crowd a few soldiers chuckle. A couple of dozen soldiers then huddle together and begin to converse. To my relief, the group seems to have relaxed. Then an unexpected announcement from the leader.

  “You must all go to jail,” we are told. “Now.”

  “Sir, in all due respect, I am the one responsible for landing here. They”—I point to the passengers in the aircraft—“are not to blame in any way.”

  “Get everyone off the airplane. Leave your things. You will walk to jail.”

  “Walk to jail?”

  The passengers deplane, and we are ushered on foot down the airport taxiway.

  I wonder what awaits us. I assume we will never see the personal belongings we are leaving behind. But I don’t care. I am glad to be safe on the ground. Beyond that, I don’t know what to expect.

  Eventually our walk brings us to the edge of the airport, where a guard tower stands sentry on the perimeter of a barbed-wire fence with searchlights glaring down at us. A few dozen soldiers surround the building, all wearing green woolen uniforms and matching caps with red bands, toting rifles and tugging at taut leashes that hold German shepherds barking and bearing angry teeth. It reminds me of a scene from a World War II movie. Except there are no stunt doubles!

  As the soldiers check our passports and luggage, I ask one of them, “Why are there no lights in your city? In fact, the whole country seems to have no lights at night. Why?”

  “Our country has security problems. The whole country is blacked out at night.”

  Nearer to the terminal I see old, rusting vehicles around the buildings that seem to be throwbacks to an earlier, bygone era.

  We are told we can’t do anything but stay in jail until the general comes the next day to determine our fate. In the meantime, some of the passengers settle into chairs for the night. Others find other places to sit and rest.

  The “jail” is actually a guarded terminal building that has been secured and used as a holding area. Many of the soldiers have living quarters in a portion of this same building. We are allowed to mingle and talk to the troops within the confines of the building.

  Before long, several of us get acquainted with some of the soldiers. We talk about music, sports, language, where they were born, things like that. Then we meet several of the wives who live on the compound with their soldier husbands. I am six feet tall, and not one woman is shorter than I am. It’s surprising. And remarkably, it’s fun. Everyone speaks such proper English that at times I’m a little embarrassed at how undignified we Americans sound.

  It’s amazing. Ever since Joel Green, I haven’t had to worry about what to say to people when it comes to spiritual things. I’ve learned to just smile, listen to God, and answer the questions I am asked.

  The whole world is thirsty for unconditional love. Only God can provide that. My job, I’ve come to learn, is not to provide the water but simply to point the way to the well—the well of Living Water that God offers each of us through a relationship with His Son, Jesus Christ.

  My encounter with the soldiers is no different from the one I had with Joel Green in the hospital bed next to me. The conversations start with a simple introduction. After that all I do is answer questions, pointing the way to the well.

  One of the passengers and I walk over to one of the soldiers who is standing alone, guarding the building. “Hello,” we say with a smile. “What is your name?”

  “Mwelwa.”

  We shake hands. “My name is Dale. I’m glad to meet you. So, Mwelwa, where were you born?”

  “Ndola is where I was born.”

  “Where is that?”

  “A little north of here.”

  We continue talking, genuinely interested in this man’s life. We ask about his family, his interests, and gradually get acquainted with him.

  “Mwelwa,” I say. “What’s the most important thing in your life?”

  He seems surprised by my question, and before he answers, I ask him another question: “Do you know Jesus? I mean, He is the most important thing to me, Mwelwa, but do you know Him? Do you know Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?”

  “Well, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Mwelwa, if you died tonight—you do know that someday you will die; I will die. Everyone will, right?” He nodded. “So, Mwelwa, if you were to die tonight, do you know for sure that you would spend eternity with God in heaven?”

  “No.”

  “
Would you like to know that?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Mwelwa, the Bible says that there is only one way. . . .”

  For the next several hours we have one conversation like that after another, soldier after soldier, wife after wife, on into the wee hours of the morning. By dawn almost all the soldiers and their wives have come to Jesus, praying for forgiveness and receiving the free gift of eternal life. Just as with the woman at the well, it all starts with a simple conversation. One thing leads to another, and all things lead to the well where Jesus is waiting with a cup of Living Water.

