PALM BEACH, FLORIDA
APRIL 27
En route to Palm Beach International Airport at thirty-one thousand feet, I heard a violent explosion in the passenger cabin. The cockpit rocked, followed by loud whooshing outside the Boeing 767 cockpit door. My copilot and I pulled on our oxygen masks. The cabin intercom chimed, and I heard noise and screaming as a flight attendant said, “Captain Starr, it’s Kimberly, aft cabin. A bomb exploded, and a man was sucked out!”
I scanned the instrument panel. “Where and how much damage?”
“Under the last window seat, left side, four-foot hole.”
“We need to dive to a safe altitude. Everyone buckled in?”
“Yes. Oxygen masks deployed. They’re putting them on now.”
“Okay, sit tight.” I turned to my copilot, Lance Calder. “A bomb exploded in the aft cabin—initiating emergency descent. Check passenger oxygen system is on, seat belt/no smoking signs are on, and set transponder to emergency code. Notify air traffic control and read the emergency descent checklist.”
“I’m on it, Sam.” Lance pulled out the checklist and entered the emergency code.
While he radioed the Miami Air Route Traffic Control Center, I throttled back our wounded airliner, extended the landing gear and speed brakes, and began a diving right turn to exit the jet route. Lance read the checklist out loud to ensure nothing was overlooked, as we plummeted to ten thousand feet above the sea.
I scanned the gauges when we reached our target altitude. “We’re level at ten, Lance. Remove your oxygen mask and take control. Then I’ll remove mine and call the cabin.”
I asked the flight attendants at every seat station for status reports.
“The hole isn’t getting bigger, there’s no fire, and the passengers are buckled into their seats with their oxygen masks on,” Kimberly reported.
“Good, I’ll talk to the passengers now.” I flipped a switch. “This is your captain speaking. Now that we’ve reached a safe altitude, everyone may remove their oxygen masks. Everything’s under control. We’ll be landing soon.” I took a deep breath and resumed flying.
The air traffic controller’s voice filled our headsets, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, state number of souls on board, fuel remaining, aircraft status, and intentions. Radar shows you ninety miles northeast of Palm Beach International Airport, level at ten thousand feet.”
I pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, Luxury 434, a bomb blew a four-foot hole in the aft left fuselage. We lost one passenger. Could be more bombs and terrorists onboard. We’ll fly over water near the coastline and land south on the Kennedy Space Center runway, approaching over the unpopulated area north and east of the Space Center. Notify law enforcement and emergency services. ETA: fifteen minutes. One hundred and ninety souls on board and forty-five minutes of fuel remaining.”
The controller spoke in a dismissive, matter-of-fact voice, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, turn left heading one-eight-zero. Descend to six thousand feet. Plan to land at Palm Beach International Airport. Kennedy Space Center is not available to civilian aircraft.”
Nice try. “Negative, Miami Center, too many lives will be at risk if more bombs explode. The Space Center’s long, isolated runway is our only safe option. No launches or landings are posted for today. Deal with it.”
“Luxury 434, police may not have time to secure the area before you land.”
“Call the military base on Cape Canaveral. Ask them to establish a tight perimeter around my aircraft. We have the Cape in sight, descending to six thousand feet.”
Another explosion rocked the cockpit, followed by loud ringing and a bright red light.
“Captain, the left engine is on fire.” Lance pointed to the lighted number one fire handle.
The cabin intercom bell chimed. “Captain, it’s Tiffany, forward cabin. A bomb exploded under the empty left window seat, front row, first class—blew debris into the left engine. It’s burning. I put out the cabin fire, but I’m scared there’s a terrorist. Please send Lance to help us.”
Won’t be suckered into that mistake. “No, Tiffany. Everyone’s best chance for survival is if both pilots remain locked in the cockpit. Suck it up and prepare the cabin for an emergency landing and evacuation.” I ended the call and focused on saving the aircraft.
Lance tapped the glowing red fire light. “Captain, number one is still burning.”
The radio blared, “Luxury 434, Miami Center, the Space Center wants thirty minutes to prepare for your arrival. Hold twenty miles northeast of Melbourne VOR on the zero-six-zero radial at six thousand feet, right turns, ten-mile legs, until we clear you for the approach.”
