12,000 Feet
By Marc Egnal
Sundar Rajput was overweight and out of shape, facts that were of little significance, until they became all important. He had sold his company, Vaada, for several hundred million dollars and now at age 74 was free to pursue other passions. When friends asked him what Vaada did, he told them, “It’s like Oracle and Palantir, only better.” He rarely provided more of an explanation.
His two passions in retirement were women’s soccer and flying. Growing up in Mumbai, he knew nothing about women’s soccer. Cricket was the most popular sport, while some women played field hockey. He came to the US as a young man, studied at Cal Tech, and then moved to Denver, where he started his company. The sport soon loomed large in his life. His three daughters were talented players, one even making the national U-18 team. His granddaughters followed in those footsteps.
Wealthy and retired, he joined a group determined to bring a National Women’s Soccer League team to Denver. He worked with Kathryn Neesen, a Denver native, who captained the North Carolina Courage and was keen to have a home-town club. Kate was a genuine star, having played on the national team for eight years alongside Megan Rapinoe and others.
Sundar suggested to Kate that they fly together in his plane to the NWSL’s annual meeting, which was being held in Salt Lake City. The choice of Salt Lake City was highly political. The Utah Royals were the weakest franchise, having folded once, and the League hoped that by showing up in force they would boost the Royals’ chances of survival. Kate, a member of the NWSL Board, and Sundar, seeking confirmation of his plans for a Denver team, both planned to attend.
“If you’re at all concerned about safety,” Sundar said, “please consult the Flying Club. They should reassure you.” Kate did that and found Sundar praised as an extremely competent pilot with a well-serviced plane. The fight would take about two and a half hours. Kate decided it would be an adventure and said yes. Sundar didn’t tell her they would be flying at 12,000 feet through a mountain pass in western Colorado. He didn’t want to scare her off.
Sundar kept his plane, a Beechcraft Bonanza G36, at the Denver International Airport. Kate was a bit taken aback at how small it looked: the cabin was not much bigger than the inside of a SUV. Still, she was impressed with Sundar’s thorough preparations. He walked slowly around the plane, methodically running through his checklist.
The interior also surprised her. She imagined the control panel would present a bewildering array of dials. Instead, that area held two ten-inch screens.
“Advanced avionics,” Sundar said, pointing to the display. “A miracle of technology.”
Sundar’s fingers flew across the various buttons and knobs, filling the screen on the left with altitude and speed indicators layered over a virtual horizon, and the one on the right with virtual gauges set beside a brightly colored map. Glancing from screen to screen, Sundar completed his pre-flight routine.
“How long did it take you to learn all that?” she asked.
“I took a two-day course, and then spent many hours on the sim. It helped that I had been a pilot for many years.”
They both put on headsets, allowing Kate to hear the exchanges with the flight controllers. The headsets also made conversation possible over the noise of the propeller. Sundar pointed out the toggle switch that would allow them, once they were airborne, to chat with each other without disturbing the tower.
The conditions that morning were excellent: light breezes and only a few clouds. Kate was impressed by Sundar’s deft skills and calm demeanor as plane lifted off, then banked right, heading west toward Salt Lake City. Each turn received confirmation from the flight controller.
Sundar leveled the plane at 6,000 feet, inputting that height into the autopilot.
“You’ll see some spectacular views,” Sundar told Kate, “Particularly when we fly over Fort Collins Pass. For that half hour, we’ll cruise at 12,000 feet.”
Kate, not entirely comfortable in the small plane, was just a bit unsettled by the news. “I didn’t see that in the travel brochure,” she said. “You might have mentioned it when I was deciding on the trip.”
“And have you miss out on an extraordinary experience?” Sundar replied, chuckling. “I’ve done this run several times. It’s totally safe, and well below the ceiling for the Beechcraft. You may need oxygen. If so, there’s a mask and hose under the seat. Simply screw it into that outlet above.” He pointed to an opening above her head. He continued: “You’re a Denver native and probably won’t need it.”
“Okay,” said Kate. It was hard to be angry with someone as good natured as Sundar. “What’s the inflight movie?”
