You Gotta Believe

Evel Knievel is afraid to fly. So are 25,000,000 other Americans, such as Carly Simon, Jackie Gleason, Mike Douglas, Bess Truman, Shelley Berman and André Previn. There's even a group-therapy program for such people conducted by Marvin L. Aronson, a New York psychologist and the author of How to Overcome Your Fear of Flying. When you join his program, you'll meet with safety experts who will explain just how little danger there is in flying; your group will gather in an airliner that will remain parked at an airport; and for graduation there will be an actual flight. The program may get a lot of people off the ground, but it doesn't do much to make flying any safer.

According to the Air Transport Association (continued on page 118) You Gotta Believe (continued from page 92) (A.T.A.), when you board an airliner, there is a 99.9999 percent chance that you will not wind up stretched out on a stainless-steel morgue cart, with a tag dangling from your toe. That leaves you with a one in a million chance--worse than the odds of your winning the grand prize in a state lottery. And the airlines carry more than 500,000 passengers a day. But in 1973 it was more dangerous to fly from, say, Chicago to New York than to take a train. This is figured in passenger miles. This year it was reported that the U.S. acknowledged that for domestic carriers on international flights, "the [1974] fatality rate was an increase of 1802 percent over 1969--1973."

But the airlines like to give the impression that everything is always under control, that nothing is left to chance, that sending people across the country at 600 miles an hour some five miles above the ground in a 200-ton machine is simply routine. But when any one of the thousands of little things that can go wrong does, you should remember that it's only men and machines and men make mistakes and machines break down--just like you and your lawn mower on a Saturday afternoon. What if a flock of birds flies into a jet engine on take-off? What if a tire blows out during landing? What if a door flies open during flight? Or you get caught in a really vicious storm? Or a window breaks next to your head and the cabin loses pressure? Or suppose your captain just forgets what he's doing and gets too close to the ground. These things happen, and when they do, they change your odds drastically.

Generally, everything seems perfectly under control until the very last minute--as long as you can't hear what the flight crew is saying. After each crash, the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) goes to the site of the accident and retrieves a tape recording of cockpit-area conversation--and they are as eerie as you might imagine.

First Officer: We did something to the altitude.

Captain: What?

First Officer: We're still at two thousand [feet], right?

Captain: Hey, what's happening here? (Altitude-alert warning beeps six times and ceases before sound of initial ground impact.)

That's from an NTSB report of the first crash of a jumbo jet, a Lockheed L-1011 Tri-Star, which occurred near Miami in 1972, killing 101 people.

A startling piece of cockpit conversation was recorded in a United 737 that crashed near Chicago's Midway Airport in 1972, killing, along with six other Watergate-related people, Mrs. E. Howard Hunt. The copilot drew off 15 degrees of flaps when he shouldn't have. The last few seconds of recording: "I'm sorry." Total dead: 45.

An Allegheny Convair 340/440 over Long Island Sound:

First Officer: Man, we ain't twenty feet off the water.

Captain: Hold it. Impact.

A recording from a Texas International flight in September 1973: "The minimum en-route altitude here is forty-four hun----" He was cut off in midsentence by a large hill.

In the worst disaster in aviation history as of this writing, Turkish Airlines captain Berkoz, fully aware that his disabled DC-10 was going to hit the ground, killing everyone on board, was singing, "Wonder what it is, what it is"--lines from a popular TV-commercial jingle.

The airlines have compiled what they consider to be an impressive safety record and take pride in comparing the safety of flying with that of automobile travel. Chuck Miller, a former Federal safety investigator, says, "When you're only killing one hundred, two hundred, three hundred people a year, you must be doing something correct." They are doing a great deal right, but whether it's enough or they are just awfully lucky is still a matter of opinion.

Whatever the case, air travel shouldn't be compared with driving. Planes are piloted by professionals and flight crews in general are excellent. There is a good reason for this: They are almost certain to be injured or killed if anyone at all dies in a plane crash. As American Airlines captain Bob Powers says, "I get there twenty feet ahead of you." Stewards and stewardesses are supposed to stay in the plane to help survivors off--leaving themselves vulnerable to fire, smoke or explosions that may occur on the ground. But, excellent or not, crews make mistakes, as was the case in the Miami disaster. And they don't have to be big mistakes, either. Seemingly unimportant slip-ups can have dramatic results. Once, someone spilled a cup of coffee in the cockpit of a 747. The liquid seeped through die floor and shorted out the basic navigational system and the plane was technically lost for a while over the Pacific Ocean. (An ingenious pilot will find ways to navigate in spite of this kind of difficulty, but he'd be much better off with all his systems working.) And so, professional or not, if the pilot does something wrong, there's not much anybody can do about it.

For example, some pilots mess around with stewardesses (stews in the jargon). So do some air-traffic controllers (A.T.C.s) when they get a break and go on a "beaver patrol," also known as a yak track, which is basically a long walk around the airport. In any lonely stress-filled job, sex can stay on your mind a lot. A recent Thanksgiving transmission between an A.T.C. and a Continental ("The proud bird with the golden tail") pilot:

"Continental four three two, turn right to one eighty and maintain your speed at two six zero. Say, what're you havin' for dinner, some of that proud bird?"

"Four three two. No, I thought I'd have a little stew."

No doubt, everyone has heard stories about sex in the sky, from "Coffee, tea or me" to horrifying stories of in-flight romance causing fatal crashes. And, of course, many people in aviation are more than willing to relate thrilling stories of sex and disaster; but it's nearly impossible to verify any of them. There are accounts of various episodes, including a game of catch played with a water-filled prophylactic, a stewardess lying with her head in die captain's lap and her feet in the copilot's lap (the girl who told this story didn't mention that there is a large instrument console between the two pilots' seats, but those seats can be raised fairly high) and, naturally, the legendary captain who hands his plane over to his first officer and finds a cozy spot where he makes it with his favorite stewardess. No one ever located that cozy spot. So, although surely somewhere up there in the wild blue yonder, in some cockpit, someone has had the orgasm you've heard so much about, our search for sex in the sky turned up nothing but the usual vague rumors.

But, in other ways, pilots have been known to act rather capriciously. It is known that the NTSB blamed one crash on die fact that die flight-deck crew was discussing politics during approach, when it should have been making altimeter calls as the plane neared die ground. It crashed short of the runway. The NTSB report recommended more professional conduct from pilots.