“Negative, Miami Center, another bomb exploded. Left engine is on fire. Stand by.” I shut down the left engine and discharged the remote fire extinguisher into the flames. “Lance, call out the engine fire checklist followed by the single-engine landing checklist.”
As we ran through the checklists, the red fire light went out. After shutting down the number one engine, the aircraft yawed to the left. I pushed hard on the right rudder pedal. “Call Miami Center and declare a MAYDAY.” How many frickin’ bombs are there?
Lance pushed the transmit button. “Miami Center, Luxury 434 has significant bomb damage and only one engine operating. The fire is out, but we need to land immediately—declaring MAYDAY.”
“Luxury 434, understand MAYDAY. Be advised most of Florida, including Cape Canaveral and Kennedy Space Center, is covered in a low cloud base with continuous heavy rain, ceiling one hundred feet, visibility one-half mile, and wind one-two-zero at thirty knots. State your intentions.”
Bad weather. What next? “Luxury 434 will land on Runway One Five. I want fire equipment and EMS standing by. Warn them we may have more bombs. We’ll evacuate as soon as we’re stopped on the runway.” I gripped the control yoke and focused on the flight instruments, expecting another explosion any moment.
“Luxury 434, descend to two thousand feet. Turn left to one-eight-zero. Cleared for the Runway One Five ILS approach. Contact the tower on one-two-eight-five-five. Good luck.”
Lance called the tower, and I concentrated on the instrument panel as we descended through the storm clouds. My right leg vibrated from the constant strain of pushing hard on the right rudder pedal, compensating for the dead engine rolling our aircraft to the left. My proper use of ailerons and rudder was the only thing preventing our aircraft from rolling upside down. Adrenaline surged through my veins with my senses tuned to high intensity.
“Lance, we don’t know if we have wing damage, so I’ll do a no-flap landing, rather than risk control issues close to the ground. Extra speed won’t be a problem on that long runway.”
“Final approach, Captain. We’re centered on the localizer and glide slope, but we’re still in the soup. Will we do a go-around if we don’t see anything at decision height?”
“No, the airplane might not survive a go-around. If we don’t see the approach lights, call out our altitude every ten feet below one hundred feet until we’re on the runway. Signal the flight attendants to assume the brace position.”
Lance gave the six-bell signal to the cabin. He scanned between the altimeter and the view outside. “Five hundred feet . . . four hundred . . . three hundred . . . two hundred . . . one hundred, ninety, eighty, seventy, sixty, RUNWAY IN SIGHT.”
“Runway in sight—landing,” I declared. “Notify the tower.”
Just as the landing gear touched down, I heard a loud noise and felt the aircraft swerve. Employing the rudder and asymmetrical braking to keep the airliner’s forward motion centered on the runway, I noted the red fire warning light on the front panel.
“Captain, we have a wheel well fire and probably some blown tires.”
“Notify the tower, and tell them we’re evacuating the aircraft.” I wrestled the massive airliner to a stop, set the parking brake, shut down the engine, and announced to the cabin, “This is the captain speaking. Evacuate the aircraft using the forward and aft exit doors. Do not use the wing exits. There is a fire under the wings. Move as far away from the aircraft as possible and follow instructions from law enforcement personnel waiting on the ground.”
I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans and looked over my shoulder at the check pilot seated in the back of the Boeing 767 flight simulator. Over four frickin’ hours in the sweatbox! My test had better be over.
“Excellent check ride, Sam,” Check Pilot Jim Rowlin said. “We threw every emergency in the book at you. Your selection of the Space Center runway was unexpected, but you showed good judgment.” He glanced at the man to his left. “Unless the FAA examiner has anything to add, I think we’re done here. Congratulations, Captain Starr. Not bad, considering you’ve been a copilot only six years.”
“Piece of cake, Jim,” I said, grinning.
“Miss Samantha Starr, the first female captain at Luxury International Airlines! How does it feel to be the big cheese with the most prestigious charter airline in the world?” Lance asked.
