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Chapter IV

The Flight Crew

Friday, September 16

Kendall Sheffield was twenty-four. By the age of nineteen he had earned his private pilot license. Within a year he’d earned his commercial pilot license with a multi-engine and instrument rating. While working as a flight instructor for Burnside-Ott Aviation in Opa-Locka, Florida, he had logged over 1,500 hours of Twin Comanche time. At night he had attended Miami Dade College and earned a Bachelor of Science in Aviation Management. By the time he started applying for jobs with the airlines, he’d added an Airline Transport Pilot rating to one of the plastic foldouts in his wallet.

Patriot Airlines, based in Boston, was a regional air carrier flying Brasilia EMB-120s and DeHavilland DH-8s throughout the New England states. They had accepted Sheffield’s application, the only airline to do so of the thirty-five to which he had applied. A large percentage of the airline pilot population was beginning to retire, many of them ex-military pilots from the Gulf War era. Competition to fill their vacancies was fierce. Thousands of wannabe MD-111 captains flew an unending array of aircraft from Twin Beech BE-18s to Cessna Caravans, carrying mail, checks, and anything else that would fit into their cargo bays in an effort to log enough flight time to get into the “majors” and, eventually, the coveted left seat. A small number of these wannabes would pen flight time into their logbooks that existed only in their imagination in order to bolster their total.

Sheffield was young, soft-spoken, and likable. His good looks, accentuated by his six-feet-one athletic build, blond hair, blue eyes, and engaging smile, caused more than one young lady to stare. As a copilot in the “right seat” of a Brasilia Embraer-120, he was a member in good standing within the upper echelon of the pilot pecking order. He was logging high-quality flight time in preparation for a job with a major air carrier. Sheffield was grateful. He would work hard, learn all he could, and in a year or two leave Patriot to work for one of the major airlines flying jet aircraft.

Ray Singletary was thirty-six, married, and the father of two sons, ages six and eight. Born in Panama, Iowa, he had joined the Air Force after college and flew cargo DC-10s. At age thirty-one, he left the service hoping to land a job with one of the major airlines. They were not hiring. He went to work for Patriot. Five years and 6,700 flying hours later, Singletary had earned the rank of captain. Now he flew from the “left seat” of the EMB-120. Singletary looked like an airline captain—lean, medium height, ramrod posture, and cropped dark hair that grayed slightly at the temples. His sharp facial features gave him the look of a man who carried authority well and knew how to use it. Like his copilot, Singletary wanted to fly jets with the majors, but age was working against him, and he wondered if leaving the Air Force had been the right choice.

Flight attendant Regina Corigliano, Reggie to her friends, had worked for Patriot for three years. She was twenty-nine, petite at five feet two, her shoulder-length reddish hair complementing bright green eyes that had a perpetual sparkle in them. More than one male passenger making inappropriate advances found out just how quickly that sparkle could turn into an icy stare that said “back off or certain parts of your anatomy will be in serious jeopardy. Normally she flew day trips so as to be at home with her two young daughters at night; however, this particular day they had talked her into letting them sleep over with some friends. Divorced four years, she found being a flight attendant was perfect for her. Boston was Patriot’s home base. It was only a twenty-minute drive from her home to the airport. She had pass privileges for herself and her children, and her hours were flexible. With the girls gone she had decided to work a Friday night flight and enjoy some weekend time and night life away from home.

Sheffield scanned his instrument panel. He loved night flying. In the day the differing surfaces on the earth absorbed heat unevenly, causing upward convection currents. It made for bumpy flying. Normally, night air was smooth. Tonight was no exception. He reveled in rapidly interpreting and utilizing the information emanating from the soft glow of the backlit glass panels. On this particular night, light rain and clouds made forward visibility nil. Only pros were flying in these conditions—no novice pilots giving their flight itinerary, life history, and any number of other useless pieces of information to some unfortunate controller who had no choice but to listen, usually with gritted teeth, as their prattle poured through his headset.

It wasn’t Sheffield’s “leg.” His job was to work the radios, read the checklists, and set up the navigation equipment for the “en route” and “approach” portions of the flight; but scanning the instruments was as natural to him as breathing, and it backed up the captain.

