A Novel based on real life experiences, by Granger Banks
Episode 6 of 6
A race to find the third prototype leads to a remote lakeside in the USA
The story so far…
A total line failure aboard a Pegasus Mystic leaves John Lawley fighting for his life in the USA. The DHV investigate and John’s brother Peter embarks on his own mission to find the truth behind his brother’s accident. A second total line failure occurs, this time on an Astro wing, throwing the blame at Zolik Industries, the Hungarian sewing plant where both wings were made. Then a mysterious character swaps Horst Wittman’s wing on launch in Switzerland and minutes later another fatality occurs. When the serial numbers are checked the numbers don’t add up, leading the DHV to call in the police to take over the investigation. As John slowly recovers suspicions grow about one of the supposed accident victims, Adam Rupolt.
CHAPTER 31
Thursday August 5, Salzburg, Austria
Wolf Bierman was puzzled by the arrival of a large shipping box from the United States. Normally, this type of box was used by his company, Pegasus, to send paragliders out to the company’s various distributors throughout the world. This box, however, wasn’t going out, but arriving. Dread filled Wolf’s mind as he read the customs declaration taped on the side of the unopened package: “Defective paraglider – returned to manufacturer – duty free.”
Damn, everything had been going so well since the DHV had reinstated the Mystic’s Air Worthiness Certificate. Mystic sales had rebounded and the glider was restoring Pegasus’s reputation for quality and safety. Hopefully there hadn’t been another suspension line problem with the Mystic, or worse, another accident. Wolf ripped open the package, hoping the sender had included some sort of written explanation of the problem. Wolf relaxed as he read the shipping invoice: returning one Mystic with smeared graphics. Apparently, the glider had been folded before the silk-screen work on the wing was dry and the graphics had smeared. Although a smeared glider would be a nuisance to make right, Wolf was relieved that it was not a more serious problem. He jotted down the serial number of the returned glider and went over to the computer to find out when and where the paraglider had been manufactured.
Wolf typed in the serial number of the smeared glider and pressed the return key. The computer responded with a blank screen and an annoying “beep”. Wolf was baffled. All paragliders were inspected and serial numbers entered into the computer as they were received from Zolik Industries before they were shipped out to distributors worldwide. Somehow this one had not been entered in, and therefore it was impossible to trace its production history.
Something else seemed unusual about the writing on the manufacturer’s sticker. The handwriting was vaguely familiar but not that of Zolik’s man, Andre, who normally filled out the stickers. Wolf knew that the writing was familiar, but whose was it? A chilling thought occurred to Bierbauer: did this glider belong to the same deadly batch as John Lawley’s gliders did? They had both been sent to America about the same time. Wolf considered this possibility real and headed for the attic where old gliders were stored. Lawley’s glider had been stored there ever since the DHV had reinstated the Mystics’ Air Worthiness Certificate.
The light was dim and the air musty in the attic of the old building. Wolf searched through the old prototypes, and otherwise unmarketable gliders. It seemed like such a waste of nylon material and kevlar line to have all of these gliders sit around and gather dust. They were untested prototypes and they could not be sold safely to the general public. They had served their purpose as the constantly modified and improved forefathers of the series gliders. Now it was their time to rest for eternity in this paraglider graveyard.
Wolf stood in front of the section of shelving where the Mystic prototypes should be stored. There was John Lawley’s jinxed glider sitting right where the three Mystic prototypes should have been but weren’t. They were missing! Wolf looked through the rest of the shelves but could not find the missing ones. Wolf suspected that at least three prototypes must be missing, since the Mystic came in three sizes. Unsuccessful in his search, Wolf copied down the serial number of Lawley’s glider and returned to the computer to trace its number.
A now familiar blank screen and sorrowful “beep” confirmed that Lawley’s glider had no history either. It also had not been entered in the computer. “Strange,” thought Wolf. Only prototype gliders were normally not entered in the computer. That was it: the missing Mystic prototypes and the lack of entered serial numbers on the smeared glider and Lawley’s pointed towards the same thing – they were prototypes. But why had they been sold to the public?