In another incident, a Pan Am pilot was suspended for having a stewardess in the copilot's seat of his 747. At least two crews on other airlines were discovered fast asleep on long flights. One went 250 miles out to sea before controllers could wake the men. (Yes, pilots very often are tired or even exhausted by the brutal schedules they are forced to keep. And even when they get where they're going, more often than not something keeps them from getting rest. One night, after flying all day, a captain checked into his hotel to find that most of the other rooms were occupied by members of a barbershop-quartet convention.)

Sometimes pilots refuse to acknowledge directions from an A.T.C. or disobey them or--as in one reported case--even (continued on page 124) You Gotta Believe (continued from page 118) lie about flight information. An A.T.C. tells of a captain who took off, handed the plane over to his first officer and then spent the trip studying a book on how to deal cards. When control center told the flight to descend to 17,000 feet, the first officer was slow in doing so. Control requested an altitude check and the captain ordered the first officer to report that the plane was already at 17,000 when it was actually just leaving 19,000. The controllers might have sent another plane into the same airspace.

But these are isolated incidents. For the most part, what you hear about captains and crews is that they're top-notch. One jet had an engine blow up, taking off 25 feet of wing. Technically, that craft no longer had enough lift to stay in the air. But the crew turned it around and landed it. The crew was given the Daedalian Society award for skill in an emergency. Hubert Humphrey wrote to congratulate the captain and a firm sent him $500.

In the old days of flying, the pilot flew by the seat of his pants and the stick, his white scarf waving from the open cockpit. This scene has changed considerably. It takes a long time to become a major-airline captain and, consequently, you see a lot of old, hard-bitten, Marlboro Country guys, who come on like Armed Forces career officers and have names like Bob Powers, Jack Box and Hugh Chance. And the image is a good one, smacking of seasoned skills and complete confidence.

Entering the cockpit of a DC-10, you might imagine that it would be humanly impossible to operate the machine, even with three men (there have been half a dozen female flight-deck crew members, but only one--a Frontier captain--is currently flying). The captain has endless rows of instruments and knobs, levers and switches. The first officer has a duplicate of the captain's panel. And the second officer (engineer) is literally surrounded by walls of circuit breakers and other devices. But then, sitting in the cockpit on an actual flight, you realize that what the captain does is similar to what a highly trained scientist would do with any supersophisticated piece of equipment. Though the machine can just about fly itself, some pilots still like to fly the plane themselves. But they can use the flight director and autopilot to make the plane climb to cruising altitude, stay on course and come down right at the edge of a runway 4000 miles away--all by itself. Normally, the only thing they have to do is adjust the settings now and then. They can have a meal sent in or take a stroll through the cabin if they like. The flight director is quite a sophisticated collection of machines, but, simply put, it tells the pilot where he is and where he wants to be. By dialing desired maneuvers, he can fly the plane with knobs and switches rather than by the rudder pedals and "steering wheel" (yoke). The DC-10 can even land itself, though the system isn't in use yet.

This doesn't mean that you'll ever find yourself stuck with a pilot who couldn't fly the plane by hand (or the seat of his pants) if he had to. A training "flight" in a simulator at United's Denver Flight Training Center would give you an idea of just how much a crew can handle. One of the latest simulators is that of the Boeing 747. It is a room about twice the size of a 747 cockpit. Kept spit polished, the white-plastic box stands on spidery hydraulic legs some 40 feet off the floor of an enormous room near the Denver airport. The legs move the box to produce a very realistic sensation of flight. Inside is a real 747 cockpit area. All the controls work. In addition, there is a computer video display and control panel for the instructor. With this, he can create for the flight crew any problem a 747 has been known to encounter before, during or after a flight. A typical sequence of events might be: All engines (one at a time) experience a hot start on die ground. This means that for some reason there is not enough air getting to the fuel. Each engine in turn has to be shut down, tried again, fixed, if necessary, until the problem is solved. The instructor might then direct the crew to take off and, just as they leave the ground, flame out their number-three engine, which causes the plane to yaw to die right. If the crew has been well trained, the plane doesn't crash (the simulator is so realistic that you can break it if you crash). They retrim the plane for three-engine flight and go through preplanned emergency procedures. Then they might be cruising along and have an engine catch fire. They shut it down, shoot a bottle of extinguisher into die engine and hope the fire goes out. A 747 can fly on any two engines. It cannot fly on one. All during the simulator flight, the instructor pitches problems like these to die crew until its responses, theoretically, become second nature. On the other hand, when die instructor reached over and pulled a circuit breaker on a recent flight (shutting down the system that operated one of the leading edge control surfaces), the crew couldn't locate the problem.

The flight crew is totally in charge of an aircraft. By law, the captain--a human--is always the final authority when it comes to his craft. No one can tell him what to do. Control towers do not really control the plane. They advise its pilot. They sometimes plead with its pilot. This, of course, works both ways. A.T.C.s also make mistakes.

In fact, the whole system of modern aviation has become so complex that the number of things that can go wrong is staggering. Can you imagine that there could be anything dangerous about having a bathroom on board? On April 30, 1974, in a National Airlines 727 over west Texas, the toilet leaked flushing fluid, which froze when it hit the subzero air at 33,000 feet. A chunk of this ice broke off, flew into the number-three engine, which seized up so violently that a bolt sheared and the engine fell off. The emergency landing was successful and none of the 97 people aboard was hurt. According to the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), four instances of this type of ice precipitation occurred in the first ten months of 1974.

If such a simple thing as a toilet can become fouled up, what of die myriad complex systems planes are using? For example, an autopilot spends more hours flying large aircraft than the captain does. But it, too, can break down. It's just another machine.

The Miami crash was under the control of an autopilot. As Eastern ("You gotta believe") flight 401 approached Miami International Airport on a moonless December night in perfect weather, the nose-gear light did not show green. That meant either that the wheel was still up or that the light was not working, or both. Not wanting to belly down in that monster, the crew shot a missed approach and devoted its attention to fixing the trouble rather than flying die plane. While they were busy, the plane flew itself into the Everglades. An A.T.C. saw the plane at 900 feet on his radar but didn't say anything. The altitude-alert warning beeped, but apparently the crew didn't hear it.