“Whadda ya say we talk to the folks in the back.” Singletary’s Midwestern accent fit the quiet demeanor of the cockpit.

“Why not.”

Sheffield enjoyed talking to the passengers. He keyed his microphone from his transmitter switch located on the right side of his control yoke.

“Good evening, folks. From the cockpit of Patriot flight fifty-five forty-three, this is First Officer Sheffield. Sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk to you sooner, but due to the weather and our relatively short flight, we had to take care of some things up front first. The rain you see out your windows is just light precipitation, nothing to worry about. Our weather radar shows precipitation everywhere, but it’s not painting any heavy returns along our path, so we do anticipate a smooth ride for the entire flight. We’re cruising at an altitude of ten thousand feet and will be on the ground and at the gate on schedule. Sit back and enjoy the ride. If there is anything we can do to make your flight more comfortable, please let us know, and thank you for choosing Patriot.” He knew Reggie was keeping everyone happy with drinks, sandwiches, and an abundance of charm.

Thirty-seven miles to the southeast of Patriot 5543, Melissa Jason was sitting at her radar scope located inside the darkened, windowless control room of the New England Radar Approach Control building. The twenty-six-year-old air traffic controller was continually scanning the radar targets under her control as she issued clearances and instructions, and monitored the progress of her traffic. She laughed out loud when she heard Sheffield give his welcome message. Unknown to the First Office, he had inadvertently transmitted his greeting to his passengers over the air traffic control frequency rather than over the aircraft’s PA system. Jason recognized Sheffield’s error right away. Despite the fact she was busy, Jason couldn’t resist having a little fun at the First Officer’s expense. The thumb of her right hand depressed the button on her transmitter, and she spoke into the boon microphone attached to her headset and adjusted to rest directly in front of her lips. “Patriot fifty-five forty-three, New England, nice to know you’re on time and cruisin’ at ten thousand.” There was a mocking lilt in her voice. Jason “un-keyed” her mike.

“Augh,” was the only utterance Sheffield thought appropriate. He said it out loud, not over the frequency. He reached for the toggle switch on his radio panel and switched it from the air traffic control frequency to the PA system. Captain Singletary, on hearing Jason’s quip, grinned and depressed his radio’s transmitter key located on his yoke. He “rogered” Jason’s comment.

Jason transmitted again, this time to another aircraft. The lilt in her voice was meant to indicate she wasn’t finished kidding Sheffield about his error. “Centurion four niner Romeo ‘cruisin’’ one one thousand.”

Okay, okay, thought Singletary, whose radio remained tuned to Jason’s frequency while Sheffield had switched his to the PA system, you made your point the first time. The captain saw no reason for the controller to mimic Sheffield’s faux pas a second time, even if she was disguising it by transmitting to another aircraft. Singletary knew his FO had switched to the PA and could not hear the second jab. He was glad for that. Pilots occasionally transmitted a message over an air traffic control frequency that was meant for the PA system. It was no big deal.

Jason’s radar sector had several storm cells located within its boundaries. She had offered radar vectors around these cells to some of the aircraft under her control. They accepted, which increased Jason’s workload. Jason was also vectoring aircraft to the electronic final approach course for instrument approaches into three satellite airports. Several other planes in her sector were going to enter the airspace of other controllers. Jason used her computer “slew ball,” the equivalent of a computer “track ball,” to initiate “silent radar handoffs” on those aircraft to those controllers. She was also monitoring two overflights, aircraft that were not going to land but were transitioning through the area on their way to destination airports located beyond the limits of New England’s airspace. Most of Jason’s traffic was rapidly approaching critical points for turns, descents, approach clearances, and frequency changes to other controllers. Fun time was over. She began issuing headings, altitude changes, weather information, and approach clearances in rapid fire; the acknowledgments came just as quickly.

The pilot of Centurion four niner Romeo glanced at his Jeppesen en route and approach charts. He pushed the transmitter button located on his yoke with his left thumb and acknowledged Jason’s transmission. “Wilco, Centurion four niner Romeo.” It was the last transmission Alonzo Crawford would ever make.