‘AN HOUR! That long?’
‘Short flight, full tank.’
‘Okay. I have to divert air traffic. Give me fifteen minutes, twenty,’ I said, and then jumped into action. Even though there was so much to do, my brain went into a hyper-focused state and I managed all the other planes quickly and efficiently. When I was done, I returned to Andrew.
‘You’ve tried normal system, back-up system and freefall, right?’
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Hydraulics?’
‘Nothing wrong with them.’
‘Electrical control circuits?’
‘Nope,’ he replied. I closed my eyes and scanned my mind for all the information I had stored in my brain about his aircraft.
‘What was your take-off weight?’ I asked.
‘A hundred and ten thousand pounds.’
I started doing the maths in my head, subtracting the weight of the fuel and accounting for a deviation in accuracy of passenger weight.
‘I want you to land on runway zero seven,’ I said. ‘It’s longer.’
‘And it’s my lucky runway,’ he said humorously, but I could hear for the first time that there was a little quiver in his voice. Nerves?
‘Is there anything you need from me?’ I asked him.
‘No. I’ll speak to you in thirty minutes when I’ve burnt off all the fuel.’
‘Emergency services will be standing by,’ I assured him.
I gripped my hands together tightly and looked up at the clock. The ticking hand was torturous, but still, I kept my eyes glued to it. I tried to focus all my attention on the second hand, because if I didn’t I was replaying scenes fromAirplane Investigation: planes crash-landing without landing gear, skidding to a stop, sparks and flames blazing on the undercarriage, fuel leaking, plane igniting.Boom!
‘It’s all over the TV,’ a voice said, and I turned towards it.
‘What is?’
‘Look,’ Yvonne, one of my fellow ATCs – the only other woman who worked here – switched the TV on, and there it was. Live coverage from right outside the airport. How on earth had they found this out? Someone must have tipped them off, or maybe a passenger had sent a message when they’d passed low and she momentarily had cell phone signal. And that is exactly what had happened. Not just one message, but tens of messages sent to loved ones telling them about the problem and saying emotional goodbyes in case they never came back. We stood in stunned silence as the newsreader read the various messages, the camera fixed to the clouds, waiting to see the circling craft. Pier pulled out his phone and looked down at it. ‘It’s all over Twitter,’ he said.
‘Facebook too,’ Barry confirmed.
My stomach dropped when my phone started lighting up. It was a message from Andrew’s mom.
Becca:Is it true?
My fingers shook as I typed back to her.
Pippa:Yes. But it’s going to be okay. I’m the ATC in charge of the flight. And he’s an excellent pilot.
But I wasn’t sure I quite believed that. It didn’t have much to do with his skill, or mine for that matter. Once that plane was on the ground, skidding across the tarmac, it was really up to the forces of nature to determine what damage would occur to the undercarriage. If there was a fuel leak, or not. What did or did not get damaged on touchdown. There were so many variables it was impossible to know if this would end happily or in a ball of fire. I was just about to put my phone down when a string of beeps made it vibrate in my hand.
10-Year School Reunion WhatsApp Group
Katie:@pippa, I just saw the news. Is it really Andrew?
Emily:OMG! I can’t believe it! How is he?