Prototypes were uncertified gliders and were only to be flown by the factory test pilots. Once the test pilots had made the needed modifications to the canopy and the suspension lines, a final prototype was made and sent to DHV for independent testing. The DHV kept this prototype in its storage facilities after successful testing to ensure that the manufacturer produced for resale exactly the same glider that the DHV had originally tested. In case of an accident, the DHV could then compare the affected glider with the glider the DHV had in storage.
Lawley’s glider and the returned one with the smeared graphics had to be, then, uncertified prototypes. They would be recognizable as such because prototype gliders often had knots tied in the suspension lines instead of sewn lines in the production models. Knots allowed for easy adjustments to line lengths in the testing phase. Someone must have replaced the knotted lines with sewn lines to hide the fact that they were prototypes before selling them.
Wolf imagined how someone could surreptitiously remove the knotted lines and replace them with sewn lines without attracting the attention of co-workers. The job would have had to have been done at night in a rush. Had that been how Lawley’s suspension lines had been damaged? Were Lawley’s suspension lines put on improperly in a rush in the middle of the night?
A cold sweat began to break out over Wolf’s forehead. He had determined the “what,” the “when,” and the “how”. What remained was the “who” and the “why”. The “why” was easy. Someone had taken three useless prototypes and made them into marketable gliders worth lots of money in a night’s work. Who would have performed such a deception and how could Wolf prove this was what preoccupied him now?
CHAPTER 32
Friday, August 6, Munich, Germany
“Hello, Christoph. This is Klaus from Astro Paragliders.”
“How is the testing of the Mercury going?” Christoph asked, trying to remain calm and still feeling guilty that he had not let Klaus know about the faked incident report on the Mercury.
“We’ve checked it over a dozen times and tested other gliders from the same batch and we can’t find anything. The gliders all exceed our strength and load requirements. We’ve checked over the design and all is in order. We’re at a dead end,” Klaus said with resignation. “The further we delve into the accident, the more puzzling it gets.”
“How so?” queried Christoph.
“Well it might just be a case of poor book keeping, but I traced the serial number of Horst’s glider to see which batch it came from in order to test other gliders from the batch.”
“And?” Christoph asked impatiently.
“Well, Horst’s glider was purchased by Adam Rupolt – a week before Horst’s death.”
Christoph swallowed hard. So there was a connection between Rupold and Horst’s death. He castigated himself for not having told Klaus about the faked report earlier. “Klaus, I should have told you about this sooner, but I was confused myself, and after Horst’s accident with the same glider.”
“Christ, Christoph, what are you babbling about?” Klaus interrupted impatiently.
“Adam Rupolt’s report was a fraud.” Christoph forced the words out with effort.
“What? Did you say fraud? How do you know it was faked?”
“July 22nd was a Föhn day, Klaus. The whole incident report was contrived.”
Klaus was stunned. How could someone make up such a report? The report had caused so much concern and nearly ruined Astro Paragliders.
Christoph wasn’t thinking about the fraudulent report now. He was thinking of the Rupolt-Bolleman connection. How did Bolleman end up dying on a glider purchased by Rupolt, who had filed a false report a week earlier and disappeared ever since? Furthermore, there was the financial connection between Schilling and Rupolt. Was there a Schilling-Bolleman connection also? Wasserman’s mind began to spin as if he was on an uncontrollable paraglider. He continued.
“I also just heard from the Swiss and Austrians that Adam Rupolt isn’t a member of either paragliding association. I’m beginning to believe that Adam Rupolt doesn’t even exist.”
“Shall I get a description from my dealer in Salzburg who sold a glider to Rupolt?” offered Klaus.
“That would be helpful,” agreed Christoph. He paused and then added, “and show him a picture of Max Schilling.”
CHAPTER 33
Saturday, August 7, Salzburg, Austria
Wolf Bierman arrived at the shop two hours before the work day began. He wanted to be sure he wasn’t observed. He quickly spread the smeared glider that had been returned yesterday on the floor. Using a pair of pliers to open the metal quick-links, he deftly removed five suspension lines from random locations on the glider and headed for the testing room.