The crew was relying on an altimeter to keep die plane far enough above the ground. To understand the potential danger in using altimeters, it helps to understand how they work. Two types are common. One is operated by radio, one by barometric pressure. The radio altimeter, which reads from zero to 2500 feet, simply bounces signals off whatever is below the airplane. It is very accurate (for practical purposes, to about ten feet) but only for the length of time the plane is over the thing reflecting the signal. Consequently, if the terrain is rough, the reading fluctuates. If it's over water, there is a possibility that the radio altimeter could read the height above the ocean floor rather than the distance to the surface of the water. You could conceivably be under water and get a reading of 2000 feet. It could also reflect off a plane flying below you. A radio altimeter is used mostly during die final descent before landing. The barometric altimeters give height above mean sea level. So when you're coming into an airport whose elevation is 1320 feet above m.s.l., you touch ground when diat instrument says you're still a quarter of a mile up. (A few airlines, such as American, adjust one of their barometric altimeters to read the (continued on page 186) You Gotta Believe (continued from page 124) height above the field.) Sudden changes in pressure produce sudden changes in the reading. This is adjusted for periodically, but it's a messy, inadequate system that has not kept pace with the technology of modern flight. Also, neither of those devices tells you what's ahead but only what's under you--what you've already passed over or run into. The Air Force B-52 bomber is equipped with a system employed when the Air Force practices dropping atom bombs. You get that giant plane down to a few feet off the ground, under radar--remember Dr. Strangelove? Then you cut in your terrain-following device and set your altitude to where you want it. The system will adjust the plane to every bump and valley; it's like going several hundred miles an hour in a jeep. Some people feel that a modified system like that could save a lot of lives on commercial carriers. (If you're wondering how they drop the big one, that's classified. But one way it possibly could be done is the so-called toss method. They stand the plane on its tail, switch all eight engines to rock 'n' roll, kick that nuke out of the belly hatch and climb like hell--about 8500 feet a minute.)

An even less expensive system called a ground-proximity warning system that costs about $8000 could have warned the Eastern captain. It flashes a red light on the console that reads Pull Up and a recording shouts "Pull up!" As it turned out, the Eastern plane touched the swamp and disintegrated. One hundred and one people died.

When the NTSB investigates a crash, two devices help: the cockpit voice recorder mentioned earlier and a Digital Flight Data Recorder (D.F.D.R.) that happened in the above case to be in the L-1011 (now called a "swamp buggy" by A.T.C.s, much to the chagrin of some pilots). The D.F.D.R. retains a comprehensive history of esoteric technical data during flight, such as engine thrust, air speed, altitude, heading, vertical acceleration, roll angle, pitch attitude and angle of attack. These two machines (unlike the rest of the plane) are built to survive crashes. The NTSB report on Eastern flight 401 ran to 46 pages and is a public document, including graphs, photos and recommendations for improvements that might prevent future accidents of that kind. A Pan Am 707 had a similar experience near Bali in April 1974--the fourth of Pan Am's 707s to go down in nine months. That plane rammed a mountain. The FAA ordered a worldwide investigation of Pan Am's operations and the company ordered all 140 of its planes to be equipped with ground-proximity warning systems, though even this device cannot tell the pilot what's ahead of him but only what's directly below, as it works with information generated by the radio altimeters. And, in fact, until die recent crash near Washington's Dulles Airport, in which a Boeing 727 flew into a mountain, the FAA still refused to order the system installed on all airliners. In that particular crash, in December 1974, TWA flight 514, going 235 miles per hour and weighing 136,000 pounds, hit one ridge in a series referred to as Mount Weather and disintegrated so thoroughly that post-mortems could not be done on the flight-deck crew. Ninety-two persons were killed. The crew had an altimeter and a map of the area that required the plane to stay at 3400 feet. But when the A.T.C. told them they were clear for approach to their runway, they thought that meant they could descend to 1800 feet. A few weeks before this happened, a United pilot almost did the same thing. He was lucky enough to have had clear weather: He saw the mountain in time to pull up. He reported the incident to his company. Charles Beatley, mayor of Alexandria, Virginia, and a United DC-8 pilot, had the same experience. No one is certain yet exactly whose fault the Mount Weather crash was. The TWA magazine Flite Facts published an article prior to the accident that seemed to encourage pilots to do what that captain did--make the assumption that if he was cleared for approach, he was cleared to descend below the minimum altitude. Wherever the blame lies, everyone agrees that a ground-proximity warning system would have given the crew a much better chance of surviving, even with the faulty communication.

• • •

What kills you if you are in a plane crash? Often it is the seats. Most airplane seats are made to withstand the force of nine gs.The human body can stand 35 gs. So if a plane decelerates suddenly, the seats break loose at their moorings and everybody goes sliding forward, perhaps still strapped in, though seat belts that don't have metal-to-metal buckles have a tendency to slip and let you go. In March 1972, most of the 45 passengers in the Mohawk plane that crashed in Albany, New York, were propelled through the plane into the forward cargo compartment and 14 of them were crushed to death.

In October 1974, a Trans-Australia Boeing 727 had seats torn loose by heavy chop encountered at 35,000 feet. Eleven persons were injured. In certain cases, a few passengers have been lucky enough to be thrown clear of the wreckage and land in such a way that they survive.

But you don't need a miracle like that to survive a crash. Many times a disabled airplane will go down with the pilot more or less in control. Some people may be injured--some may even be killed-- but many will survive impact, just as they would in an auto accident. And then diose who survive are faced with the problem of getting out.

In June 1971, an Allegheny Convair 340/440 crashed in New Haven, Connecticut. All but two passengers survived the impact, but while they were on the ground, trying to get out of the wreckage, 27 burned to death because several hundred gallons of aviation-grade kerosene exploded. The NTSB asked for a system to prevent fuel fires. The FAA did nothing.

A fuel-explosion-protection system keeps fuel from burning until it is in the engines. There are several methods used in military aircraft. One simple method is to inject an inert gas into the vent lines and the air space above the unburned fuel in the tanks. Without oxygen, the fuel can't burn. There is also a honeycomb that can be put into tanks to contain fuel in small isolated pockets. With that system, you can shoot a fuel tank with incendiary tracer bullets and it won't explode. These methods are expensive (about $70,000 for a 747) but expense doesn't frighten the airlines when it comes to in-flight frills, such as movies, meals and stereo music.

