Stone Cold by Dean Crawford Page B

rush–hour traffic sweeping past below his wingtip as he performed a wide circular flight–path that turned gradually toward the runway to join the final approach.
    ‘Outer marker,’ Elaine said. ‘On height, on airspeed. You got the traffic?’
    ‘Traffic?’
    ‘ATC called traffic on finals, two o–clock.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘Just now, I called confirmed. They’re at…’
    Dale McKenzie saw a series of blinking lights flicker just along the bottom edge of Elaine’s window, hidden by the Dash–8’s steep bank angle.
    ‘Power!’

    Elaine lunged for the throttles and Dale hauled back on the control column as a frenzy of voices suddenly blasted through the communications system.
    ‘Ventura–nine–six pull up!’
    ‘Traffic! Pull up!’
    ‘Ventura abort circuit!’

    The Dash–8’s engines screamed as they went to full power. Dale saw Elaine out of the corner of his eye as she yanked the undercarriage lever to the “up” position to kill drag as the aircraft surged upward.
    The sound of another airplane’s engines thundered through the cabin and Dale heard a flurry of alarmed cries from the passengers as the Dash clawed for altitude.
    To his left and below him Dale saw another aircraft thunder past on finals to land at the airport, barely a hundred feet away, its navigation lights blinking brightly as it sailed on toward the runway.
    Elaine’s panicked voice sounded over the radio.
    ‘Ventura–nine–six landing aborted, going around to stop, runway two seven.’
    Dale pushed the nose of the aircraft down again, his heart thundering in his chest as he blinked sweat from his eyes. Elaine grasped the throttles and hauled them back into their landing settings, the whining turbo–props settling back into a more natural rhythm.
    ‘Captain?’
    Elaine’s voice echoed through Dale’s skull. He turned to her.
    ‘Sir, I have control,’ she said.
    Dale stared at his first officer for several long seconds, and then he released his control column and nodded. ‘You have control.’
    Elaine gripped the column and checked all around her for traffic and the airport’s proximity before she began to visibly calm down.
    ‘What the hell was that? Didn’t you hear the traffic call?’
    Dale tried to think straight. ‘I.., I must have missed it.’
    Elaine peered sideways at him. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
    Before Dale could respond the radio came alive with chatter from air–traffic–control.
    ‘Ventura nine–six, please report, confirm status and separation in the pattern.’

    ‘I’ve got to call that in,’ Elaine said.
    ‘No,’ Dale snapped, and then forced himself to calm down. ‘It was a one–off, I just missed the call.’
    ‘And then missed another aircraft by a few feet!’ Elaine shot back. ‘Jesus, your head’s not in the game, sir.’
    Dale felt as though he were gasping for air like a beached fish, unable to think of a suitable explanation or retort.
    ‘It happens,’ was all that he could manage to say. ‘Let’s just let it go, okay?’
    Elaine stared at him for a long beat. ‘You want me to break aviation law and commit a criminal offence, in my first year with my first airline, because you were staring into space while in the landing pattern?’
    Dale stared at his first officer for a long beat, and knew that he had nowhere left to go.
    ‘You do whatever you feel you’ve got to do,’ he muttered.
    Dale sank back into his seat and rubbed his eyes as Elaine spoke into her microphone.
    ‘Ventura nine–six, downwind for two–seven, and we would like to report a near–air miss.’
    ‘Roger nine–six, circuit is clear, report to tower after landing.’
    ***

12
    The two case detectives working the night shift had already logged in for duty as Kathryn walked in to the precinct station to see Detective Griffin standing over a stack of papers that littered his desk.
    ‘Anything new?’ she asked, by way of conversation.
    Griffin looked up at her and shook his head as he