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Chapter X

Alonzo Crawford

Friday, September 16

He didn’t play football because his mother was terrified he’d get hurt. Rather than cause her any distress, he ran track. His long legs and lean six-foot frame gave him the look of a gazelle. The gazelle comparison went beyond looks. His college time of 1:48:3 for the half-mile and 47:6 for the quarter-mile still stood as school records. Alonzo Crawford was far more than a gifted athlete, however. He had graduated from UVa Summa Cum Laude, was Phi Beta Kappa, and a member of Mensa. He hadn’t sought honors. They meant little to him. His passion was computer theory and programming, as well as the design of integrated circuits. In his PhD thesis, he’d outlined production methods for simulating absolute zero conditions in computer integrated circuitry, increasing speeds to beyond 1000MHz without heat becoming a factor through the use of graphite nanotubes.

The Silicon Valley headhunters had waged war among themselves in efforts to get him. He chose an innovative company that offered him free reign for his research, plus very liberal and lucrative stock options. By the time he was twenty-six, he was a millionaire several times over. He married and had a daughter, Samantha. Despite his best efforts to relocate his parents to San Jose, they had chosen to remain in Salem, Virginia. They did not want to leave their friends and home of over forty years. He made sure they had whatever they needed to take care of expenses and visited when he could.

Tragedy struck early for Crawford. His wife died from a brain tumor. The doctors told him it was a “spider type” with a malignancy of plus four. After her death, he threw himself into his work along with caring for his daughter. He took up long-distance running and reveled in the solitude of it. He found he enjoyed jogging for hours, letting his mind go wherever it wished, uninterrupted. The running magazines recommended LSD (Long, Slow, Distance) as a staple to training, so Crawford followed their advice. One year his daughter talked him into letting her go to summer camp; he decided to take up flying to fill the void of not being with her. Crawford was hooked immediately. He loved the peace and freedom the sky and the airplane afforded him. He was a natural, totally at home with the controls. His ability to interpret the instruments and make the appropriate control imputes was as thorough as his knowledge of computers. Four months after he obtained his instrument rating, he bought a pressurized Cessna 210, also known as a Centurion. The twenty-nine-foot-six-inch-long, nine-foot-six-inch-high, 3,600 pound aircraft with its three bladed propeller, six seats, retractable gear, and Allison 250-B17F/2 engine modification, rated at 450 horsepower, was light years ahead of the much smaller, fixed-gear, Cessna 150 and Cessna 172 he had flown during training, affectionately known as “bug smashers” and “puddle jumpers.”

The Centurion was not a plane to be flown by a neophyte. Crawford was well aware of that fact. He’d studied with advanced instructors learning his aircraft’s systems and flight characteristics. Only when he was satisfied with his proficiency did he fly the Centurion solo. Crawford flew often. He used the pressurized Cessna to fly himself and coworkers to business meetings, seminars, and speaking engagements throughout California and the southwest. He also flew back to Salem at least twice a year to visit his parents. Crawford was as much a professional pilot as those who flew for a living. He stayed current on regulations and procedures, made sure his aircraft and its engine had all the required periodic maintenance, and kept abreast of the latest aviation changes.

Crawford had departed from the Roanoke Airport, located just outside Salem, some three hours earlier. He had crossed the Glenn Falls V-O-R and was proceeding northbound on Victor Airway 489. Most of his flight had been at 13,000 feet, keeping him above the eastern ridge of the New York Adirondack Mountains. Twenty miles south of Glenn Falls, the Boston Air Route Traffic Control Center descended him to 11,000 feet for his initial descent into Schroon Lake Airport.

Crawford was going to compete in the Adirondack Marathon. Like most runners, he wanted to participate in at least one marathon during his running career. His first goal was to complete the race. His second was to cross the finish line in under three hours, which would mean running each mile in an average time of 6:50 per mile. Crawford marveled at those who ran the distance in two hours and ten minutes, an average pace of five minutes a mile. His analytical mind ran some quick comparisons; a four-minute mile was comprised of four quarter miles run at sixty seconds per quarter, a two-hour ten-minute marathon was comprised of one hundred and two quarter miles run at seventy-five seconds a quarter, each quarter mile being only fifteen seconds slower than a four-minute mile pace, maintained for twenty-six miles. Crawford wondered what they were feeding those guys. The race was to start at noon and would be run through the gentle rolling hills of the eastern Adirondacks. The view of the autumn colors would be breathtaking and would serve to take many a runner’s mind off the fact that his body was demanding to know what the hell was going on. Several hundred runners, in the latter stages of the race, would urge each other on to the finish, an unofficial tradition among the 95 percent who had no illusions of ever being anywhere near the lead runners except at the starting line. After the race, he planned to spend a couple of days fishing, forgetting that a place called Silicon Valley existed. His twelve-year-old daughter was thrilled to have been left visiting with her grandparents.

Boston Center gave New England Approach Control a radar handoff on the Centurion, transferred control of the aircraft to them “on radio contact” and switched Centurion four niner Romeo to New England’s frequency. Crawford acknowledged the frequency change, dialed in the new frequency on his number two radio, listened for a moment to ensure he would not “step on” someone’s transmission and “keyed” the microphone.

“Good evening New England approach, Centurion three six four niner Romeo, one one thousand.”

Melissa Jason acknowledged. “Centurion four niner Romeo New England, Good evening, altimeter two niner niner eight.”

“Niner niner eight, four niner Romeo.”

FAA Service Director Dennison would later note that Melissa Jason did not use the Centurion’s full call sign on initial contact, did not identify herself as “Approach Control,” did not identify the station reporting the altimeter setting, and did not tell the pilot what type of approach to expect into Schroon Lake Airport. It wasn’t all she forgot.

The Centurion knifed through the night sky in clouds and light rain. Crawford’s eyes peered at his weather radar looking for any precipitation returns that produced the telltale glow indicating heavy precipitation and a good possibility of associated turbulence. None were “painted”, but plenty of lighter precipitation reflected back onto his scope, covering most of his radar screen. Crawford was reviewing descent and approach checklist items when he heard some conversation between New England Approach Control and an aircraft with a “Patriot” call sign. Realizing the conversation did not involve him, his mind returned to his checklist and instrument scan. Moments later Alonzo Crawford heard his call sign, listened carefully to what was said, and acknowledged with “Wilco,” along with his call sign. Normally he would have read back Jason’s transmission, but he could tell from her conversations with other aircraft that she was busy. There was no point to a full read back. It wouldn’t have made any difference. Centurion four niner Romeo descended out of one one thousand.