Even if a survivor isn't burned, he may die from poison gases given off by burning seat cushions, plastics, drapes, and so on. Cyanide and other gases produced when these materials burn can incapacitate you in a lot less than 90 seconds--the minimum time required by the FAA to evacuate a fully loaded 747. In 1961, a DC-8 crashed at Denver. Everyone survived the impact, but 16 were killed by carbon monoxide when the plane burned. Forty-nine died the same way in Rome in 1964 and 43 at Salt Lake City in 1965. Near Midway Airport in 1972, the United 737 mentioned earlier came down on a residential area and seven of the fatalities resulted from cyanide poisoning. Cyanide can be given off by burning wool, cotton, paper and plastics, but the NTSB didn't say where it came from. In fact, some people maintain that the cyanide was put there to assassinate the Watergate-related figures who died inside the plane, because--among other things--FBI men were on the scene so fast they appeared to have expected the crash. But the NTSB explains the cause of the accident as follows: "Captain's failure to exercise positive flight management."

In a North Central--Delta crash at O'Hare in 1972, in which a plane taking off hit another on the ground, nine of the ten dead were killed by toxic gases. Others were burned. The NTSB report said that survival would have been more likely had the North Central flight crew stayed on board to help evacuate the passengers. One invalid who couldn't get up without help was simply left strapped in his seat, where he died. Most members of the flight crew are supposed to stay on the plane until it is evacuated. And most do. In the famous mid-air collision over New York, a pilot lost his life going into the burning wreckage to save someone.

Only the FAA can make such things as fireproof interiors mandatory, and it has the problem of simultaneously trying to promote a very profitable airline industry and safe flying--things that are beginning to seem mutually exclusive. Recently, a House investigations subcommittee chaired by Representative Harley O. Staggers conducted an exhaustive investigation of the FAA and decided, according to the report, that it is notoriously slow in taking action on matters that "may literally endanger human life." The report says the FAA is oversolicitous of the airline industry: "The attempt to balance dollars against lives benefits no one."

Also, the FAA doesn't seem to know how to order its priorities. It spent most of 1973 researching mid-air collisions, which constitute only two percent of all accidents. There was no money spent to learn about "controlled flight into terrain" crashes (such as the Miami disaster), responsible for 56 percent of the total. The House subcommittee also criticized the FAA for allowing industry representatives to participate in the process that leads to FAA mandates for air safety, a situation that seems to carry the strong possibility of blatant conflicts of interest. Safety costs money. Furthermore, safety precautions bring to everyone's attention the possibility that something might go wrong. The airlines don't want nervous passengers. So the instructions stewardesses give include only the barest minimum of safety procedures. For example, do you know which exits have slides? How soon you'd need oxygen if the cabin lost pressure, or what you'd feel if you needed supplementary oxygen? How you should evacuate a plane that hits the ground? And do you know how to open the door? Most people don't. In 1971, in the Allegheny Convair 340/440 that went down at New Haven, 15 of the dead were found near a rear service door. Investigators assumed that when the lights went out-- which they do when a plane crashes--the people couldn't read the instructions for opening the door and died in the smoke and fire. The stewardess who should have opened the door was injured and couldn't help. (Normally, two stewardesses are required on this type of plane, but Allegheny was granted an exemption from this rule.) The passengers should have read the instruction card before take-off, but the installation of high-quality emergency lighting systems to lead passengers to proper exits could have saved lives. There are emergency lights, but they apparently didn't do the job in that case. An observer recently inspected the emergency lighting in a 727 and found it inadequate even for reading a newspaper. Imagine what it would be like in heavy smoke.

There are some wholly unnecessary--and unreported--dangers in commercial flight. More than 90 percent of commercial airliners, according to an Air Line Pilots Association (A.L.P.A.) study, carried hazardous materials until recently. In November 1973, a Pan Am cargo 707 crashed at Boston because bottles of nitric acid, improperly labeled and set on their sides in a pile of sawdust, leaked, caused a fire and filled the cockpit with smoke. The crew members had not been told about the nitric acid; they thought the smoke in the cockpit was caused by an electrical fire and since the plane was operating all right, they passed several airports on the way to Boston, because they wanted to reach their own service crews. The smoke goggles failed to keep smoke out of the crew's eyes and they couldn't see to fly the plane. The smoke-venting system didn't work well enough to clear the cockpit in time. The plane landed 262 feet short of the runway.

In 1971, a Delta plane contaminated with radioactive molybdenum 99 carried 917 passengers over a period of days. In April 1974, as many as 213 on two Delta flights may have been exposed to radioactivity from improperly shielded indium 192. Airliners may also be carrying germ and virus cultures, or explosives. If you fly regularly, you've probably spent time sitting above some of these things. And what the FAA has done about this problem is so grossly inadequate that pilots have had to threaten to boycott flights carrying dangerous substances.

James Sparling, safety officer of the Aircraft Mechanics Fraternal Association (A.M.F.A.), representing 8000 men, calls the FAA "the worst of all Government agencies when it comes to public safety." He described situations in which mechanics "may be biting their knuckles a little bit when the airplane departs."

James Eckols, a captain and an A.L.P.A. representative, says of the FAA, "They're the world's worst. You keep turning over rocks and you don't find just worms. You find tarantulas. And the finger always ends up pointing at the FAA. They don't just commit adultery with the airlines, they commit incest."

The general rule is that the FAA won't issue an "airworthiness directive" (which has the force of law) until something terrible happens, such as the Dulles crash. And even then, nothing may be done. An airworthiness directive is a mandate from the FAA that describes what legal qualifications a vehicle must have to fly. Before leaving the ground, every craft made or flown in this country has to be certificated by the FAA as an airworthy machine. Basically, that means that it will fly. But then, some vehicles considered to be airworthy by the FAA have failed to stay in the air. Consider the Turkish Airlines (THY) DC-10 in which 346 people lost their lives near Paris. That crash was preceded in June 1972 by a "deal" (as certain horrible situations are nonchalantly called by A.T.C.s) over Windsor, Ontario, in which a cargo door blew off an American Airlines DC-10 that had just taken off from Detroit Metro Airport. The plane lost pressure, causing the cabin floor to buckle, thereby jamming control cables in the floor-support beams. This stopped the number-two (center) engine and caused the rudder to malfunction. The crew had no idea what was wrong. All they knew was that they were in big trouble. But they responded with cool professionalism and no one died when the badly disabled plane made an emergency landing at Detroit.