“I’ll let you know when my muscles stop twitching. Jim gave my right leg quite a workout with the left engine failures.” I turned to Jim. “You do know the 767 has two engines? At least one right engine failure would’ve been nice to balance out my leg muscles.” I rubbed my right thigh and smiled. “Now I’d like a long shower and about thirty minutes in my hot tub with a bottle of ice-cold Champagne.”
“Well, I had to make sure you have what it takes to do a man’s job,” Jim joked. “The hot tub sounds tempting, but you’ll have to settle for celebratory beers at the bar instead.”
I saw the men nod in agreement when I released my hair from the clip behind my neck. “Uh huh, I don’t know any men who’ve had five consecutive left engine failures in their entire lives. Good thing a woman was at the controls.” I laughed and followed the men out. “Jim, when do I start the line checks, flying regular passenger flights with check captains?”
Jim checked the calendar in his Blackberry. “Ah, you’ll start in three days. We’ll head to the briefing room, finish the paperwork, and meet at The Sound Barrier Bar and Grill.” He started down the hallway with the FAA examiner at his side.
“Great job, Captain!” Lance gave me a big hug, lifting me off my feet.
I kissed his cheek. “Thanks for your help.”
“You can always count on me.” He gave me a confident wink and escorted me down the hall.
My right leg stopped vibrating during my walk to the briefing room. I caught up to Jim. “Thanks for the fair check ride, but I think I’ll pass on your drink offer.” I wrinkled my nose. “I really do need a shower. After four hours in the sweatbox, I reek.”
Jim put his arm around my shoulder. “Nonsense, you need adult beverages. The flight simulator was so realistic, your subconscious believed you were in mortal danger and flooded your system with adrenaline. A few beers will help you relax. Besides, this is a major milestone in your career. Come and celebrate. Drinks are on us.”
Jim sat at the desk and filled out the forms for the Boeing 767 type rating to be added to my airline transport pilot certificate. “Sign here and we’ll head over to the bar. Are you coming, Lance? You’re invited too, Dick. We don’t mind drinking with a fed.”
Lance grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of missing Sam’s celebration party.”
FAA Examiner Dick Farinati glanced at his watch. “I’d love to join the party, but my wife will have dinner on the table in fifteen minutes. It’s not worth the grief if I’m late. Thanks anyway, guys.” He shook my hand. “Congratulations, Captain Starr.”
I smiled at the eager men, deciding the politically correct choice was to join them at the bar for a few rounds, even if I felt like collapsing into my hot tub. I enjoyed their company, but navigating through the minefield of male egos was just as difficult as my toughest flight test, and mistakes in either could jeopardize my career.
Jim and Lance were handsome, but Jim was married, and Lance had a reputation for running wild with the flight attendants. I didn’t want to complicate my captain qualification flights by dating a company pilot. The men tended to gossip, and my recent breakup with a fellow pilot had registered on everyone’s radar in record time. As the sole female pilot at elite Luxury International Airlines, my life was always under a microscope.
During my short drive to the bar, I pulled out my cell phone and called my mother. “Hey, Mom, I passed! You’re talking to the world’s newest Boeing 767 captain. Not bad for a twenty-six-year-old woman. Wish Dad was alive to see my fourth stripe.”
“Congratulations, Sam! I knew you’d ace it. Your father would’ve been proud. Are you going out to celebrate?”
“I’m meeting the men at the Sound Barrier. After four hours of extreme emergencies, my nerves are shot, and my muscles feel like mush. Wish I didn’t have to wait until August for my vacation. I need it now.”
“I can relate. I’m writing the first chapter of my new romance novel, and I’m having trouble creating the lover for my Highland chieftain.”
“Why not pretend you’re the one enjoying the hot Scot?” I asked.
“Good idea. I’ll make the main characters my age and let the middle-aged damsel marry the handsome warrior for a change. My mature readers deserve a steamy fantasy.”
“Your novels have me fired up to visit Scotland this summer.”
“You’ll love the Highlands. I have a strong feeling it may turn out to be your most exciting vacation ever.”
“I’m counting on it. Your intuition has never been wrong. Gotta go, Mom, love you.”
Robert L. Bacon
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