Startled, Wilson let out a bark of laughter as G.B. exited.
“NS 729, this is the SLC tower.”
“SLC, this is NS 729. Go.”
“Report SLC when in sight, please.”
“In sight,” Ava replied, because yay! It was. Never had the clay valley of Salt Lake City looked so inviting. “Tower, SLC airport is in sight.”
“Very good, NS 729. Runway four is available.”
“Copy that, descending to runway four. Please roll an ambulance.”
“Got it, NS 729. Rolling ambulance.”
“Okay, Wilson, let’s see what’s going on with the hydraulics. Starting descent.” But because it was that kind of day … “Landing gear is not deploying.” She tried again. Nothing. So the hydraulic system was fucked. “Accessing electrical system to deploy landing gear.” Gotta love all the redundancies the engineers thought up … except that wasn’t working, either. No hydraulics + no way to bypass and use the electrical system = no landing gear. No landing gear = belly landing. What fun. “Tower, our landing gear will not deploy. Repeat, attempts to lower landing gear have been unsuccessful. Can you verify with a visual?”
“Negative, NS 729; all incoming flights were diverted.”
“Copy. We’ll be making a gear-up landing. Are we still go for runway four?”
“Affirmative, NS 729. Runway four is ready for you. Rolling more ground emergency crews.”
“Copy, Tower. I’m going to circle up here for a while, use up some of our fuel.”
“Copy, NS 729.”
Wilson cleared his throat. “We’re still on for dinner, though, right? Because everything’s going to be fine?”
“Of course.” She clicked into the PA system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are unable to lower our landing gear, which means we’ll be making what’s called a belly landing. I know that sounds scary, but I can tell you that in twenty years, there have been only three belly landings and all resulted in zero injuries. I’m going to circle for a bit while they get ready for us. Follow the crew’s instructions to the letter or you’re in for a major scolding. I’m not kidding. I’ll use foul language and everything.”
She clicked off and looked at Wilson. “Ready?”
“Of course.”
“Atta boy. Y’know, the chances of a pilot emergency and a hydraulics issue have to be millions to one. When we get on the ground, I’m buying a lottery ticket.”
“When we get on the ground, I’ll buy you all the tickets you want.” While they were talking, Wilson had been going over the emergency landing checklist—airlines have lists for everything—and Ava set a course to keep to her pattern and burn fuel. Might as well minimize the chance of them all going up in a blazing fireball, which would be unpleasant and inconvenient.
A familiar rap, and G.B. was there. “We’re getting set up back there, Captain. Anything I can do for you?”
“How’s our other captain doing?”
“Laughed his ass off when he heard your announcement. Which got the passengers in First laughing, so it wasn’t all bad. He says the odds of a pilot medical emergency and a belly landing are millions to one.”
“See?” she said to Wilson. “Today’s the day to buy a Powerball ticket. G.B., get back there and you and everyone else assume the position.”
“Way ahead of you. Good luck, my friend.”
“He’s only saying that because he’s terrified and homeless,” she confided to Wilson.
“Well, he’s got company. On the first one, anyway. How much more fuel you want to burn?”
Twenty-five minutes’ worth, as it turned out. By then, the Tower had summoned what looked like every fire truck and ambulance in the state, and she didn’t dare linger—there was also Captain Lewis to think about.
“NS 729, we can see you. Your landing gear is not down. Do you need a repeat?”
“Negative, Tower, thank you for the visual verification,” she replied, unsurprised. Faint hope, and all that.
“You are cleared for low approach.”
Well, I certainly hope so, since I’m in one. “Thank you, Tower. On approach.”
“NS 729, when able, please report SOB and remaining fuel.”
“Tower, we have two hundred twenty-nine souls on board including a crew of seven, and forty minutes.”
“Copy. Wind calm and we have emergency trucks standing by.”
“Very good, Tower.”
As they descended, Ava realized she was white-knuckling and loosened her grip. Belly landings tended to do major damage to the aircraft, but almost never the passengers—that was the good news. The bad was that there was a risk the plane would flip, break up, cartwheel, catch fire, or any hellish combo of the four. Hell, keeping the aircraft straight and level was a must even with landing gear.
As they descended, she breathed silent thanks for good visibility and low crosswinds. Runway four seemed to be racing up to meet them, and when they hit, there was a terrific bounce and a horrifying noise, like the plane was screaming as its belly was scraped to shit while Ava and Wilson fought to keep seven hundred thousand pounds under control. The plane slid for another two hundred meters, then came to a shuddering, grinding stop.
Ava turned to her first officer. “I probably should have anticipated the smell.”
“Jesus Christ, we’re not dead!”
“That’s the spirit. Tower, we’ve landed and the crew is evacuating the passengers.”
“Copy, NS 729. Welcome to Salt Lake City.”
They could already hear the flight attendants deploying slides and barking instructions, and Ava opened the cockpit door in time to see Captain Lewis actually kick G.B. back with his one working leg as he pointed furiously to the passengers and shook his head. Clearly the idea of deplaning before his passengers was beyond unthinkable.
“G.B., see to the passengers.” She could see the plane was rapidly emptying and decided it would be safer to unload Captain Lewis in forty seconds as opposed to upsetting him (and the passengers) by carrying him off now. “Wilson and I will see to the captain.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Later, at the bar, G.B. would drink to Lewis and say, “For a guy who was barely conscious and could only use half his body, he put up a hell of a fight.”
Afterward, Ava found out they had everyone off the plane in 102 seconds, with zero injuries aside from Lewis. She was amazed when she realized the time lapse from Evans asking her into the cockpit to deplaning was fifty-eight minutes.
A final head count had shown everyone was out, and then she was sliding out of the plane (wheeeeeee!) where G.B. was waiting for her. “Idiot,” she told him. “You’re not supposed to wait.”
“You’re not supposed to land without wheels.” With that, he grabbed her and swung her around in an exuberant hug—he was one of the few men who made her feel doll-sized—and when she threw her head back to laugh, Buzzfeed had its photo of the week.
But like an idiot, or someone born before social media, she’d thought that would be the end of it. Not on the airline’s part, of course—there would be months of investigation, meetings, PR damage control, more meetings, interviews, debriefings, meetings about debriefings, etcetera. But she assumed the public wouldn’t be terribly interested past the first day or so.