  Countless men and women are gathered around that well in Lusaka, smiling, their hearts full of joy. You can see it in their eyes. It’s almost like those I saw gathered at the gate of heaven eighteen years before, awaiting my arrival. This time I am at the gate, so to speak, waiting for them to arrive, smiling at them, welcoming these new brothers and sisters at the entrance of heaven.

  I am awake the entire night, reveling in the wonder of it all. This is why we are here. It isn’t a mistake. And we aren’t in any danger. We are, in fact, in the safest place we can be—the center of God’s will. He has led us here, to these people whose lives were so parched, whose souls were so thirsty. In this case, though, I didn’t so much lead them to the well as He led me to them.

  Others in our group, those who are provided blankets, sleep only an hour or two, but as captain, I feel responsible to be vigilant and keep watch. Around ten the next morning, I am approached by a soldier named Robinson. He says the general is in his office and demands to speak with me. I am ushered about two hundred yards away to another building at the airport. I put my tie back on, still wearing my pilot’s uniform.

  It is not a pleasant meeting. I take some verbal abuse and apologize profusely for landing without permission, even though as far as I am concerned, I did have permission. Once on the ground, though, it is an entirely different story. And so, with a written apology to the government of Zambia, and after paying a moderate fine, I am given permission to refuel and take off.

  When I arrive back at the jail I find Steve praying with a member of the mission team. I pause and bow my head as I hear Steve asking God to forgive him of his sins. I listen with great joy as Steve invites Jesus Christ into his heart and life.

  Like my grandfather in years past, it is now I who whisper, “Well, praise the Lord.”

  Steve is wonderfully transformed by the same love that God had shown to the soldiers and their wives. The same love He makes available to all who will believe.

  To God, it doesn’t matter if you are black or white, Zambian or American, a soldier named Mwelwa or a copilot named Steve. All are one in Christ. And all are now booked on the same flight to heaven.

  As we board the plane, I realize I have a “new” copilot. Steve realizes it too. He has seen firsthand the love of God in action. And seeing it, he has decided to experience it for himself. It both fills him and makes him thirsty for more.

  For me, Steve’s entry into the family of God is just another of the many answers to my prayers. This time watching God turn a co-worker into a brother.

  TEUSDAY, MAY 22—16:10—LUSAKA, ZAMBIA

  As we taxi the 18,500-pound Learjet to the runway, we get through our routine Before Takeoff Checklist and set up all navigation radios. I rev the engines and the airplane shudders to life, eager to take flight. The soldiers on the tarmac wave enthusiastically, sorry to see us go. As we depart “the surly bonds of earth,” the hum of the well-tuned engines is heavenly music to my ears.

  Leaving the sea of soldiers behind, it reminds me of my return flight from heaven—how quickly I was swept away, how everything grew smaller until at last it was out of sight. Memories of how wonderful it felt to be in heaven, surrounded by such love, flooded my mind. It was a lot like the love we were surrounded by in the Lusaka Airport.

  When we got back to the States, we sent Bibles to Mwelwa and the other soldiers and their wives. After all, they were family now.

  That family has grown with each one of the hundreds of mission trips we have flown, with each Bible sent, each gospel tract, each showing of the Jesus film, each clinic we helped build, each shipment of medical supplies we helped deliver.

  A Learjet similar to the one flown on Dale’s missionary flight to Zambia. Photo taken and provided by Andrei Bezmylov (as seen on www.airliners.net).

  I glance past the wing for a final glimpse of the Lusaka International Airport, reflecting on my life before that fateful crash so many years ago . . . and my life after it. As the airport becomes a dot on the landscape, above me only clouds, I realize how much I have changed. For me, airplanes were once symbols of status; now they are symbols of service.

  How I used to love the thrill of flight then.

  Now it is a different thrill that excites me.

  Now it is the thrill of seeing the love of God in action, where I can quench my thirst, if only for a moment, with a little sip of heaven.

  A sip that fills me and at the same time makes me thirsty for more.

  I feel so full. So satisfied.

  Thank You, God. Thank You . . .

  For sparing my life.

  For healing my broken body.

  For giving me new dreams.

