Read Online Flight 232: A Story of Disaster and Survival by Laurence Gonzales - Free Book Online
Authors: Laurence Gonzales
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the aisle, his words rang in her head. I doubt you’ll see us standing up . Her mind was racing ahead, trying to cover her plans. She desperately wanted to reach that point of evacuating and be done with it. And she suddenly realized that she had been in such a state of shock from his declaration and from her focus on making a plan that she had neglected to tell him about the tail.
Brown spun on her heel and rushed back to knock on the door again. This time Dvorak opened it immediately, and she bent to whisper to him. She quickly closed the door and left, still thinking that she had done something wrong. In her terror, she’d been unable to remember the term horizontal stabilizer or even elevator , so she told Dvorak that she had seen damage on “the rear wing.” And indeed, the stabilizer was larger than many wings, it being more than seventy-one feet across, twenty-seven hundred square feet, “ a good bit larger than the average ranch house,” as Dale Warren, a vice president at Douglas Aircraft, later put it.
Now Dvorak announced to the cockpit crew, “She says there appears to be some damage on that one wing. Do you want me to go back and take a look?”
“No,” Fitch said. “We don’t have time.”
“Ain’t got time for it, no,” Haynes agreed. Then he thought better of it and changed his mind. “Okay, go ahead. Go ahead, see what you can see. Not that it’ll do any good.”
Dvorak unlatched his harness and left the cockpit.
Roughly twenty-five minutes had passed since the explosion. “So here I am,” said Martha Conant, recalling what seemed an eternity in the last row, “bargaining with God and reviewing my life, and all of a sudden, I had this vision of myself in the palm of God’s hand. And it was unexpected. It was intense. And it was immensely reassuring.” She had been looking for a miracle. Now she felt that she might get one. She could not imagine what it would look like.
Conant watched Dave Randa, the boy in the Chicago Cubs baseball cap, who sat by the window across the aisle and just ahead of her. Beside Conant, John Hatch had tried to reassure Dave, making something up to explain the fluid streaming across the windows, the white mist streaming back from the wings, and in the quiet of the failed engine, everyone nearby could hear his explanation: steam. The mist they saw was fuel that the crew was dumping. The fluid flowing across the windows was condensation from the cold aircraft descending into warmer air. But Hatch said it was steam. Conant saw Dave nodding while he listened to Hatch. Then Susan White said something to the mother and child, and Dave bent over and clutched his ankles. It was too early for bracing, but Dave was afraid. Terribly afraid. And his mother’s heart was breaking, as she placed her left hand on his back and whispered something to him. She told him that he didn’t need to brace yet, but the child would remain bent over, clenched tight, all the way to the ground.
Dave and his mother Susan, a librarian, had left Denver that Wednesday for vacation, expecting that Dave’s father Jim would follow on Friday. They would attend the Cubs-Giants baseball game on Saturday afternoon at Wrigley Field and then drive to South Haven, Michigan, for a few days at the beach. As Hatch reassured her son, Susan Randa looked over and their eyes met. “I know in my heart that he would have taken care of Dave if something happened,” she later said. “He was looking at me and looking at Dave, and I knew he’d do it. I knew it.”
Across the aisle to her right, Conant could see a young boy wearing a yarmulke seated next to a businessman with a mustache. They occupied the two seats by the starboard window. Yisroel Brownstein, nine, sat on the aisle. Donna McGrady came down the aisle and asked the boy to trade places with the businessman, Richard Howard Sudlow, thirty-six, because she might need the man’s help in opening the exit door that was immediately behind them.
Brown spun on her heel and rushed back to knock on the door again. This time Dvorak opened it immediately, and she bent to whisper to him. She quickly closed the door and left, still thinking that she had done something wrong. In her terror, she’d been unable to remember the term horizontal stabilizer or even elevator , so she told Dvorak that she had seen damage on “the rear wing.” And indeed, the stabilizer was larger than many wings, it being more than seventy-one feet across, twenty-seven hundred square feet, “ a good bit larger than the average ranch house,” as Dale Warren, a vice president at Douglas Aircraft, later put it.
Now Dvorak announced to the cockpit crew, “She says there appears to be some damage on that one wing. Do you want me to go back and take a look?”
“No,” Fitch said. “We don’t have time.”
“Ain’t got time for it, no,” Haynes agreed. Then he thought better of it and changed his mind. “Okay, go ahead. Go ahead, see what you can see. Not that it’ll do any good.”
Dvorak unlatched his harness and left the cockpit.
Roughly twenty-five minutes had passed since the explosion. “So here I am,” said Martha Conant, recalling what seemed an eternity in the last row, “bargaining with God and reviewing my life, and all of a sudden, I had this vision of myself in the palm of God’s hand. And it was unexpected. It was intense. And it was immensely reassuring.” She had been looking for a miracle. Now she felt that she might get one. She could not imagine what it would look like.
Conant watched Dave Randa, the boy in the Chicago Cubs baseball cap, who sat by the window across the aisle and just ahead of her. Beside Conant, John Hatch had tried to reassure Dave, making something up to explain the fluid streaming across the windows, the white mist streaming back from the wings, and in the quiet of the failed engine, everyone nearby could hear his explanation: steam. The mist they saw was fuel that the crew was dumping. The fluid flowing across the windows was condensation from the cold aircraft descending into warmer air. But Hatch said it was steam. Conant saw Dave nodding while he listened to Hatch. Then Susan White said something to the mother and child, and Dave bent over and clutched his ankles. It was too early for bracing, but Dave was afraid. Terribly afraid. And his mother’s heart was breaking, as she placed her left hand on his back and whispered something to him. She told him that he didn’t need to brace yet, but the child would remain bent over, clenched tight, all the way to the ground.
Dave and his mother Susan, a librarian, had left Denver that Wednesday for vacation, expecting that Dave’s father Jim would follow on Friday. They would attend the Cubs-Giants baseball game on Saturday afternoon at Wrigley Field and then drive to South Haven, Michigan, for a few days at the beach. As Hatch reassured her son, Susan Randa looked over and their eyes met. “I know in my heart that he would have taken care of Dave if something happened,” she later said. “He was looking at me and looking at Dave, and I knew he’d do it. I knew it.”
Across the aisle to her right, Conant could see a young boy wearing a yarmulke seated next to a businessman with a mustache. They occupied the two seats by the starboard window. Yisroel Brownstein, nine, sat on the aisle. Donna McGrady came down the aisle and asked the boy to trade places with the businessman, Richard Howard Sudlow, thirty-six, because she might need the man’s help in opening the exit door that was immediately behind them.
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