“You’re looking at it,” Sundar replied. The Beechcraft’s large windows and windshield provided an expansive view of forests of ponderosa pine and Douglas fir. Kate noted several ski resorts (she recognized Vail), and off in the distance, the Sierra Madre Mountains to the north and the Sangre de Cristo range to the south.
Sundar was a good travelling companion. He asked Kate a few questions about her years in international competition. She was an aggressive forward and thrived in the pressure that accompanied penalty shootouts. She shared some of those experiences. Then it was Sundar’s turn. Kate relished the infectious enthusiasm he brought to his stories about the tech “bros.” He had known all the leading lights in Silicon Valley: Jobs, Gates, Musk, Ellison, Thiel, Brin, and others. His tales made the time pass quickly.
About an hour and a half into the flight, Sundar paused in his storytelling and turned his attention to the screen in front of him. “We’re now going to climb to 12,000 feet,” he explained, adjusting the altimeter that guided the autopilot. “Use oxygen if you need it. I probably will in a bit.”
That done, he launched into another story, this one about Peter Theil, who was the founder of Palantir and Sundar’s long-standing rival. The tale, improbably, involved Theil, Hulk Hogan, and a vendetta against a small on-line magazine. Sundar had started explaining why Theil sponsored the wrestler’s lawsuit against Gawker, when he stopped in mid-sentence.
Kate looked over. Dramatic pauses were not part of Sundar’s style. His head hung forward and drool came out of his mouth. Her heart began to race. She leaned over and shook him, loudly calling his name. She reached out and felt his pulse. There was none.
Kate knew CPR, but where could she administer it? Even if she could drag him out of his seat – a difficult challenge, since he must weigh over 200 pounds – there was no place in the main cabin to set him down flat. She took her fist and hit it against his chest, not knowing if that was a medical procedure or not. Her efforts produced no results. A massive heart attack, she concluded.
Panic washed over her. This was not like the tense but manageable drama on the pitch, as Brits called the soccer field. The small fragile plane, with no one steering it, was hurtling toward a range of snow-capped mountains.
She shouted into the mic, “Mayday, mayday.” There was no response. Then she remembered the toggle switch that opened communication with the tower. But which one was it? Scanning the many levers, she clicked the one that said, “coms,” and repeated her Mayday call. She was rewarded with a response: “This is Denver control. Flight 3725 bravo, what is your problem?”
“The pilot is dead and we’re heading toward the mountains,” she replied. She thought of adding, “Otherwise everything is fine” -- but didn’t. The note of dark humor that crossed her mind seemed oddly reassuring.
“Okay. I see you on our radar. Please tell me your name. Mine’s Rusalka. We’ll get you through this.”
“Kathryn Neeson.”
“The famous soccer player? If that’s you, I’m a fan.”
“Rusalka, I’m that Kathryn Neeson. Wish I was meeting you under other circumstances.””
“Now, Kathryn, look at the control panel in front of you. Is it dials or screens?”
“Screens.” Kate looked at the display on the left. “It says Garmin 1000.”
“Those are excellent avionics. Hang on for a few minutes. I’m sure the pilot set a course to clear the mountains. I’m going to locate a specialist who can help you.”
Rusalka hit a button on her console, activating a bright flashing light. When her supervisor rushed over, Rusalka explained the situation. The two women exchanged a long look and a headshake, indicating they knew how grim the situation was. Together they examined the flight plan Sundar had filed. “A Beechcraft Bonanza G36 with Garmin avionics,” her supervisor observed. “Bring up the list.”
The FAA maintained a national database of pilots with expertise in various planes. Often, they were called upon for particular problems – a faulty fuel pump or a balky landing gear. The situation Kate was in was rare but not unprecedented. In a few cases, passengers had landed small planes flying at low altitudes. Anything beyond that had not turned out well.
Rusalka worked her way down the list, hitting paydirt on her third call. Connor Phillips had piloted F-16s in the air force, and now worked for FedEx in Greensboro, North Carolina, flying Beechcraft Bonanzas for regional deliveries. He was ready to help out.
