Chapter 23 - The Captain's Dilemma
The wind off Lake Erie was howling now, whipping rain against the aluminum fuselage of the DC-8. I didn't wait for permission. I climbed the slick steel steps two at a time, pulling myself up to the narrow entryway of the cargo deck.
The interior smelled of hydraulic fluid, stale coffee, and cold cardboard. Massive wooden pallets loaded with heavy industrial components were strapped down along the center aisle, secured by heavy webbed cargo nets.
Up in the cockpit, the two-man crew turned around in shock as the flight deck door swung open. The captain, a man in his late fifties named Frank Miller, stood up from his seat, his hand resting instinctively on his emergency crash axe mounted on the bulkhead. Beside him, a young flight engineer was running through the pre-start instrument checks.
"Who the hell are you?" Captain Miller demanded, his brow furrowing beneath his gold-trimmed service cap. "How did you get past ramp security?"
"Captain Miller, my name is Quinn Braddock," I said, catching my breath and keeping my posture firm, non-threatening, but completely commanding. "Step away from your engine start levers."
Miller froze. His jaw dropped slightly as he took in my face, my olive-drab Army aviator jacket, and the small gold pilot wings pinned above my pocket. "Quinn Braddock? The Atlantic 442 pilot?"
"Yes, sir," I answered. "And this aircraft is compromised."
Before Miller could speak, the heavy footsteps of Victor Ross echoed through the cargo bay. Ross appeared in the cockpit doorway, his camel-hair coat soaked with rain, his face purple with fury.
"Captain Miller! Do not listen to this woman!" Ross shouted, wheezing heavily. "She has no regulatory authority here! She is an activist pursuing a vendetta against our holding company! If you do not initiate the engine start sequence immediately, your contract with Great Lakes Air Cargo will be terminated for gross insubordination before your tires leave the ground!"
Captain Miller looked between the two of us. He was a veteran line flyer, a man whose leathery skin and tired eyes told the story of forty years spent hauling cargo through midnight skies to pay a mortgage and put kids through college. He wasn't a corporate suit; he was a pilot who had spent his life trusting the machine beneath his seat.
"Captain," I said softly, stepping closer so he could see the utter lack of deception in my eyes. "Look at your primary fire warning annunciator panel for the number-two engine. Has the test circuit passed its self-check on the second cycle?"
The flight engineer in the jumpseat suddenly spun around in his swivel chair. "Wait a minute... Captain, she's right. When we ran the fire-loop continuity check ten minutes ago, the loop-B light flickered twice before holding amber. The line mechanic said it was just moisture in the cannon plug from the rain."
"It's not moisture," I said, pointing directly at the schematic printout I had brought from my jacket. "That is an Apex counterfeit junction harness. The insulation resistance drops to zero the moment the engine pylon reaches four hundred degrees. If you take this bird into the squall line over Lake Erie, you will lose primary hydraulic pressure on the outboard flight controls before you reach ten thousand feet. You won't have a runway long enough to bring four hundred thousand pounds of freight back down."
Ross slammed his hand against the doorframe. "That is unverified slander! Captain, I am the authorized representative of the leasing owner. Start the engines!"
Miller looked at Ross. Then he looked at the flight engineer. Finally, he looked at me—a woman who had lived through the exact nightmare he was now facing.
Miller reached out his weathered hand, slowly reached up to the overhead control quadrant, and clicked the master APU generator switch to the OFF position.
The cockpit instruments went dark. The low, heavy rumble of the auxiliary power unit died away, leaving only the sound of rain tapping against the cockpit windshield.
"Frank!" Ross shrieked. "You're throwing your career away!"
Captain Miller turned his back on the lawyer, took off his gold-braided cap, and set it gently onto the throttle pedestal. "Mr. Ross, forty years ago my instructor taught me that a pilot's first duty isn't to the manifest, and it sure as hell isn't to the leasing corporation. It's to the airplane and the people underneath its wings. If Major Braddock says this bird isn't fit to fly, this bird stays on the concrete."
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Ross stared in stunned disbelief, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
"Get off my flight deck, Victor," Miller added, his voice dropping into gravelly thunder. "Before I use this crash axe to escort you down the stairs myself."
