Death in the Moonlight

DISASTERS Death in the Moonlight

The night was a pilot's dream, clear and bright with waxing moon glowing yellow in the sky. In the tower at New York's Idlewild Airport, controlmen expertly ticked off the routine comings and goings of scores of aircraft. Shortly after 12:30 a.m., the routine broke: an LAV (for Linea Aeropostal Venezolana) Super Constellation, droning southward from Idlewild across the black Atlantic toward Caracas, was in trouble. Her position: 38DEG 10 min. north, 72DEG 08 min. west (160 miles southeast of the New Jersey coast). "Returning direct to New York," said the crisp message. "Unable to maintain 10,000 ft." The trouble was spelled out: the Constellation's left inboard engine was out of control, could conceivably shake the engine loose from its mount. Veteran Pilot Luis F. Plata, 39, had tried vainly to feather the prop, i.e., to still it by turning its blades into the air stream. With the engine dead, the prop was windmilling loosely in the air.

At Idlewild, the LAV staff began preparing late snacks for the 64 passengers and the ten-man crew. Doubtless many of the travelers would grouse about the delay, but the prospects for cheerful shoulder-shrugging were better than average, because at least 25 were lively youngsters, the majority of them students at U.S. convents and prep schools, returning to Venezuela for their summer holidays. Twenty on board were Americans.

Long Count. At Brooklyn's Floyd Bennett naval air station, the emergency word was passed. Lieut. Commander Frederick J. Hancox, a Coast Guard ready rescue pilot, was jangled from his bed. With his four crewmen, he scrambled for his twin-engined Grumman Albatross, was airborne at 1:02 a.m. Grinding out over the sea, Hancox called into his lip mike: "Hello Yankee Victor Charlie Alpha Mike Sierra,* This is Coast Guard 2124 . . . Do you read? . . . Mike Sierra, this is 2124, request a long count from you on this frequency. Over." Back came the long "one-two-three-four . . ." from the ailing Constellation. The Albatross, following Mike Sierra's radio signal, homed in on the Constellation to give a friendly escort through the night.

Said Hancox: "Mike Sierra . . . we're approximately fifteen miles from you . . . we're turning on our landing lights. Over." "Roger," said Plata, "we have you in sight now, 2124. We have the nose light on. We're flashing it on and off. Do you see us?" Replied Hancox: "Affirmative." Dumping Gas. Mike Sierra's Pilot Plata now had a severe weight problem: under rigid Civil Aeronautics Board safety regulations, a Super Constellation must not touch the ground unless it weighs no more than 110,000 Ibs.; to land at greater weight is to jeopardize aircraft and passengers. The procedure for reducing weight in emergency cases (although many a pilot would prefer to risk landing overloaded) is to dump surplus gasoline. To do this, the pilot must turn off all unnecessary radio and electrical equipment to lessen the hazards of electrical sparks, maintain air speed between 160 and 218 m.p.h. By turning on his fuel-dump levers, the emergency mechanism would lower four release chutes from the wings. When the release chutes stretched down 3 1/2 ft., the gasoline would start its flow. His decision made, Pilot Plata called his escort:

"Coast Guard 2124, this is Mike Sierra . . . We'll have to drop gas in about five minutes. Are we able to drop and then follow you? Over."

"Roger, Mike Sierra, you will be able to drop gas."

"Roger, we're cleared to drop gas." Then, jubilantly, "we have New York in sight . . ."

From the Albatross, Hancox watched Mike Sierra. Plata's air speed was within limits--barely over the minimum 160 m.p.h. Then Hancox noted that Plata had forgotten to turn off his blinking running lights, potential sparkmakers because of their constantly opening and closing electrical circuits. Mike Sierra began dumping gas. From his spot above and to the rear of the Constellation, Coast Guardsman Hancox saw small blue flashes plume off in the moonlight, then a bursting flame.

Albatross to Idlewild: "Mike Sierra is on fire. We orbiting him . . . Mike Sierra, this is 2124. Do you read me? Over."

At 1:31, only 15 minutes from Idlewild and within sight of the brilliant lights of Manhattan, the Constellation burst into orange fire. It lurched sharp to the right, held steady for ten seconds, swerved sharply right again. Then it nosed, plunged 8,000 ft. to the sea, exploded.

"Flicker of Flame." Said Pilot Hancox later: "There was a flicker of flame from under the right wing. Then it became a ball of fire and he fell. I followed him down and dropped a float light in the middle of the burning gasoline, and began to sweep the area. I would have landed if I had spotted anybody. I didn't drop parachute flares because the moon and the fire itself gave me plenty of light."

Hancox scoured the area until other rescue planes arrived. Two hours later the Navy cargo ship Lt. Robert Craig plowed through the shark-filled waters where Mike Sierra went down, later radioed tersely: "Found no survivors . . . Expect to find none."

There were none.

*The Connie's call letters: YVCAMS.

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