Connecting Connor with Kate took about ten minutes, but for Kate that seemed an eternity. She sought to remain calm by practicing the mindful exercises she had learned as a member of the US team. Eyes closed, she repeated the mantra that soothed her before games, “I am in myself; I am beyond myself.” Those words allowed her to catch her breath. Still, when she opened her eyes and looked out the window, the sight of the mountains, seemingly close enough to touch, sent her heart racing.
She heard Connor’s voice in her headphones. “Good morning, this is Connor Phillips. Should I call you Kathryn or is it Kate?”
Kate detected Connor’s lilting Southern drawl. “Kate is fine.”
“Thank you. Now, sometimes you might hear me call you ‘darling’ or ‘ma’am.’ I hope that’s not a problem. That’s just the way we talk in my part of Alabama.”
Kate smiled. If Connor was trying to distract her from the fears that threatened to overwhelm her, he was off to a fine start. “I’m good with all of that,” she responded.
“We’re going to get you safely onto the ground,” he continued. “But first we have to rearrange the cabin seating. I know it’s a lot to ask, but can you lift the body out of the seat so you can sit there.”
“I can try. Sundar is one heavy gentleman.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Probably not what you thought you’d be doing when you got up this morning. But trust me, do this and the rest will be simple. My daddy used to say, ‘Skinning a squirrel is a lot harder work than eating it.’”
Kate wasn’t sure what that saying meant, but she saw that pulling Sundar out of his seat would be a challenge. She unfastened his safety belt and tugged at him – and felt faint. “I need oxygen,” she told Connor.
“Take your time, darling,” he responded.
She sat down in her seat, screwed the oxygen hose into the outlet, and put on the mask, feeling the restorative flow. After several minutes with a new resolve, she pulled Sundar out of his seat, grunting as she lifted him over the seat arm. She dropped him in the narrow opening between the two seats and pushed the body toward the rear cabin. “Mission accomplished,” she reported.
“Ma’am, you’re one brave woman,” Connor said. ”Rusalka tells me you’re a star soccer player. I can see all that conditioning paying off.” Kate, now in the pilot’s seat, snapped on the safety belt. Connor continued: “Are you ready for your first lesson in Flying 101?”
Just then Kate heard another voice in her headphones.
“I think we have caller,” Connor said.
“Flight 3725 bravo, this is Salt Lake City control center. I’m Thad. We’re tracking your flight and have cleared traffic from your path. Kathryn, you’re in very good hands with Connor. How is everything up there?”
“I’m fine,” Kate said, “considering I don’t know anything about flying and I’m in the middle of a set from the Night of the Living Dead.”
Both men chuckled. Thad said, “Don’t lose your sense of humor and listen to your Top Gun instructor.”
Connor went over the basics – the altitude and air speed indicators and the single knob that directed the plane to climb or descend. Kate brought the plane down to 6000 feet, in several steps. In each case the automatic pilot confirmed and maintained the new height.
She also adjusted the throttle, lowering the airspeed to 160 knots. Again, the automatic pilot acknowledged and locked in the setting.
“Hey, Connor, flying’s not so hard with Mr. Garmin here,” she said, referring to the avionics that clearly merited the praise everyone had bestowed upon it. “Now which button do I push to land this baby?”
“Sorry, Kate. Mr. Garmin is much better at flying than landing. He could help, but you would have to learn about VORs, waypoints, and glide paths.”
“Okay, then let’s start with a simple question: where am I going to land?”
“Well, on that front,” Connor replied, “there’s a little bit of bad news and a lot of good news.”
“Go on.”
“It’s like my daddy says, ‘When one door closes, another one opens.’ And he meant that, literally. We lived in a shotgun house, that’s a small home where the rooms are arranged one behind another. So, when the front door was slammed shut, the backdoor was liable to fly open. You can believe he often used that expression.”
Kate couldn’t help but smile. She wondered if Connor was a master psychologist, cleverly calming her fears. Or was he just a good ‘ol boy?
“Start with that bit of bad news,” she said.
“Well, I’ve been talking with Thad, and Salt Lake City International will not give you permission to land there. They think it’s going to be too difficult to find your way onto one of their runways. I agree with that assessment.”