He flicked a switch and the machine reluctantly started. He attached both sewn ends of the 1.4 mm kevlar line to the tension hooks on the machine and engaged the clutch. The machine slowly began to tension the line as a gauge indicated the force. He anxiously watched the force indicator, hoping his hunch was wrong. It wasn’t. The first line snapped at a pitiful 21 kg, the average of five was a flimsy 22 kg – less than one-third the strength of properly manufactured lines. These lines were significantly weakened. Thank God the graphics were messed up and the glider was returned. If someone had flown the glider… visions of John Lawley plummeting to the ground filled his mind.
A more chilling thought also entered his mind: was there still another Mystic prototype with weak lines flying around somewhere? Wolf trembled at the thought. He would need to tell his boss, Max Schilling, this morning about the weakened lines and find out where the third prototype was. The glider was certainly weakened by the faulty lines but what could cause it to just fall apart? A certified glider must hold eight G’s of force. According to Wolf’s testing, the faulty gliders would hold about three G’s. Normal flight would not cause the lines to fail. What had John Lawley been doing on his glider to exert such force? Wolf pondered. Extreme turbulence might cause such forces but John was flying in smooth air at the time of his accident. Wolf pondered some more. A spiral dive would cause a pilot’s body weight to swing out and heighten the G forces to maybe two G’s or twice the regular weight in flight, but three G’s? This was the mystery of the Mystic. How did John generate such force in smooth air?
If John could only remember his flight he might shed some light on the mystery, but John had received a severe brain injury on impact. He could remember nothing of the flight. He remembered going to the airport to drop off some friends the day before the accident but nothing until much later after his accident. He had not been in a coma that long but the pain medications had not helped his brain recall events in the hospital. If only there was some way to figure out what John had been doing in flight to exert such forces on his glider. Wolf thought a call to Peter Lawely was in order.
“Peter, this is Wolf in Austria calling. How are you? It was great to hear that John is improving.”
“Yes, Wolf, it is very exciting and his progress accelerates everyday. Have you got any more leads on what caused the accident?”
“Yes and no, Peter.” We know why the glider was weaker but not why it failed. The noise of sirens outside interrupted their conversation. “Peter, I’ll call you back.”
The police cars were sitting in the street in front of Pegasus Paragliders as Wolf emerged from the line testing room. He hurried to the front of the building where the entrance and administrative offices were. Several uniformed officers stood in front of the doorway to Schilling’s office. Wolf contemplated a retreat.
“Sind sie Herr Bierman?” an officer questioned.
Wolf froze and considered a reply, but none was necessary. His silence confirmed his identity to the officer who gestured him into Schilling’s office. As he entered he could see an ashen-faced Schilling being handcuffed by an officer.
“Herr Max Schilling, you are being arrested on suspicion of premeditated murder. You have the right to remain silent and any statements you make may be used in a court of law.”
Wolf stood in the doorway mouth agape, absorbing the goings on. Several police officers stood in the office as well as one known face: Christoph Wasserman from the DHV. It was he that spoke first to Wolf. “I assume from your expression that you knew nothing about the murder.”
Schilling gave him a blank stare as he was escorted out of the office by two officers and towards the waiting patrol cars.
“Murder?” Wolf asked.
“Horst Wittman’s,” replied Christoph.
“Murdered, it was an accident. We all saw it,” Wolf replied weakly.
“It appears that your boss traded Horst’s glider for one with weaker lines.” Christoph gestured to the glider lying on Schilling’s desk. “We found this in the bottom of your boss’s locker. The serial number matches Wittman’s.”
Wolf’s knees weakened as he struggled to sit on the sofa in the corner. The realisations were coming too fast for him. He held his head between his knees to counter the dizziness he felt as Wasserman related to him his boss’s misdeeds regarding the fraudulent report and the planned homicide.
“Your boss realised that some of the Mystics were defective after Lawley’s accident. He feared someone might find this out so he created a diversion by tearing one of the competitor’s gliders apart and filling out a fraudulent incident report.
“Adam Rupolt was an elaborate creation of his. We never would have discovered the deception except that he didn’t stop there. He became ambitious after his Mystics’ Air Worthiness Certificate was restored and his competitors’ revoked.
“He wanted to deliver the death blow to Astro Paragliders by switching Wittman’s glider for one with defective lines. We were able to link Rupolt’s glider to Wittman’s accident.”
Wolf was puzzled. “Why did he have to kill Wittman?” he asked.