The NTSB recommended a modification to ensure that die door couldn't dose without being properly locked. The Los Angeles office of the FAA wanted to issue an airworthiness directive at that point, but manufacturers are made uneasy by such a ruling, because it suggests that their product is defective. Also, they have to spend money to comply. The DC-10 is far from being an inferior airplane. It handles well and incorporates some of the most sophisticated aerospace technology to date. And it would be foolish to think that McDonnell Douglas would purposely design a bad plane. But the machine is so incredibly complex that it was inevitable that problems would develop. The two worst problems were with the cabin floor and with the now-famous cargo door. In May 1970, the DC-10 prototype fuselage was finished and ready for its "pressure vessel test." The engineers closed the doors and started pumping air into the plane, simulating the pressurizing process that would take place as the plane rose into the air. They kept pumping air until something blew. Well below the minimum pressure, the cargo door blew off this prototype DC-10, causing the floor to collapse. To prevent die front part of the floor from collapsing, engineers added venting doors that would open in die event of depressurization. But the rear part of the floor was not strong enough to allow for such vents. No one yet knows whose fault the problem was. The subsequent events and the reasons for the failure of either McDonnell Douglas or the FAA to do anything about the problems are so complicated that John Godson devoted all of his book The Rise and Fall of the DC-10 to the subject. But the danger was dear to at least one man long before the crash occurred near Paris. An engineer named F. D. Applegate wrote a memo (no one knows who saw it), saying, "It seems to me inevitable that in the 20 years ahead of us, DC-10 cargo doors will come open and cargo compartments will experience decompression for other reasons, and I would expect this to usually result in the loss of the airplane." Whether or not this memo ever came to the attention of the FAA, no airworthiness directive was issued after the Windsor deal.

Instead, McDonnell Douglas appealed to John H. Shaffer, FAA administrator, and they reached what an FAA official called a gentlemen's agreement, by which McDonnell Douglas would issue a service bulletin, calling for voluntary compliance. The necessary changes were not made on the THY DC-10. Though an official report has not yet been released, experts agree that the door blew off, and the worst disaster in aviation history resulted. It wasn't until a year later that the FAA decided to require modifications. The system will be designed to keep the floor safe from buckling even if the plane has a 20-square-foot hole in it. The door that blew off, however, measured 22 square feet.

The full story of the blame for the Paris crash will not be told for years to come. At the McDonnell Douglas annual meeting in St. Louis in April 1974, its president, Sanford McDonnell, said the company was distressed by the incident. But, he added, it was inexcusable that the French baggage handler in Paris, who was responsible for closing the cargo door, couldn't read English, the language in which the instructions were printed.

McDonnell may have been a little upset with the way maintenance crews sometimes handle aircraft. But, in general, what you hear is that they're meticulous, well trained and conscientious. And the A.M.F.A. is right now agitating for closer FAA attention to air-carrier maintenance--because it is perfectly legal in the U.S. to send up an airplane that isn't working properly. For instance, there are four hydraulic systems in a 747. If one of them isn't working, the plane can take off anyway. This is the thrust of the Minimum Equipment List (M.E.L.) concept, on which mechanics operate, not altogether enthusiastically. There are two lights on a wing tip. The plane can fly with one burned out. If one thrust reverser is broken, the aircraft can go with the other. Trijets have at least three electrical generating systems. They can operate with only two working, as one United 727 did over San Mateo Bay on January 18, 1969. It then had a fire and shut down an engine. Then another generator failed, leaving the plane with no electricity, flying in the middle of the night, through clouds and over deep water. On top of this--it was theorized--since there were no lights, the flight engineer, reaching for a switch, accidentally cut his battery power. At that point, he probably didn't know why he was getting no power and, while he was trying to figure it out, the airplane went into the water and 38 people died. The plane had gone through 42 flight hours and 28 stations with the number-three generator broken and no one--not even the pilot who died as a result of the failure--demanded that it be repaired. The reason? It's hard to say, but pilots who slow down schedules annoy airlines, which are losing money while a plane is out of service.

Mechanics write Flight Standards Mechanical Reliability Reports, which are very hard for someone outside the industry to come by because they are very unsettling. Some examples from 1972, obtained by Ralph Nader after litigation: "Unscheduled landing [because the plane] lost all hydraulic fluid and utility pressure during cruise about three hours after take-off... found leaking hose... in number-three pylon and failed number-two and number-three engine-driven pumps and number-one auxiliary pump leaking." "Returned due to number-four-engine stall on take-off... replaced engine." "Number-two engine had series of stalls in climb, then flame-out. Restarted and stalling continued. Shut down engine and returned." (According to a captain interviewed on die subject, the pilot should never have tried to restart the engine.) "Pilot reported on take-off, lost hydraulic pressure and quantity. Dumped fuel, returned." "After take-off from Las Vegas, two pieces of wheel rim, first piece 14 inches and second piece 18 inches long, and the number-six tire was found on the runway... the crew was alerted and the fight continued."

So what can you do to protect yourself? Not much. As one captain put it, "If we did everything we could to make the plane totally safe, it would weigh 900,000 pounds and carry four passengers and a crew of five. They'd have a very wonderful and safe flight and a ticket would cost a million dollars." So take some minimal precautions of your own.

If you are in an aircraft and see something that makes you think the flight may be in danger, get off the plane. No one can stop you as long as the plane has not been cleared for take-off. If you do decide to take the flight, the safest place to sit is by a door or an emergency exit, and on smaller jets as far as possible from the engines (in case they explode, burn or blow off). On the jumbo jets (747, DC-10 and L-1011--learn to know the equipment you fly), sit over the wings, the most stable area during turbulence. You can get knocked around pretty badly when the plane encounters heavy chop or turbulence. Also, do keep your seat belt fastened. A United pilot recently joked that he kept his on because he worried about getting sucked out if his window broke. He may have been thinking about G. F. Gardner, who was sucked out into the night when a DC-10's General Electric CF-6 engine blew apart and shattered his window. (The engine in question had been removed for repairs four times prior to the incident.) The man had his seat belt on, but it was loose and he slipped out. The flight-deck crew has shoulder harnesses as well as metal-to-metal seat-belt buckles that would probably keep them in their seats in a decompression situation. But even if your seat belt won't keep you from getting sucked out the window, it may keep you from banging your head. An aircraft hitting certain kinds of down-drafts can drop at a rate of 2000 to 3000 feet a minute--fast enough to send people through the roof and break their necks. (And the next time you're approaching a gate in a plane that's landed, consider what an American captain said about seat belts: "I've got three thousand pounds of hydraulic pressure in my plane. If some asshole is standing up while I'm taxiing and I touch the brakes, he's gonna go flying through the cabin.")