“Okay, I’m ready for the very good news.”
“Well, darling, you must have been born with lucky stars in the sky. Twenty minutes west of Salt Lake City are the Bonneville Salt Flats. They’re level and firm and go on for miles. You can put your little Beechcraft Wonder down any place. There aren’t very many stretches in the U. S. of A. that would be so welcoming to a new pilot.”
“Could Mr. Garmin make that landing?”
“Kate, he could try. But as I mentioned, he’s often not very good in those final moments. We’ll have you do some very basic flying. You’ll be very proud of yourself.”
If I live through it, she said to herself. “Ready for anything here,” she said aloud.
He showed her how to change the course, so the plane, which had been heading to Salt Lake City International, pointed toward the salt flats. The automatic pilot banked the plane ever so slightly and settled in on the new heading.
“Okay, darling. I’m sure you practiced visualizations in your training.”
She told him she had. He continued: “That’s what we’re going to do. I’ll run through next steps with you, so you’ll be an old hand at this when you turn off the autopilot. There are only two things you have to think about.”
“That sounds easy enough,” Kate said, although she was far from reassured.
“Job one is keeping the plane level. Use the yoke, that’s the U-shaped steering wheel in front of you. Keep your eyes on the artificial horizon on the screen. If you see the plane is tilting, make adjustments, but really small ones.”
“Job two,” Connor continued, “is lowering the flaps, first to one quarter, then to one half, then full. Each of those steps will allow you to fly slower and very gradually descend. With each change, ease back on the throttle. You’ll be going about 70 knots when you touch down.”
Kate repeated the instructions back to Connor. She located the flap control.
“Oh, and darling, one more thing,” Connor said.
“You promised me two items,” Kate replied. “I think that’s my limit at the moment.”
“It’s about a sound you might hear,” Connor replied. “As my daddy said, ‘If there’s no fiddle, it ain’t music.’ Personally, I don’t put much stock in that observation. It just shows he wasn’t exposed to the larger world. But there is one unsettling noise I have to warn you about.”
Kate shook her head. Did Connor really have a father who spewed such cornball sayings?
“If you go too slow,” Connor said more seriously, “lights flash and a buzzer sounds. That means the plane is stalling. Push in the throttle. Not really hard, but enough to end the stall.”
She saw the salt flats up ahead. He showed her how to lower the landing gear and instructed her to bring the plane down to 1000 feet and 110 knots. And at that point, with a few more words of encouragement from Connor, she turned off the autopilot.
The plane began to wobble, she corrected, and then had to rebalance again. This is not going to be easy, Kate felt. She lowered the flaps one fourth and eased back on the throttle. The plane briefly ascended then slowed and unmistakably dropped. The stall warning went off. It was a frightening combination of a shrill buzzer and flashing lights. She gave the plane a bit more throttle.
Connor had never mentioned the need for three or four arms. How could anyone steer, lower the flaps, and adjust the throttle? Planes, she decided, were built for mutants.
She put the flaps down halfway. Again, the plane slowed and the ground came closer. This time she was more careful calibrating the acceleration, but that meant she had taken her attention away from levelling the flight. The plane was leaning badly to the right. She corrected, or was it overcorrected?
She lowered the flaps fully. The plane rose up, and then seconds later one wheel touched the ground, and a moment later a wing tip. The jolt pushed her hard against her safety belt. She cut the power as the plane barreled forward scraping along the ground, then spinning in a circle as the wingtip traced a wide arc in the salt flats.
The Beechcraft came to a complete stop. She realized she was alive. She tried the cabin door, and fortunately, with some oomph from her shoulder, it opened. She went out over the wing, which now protruded like a slide, and carefully lowered herself to the ground.
Kate remembered about crashed planes exploding. That didn’t seem likely, but she walked some feet away. A few moments later, she saw the helicopter from the Utah national guard approaching.
She hoped she could get back in touch with Connor soon, to thank him for his assistance, apologize for not being a better student, and letting him know what her daddy might have said, “Next time, take the bus.”
