Dropping Quickly
In Spicer's little Cessna, the control yoke, or wheel, protrudes directly from the instrument panel practically into the pilot's lap. Pushed forward, the plane descends. If Spicer passed out, his weight dropping onto the yoke would send the plane down. Spicer cinched his harness as tightly as he could. And Knoettgen held firmly to the controls.
Like the yoke, the throttle —— a rod with a black ball handle —— protrudes from the control panel. Pulling the throttle outward reduces power. Spicer tried to find it； as everything blurred, he shoved it “to the wall” —— all the way in, pushing the plane to its limit.
In the waning evening light, the Cessna gathered speed. The two men, working together, turned back in the direction of the airport.
Out of the corner of his eye, Knoettgen watched Spicer's head nodding forward as he wiped the blood from his face with his sweatshirt.
How far could they be from the airport？ Four, five miles at most. Knoettgen kept his hand on the yoke as Spicer gritted out instructions.
Then, glancing up, Knoettgen recognized the clean asphalt strip cutting across the landscape. The Cessna roared toward the runway at full throttle. The engine shook the cockpit.
On the ground, friends had heard the report on the police radio and came streaming to the airport. Police cars and ambulances were there. Spicer's friend Howard Van Dyke charged up in a fire truck.
Normally, in the process of landing, a pilot does a “downwind leg,” flying with the wind parallel to the runway. Then he does a “base leg,” turning left across the wind and heading toward the runway. As the plane nears, it turns left again, into the wind, and begins its final approach —— lining up, slowing down and dropping toward the strip.
Spicer and Knoettgen didn't have time for any of this. Hands together on the yoke, they took an angle that would lead them straight at the end of the runway.
Spicer pulled out the throttle and the plane began to drop.
They were 100 feet off the ground —— airspeed good, altitude good —— the rock-hard runway directly ahead, the plane dropping quickly.
Knoettgen held a hand on Spicer's head trying to keep the blood out of his eyes and talked him down as the wheels came closer and closer to the ground. Spicer worked the controls. Together, they made one whole pilot.
The plane came in low and straight —— and hit the ground, rolling fast. They were on the runway. Knoettgen looked at his old friend, so tightly strapped into the harness that he could hardly move. “Stop it here,” Knoettgen said. And Spicer did.
Moments later, Spicer was loaded into an ambulance. As the vehicle took off with lights flashing, he checked the time. It was 6：02 p.m., only 30 minutes after he'd glanced at the clock in his house.
At the hospital, his x-ray technician was a man he'd taught to fly some years before. His trauma surgeon, Duncan Davis, was a neighbor. The doctor picked Plexiglas shards out of Spicer's face and worked on the six-inch gash across his forehead. The bullet had not impacted bone； otherwise his skull might have shattered. Except for a scar, there would be no permanent damage.
Police captured Michael Michaud hiding in a garden shed. He has been indicted by a federal grand jury on six felony charges and is undergoing psychiatric evaluation.
Crime photos were taken of the plane, and the following day Howard Van Dyke went to check it out. Lying in the luggage area behind the cockpit was a black cap, its bill broken, its sweatband split in front by the bullet. Van Dyke shook his head when he saw the cap. The width of a sweatband： the distance between life and death.
In Spicer's little Cessna, the control yoke, or wheel, protrudes directly from the instrument panel practically into the pilot's lap. Pushed forward, the plane descends. If Spicer passed out, his weight dropping onto the yoke would send the plane down. Spicer cinched his harness as tightly as he could. And Knoettgen held firmly to the controls.
Like the yoke, the throttle —— a rod with a black ball handle —— protrudes from the control panel. Pulling the throttle outward reduces power. Spicer tried to find it； as everything blurred, he shoved it “to the wall” —— all the way in, pushing the plane to its limit.
In the waning evening light, the Cessna gathered speed. The two men, working together, turned back in the direction of the airport.
Out of the corner of his eye, Knoettgen watched Spicer's head nodding forward as he wiped the blood from his face with his sweatshirt.
How far could they be from the airport？ Four, five miles at most. Knoettgen kept his hand on the yoke as Spicer gritted out instructions.
Then, glancing up, Knoettgen recognized the clean asphalt strip cutting across the landscape. The Cessna roared toward the runway at full throttle. The engine shook the cockpit.
On the ground, friends had heard the report on the police radio and came streaming to the airport. Police cars and ambulances were there. Spicer's friend Howard Van Dyke charged up in a fire truck.
Normally, in the process of landing, a pilot does a “downwind leg,” flying with the wind parallel to the runway. Then he does a “base leg,” turning left across the wind and heading toward the runway. As the plane nears, it turns left again, into the wind, and begins its final approach —— lining up, slowing down and dropping toward the strip.
Spicer and Knoettgen didn't have time for any of this. Hands together on the yoke, they took an angle that would lead them straight at the end of the runway.
Spicer pulled out the throttle and the plane began to drop.
They were 100 feet off the ground —— airspeed good, altitude good —— the rock-hard runway directly ahead, the plane dropping quickly.
Knoettgen held a hand on Spicer's head trying to keep the blood out of his eyes and talked him down as the wheels came closer and closer to the ground. Spicer worked the controls. Together, they made one whole pilot.
The plane came in low and straight —— and hit the ground, rolling fast. They were on the runway. Knoettgen looked at his old friend, so tightly strapped into the harness that he could hardly move. “Stop it here,” Knoettgen said. And Spicer did.
Moments later, Spicer was loaded into an ambulance. As the vehicle took off with lights flashing, he checked the time. It was 6：02 p.m., only 30 minutes after he'd glanced at the clock in his house.
At the hospital, his x-ray technician was a man he'd taught to fly some years before. His trauma surgeon, Duncan Davis, was a neighbor. The doctor picked Plexiglas shards out of Spicer's face and worked on the six-inch gash across his forehead. The bullet had not impacted bone； otherwise his skull might have shattered. Except for a scar, there would be no permanent damage.
Police captured Michael Michaud hiding in a garden shed. He has been indicted by a federal grand jury on six felony charges and is undergoing psychiatric evaluation.
Crime photos were taken of the plane, and the following day Howard Van Dyke went to check it out. Lying in the luggage area behind the cockpit was a black cap, its bill broken, its sweatband split in front by the bullet. Van Dyke shook his head when he saw the cap. The width of a sweatband： the distance between life and death.