If you consider drinking while in flight, remember that in an emergency, it will slow you down. At lower air pressures, the effects of alcohol are magnified. An FAA brochure warns, "Two martinis become four at altitude." So when you've had a few drinks and feel pleasantly warm, if the cabin loses pressure, you may find yourself blind drunk and unable to do anything. Most crew members are not even allowed to enter a tavern in uniform. Federal regulations prohibit anyone who has had a drink from entering the cockpit and anyone who is intoxicated from entering a plane. Pilots have a saying, "Twelve hours from bottle to throttle." As badly as you might need those two vodka tonics, abstaining could improve your chances of surviving a crash.

But even if you're stone-sober, you may be in for a surprise if something goes wrong. On National Airlines flight 27 on November 3, 1973, when Gardner was sucked out of that McDonnell Douglas DC-10, the plane naturally lost all its pressure. At 39,000 feet, the necessary supply of air was gone in a few seconds. At that altitude, you can go for about 20 seconds without supplementary oxygen before becoming incapacitated. There are emergency oxygen masks that the stewardess demonstrates at the beginning of each flight. What most people don't know is that this system doesn't necessarily work. When the number-three fan assembly on National's DC-10 number N60 NA disintegrated, it blew numerous holes in the body of the plane, knocking out several systems. While the crew was desperately trying to keep the plane aloft and under control, many of the remaining 115 passengers were finding that they had no access to oxygen and were losing consciousness. After a loud explosion, the cabin filled with blue-gray smoke. The head stewardess telephoned the engineer and asked him to try to deploy the oxygen masks. Some of the masks appeared, but others weren't available for up to three minutes. And then a further problem existed. Incredibly, that oxygen system uses an explosive "thermal decomposition" (read: fire) involving sodium chlorate to create oxygen inside a sealed container. This heats the oxygen cylinder (located in the headrests of the seats) to 547 degrees Fahrenheit. To start the reaction, the passenger pulls a type of ripcord. Because the mountings of the cylinder are so weak, some passengers pulled the cord and the bottles came tumbling out into their laps. Not only were several passengers burned but one of the canisters reportedly caused a fire. All of this equipment is perfectly legal, according to current FAA rules. Furthermore, John H. Reed, chairman of the NTSB, wrote to Alexander Butterfield (FAA administrator at the time): "Portable oxygen equipment [for the stewardesses] is contained in closed cabinets near the cabin attendants' stations. The regulator assemblies were covered with cellophane-type wrapping, which was held by an elastic band. K-S disposable oxygen masks and supply tubing were sealed separately in plastic bags and stored with, or near, the portable oxygen bottles.... The board questions the 'immediate availability' of such equipment when it must be unwrapped and assembled before it can be used, considering the reduced time of useful consciousness at flight-level altitudes."

One final note on this episode: When the crew skillfully landed the crippled plane (the pilot had to dive the plane to get to an altitude at which the passengers could breathe), two of the pneumatic slides didn't work. This is a common occurrence. Eight months later, the very same aircraft was involved in a near disaster close to Tampa.

But for that matter, no airplane is a miracle machine. They are not, for example, necessarily able to handle every kind of meteorological condition. You should choose your own weather. The best time to fly is during a high-pressure system, on a very clear day. The FAA operates 385 Flight Service Stations around the country. By knowing something about meteorology and calling one, you can find out if you should go up in the air. The worst time to fly is at night during a blizzard or an electrical storm. Lightning can strike your plane. In one study, 153 strikes of commercial aircraft were recorded in two years. Planes are like big metal barns and though they have lightning deflectors, fatal strikes occur: A Pan Am 707 was struck over Maryland in 1963 and a fuel tank exploded. Eighty-one people died.

Be wary of certain airports. Pilots are. Hong Kong and San Diego are universally hated. Coming into Hong Kong (the only airport with a traffic sign--it tells pilots where to turn as they fly toward a mountain), you're stuck between the mountains and the ocean. A pilot really has to slide the plane in there with precision. You can sometimes tell what people are having for dinner as you pass the tall apartment buildings. San Diego requires a very steep descent, since final approach is directly over the city--and planes actually have to fly between rows of apartment buildings. Other bad airports include Washington National, where various restrictions require planes to follow the Potomac until they are very near the airport. Then they have to execute an unusually steep turn in order to line up the runway. Any maneuver is more dangerous at low altitude, since there is less room to correct a mistake.

Another horrible airport is Houston Intercontinental. According to the FAA, a fully loaded 747 needs over 11,000 feet of runway. Houston's longest is 9401 feet. The two runways are in bad repair. An airplane going 130 knots on a rough surface sustains structural damage that can literally cause it to fall apart in mid-air. At present, one runway is closed for resurfacing and lengthening. This runway has a 77.5-foot unlighted obstruction at one end (into "which a DC-3 crashed recently) and a 142-foot obstruction three miles down the other side, in addition to a high pine hedge. When this runway opens with its new surface, pilots will face another problem: It is easy to mistake the airport-access-expressway lights for the lights of the runway. Someone unfamiliar with the layout could accidentally land on the freeway, especially if the runway lights happened to be out. Houston also allows smaller aircraft to take off and land on taxiways. The planes that use the big runway have to taxi on these roads, creating an incredible risk. The FAA says this situation is not high risk. That means that nothing has happened--so far. A further problem is that there are places on airport property that couldn't be reached by emergency equipment if a crash occurred.

But the worst airport of all is Los Angeles International. The International Federation of Air Line Pilots Associations has given L.A. a Class Three Black Star rating, the lowest possible rating for an airport. Only a few others have a Class Three Black Star and most of those are in undeveloped Africa. L.A.'s rating is the result of noise regulations that often require a plane to make ocean approaches with the wind at its back. To understand the gravity of this sin, you must understand flying. But suffice it to say that Bernoulli's theorem and Newton's second law of motion are commonly used to explain how planes stay in the air, and having the wind at your back discourages both of these effects and forces the plane to land at a much higher ground speed. So maybe you should never go to L.A. by plane. Pilots don't particularly like to. One captain said without qualification, "They're going to kill people in L.A." There's a place on the worst approach there called the black hole.

Without question, (he best airport is Dallas--Fort Worth (D.F.W.). Braniff captain William Alford. who represents 56,000 pilots at the International Civil Aviation Organization in Montreal each year, calls it "as nearly perfect an airport as there is today." It is hell on the ground (perhaps you've heard some of the horror stories about that place, such as the dollar-bill changers that gave 95 cents and the hot dogs that cost six bits), but it's the first airport ever designed with the advice of A.L.P.A.'s Airport Evaluation Committee. All of the common problems of risky airports were eliminated before D.F.W. was even built. For example, according to FAA standards, a mile downrange, the maximum height of an obstruction should be 120 feet. At D.F.W., that distance has been doubled.

