MARCH 10, 2021
EAST COAST OF THE U.S., INTERNATIONAL WATERS
N 42°8’50”, W 65°25’9”
ALL SMOOTH FLIGHTS are alike. Every turbulent flight is turbulent in its own way. It’s 4:13 pm when Paris–New York flight AF006, to the south of Nova Scotia, sees the pillowy barrier of a vast cumulonimbus looming up ahead. The cloudy weather front is rising, and very quickly. It’s still fifteen minutes away, but it stretches north and south in an arc that covers hundreds of kilometers, and it’s already reached a height of nearly 45,000 feet. The Boeing 787, which is flying at 39,000 feet and was about to begin its descent toward New York, won’t be able to avoid it, and there’s a sudden flurry of activity in the cockpit. The copilot compares maps to the weather radar. This wide front wasn’t forecast, and Gid Favereaux is more than just surprised, he’s worried.
The impenetrable gray wall, its summit iridescent with dazzling sunlight, is homing in on them at breakneck speed, voraciously swallowing strata of clouds that feed and bolster it. Captain Markle switches to Boston’s frequency and examines his instruments, including the weather radar, which is filling up with red 120 nautical miles ahead. He nods and puts down his coffee just as Boston broadcasts on its frequency.
“All flights on Boston Control. Due to exceptional weather conditions on the East Coast, all airports are closed except for KJFK. There have been no takeoffs on the Eastern Seaboard for thirty minutes. The situation has developed too quickly for us to warn flights any earlier. KJFK Canarsie remains open for all landings.”
“Boston Control, hello, Air France 006, level three nine zero heading for Kennebunk. We have a monster up ahead. Request course three five zero for the next eighty nautical miles.”
“Air France 006, Boston Control here. Maneuver at will. Contact Kennedy on 125.7. Bye-bye.”
Markle grimaces and watches the horizon clog up inexorably from north to south. The sky’s given him something to remember on his penultimate transatlantic flight. He connects to the airport.
“Kennedy Approach from Air France 006, we have enough fuel to skirt the front southward all the way to Washington.”
A click, another woman’s voice, but more serious.
“Sorry, 006. Negative. The conditions are the same well beyond Norfolk. It might even be worse in the south now. Come down to eight zero when you can and resume your course to Kennebunk. Keep within those parameters.”
Markle shakes his head, snaps off the radio, and picks up the cabin mic to address his passengers in a reassuring voice, speaking first in English, then in not-bad French.
“This is your captain speaking, please return to your seats immediately, fasten your seat belts, and turn off all electronic devices. We’re heading for a patch of very significant turbulence. Repeat: very significant turbulence. Please stow your bags and laptops under the seat in front of you. Cabin crew, please ensure passenger and cabin safety and then return to your seats. Repeat, after checking passenger safety please return to your seats immediately.”
The cumulonimbus is getting closer, it’s a super-cell, but far from the standard type. There’s not just one anvil-shaped mesocyclone spiraling high up into the atmosphere, but dozens of them, as if they were being lifted by an invisible hand, and all fusing together in the tropopause. Any vessels on the ocean must be in the grips of an apocalyptic depression. Markle’s never seen anything like it in twenty years of long-haul flights. The storm of the year, at least. The stratospheric domes reach heights of sixteen kilometers. He could try to slip between two columns, but that would just mean flying straight into the one behind. The weather radar now shows a long diagonal band of red: a wall of water and ice.
“Did you see how quickly it’s growing?” Gid asks anxiously. “We’re gonna be dragged down like hell the minute we reach it. We’ll never get through.”
Gid is right to be worried, thinks Markle, even if he has only done one year of transatlantics and three of long-haul. He switches the mic back on to talk to the passengers in a jaunty tone, playing down the situation.
“Hello, folks, Captain Markle again. I’m asking you once again to remain seated, fasten your seat belts, and check that children have their seat belts fastened. Also, please switch off all electronic devices. We’re very likely to experience an air pocket within the next minute. To all cabin staff, if passenger safety has been assured, please return to your seats straightaway…I’ll wait for your confirmation.”
“All in secure position, confirmed,” comes the voice of the senior cabin crew officer.
“Okay, this is likely to be quite something, and I can guarantee you won’t forget it, but I promise you it’s safe so long as your seat belt is fastened. A roller coaster, for those who like their amusement par—” All at once, before even reaching the edge of the front, the Boeing has no air to support it, and it starts to plummet. Despite the soundproofing on the door to the cabin, Markle and Favereaux are sure they hear the passengers scream.