  But most of all, for allowing me the privilege of serving You and experiencing Your love over and over again.

  As we level off at 37,000 feet, heading for South Africa, I select autopilot ON.

  Turning to Steve, I say, “You know, we’re brothers now.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Well, when two people have invited Jesus Christ into their lives, it means that they are both re-born children of God. That makes you and I brothers in Christ.”

  “Wow, Dale. You know, I don’t really have any close family.”

  “Well, now you have millions of brothers—and millions of sisters—in Christ, all over the world. And Steve, if you only knew of the family that awaits you in heaven . . . I’ll explain more later, OK?”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks. And thanks for choosing me for this trip.”

  “Steve, I honestly believe it was God who picked you for this flight.” I put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I do have a question for you, though.”

  Straightening his posture, getting ready to assume some new first-officer duty, Steve responds, “Roger, go ahead.”

  I smile with a light chuckle. “What do you suppose God has in store for us next?”

  He grins, “I can’t wait to find out . . . brother Dale.”

  AFTERWORD

  PORTAL OF THE FOLDED WINGS

  The Portal of the Folded Wings is the massive shrine that our twin-engine Piper Navajo hit that fateful morning of July 18, 1969.

  The Spanish Mission Revival structure was built in 1924 by American architect Kenneth McDonald Jr. and Italian sculptor Frederico A. Giorgi.

  It was designed as the entrance to Valhalla Memorial Park Cemetery, Valhalla being the mythological palace of Odin, the Norse god of slain warriors.

  Originally, visitors drove from Valhalla Drive into the cemetery through the arches that led under the rotunda, past three reflection pools and exquisite garden walls. After it was dedicated, the shrine was used for public events from picnics to concerts to radio broadcasts extending well into the 1930s.

  The shrine was built to memorialize the passing of aviation’s greatest pioneers, from aviators to engineers to inventors.

  James Floyd Smith has a plaque there—the person who, in 1918, invented the manually operated parachute for the U.S. Army.

  Charles Lindbergh is also remembered there as the person who, in 1927, flew the first solo flight across the Atlantic.

  Amelia Earhart has a plaque in the monument as well, the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic, disappearing in 1937 over the central Pacific, attempting to circumnavigate the globe.

  General Billy Mitchell, the American Army general who is regarded as the father of the U.S. Air Force, is lik
ewise remembered there.

  Dale Black will also soon have a plaque there.

  My achievement? I survived.

  I survived in order to dedicate my career to improving aviation safety.

  I survived to train scores of professionals to become better and safer pilots.

  I survived a crash that took the life of two pilots and caused $70,000 worth of damage to the shrine.

  After the first anniversary flight, still haunted by feelings of guilt, wondering if I had in any way been responsible, I tracked down the remains of the plane that had been taken away for salvage. The tail was in Van Nuys. The cockpit and engines were in Long Beach. So was the throttle quadrant. But the pieces of wreckage did nothing to solve the mystery that still haunted me.

  I was finally able to retrieve a copy of the FAA accident report, and scoured it for answers. That official report revealed that both fuel selectors were in the ON position at the time of the crash. My feet had not turned them off. Also, both engines had been operating at full power on takeoff and on impact, so the problem wasn’t with the engines. I pored over the report of the accident, which cited “pilot error” as the cause of the crash.

  Several factors contributed to the fatal crash that day. The intersection departure made for an unforgiving takeoff. The plane never increased to the proper speed. Gene had pulled the controls back too quickly and too sharply, lifting off the runway prematurely. The plane momentarily seemed to be airborne due to what is called “ground effect,” which is a false feeling of lift created by the plane’s proximity to the ground. When you climb to approximately one hundred feet, the ground effect goes away. When Gene noticed he didn’t have enough power to keep climbing, he applied full-throttle to the engines. Chuck stepped in, but he was too late. He tried to lower the nose to pick up speed, but it wasn’t soon enough to clear the trees. The left wing of our plane clipped the trees at eighty feet, which turned the aircraft just enough for a direct impact into the dome of the mausoleum. We slammed into the memorial at 135 mph, hitting it just five feet from the top. It was that combination of factors that caused the crash.