Dulles Airport may be the second safest. But the recent crash that killed 92 near there has brought up some question about that. And, as an American captain put it, "Yeah, Dulles is great because nobody ever goes there."

O'Hare is legendary in the business. Last year it handled 681,000 operations. The A.T.C.s in the O'Hare tower are in their mid-20s and are prone to ulcers, nervous breakdowns and ill-fated marriages. They have the look of young athletes who like to go out and raise some good old-fashioned hell now and then. But on the job, they appear rigid, tense, precise, wired. Big cookie jars filled with individually wrapped Gelusil tablets sit out on the counters and you see a lot of the men using Chap Stick on lips chewed raw and tender. They get paid no more than an A.T.C. in Miami or Atlanta, maybe up to $24,000, so they don't go to O'Hare for the money.

"It's like being on the best football team in the league," an O'Hare A.T.C. said recently in a bar near the airport. "It's something you've got to love. We all love our jobs, don't we?" He gets nods of assent from the other A.T.C.s around the table. He talks like a speed freak or a New York PR man. "It's an ego thing. We're the biggest and we're the best. There's no other place like this in the world. Merst, here, he's picking up his divorce papers tonight. I picked up mine two years ago and I'm only twenty-seven. But this work is our first love."

Indeed, there is no place like it. A visitor can watch from the tower as an A.T.C. squeezes off departures, slips in arrivals, coaxes the pilot off the runway just in time for another departure. From his cockpit, a pilot recently remarked that O'Hare was the only place in the world where you'd see that kind of precision maneuvering. The controller eyeballs the craft three to six miles out, judging distance/velocity/time, figuring what the equipment--pilot combination is and is not capable of doing. He must keep the planes at least three miles apart in clear weather, five in bad weather (known as IFR, for instrument-flight rules). And it is a very close-order drill. A few seconds lost and either somebody is off again, circling, or you've got yourself a deal. And it never lets up. On the radar, you can see a rail-roadlike line of big jets (known as a daisy chain) moving in from all the way back to the holding areas. In the four quadrants of the radar screen, the planes are milling around in circles, holding, with the pilots bitching about fuel, threatening to go to Detroit or Milwaukee if they aren't put in line soon. On the ground, they're lined up to the gates and still coming. In IFR weather, the A.T.C.s are allowed to work this position for no more than 90 minutes at a time, so demanding is the job.

"It's like you might have to do eighty, ninety operations during that period of time," an A.T.C. said, while controlling ten or more planes, carrying on six conversations at once, in addition to explaining his job. "Now, you look out there and tell me if this looks like a goddamned slowdown," he said, referring to accusations by airlines that the A.T.C.s were dragging their feet. "In IFR weather, maybe you can't see twenty feet out the window. You've got planes spaced five miles apart all the way back and they can't see each other and you can't see them and you've got to be one hundred percent right for an hour and a half. There are no mistakes. Lose concentration for just a second and your whole system breaks down." He was exaggerating a bit about the exact tolerance and precision of his work, but a deal did almost occur while he was talking. "Did you see that truck drop the generator on our active runway just then?" He pointed to where a trijet (called a three holer) was just touching down. It had taken a full half minute to get the generator off the runway. "Well, that could have been a deal. But I had a split second, made a decision, put my arrival into another pattern and everything worked out." And while that near deal was in progress, the A.T.C. talked so fast and to so many planes that others in the tower stopped to listen. When the verbal gymnastics ended, they applauded.

In contrast, the scene in the cockpit is almost tranquil. Not long ago, a United DC-10 came into O'Hare from Denver on a Tuesday night in poor weather. It was cloudy, foggy and intermittently raining and snowing in Chicago. As the plane came into the first holding area, the controllers could be heard talking a mile a minute. Meanwhile, the pilot had set his plane to a radio-beacon course and an electrical signal at the holding area. Once it was set, the plane ran a race-track-like figure back and forth from its holding point, automatically turning, maintaining altitude, speed, attitude, and so forth, as the pilot turned the knobs until the controller directed him to another holding point. The pilot put his feet up and relaxed. At the second holding point, he moved to a new electrical marker and did the same thing. In each holding area, the planes were stacked up 1000 feet apart and the controllers kept dealing them off the bottom, shifting the higher planes down 1000 feet at a time and finally vectoring them into an approach controller. At one point in the third and final holding position, an A.T.C. found a second in his steady stream of transmissions to remark, "Ain't it strange, a guy makin' $80,000 a year for going around in circles?" The DC-10 pilot was talking at the time and didn't hear it.

On the final vectoring and descent to landing, things pick up in the cockpit. The plane has to be trimmed up for landing configuration. Check lists have to be read. The crew has to prepare itself for the critical few moments of the flight. Then the pilot lines up the plane in a gun-sight type of instrument and as long as he keeps the image of his aircraft in the cross hairs, he will come down right on the end of the runway. There's another set of check lists to be read on the ground, which the crew can do while the plane is taxiing to the gate. And the flight is done. Meanwhile, the A.T.C. is bringing in another plane, and another. Once the traffic gets heavy, it just doesn't let up. Delay compounds delay.

But then, the A.T.C.s admit, even they aren't perfect. So when you demand perfection from a person, you're going to see deals occasionally. Recently, there was a crash of an Air Force plane near Seattle. An A.T.C. confused the call letters of two planes he had at the same altitude. He told the wrong one to descend and it flew into a mountain, killing 16 on board. A few months before that crash, a controller fell asleep at his position with a hog (A.T.C.s' name for a 747) moving head on toward a C-5A Galaxy, the world's largest aircraft, which had its first fatal crash this year in Saigon while being used to evacuate orphans. The two planes missed each other by about 30 feet. Near collisions in mid-air are more common than one would expect. The Aviation Safety Institute counted 43 near collisions in one three-month period. There is a device that could warn planes that are getting too close to each other, but the FAA has not required airlines to install it. And so responsibility for keeping the planes apart is left up to the controllers, for the most part.

• • •

Are some airlines better than others? The FAA and the CAB (Civil Aeronautics Board) say they've never studied the matter. The airlines aren't talking about it. A pilot will favor the company he works for. Passengers have their own ways of choosing. One London aviation lawyer said, "I have some clients who run immaculate airlines and I have certain clients whose planes I wouldn't get aboard if you paid me in heavy gold." He would not mention names, of course, and we have no way of guessing who he's talking about. In a recent talk with some A.T.C.s, however, they all agreed which one they prefer to fly: Continental.