The plane spends ten interminable seconds in freefall before diving into the cumulonimbus in the worst possible place, to the southwest of the column, at an alarming slant, a thirty-degree angle adopted by the autopilot that has taken over from manual controls. The Boeing is instantly churned in spiraling currents of cloud, and just as instantly the cockpit lights up because it’s dark as night, soot black, and there’s a horrendous racket: hundreds of enormous hailstones pelt the windows, occasionally leaving impact marks on the reinforced glass. Those few seconds feel like an eternity, and then despite the tornado’s gusts, the plane finds a warm, rising current and a semblance of support, producing that intense crushing trough-of-a-roller-coaster sensation.
Strapped into his seat, Markle pushes both General Electric throttles to the maximum, because damn, what is this bastard! I mean, you might expect doldrums like that on a Rio–Madrid, near the equator, but what the hell’s it doing right up in the North Atlantic? Fuck, this is crazy, we have the most powerful engines around and fantastically supple wings, we can’t just snap in two like some scale model, it’s not possible. We got out of fixes dozens of times on the simulators, with engine failures, depressurizations, onboard computers dying on us…shit, we can’t screw it up in real life. Markle doesn’t think about his kids, or his wife, not yet, it may even be that pilots always die before they have time to watch their life flash before their eyes, and Markle is definitely not thinking of the passengers; right now, he’s just trying to save this big, very heavy, and very clumsy Boeing, so he goes through procedures he’s learned by heart and repeated over and over; he puts his faith in reflexes and his twenty years of experience. But it’s still a hell of a thing.
Shaken, buffeted, and ashen, Markle and Favereaux concentrate on their instruments, battling it out with the storm, which, it will be established later, is the most violent and the most sudden in the last ten years. The warning light for the left-hand turbine indicates a fifteen percent loss of power, but the strong electric field is disrupting the aircraft’s electronic circuits. All in all, the plane stands up to the tornado, stays more or less horizontal, eventually stabilizes, and, even though there’s no letup in the hail and the surface of the windshield is pockmarked, there are no worrying cracks on the inner side.
As soon as the buffeting eases just a fraction, Markle talks to the cabin. He tries not to shout, despite the deafening noise in the aircraft.
“Sorry for this turbulence, folks. We’re going to have to continue our course to New York through these clouds and stay in this spin cycle for at least…”
Blazing sunlight suddenly streams into the cockpit, the Boeing accelerates dramatically and silence returns; the disruption is instantly behind them.
Markle checks the controls in astonishment. The plane’s flying perfectly well, with a steady thrumming sound, but all the instruments are malfunctioning. Despite their vertiginous drop and five minutes spent with no clear course, the altimeter is now stuck at 39,000 feet again, the weather radar refuses to display the least disturbance, and their course seems to be two six zero. He turns back to the mic that’s connected to the cabin.
“Well, you saw for yourselves, we just emerged from the clouds without too much damage. Please stay in your seats until further instruction and leave all electronic devices switched off. Cabin crew, you are free to move, thank you. Please report to the cabin.”
Markle cuts the mic and enters the emergency code 7700 into the transponder. He puts his headphones back on and calls Kennedy Approach.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Kennedy Approach, this is Air France 006. Following turbulence negotiating clouds and substantial hail, we have no injured parties but our instruments have failed, no altimeter or airspeed indicator, the radar’s not working and the windshield is badly damaged.”
The voice at Kennedy air traffic control is now a man’s, and he’s very surprised.
“Mayday received, Air France 006. Could you confirm the 7700 squawk code?”
“New York, Air France 006, I can confirm, squawk 7700.”
The voice, with a clear note of complete bafflement, asks again, “Air France from Kennedy Approach, please confirm the transponder on 7700. You did say Air France 006, didn’t you?”
“Affirmative, Air France 006, Mayday. I can confirm squawk 7700, we’ve come through a huge cloud of hail, the windshield is cracked and the radome is almost certainly dented.”
The communication is interrupted for several long seconds. Markle turns to look at Favereaux, lost for words. He gave the transponder code three times, and Kennedy still can’t identify them. Then the connection is suddenly back. This time it’s a woman’s voice, but not as lilting as the previous one. Not as friendly, either.
“Air France 006 Mayday from Kennedy Approach. This is air traffic control, what’s the name of the captain on board, please?”
Markle’s jaw drops open. Never in his entire career has an air traffic controller asked for a pilot’s name.
“Air France 006 Mayday from Kennedy Approach. I repeat: who is the officer in charge, please?”