Oath of Office

Minsky wanted to curse almost as bad as she wanted a cigarette. “Antonov 2967, amend altitude to one four thousand, turn left thirty degrees for separation of company traffic departing Zhukovsky.”

There was no response.

This was not unheard of. Pilots bumped radio knobs, switched to the wrong frequency, or became engrossed in some conversation with the flight deck. Sometimes they merely fell asleep.

Six miles apart.

Minsky tried again, repeating her command for 2967 to change altitude.

No response. The term to describe an aircraft that didn’t respond over the radio was NORDO, but she didn’t take the time to use it.

“Antonov 2808, maintain one six thousand, turn left thirty degrees without delay.”

Closing in on five miles. This was too close to becoming an official “incident.”

Both airplanes now climbed toward eighteen thousand feet, converging on the same point southwest above the Moskva River.

Minsky consoled herself that only one of them had to move out of the way.

The pilot answered with a read-back of her instructions. “Maintain one six thousand, turn left thirty degrees, Antonov 2808.”

Minsky snatched up a small rubber alligator her boyfriend had given her to combat the stress of not smoking. She began to squeeze it, as if trying to obliterate the stupid thing from the world. She sighed in relief at the read-back as the number representing 2808 on her radar screen moved from its original path, following her instructions.

Inexplicably, the radar blip that was 2967 moved as well, directly toward 2808 in heading and rate of climb.

Minsky didn’t waste time on the NORDO airplane.

“Antonov 2808, turn left thirty degrees immediately.”

In the parlance of air traffic control, “immediately” meant exactly that. The pilot should not take time to disengage the autopilot or fool with the heading bug. He was to grab the yoke and turn the airplane the very moment he heard the command.

Antonov 2808 acknowledged, but did not alter course.

Fifteen feet away, across the dimly lit room, the “snitch” on the supervisor’s computer alerted him that there was a problem at the same moment Minsky reached up and snapped her fingers to get his attention. He rolled his chair across the blue industrial carpeting, eyes wide when he saw the two blips on the screen coming closer.

Minsky didn’t expect him to help, she just wanted a witness that she was doing everything by the book.

“Try the other one,” the supervisor whispered.

The conflict alert alarm sounded on her radar, signaling two minutes until a midair collision. The Americans called an incident like this a “deal”—certainly the most supreme of all understatements, Minsky thought.

She tried again.

“Antonov 2967, turn right thirty degrees, immediately. Maintain flight level one-niner-zero. Break. Antonov 2808, turn left thirty degrees for separation, company traffic three miles off your right wing. Break. Antonov 2967, turn right immediately.”

Nothing.

Minsky crushed the rubber alligator in her fist, smacking it over and over against her desk. She could have been singing “Bayu Bayushki Bayu” to these idiots for all the good it was doing.

Then, blessedly: “Left thirty degrees, Antonov 2808.”

The blip began to alter course with each radar sweep.

Minsky released a pent-up breath. “Thank you, 2808. 2967 is NORDO.”

“We will attempt contact,” 2808 replied.

Minsky allowed herself a moment to rub strained eyes with the heel of her hand, but a string of expletives from her supervisor snapped her back to attention. Antonov 2808 adjusted course as directed, but the second bird moved right along with it. At their present course and altitude, the two airplanes would very soon become a fireball over Russia.

Minsky continued to give voice commands. Her supervisor typed the identical flight instructions into the Sintez computer system, sending them to the aircraft via electronic message. At the same time, other traffic was diverted far away from the area. The second Antonov seemed bent on a midair collision. She watched in horror as the two blips on her screen grew closer with each sweep of the radar, squawking the ident numbers of their respective transponders.