Chapter 6 - The Unforgiving Storm
When I stepped back into the flight deck, the scene was grim. First Officer Marcus Cole had his forehead pressed against the control yoke, his strength completely exhausted. His hands were shaking violently as he tried to maintain our altitude at ten thousand feet.
"I... I held it, sir," Marcus whispered through his oxygen mask, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engines. "B-but the storm... look ahead."
I strapped myself back into the left seat, slipped the headset over my ears, and took control of the yoke. "You did great, Marcus. Rest now. Let me have her."
Through the cockpit windshield, the night was pitch-black, torn open by jagged flashes of blue lightning. We were flying directly into the outer bands of an Atlantic storm system barreling straight toward the west coast of Ireland. The cloud tops stretched up to forty thousand feet, and heavy rain was battering the thick cockpit glass like shotgun pellets.
The weather radar display was an angry kaleidoscope of red and purple.
"Flight 804 heavy, Shanwick Control," the radio crackled with fierce urgency. "Shannon Approach radar is now active on your frequency. Be advised, Shannon weather is deteriorating rapidly. Surface winds zero-six-zero at forty-five knots, gusts to sixty. Severe low-level windshear reported on final approach for Runway 24. Ceiling is two hundred feet. Visibility less than half a mile in heavy downpours."
"Shannon Approach, this is Hayes on 804," I transmitted, wrestling with the control column as a violent updraft slammed the aircraft upward three hundred feet. "Our automated autoland system is completely offline. Hydraulic system Right is reporting pressure decay down to 1,200 PSI. We will be flying a raw-data, manual ILS approach through severe turbulence."
"804 heavy, understood. You are cleared direct to the Shannon VOR, descend at pilot's discretion to three thousand feet. All runways have been cleared. Emergency equipment is positioned along the length of Runway 24. May God be with you, son."
I pulled the thrust levers back to idle, pushing the nose down to begin our descent through the teeth of the tempest.
As we penetrated seven thousand feet, the aircraft was seized by violent crosscurrents. The wings flexed violently outside the windows; the cabin shuddered with such ferocity that the sound of metal groaning echoed through the flight deck.
Inside the passenger cabin, panic had reached a fever pitch. Overhead bins burst open, spilling luggage into the aisles. Douglas Martinez was weeping openly, clutching his head between his knees, reciting prayers he hadn't spoken since childhood.
Beside him, little Norah squeezed Mr. Bear with all her might, whispering into the plush toy's ear: "Daddy is flying. Daddy won't let anything happen to us."
In the cockpit, every warning light on the glare-shield seemed to be blinking simultaneously.
TERRAIN - PULL UP
WINDSHEAR AHEAD
HYDRAULIC QUANTITY LOW
Because the right hydraulic system had been partially severed before I subdued the saboteurs in the belly of the jet, the primary flight control surfaces were operating on backup accumulator pressure. The yoke felt heavy, stiff, and unresponsive, requiring every ounce of muscle in my arms and shoulders just to keep the wings from rolling into an unrecoverable spiral.
"Gear down!" I commanded.
Marcus weakly reached forward, grasping the landing gear lever with both hands, and yanked it downward.
A heavy THUNK-THUNK-THUNK reverberated through the airframe as the six-wheel main landing gear trucks deployed into the roaring slipstream, increasing drag and causing the nose to pitch down sharply.
"Three green lights!" Marcus coughed. "Gear is locked down!"
"Flaps twenty!" I yelled over the deafening roar of the rain pounding against the glass.
Marcus moved the flap lever. The electric motors whined, but then a sharp warning horn sounded.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!
FLAP ASYMMETRY WARNING.
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The left wing flaps had extended to twenty degrees, but the right wing flaps had jammed at five degrees due to hydraulic fluid starvation.
This was every pilot's worst nightmare: an asymmetrical flap condition during a stormy night approach. The aircraft immediately began a violent, uncontrollable roll to the right, threatening to flip completely upside down less than two thousand feet above the rocky cliffs of County Clare.