“I don’t think he intended to kill Wittman. A complete line failure and subsequent reserve deployment would have served his purpose adequately. After Lawley’s accident, he realised how easy it was to weaken a paraglider without any outwardly visible signs. He knew an accident as public as Wittman’s would finish off his competition for good. It was the perfect crime: people expect paraglider pilots to have accidents. His only error was to pay for the telephone mailbox electronically. All money can be traced electronically nowadays anywhere in the world.”
The phrase “anywhere in the world” struck Wolf. The words reverberated in his head as his face turned pale with horror.
“Wolf, are you feeling okay?” Christoph asked with concern.
“There is a third defective paraglider out there somewhere,” Wolf gasped.
Now it was Christoph’s turn to look shocked. “What do you mean, Wolf? There is a second one also?”
“There were three Mystic prototypes. John Lawley purchased one, the second was returned because of smeared graphics, and the third could be anywhere. The third prototype is out there. Maybe even in the air as we speak.”
“Slow down there, Wolf.” Christoph put his hand on Wolf’s trembling shoulder. “What third prototype? Tell us what you know.”
“Schilling sent the three prototypes to the U.S. Or at least two of the three ended up there. He replaced the knotted lines with sewn ones without anyone knowing about it, probably at night.
“He was likely in a rush and somehow the lines were severely weakened. I tested the returned prototype this morning and the lines appeared normal but broke at 30% of their normal breaking strength.”
“Thirty percent?” Christoph questioned incredulously. He still did not understand how Lawley’s and Wittman’s gliders had self-destructed so easily. These weakened lines were still strong enough for most flying conditions. What had happened to their gliders? Wittman’s accident was somewhat understandable. Competitions are often flown in strong thermal conditions when other less experienced pilots would stay on the ground. But Lawley’s had occurred early in the morning in sled ride conditions. He did not encounter severe turbulence. What had happened to him?
“22 kg on average,” Wolf confirmed.
“Now what about this third prototype?” Christoph brought the conversation back to the most important topic on hand. “Any idea where the glider is?”
Wolf considered for a moment before answering. “I could check our shipping logs to see where the gliders were shipped but I bet Schilling didn’t enter the shipments. Those gliders were supposed to have been warehoused and it would have raised a lot of flags for the book keepers if they saw they had been shipped to dealers.”
“Does Astro have a U.S. distributor for its products?” Christoph considered. “Not yet. The US paragliding market is still relatively small but Schilling does know the owners of a few paragliding schools there and probably sent the gliders as demos to them to arouse interest in our products. I think I can find the telephone numbers in Schilling’s rolladex.”
“Good,” replied Christoph, “start dialing.”
CHAPTER 34
Saturday, August 7, Lake MacConaughy, Nebraska, USA
“Okay, let’s go onto the large asymmetric collapse now, Sara. Grab your right riser at the quick link, pull down as hard as possible until the wing collapses, let the glider turn at least a quarter turn and then correct for the turn. Let’s do it now.”
The words “Let’s do it now” reverberated in Sara’s head as she looked down at the large lake two thousand feet under her shoes. She was so far above the lake that it looked like a small puddle and she was supposed to intentionally collapse her canopy, the only thing between her and terminal velocity? How could her instructor say, “Let’s do it now” when he was sitting comfortably in a lawn chair on the beach with a cold drink in one hand and a radio in the other?
And the worst part of it was that she was paying good money for this terrifying experience. Sara cursed her instructor back in San Diego for recommending that she attend this safety clinic to learn how to effectively handle accidental collapses by practicing recovery from intentional ones over water. The idea was that water was safer than dirt should she not recover from the induced acrobatics. The logic seemed solid before she had been towed behind a speed boat up to two thousand feet but the water looked pretty unforgiving from this altitude.
“Sara, if you can hear me over the radio, make a 90-degree turn to the right.” Sara considered playing deaf but reluctantly pulled on her right brake to make the turn. “Good, let’s do the asymmetric now.”
Sara reached with a trembling hand for her right front riser. She tentatively pulled down on the riser until the right third of her wing collapsed, and then let go. The collapsed portion of the wing instantly reinflated.
“Pretty wimpy. You’re going to get bigger collapses than that, Sara,” the voice on the other end of the radio commented. “Try it again and pull harder.”
