“Is the gear down and locked?” screams Captain Troy Cupps, finally losing patience with our stand-in Flight Engineer, Bruce Quinn.
“1000 feet above field elevation.” I call out. “Bruce, is the fuckin’ gear down?”
No response from Bruce, a total asshole of a guy, who takes pleasure torturing new hires during ground school and sim sessions, but has frozen-up in the real deal.
“300 feet above minimums.” I announce.
“We’re going around,” announces Troy, “Flaps 20, set go around thrust,” and he blasts us up and away from our landing at Islamabad.
The Packies are screaming in the back of the plane. Apparently some of the bodies have started rolling down the aisles, as we pitch-up to our 15° go-around deck angle.
We started the ‘second wave of the Hadj’ returning the Hajjis from Arabia to wherever they’ve come from, all over the Muslim world. A Muslim (to get into heaven), must do one Hajj in their lifetime. Since most are pitifully poor, villages all over Pakistan, India and Bangladesh take up collections to send their old, sick and dying for their one pilgrimage. The rules are that if a Muslim dies during the Hajj, he automatically ascends to Heaven.
We invariably have four or five die (out of 500 Hajji’s on the 747) on the way in, during the “first wave.” However, when the millions of old, sick Hajji’s from all these countries are concentrated in the packed tent cities erected for the Hajj, then go through the rigors of the journey, many more die during the actual pilgrimage, or on the “second wave” heading home. The corpses of the already dead are taken into the plane, for the return trip home. These bodies, shrouded, are laid out in the aisles, and are prayed over by fellow passengers, who stand in the aisles, chanting.
Today, fifteen dead Pakistani’s, and 480 live ones, are returning to Islamabad, and our violent go-around has corpses rolling down the aisles, creating Islamic havoc.
Leveling off at 1500’ AGL, Troy asks me to take control. It was his leg to Islamabad, but responding that “I have control,” I am now flying the airplane.
Troy, calm now, turns to work the landing gear problem out with Bruce, while I notify Islamabad Tower Control of our “missed approach.” They vector me around in a pattern to avoid terrain and buy us time to resolve our situation.
Troy satisfies himself that all eighteen wheels are all “down and locked.” All is safe, the crisis is just an indication problem, and the inability of an inept Flight Engineer to correctly determine what he was looking at.
Troy resumes control of the airplane, we land smoothly, uneventfully and taxi up to the terminal.
We pilots in the cockpit, Bruce escaping Troy’s wrath by going down onto the ramp to do his walk around — the inspection of the exterior of the craft.
Neither Troy, nor I have said a word about the incident, each mellowing out in our own thoughts. The aircraft is now empty of all passengers, both living and dead.
One of our flight attendants enters the cockpit, a young lady so swathed in her Abaya, that I don’t recognize her. She is holding up a man’s gold watch.
“Do either of you know anything about watches?” she asks.
Abruptly pulled back from our thoughts, neither Troy Cupps nor I answer fast enough.
“Do you think this a good watch, do you think my boyfriend would like it?”
Troy and I disbelievingly catch each other’s eye, then turn back to look at this girl. In our hearts, we know that she has robbed one of the corpses. She leaves the cockpit, thoughtfully, softly closing the door.