Stranded in Paradise (3 page)

She held her spoon up, gazing at her reflection in the concave surface that made her nose look disproportion- ately large. She laughed aloud, then realized how hollow it sounded in the silence of her home.

Maybe it would be good to go see Beeg,
she thought. At least she'd have someone to have a good cry with. Who knew, maybe some time on a Hawaiian beach would give her the direction she needed.

Jan. 14, 2:30 P.M.
O'Hare International Control Tower

Carter McConnell sat at his terminal and watched snow blowing in driving sheets against the tower windows. Perched in the glassed-in birdcage, weary air traffic controllers gazed at their radar monitors.

It had been one of the worst nights anyone could remember. During the past few hours they had efficiently handled close to four hundred incoming and outgoing flights. Planes were sitting at gates, others systematically landing and taking off, but the rush was nothing compared to what it had been earlier.

From his vantage point high atop the airport terminal, Carter focused on the red beacon lights moving about the runway. He wished he was home. His head ached and his throat felt scratchy and tight. He wanted to kick back, relax, give his dog, Max, a tummy rub, and eat a nice bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. But he still had an hour before his shift was over.

He glanced at the ground-surveillance radar and suddenly sat up straighter. A quick reading on the bright display indicated that a United Boeing 727, still ten miles out, was coming in fast. Carter quickly flipped a switch on the panel in front of him.

“Approach, this is Ground. Clipper 242 looks to be coming in hard. Does he have a problem?”

“Ground, this is Approach. Yeah, he's picking up heavy ice. He's been cleared to land on Runway 36.”

Carter glanced at the ground radar again and frowned. If Tim Matthews, the approach controller, had accurate information, they were in trouble. Carter's ground-surveillance screen indicated an unidentified airplane taxiing toward the approach end of Runway 36.

Carter grabbed the binoculars and scanned the snow-covered tarmac. His jaw clenched when he saw the lighted tail section of a Global Airways DC-9 disappearing toward the runway.

“Global, this is Ground—” The sharp crackling at the other end took Carter by surprise. “Global, this is Ground. Do you read me?” The question was met with an ominous silence. Flipping a second switch, Carter shouted, “Local, we've got a problem. I've got a Global Airways DC-9 taxing on Runway 36 and a Boeing 727 about to land on him. He's not responding!” His voice rose another decibel.

“What's he doing out there?” a voice screeched over the airwaves.

“That's what I'm trying to find out. Advise the Clipper.”

“Roger.” Max Lakin flipped a switch on his panel.

“Clipper 242 be advised we have a no-radio Global DC-9 taxiing southbound on Runway 36. Be prepared for a go-around.”

The Clipper's pilot came back. “Local, what's the Global doing out there?”

“Beats me. We're trying to reach the aircraft.”

“I'm low on fuel. You're gonna have to get him out of there!” The United pilot shot back.

Carter listened as he kept a close eye on the runway visual-radar indicator. Visibility was down to 2,400 feet. For the past four and a half hours the pilots had been relying solely on instruments.

The nerves between his shoulder blades tightened as he hit the radio switch again.

“Global DC-9, this is Ground,” Carter's urgency seeped through his voice. “Exit runway immediately! Do you hear me?”

Wiping a shaky hand across the back of his neck, he eased forward in his chair as the tower supervisor threw down the papers he had been reading and came to stand behind him.

“What's going on?”

“I've got an unauthorized DC-9 taxiing on a reserved runway and he's not talking to me.”

Carl Anderson frowned. He was fiftyish, with a large waist and graying hair.

“He obviously thinks he's been cleared,” Carter muttered. He tried to reach the DC-9 again. “Global DC-9, exit to taxiway immediately! Repeat. Exit to taxiway immediately!”

Carl leaned over Carter's shoulder and watched the screen as the two planes continued on their courses on Runway 36.

“Tell Local to advise Clipper to go around,” Carl said as Carter started pressing the necessary switches.

“I'll try it again—Local, this is Ground. Advise Clipper 242. Unauthorized DC-9 still on runway. Go around immediately! Repeat. Go around immediately!”

“Roger!” Local quickly punched another switch. “Clipper 242, this is Local. Aircraft on runway. Go around. Repeat. Go around.”

Carter heard Local talking to the Clipper. Then he heard the pilot's voice, “I'd love to oblige, Local, but this ain't no crop duster I'm flyin'.”

“Well, you'd better find a way, Clipper, unless you want to be headline news tomorrow morning,” Carter warned. He watched the screen as the two dots drew closer.

All Carter could hope for was that the timing of the two aircraft would be a split second apart and a collision would be avoided. He breathed a silent prayer
: Lord, I've done all I can do on this end. It's up to You.

Carl hurriedly reached for the crash phone to alert the fire station and emergency crew of an impending crisis. Carter tried to raise the Global DC-9 again, “Global, exit to taxiway
immediately!
Repeat. Exit to taxiway
immediately!”

Riveted to the screen, the men watched in tense silence as the two blips on the radar screen rushed closer and closer together. The room had become unnaturally quiet as the other flight controllers performed their duties in hushed tones.

“Well, start praying,” Carl advised.

“Already have.”

The wide-bodied Boeing 747 touched down on the landing strip and came streaking along the runway as the DC-9 inched its way forward.

“Move it, move it, move it,” Carter breathed, then he held his breath as the plane rolled laboriously across the path of the incoming 747.

The strained voice of the Clipper pilot cracked over the wire, “Get out of the way, buddy!” Carter cringed as the pilot's voice willed the DC-9 out of his path.

The dots closed in on each other on Carter's screen as the Clipper roared down the landing strip at more than two hundred miles per hour. The blips grew closer and closer.