“Wimpy!” That was it. Her pride welled up. Sara grabbed the riser again and yanked down with all her strength. This time two-thirds of the wing above her head deflated and the glider began a sickening dive to the right. Sara pulled hard on her left brake to counteract the turn and steer the glider straight. The correction really did work. The glider was flying straight ahead in a controllable manner, even though most of the surface area was collapsed and flapping limply in the air. Sara now proceeded to reinflate the collapsed side by pumping the brake on that side. After a few strokes her glider was whole again and ready for her to induce the next collapse.
“Head back to shore, Sara, you’re getting too low. We’ll do the big three tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 35
Monday, August 10, Salzburg, Austria
Wolf shook his head in bewilderment. Looking though Max Schilling’s rolladex had been of no value to him. The glider could be anywhere in the U.S. and could have been flown many times with no problems. The glider would only completely fail under certain flight manoeuvres, but what were they?
Wolf shook his head. The records indicated that Pegasus had sold many gliders in the U.S. and tracking them all would take time. But time was not available. If someone entered a manoeuvre that stressed his glider, he would be dead. All his lines would fail and he would free-fall to the ground. If unlucky, like Horst, he would die. If lucky, like John, he would only spend a few weeks in a coma.
This was a grizzly thought. Wolf grimaced. If John could only remember what manoeuvre had caused his lines to fail, the mystery of the Mystic would be solved. A notice could then go out to the industry not to perform this manoeuvre.
CHAPTER 36
Monday, August 10, Aspen, Colorado
“Okay, John, just remember that you are in good hands with me,” Pat Donnovan reassured on launch. Who was he reassuring? John, about the possibility of a flashback or himself that flying with a frantic passenger would be safe?
This would be a novel flight for both of them, although neither was new to the sport. John had hundreds of flights under his belt and Pat thousands; most of those as a tandem pilot doing exactly what they were about to do: fly down from Aspen Mountain for an early morning sled ride. A sled ride it would be because the valley below had not heated up yet and the air would be smooth and tranquil. What would not be tranquil would be the thoughts going through their heads: John might remember everything about his accident several months ago.
This information would help solve the mystery of the Mystic and save other lives. But what else could come back into John’s memory was the unnerving part. Would John flash back to the horror of falling from the sky and the pain upon impact? What if he became agitated? Would he scream? Pat could deal with the anticipated screams with the earplugs the physicians had given him after their warnings about flashbacks. But what if John frantically grabbed at the brakes and the glider lost control? Pat would have to battle to keep the glider flying.
Or what if the madman tried to free himself from the glider above him? He would plummet to the earth and have another accident like the first one. Pat felt for the syringe the doctors had given him after the discussion of dealing with a head-injured patient. One jab with the needle would paralyse John for a short period and would allow Pat to land the glider safely. With the cell phone in his other pocket, he could alert others of his need for rapid assistance.
After preparing the glider for flight, Pat motioned for John to walk over to the wing.
“Let’s be sure I’m hooked in tightly, Pat, we don’t want me to leave the glider as abruptly as last time,” John nervously giggled as he turned to Pat. His face was ashen, looking more deceased than alive. Pat could see the trembling in John’s fingers as he tightened the carabiners connecting him to the glider.
“Are you ready, John?”
“Yes,” murmured John weakly.
“Let’s go,” replied Pat, pushing John forward as they started running down the mountain. The glider slowly rose above their heads and began lifting them into the air as the ground slowly fell away from them. Pat expected John to scream as they glided away from the ground. Pat could see trees a hundred feet below them.
“Pat, hand me the controls. No flashbacks, I’m ready to fly this thing.”
Pat nervously handed the controls forward to his passenger and peered at the ground a thousand feet below them. He hoped that this action would not be something he regretted later.
John gingerly turned the glider to the left and right as they flew out to the valley floor. John enjoyed Pat’s confidence in him and the feeling of flying again. It had been such a horrendous accident. John never imagined he would be flying again so soon after it. Was he a lunatic to be doing something again that had nearly killed him? Lives could be saved by this action and John, now more sensitive to life after the near end to his own, was willing to risk his own for the possibility of saving another’s.
