The Coffin Dancer

altitude at that pressure reading compared with thirty-one point oh.”
    “Thirty-one? That’s awful high.”
    “That’s what we’re moving into.”
    He stared at her. “But the bomb . . . ”
    Percey nodded. “Calculate it.”
    The young man punched numbers with a steady hand.
    He sighed, his first visible display of emotion. “Five thousand feet at Mamaroneck translates to forty-eight five here.”
    She called Bell forward again. “Here’s the situation. There’s a pressure front coming in. By the time we get to the runway, the bomb may be reading the atmosphere as below five thousand feet. It may blow when we’re fifty to a hundred feet above the ground.”
    “Okay.” He nodded calmly. “Okay.”
    “We don’t have flaps, so we’re going to be landing fast, close to two hundred miles an hour. If it blows we’ll lose control and crash. There won’t be much fire ’cause the tanks are dry. And depending on what’s in front of us, if we’re low enough we mayskid a ways before we start tumbling. There’s nothing to do but keep the seat belts tight and keep your head down.”
    “All right,” he said, nodding, looking out the window.
    She glanced at his face. “Can I ask you something, Roland?”
    “You bet.”
    “This isn’t your first airplane flight, is it?”
    He sighed. “You know, you live mosta your born days in North Carolina, you just don’t have much of a chance to travel. And coming to New York, well, those Amtraks’re nice and comfy.” He paused. “Fact is, I’ve never been higher than an elevator’ll take me.”
    “They’re not all like this,” she said.
    He squeezed her on the shoulder, whispered, “Don’t drop your candy.” He returned to his seat.
    “Okay,” Percey said, looking over the Airman’s Guide information on Denver International. “Brad, this’ll be a nighttime visual approach to runway two eight left. I’ll have command of the aircraft. You’ll lower the gear manually and call out rate of descent, distance to runway, and altitude—give me true altitude above ground, not sea level—and airspeed.” She tried to think of something else. No power, no flaps, no speed brakes. There was nothing else to say; it was the shortest pre-landing briefing in the history of her flying career. She added, “One last thing. When we stop, just get the fuck out as fast as you can.”
    “Ten miles to runway,” he called. “Speed two hundred knots. Altitude nine thousand feet. We need to slow descent.”
    She pulled up on the yoke slightly and the speed dropped dramatically. The shaker stick vibrated again. Stall now and they died.
    Forward again.
    Nine miles . . . Eight . . .
    Sweating like a rainstorm. She wiped her face. Blisters on the soft skin between her thumbs and index fingers.
    Seven . . . Six . . .
    “Five miles from touchdown, forty-five hundred feet. Airspeed two hundred ten knots.”
    “Gear down,” Percey commanded.
    Brad spun the wheel that manually lowered the heavy gear. He had gravity helping him, but it was nonetheless a major effort. Still, he kept his eyes glued to the instruments and recited, calm as an accountant reading a balance sheet, “Four miles from touchdown, thirty-nine hundred feet . . . ”
    She fought the buffeting of the lower altitude and the harsh winds.
    “Gear down,” Brad called, panting, “three green.”
    The airspeed dropped to one hundred eighty knots—about two hundred miles an hour. It was too fast. Way too fast. Without their reverse thrusters they’d burn up even the longest runway in a streak.
    “Denver Approach, what’s the altimeter?”
    “Three oh nine eight,” the unflappable ATC controller said.
    Rising. Higher and higher.
    She took a deep breath. According to the bomb, the runway was slightly less than five thousand feetabove sea level. How accurate had the Coffin Dancer been when he’d made the detonator?
    “The gear’s dragging. Sink rate’s twenty-six hundred.”
    Which meant a vertical speed of about thirty-eight miles per hour. “We’re dropping too fast, Percey,” Brad called. “We’ll hit in front of the approach lights. A hundred yards short. Two, maybe.”
    ATC’s voice had noticed this too: “ Foxtrot Bravo , you have to get some altitude. You’re coming in too low.”
    Back on the stick. The speed dropped. Stall warning. Forward on the stick.
    “Two and a half miles from touchdown, altitude nineteen hundred feet.”
    “Too low, Foxtrot Bravo!” the