Suddenly they split apart and the DC-9 eased off the runway as the 747 shot by him in a screech of flying mud and snow.

Carter threw down his pencil and leaned back in his chair weakly as Carl let out a loud war whoop.

“Thank you, God!” Carter said.

“What was that?” yelled the pilot of the DC-9 over the wire, the man obviously shaken.

“Global, you're on an unauthorized taxiway!” Carter snapped. “Where have you been? I've been trying to contact you for three minutes.”

“I'm sorry. We've had a radio malfunction—I just heard the contact . . .”

“Well, take some advice, when you have a radio problem don't just go strolling down a runway!” Carter flipped off the radio switch and rubbed his face with his hands. He was trembling and flushed.

Carl laid his hands on his shoulders and gave them a supportive squeeze. “You okay?”

Emotionally and physically drained, Carter could not will himself to respond. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. There was no longer any doubt about it. The pressure of the job was getting to him. True, he'd experienced closer calls, but his palms had never felt so sweaty or his stomach been in such a tight knot.

When Carl had hired him nine years earlier Carter had been self-confident; he'd have brushed off this sort of incident without another thought, considering it a part of the business. Perhaps be energized by it, even. But tonight was different. It shouldn't be. He was a seasoned professional, but tonight was—enough. It was enough. He couldn't do this any more.

His supervisor clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Come to my office when you get a minute.”

Carter's pulse jumped. “Sure.”

His supervisor was on the phone when he arrived. He glanced up and motioned Carter to help himself to the coffee. Carter shook his head. The last thing he needed was more caffeine in his system. He settled his large frame into the upholstered chair opposite Carl's desk.

Carl finished his conversation in a few moments. “Sorry.” He nodded toward the phone. “The higher-ups drive me crazy.”

“No problem.”

The older man stepped to the hotplate and picked up a carafe. “One more cup of this stuff is gonna kill me. Wanda would have a fit if she knew how many I've had today.” He shrugged, then poured the strong black brew into his cup and added a couple packets of sugar. “I'm going to die of something, so I figure I might as well go alert.”

Carter acknowledged Carl's attempt at wit with a slim smile and waited patiently until he sat down again. Carl was always worrying about what his wife thought about his bad habits, but never enough to change them.

Carl sipped the strong coffee cautiously, and then sipped again. He seemed to be doing a lot of fidgeting. Carter wished he'd get to the point of the powwow. “You're doing a great job, Son,” Carl finally said, meeting Carter's eyes. He set his foam cup aside and leaned forward on his forearms.

Carter glanced up, surprised by the unexpected praise. “Thanks.”

“I'm sending you on a vacation.”

The statement was firm and straight to the point.

“Vacation? I can't. Not right now.”

“Sure you can. You leave tomorrow morning.”

“Come on, Carl—”

He was about to argue the point when he saw determination creep into his supervisor's face. He could sit here and argue all day but in the end Carl would have the last word. He always did.

“No buts, Buddy.” His superior's tone may have softened, but Carter knew his resolution hadn't. “In the past nine years how many vacations have you taken?” He looked Carter in the eye.

“Well . . . I . . .” Carter stammered.

“You're too valuable a controller for me to lose. I've sat by and watched you for weeks now, and I think it's time we did something. We all reach the end of our limit at some point—most boys take a lot less than nine years to get there. You deserve some time away.”

Carter knew better than to disagree. He hadn't been himself lately.

“Sorry, Carl, I know I haven't been giving you my best.”

Carl leaned back in his chair and studied his coffee cup. “You're one of the most conscientious, moral men I have. I'm only trying to see that I don't lose you. You're tired, Carter. I hate to call it burnout, but something's affecting you both physically and mentally. You need a little R and R. Relax. Have some fun. Forget about the job and its pressures.”

“You're worried about my competency.”

“You're top-notch, Carter, but this is a high-stress job. We all need a little down time.” Carl leaned forward, and his eyes held Carter's gaze. “Look, it's nothing to be ashamed of. We all have our limits. You're conscientious, focused. That's good. But this sort of concentration takes a lot out of a man. A couple weeks of lying in the sun and you'll be back complaining that you've used up all your vacation hours. As far back as I can remember you've used your vacation time for church mission trips to Uganda to help build houses for orphan children. That's good, and God bless you, Son, but you need to take time for yourself. Even Christ took time to renew Himself with His Father. You should do the same. Besides, you can fly anywhere in the world for next to nothing. You should take advantage of that.”

“My absence will leave you short-handed,” Carter reminded. “If I could get over this cold—”

“You will. Bake it out in the sun.” Carl grinned.

Carter stood up. While he didn't like being forced to go on vacation, something inside him said he needed it. Two weeks without coping, without thinking, without breaking into a cold sweat, without sitting on the edge of his chair. . . . Maybe rest was all he needed.

“I don't suppose it will do any good to argue with you?”

“None at all. Soon as Randy gets here, consider yourself out of work for the next two weeks, or longer, if you need it. You let me worry about your replacement. That's what I'm paid the big bucks for.” He grinned.

Carter reached to shake his supervisor's hand, gratified by the other man's concern. “I appreciate this—”

“Don't worry about it.” Carl glanced at his watch. “Uh oh, look at the time. I've got to call Wanda and tell her I'm going to be a few minutes late.” He flashed Carter an apologetic grin. “The woman thinks I've dropped dead if I'm not home by six on the dot.”

Carter left the tower, groaning when he saw the inch of ice accumulated on his windshield. Starting the motor, he flipped on the defroster and pulled on his gloves as he sat waiting for the windshield to clear.