“Okay, Pat, I want to try a spiral dive now, here we go.” John slowly added pressure to the right steering toggle and the glider began a banked turn to the right. As the rate of rotation increased, so did the G-forces on the pilots’ harnesses and the paraglider accelerated in its dive towards the ground. Pat gritted his teeth as they plummeted downwards. John, with no fear, tightened the dive towards the ground.
“Back off, John, this is getting too steep,” Pat nervously appealed. There was no reaction from John as they continued to plummet towards the ground at 25 miles an hour. Pat would need to do something soon or they would both impact the ground together.
Then it happened. A gust of wind collapsed the outside wing tip and John glanced in horror at the limp piece above him. John screamed and began to shake violently. Pat reached for the controls and yanked them sharply away from John. Pat righted the glider and brought it back to straight and steady flight. He breathed a sigh of relief as he gained control of the glider again. But John continued to scream and shake.
Not until Pat safely landed the paraglider on the ground did John’s screams stop. He continued to whimper as he softly crumpled to the ground and lay on his back. “Pat, when the wingtip deflated, I knew what it was,” he stuttered. It was obvious John was near the cardiac point.
“Slow down, John, deflations should raise concerns but we easily recovered from it.”
“Pat, my wing tips were deflated in the spiral dive I was doing before my big crash.”
Pat now shook his head for clarity. “What are you talking about John?”
“I was trying a new manoeuvre I’d never done before. I’d read about it in a magazine: spiral dive with big ears.” John gasped for air as this confession exploded from his mouth.
Now Pat had to shake his head again. The idea hadn’t even occurred to him but it now made perfect sense: by loading all of the pilot’s weight onto a diminished surface area, the loading on the remaining lines would increase significantly. That would be enough to break already weakened lines. The glider would fly fine unless stressed in such a way. Spiral dive with big ears as a manoeuvre was relatively untested.
Pat sighed loudly, relieved that the mystery of the Mystic had been solved on this flight, and helped John to his unsteady feet. “If we can just warn the pilot on the Mystic not to do any extreme manoeuvres such as the spiral dive with big ears, there will be no horrific accidents like yours,” Pat replied.
“Yes, but how do we warn them?” John asked. In this moment, he seemed like a child.
Pat pondered this thought as they disconnected from the glider and walked through the grassy field.
CHAPTER 37
3.30 am, August 10, Aspen, Colorado
Pat Donnovan was jarred out of his sleep by the ring of the telephone. Pat didn’t know what time it was other than it was still dark.
“Pat, this is Tom Oliver in San Diego, did I wake you?” Pat’s groan was enough to answer in the affirmative. “Listen, I’m sorry but I’ve got an emergency.”
Pat didn’t like the word “emergency” as it conjured up visions of bad crashes, particularly since the Lawley accident but he managed a “Yes, Tom, I’m listening.”
“I just got a call from Pegasus Paragliders regarding a Mystic.” Pat bolted upright in his bed at the word. He was all ears now. “Pegasus believes they know where the other defective one is.” A cold drop of sweat began to run down Donnovan’s back. “I received three of the first Mystics shipped to the U.S. One I sold to John Lawley, the second I returned to Pegasus, and the third I sold to a student of mine.”
“Has he been warned?” Pat demanded.
“Well, no that’s the reason for this call. I can’t reach her and thought you might be able to.”
“Where is she?”
“At an advanced manoeuvres clinic at Lake MacConaughy.”
Pat let out a whistle. The poor woman was probably already dead. The spiral dive with big ears was a new manoeuvre clinics were teaching now. He said, “Tom, John Lawley figured out what caused his accident yesterday. We know why John’s lines failed.”
Pat quickly explained what had happened before Tom said, “I’ve been unable to contact anyone at the clinic because they are camping on the beach away from telephones. I know they get started early each day. How long would it take you to get there?”
Lake Mc Conaughy was at least seven hours by car from Aspen. Pat had to find a faster way. “I’ll see what I can do.”
CHAPTER 38
5.09 am, Saturday, August 10, Continental Divide, Colorado
The engine whined on the small Cessna as Pat Donnovan pulled the yoke back slightly to clear the mountain pass at the continental divide. Only a few hundred feet of altitude more were needed to skim over the pass at 12,000 feet and then he would be able to let the nose down for the downhill glide to Lake MacConaughy. Time was of the essence and since the air was usually still at first light, Pat planned to go over the pass with a minimal clearance.
As the small Cessna 170 cleared the pass, Pat let the nose dive slightly and the airspeed pick up to 120 knots. He glanced at his watch: 6:09 am. Turning to his flight calculator, he figured at this speed he would be at Lake Mc Conaughy in about one hour ten minutes, or at 7.19 am local time. He hoped this would be soon enough.
CHAPTER 39
Sunrise, 6.05 am, August 10, Lake MacConaughy, Nebraska
Sara sat on the beach, dug her toes into the sand, watched the sunrise and contemplated the craziness of paragliding. She had travelled thousands of miles and spent thousands of dollars – all for the privilege of risking her life and raising her adrenaline level. The saying “the difference between men and boys is the price of their toys” certainly applied to her also. Was it that she just hadn’t grown up yet and lived in the same fantasy world as a child? She felt guilty spending so much time and money on such a frivolous sport while others struggled to make ends meet. Was it fair that she could afford to waste so much money on a thrill that others couldn’t afford? Paragliding was a kick but Sara’s face filled with concern as she envisioned today’s activities: the big three.
Today was the day for the full stall, flat spin, and spiral dive: these manoeuvres would test the limits of both her ability and the glider’s stability. A spiral dive with big ears might even be added if she had the altitude. The stall and spin result in very violent and disorienting movements requiring a thoughtful and determined recovery. The spiral dive generates tremendous G forces and the timing of the recovery is critical. The spiral dive with big ears is a relatively new manoeuvre that she knew less about. They were important manoeuvres to master as a quick and practiced recovery from these was essential should they ever occur.
Sara’s thoughts were interrupted by the noise behind her. The other members of her course were beginning to stir and ready themselves for today’s events.
CHAPTER 40
7 am, August 10, Lake MacConaughy, Nebraska
“Okay, let’s wake you guys up with a couple of stalls and spins.”
Sara smiled at the words thinking it was certainly more effective than coffee.
“Who’s our first victim this morning?” the tow operator on the boat inquired with ghoulish delight. Sara contemplated raising her hand. She did not relish going first, but often it was better to get unpleasant things over first and then relax and enjoy watching the others suffer. The tow operator noticed her indecisiveness and prodded her to go first.
“Let’s get you hooked up, Sara, you’re going to find this really exciting.”
Sara groaned submissively and began to don her gear. Rick, the instructor, began to brief her on today’s manoeuvres as he helped her lay out her paraglider.
“Sara, you need to have confidence in your paraglider. It is designed to recover on its own from stalls, spins, and spiral dives. Just follow the instructions that I give you over the radio and everything will be fine.”
CHAPTER 41
7 am, August 10, Over the Colorado/Nebraska Border
The endless fields of winter wheat slid by under the wings of the Cessna as Pat pushed the nose down to pick up speed. Ahead he could see the merging of Interstate 80 with Interstate 76, indicating that he was only about 30 miles short of Lake McConaughy and now within radio range. Pat reached into the duffel bag sitting beside him and pulled out a small VHF radio. He flipped it on and began.
“WXB7707 McConaughy safety clinic this is Pat Donnovan. Do you copy?”
There was no response on the first frequency. Pat quickly repeated his call on the other two remaining U.S.H.G.A. frequencies that the safety clinic would be likely to use. No response on either. Puzzled, Pat checked his radio. The transmitter LED was not coming on when he keyed it. He opened his squelch to confirm his fear. Silence. The battery was dead. Probably left on.
Pat looked at his watch and considered his options now that a simple warning message over the radio would no longer be possible. He was now approaching the west end of the Lake, approximately 10 air minutes away from the sandy beach area on which the paragliding group would be camping. The beach was straight ahead to the east. The local airport was approximately the same distance away but on the far side of the lake and a 30-minute drive from the beach camping area. The airport was to the right and southeast. Which direction should he head? If he were to overfly the beach, how could he get a message to the participants of the clinic on the beach below? Pat continued for the beach, unsure that it was the best choice, but convinced a delay in delivering the warning could prove worse.
CHAPTER 42
7.09 am, August 10, Lake MacConaughy, Nebraska.
As the towboat’s engine began to churn and the tug on her harness increased, Sara waited patiently before beginning her run. Sara nervously double-checked her equipment: harness leg straps attached, karabiners locked, brake lines clear, hands on front risers.
When the towboat reached planing speed, Rick’s command was infuriatingly simple: “Let’s go, Sara.”
With those words, Sara leaned forward, raised the front risers above her shoulders, and began to run towards the lake with the tug from the boat accelerating her until she was airborne. As the water rushed under her, she began a steady arching climb, careful to stay over the wake of the boat.
“Nice launch, Sara” the tow operator praised her over the radio. “Hang in there and we’ll tow you up so high that the lake will look like a damn puddle to you.”
She grimaced at the thought of being so high over the water. Her thoughts were interrupted by the roar of another engine much louder than that of the towboat, this one located off her left wing tip.
John vainly tried to steady his binoculars on the paraglider off his right side. He struggled to identify the paraglider’s markings as he flew by at three times the speed and far enough way to avoid “waking” the collapsible wing. Although the Cessna was a relatively small aircraft, it weighed many times more than the paraglider and would produce a wake turbulent enough to certainly collapse any paraglider and possibly destroy the defective Mystic.
“It’s a Mystic, Pat. It looks just like mine.” John trembled at the identity of the wing.
“Could this be Sara flying right now?” John had been informed about their mission earlier that morning during their race here.
Pat had to take action now. In a few minutes the pilot would reach altitude, release from the tow line, and begin manoeuvres. If one of those manoeuvres was a spiral dive with big ears, the pilot would be dead. Pat could not let that happen.
There was only one possibility and a remote one at best. Pat pushed the yoke forward and dove the plane straight at the tow boat below like a Kamikaze dive bomber. The engine pitch increased and the Cessnas’ airspeed indicator red lined. Pat steered the diving plane directly at the centre of the boat. He could see the horrified look on the tow operator’s face as he pulled hard back on the yoke at the last instant.
CHAPTER 43
7.11 am, August 10, Lake MacConaughy, Nebraska.
Pat smiled as he pulled the yoke back a second time to flare the Cessna onto the beach. As soon as the plane settled softly in the loose sand, Pat revved the engine to prevent it from taxiing short. As he pulled up to the astonished group on the shore, he gunned the engine, applied hard right rudder, and spun the aircraft around and killed the engine.
Before the propeller had even stopped turning, the pilot’s door was ripped open by the angry, red-faced Rick. “You crazy son-of-a-bitch, you almost killed someone when you dive bombed the boat. Do you know that you cut through a tow line between the boat and the paraglider, you idiot?”
“Pretty good shot, uh Rick?” Pat answered as he turned his head towards his old paragliding buddy. “Just tell Ms Mystic over the radio to take it real smooth on her flight back to the beach and I’ll explain everything.”
John jumped out of the other door and ran towards the windsock where Sara was headed. A grin covered his face as he watched Sara turn for the final approach for the landing area. John smiled that his horrible accident had inadvertently saved Sara’s life. There was good out of so much bad. Sara’s mouth was wide open as she came towards John, not sure whether she should curse or greet this friendly looking man smiling at her. As Sara dropped her arms to slow the glider down, John wrapped his arms around her.
“Allow me to hug you first and then I will explain.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to the many people who believed in me and thought that completing this novel would be possible after such a catastrophic event. The first version of this novel was completed one day before my accident. The completion of the work occurred nearly three years later. Appreciation goes to Judy Jackson and Jamie Jarvas, my speech therapists at Mapleton Centre who helped me relearn reading and writing. Thanks also goes to Mary Stevens for editing and for her suggestions about the manuscript. Special thanks goes to my mother, Rosemarie Lavender, for giving me encouragement to build my life again.
Granger Banks, Boulder, Colorado
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
After learning to fly paragliders in Switzerland in 1989 Granger Banks went on to become a USHPA advanced instructor and started Parasoft Paragliding, one of the first schools in the US.
Granger has seen both the beauty and the danger of the sport and suffered a serious accident in 1995. The Third Prototype was inspired by his recovery from a severe closed head injury. He continues to teach paragliding and enjoy the sport.