"They really move their tail for you," one O'Hare A.T.C. joked. "It's really true. Of course, we're naturally a little prejudiced. If we tell them to do something, they do it, and fast. It's like a challenge to them. You can't count on other airlines to do what you want when you need it and not only does that slow down traffic but it can get you into a deal. Sometimes you transmit something urgent to a pilot--like, you've got two seconds to get it done--and he'll say, 'Huh?' A Continental pilot will always hear you the first time." A captain from a competing airline pointed out, however, that if an A.T.C. has worked himself into the position of having only two seconds, he has made a big mistake. It's true, though, that a pilot may sometimes fail to respond to calls. In October 1974, Northwest flight 27 went 25 miles without answering the A.T.C. in the O'Hare radar room. The A.T.C. finally had to radio another Northwest plane to call the company, which in turn called Northwest 27 and told him to pay attention.

"If I have a Continental in front on take-off," the A.T.C. goes on, "and squeeze an American off right behind him, say I want the Continental to do a one-eighty. I'd better warn him there's a slowpoke behind him, because I know that Continental's going to give me a one-eighty and quick. We call that a Continental turn. He might go all the way around and get into a deal with American. Or if I've got American up first, I've got to tell Continental to turn, because when he's going 230 knots, American might still be pushing 200 and Continental is going right up his tail."

"They're cowboys," another A.T.C. agreed. "That's what we call 'em. They've got the guts and the know-how to use the airplane. They know its potential for performance. Those airplanes--those big three-holers--they can really fly like a rocket. Hell, Hefner's plane--that little DC-9--even that can go pretty good. And he seems to get cowboy pilots who know what they're doing. If one of those guys comes off my runway, I know I can ask him for anything and he'll give it to me. A lot of airlines don't like making steep banks. This is allegedly for passenger comfort, meaning they don't want to spill Scotch. A Continental pilot will just come over the cabin intercom and explain that he's making a little sharper turn than normal, that it's been authorized by us, and then he'll lay that sucker on its wing--and never spill a drop of Scotch back in the cabin. That's the Continental turn. And if they get a little priority now and then, it's not because of favoritism but because when you've got this much traffic, if you see a little slot where you might get a plane off or land one, you've got to know the pilot can handle it with no foul-ups. You see an Allegheny waiting on the runway and you want an immediate take-off? He could sit there for a full 15 seconds before he starts moving. And that could mean a deal. Immediate means now. A lot of Continental pilots will jack the cabin pressure up to 7000 feet while they're still on the ground so your ears won't pop when they climb. Because these guys get wheels in the wells, stand that mother on its ass and go. And they're safe."

On the other hand, an American Airlines 727 captain responded to these remarks in the following manner: "Bullshit. It's true that O'Hare A.T.C.s are the best in the world. If they told me to fly upside down, I might question it, but, goddamn it, I'd fly upside down. But that stuff about Continental is bullshit. You can't jack the pressure up to 7000 feet on the ground. And if an A.T.C. has gotten so critical that it has to be 15 seconds, that controller is playing a little too tight. They may be cowboys, but not everybody thinks that's such a good thing to be. The A.T.C.s want speed, because it makes them look good. They'll get you a hundred feet off the ground and tell you to make a turn. Then a passenger in the cabin looks out the window and sees the wing tip almost touching the ground and he goes home and says to his wife, 'Good Lord, honey, we almost crashed this morning'--and he doesn't want to fly with you anymore. Anybody can cowboy an airplane. Our pilots have a lot of pride in what we do. We don't usually tell nonaviation people this, but we feel like very special gifted people because we're allowed to fly. We've got perfect vision, split-second reflexes and when I'm up there, I'm God. I am totally responsible for the lives of 91 people. And I'm not going to hurt anybody. I've never hurt anybody because of fooling around with my aircraft. And I take pride in that. We also take pride in precision flying. If an A.T.C. tells me to execute a maneuver, I'm going to do it, because it makes me look good, it makes my company look good--it makes the whole system look good. And that stuff about not wanting to spill Scotch. First of all, at that point in flight, no Scotch is being served. But secondly, I always try to imagine some little old grandmother sitting in my cabin holding a basket of eggs. Then I fly the plane for her. I give her the smoothest, softest, most enjoyable ride I can give. When I do a turn, I want it so smooth and easy that the passengers will hardly notice what we're doing. If I'm alone in a plane, that's different. I've flown fighter planes, helicopters, all kinds of equipment. And any pilot worth a shit wants to fly hard now and then. That's why I like going into Washington National when the weather's good. You fly up the river and then have to make that steep turn. That's flying. Of course, in bad weather, that can get a little hairy at National. But the passenger is my main concern. Those are my people and I'm going to take care of them. I wouldn't want to fly with a cowboy. No way." And as far as American's being slow, an American Airlines "Cockpit Crew Operations Briefing" (a regularly distributed newsletter) stated: "When cleared to take the runway in preparation for take-off... if for any reason you won't be immediately ready to... take off... advise the tower.... Your cooperation may save landing aircraft from making a pull up and go around."

It might seem that it takes more nerve to be a pilot than to be an A.T.C. But according to the A.T.C.s, barring a deal of some kind, the pilot has only one thing to worry about: operating his plane safely--taking off and flying. The A.T.C. has hundreds of planes coming and going, holding and waiting. (On this subject, the American captain said: "Right. I don't earn the money I get--most of the time, that is. I just sit back and relax. But this"--he slapped his ass--"has thousands of hours of experience they're paying big money for. And when the time comes and the plane fucks up--as they do--then I earn every goddamned penny they've ever paid me, because that's when I fly the plane and that's when I justify all the money. An A.T.C. earns his money all the time. But for those few minutes when I earn mine--my life is on the line.")

You may have spent some frustrating time sitting on the ground or "loitering" (circling) over a city, wondering how the hell things could get so screwed up. To set the record straight, it's the airlines' (not the pilots' but the policy makers') fault that you're there, even though they like to foster the notion that the A.T.C.s or someone else should be blamed. Weather can be at fault. But airlines like to compete with one another by scheduling flights to the same place at the same time. If four companies have one flight each leaving at 8:23 on a Friday for Los Angeles, there is absolutely no way they are all going to take off on time. It is physically impossible for four planes to take off from the same airport at 8:23 on a Friday. Airlines know this, of course. They also know that those cleverly accurate-looking figures (9:21 instead of a more realistic "around half past nine") give the passengers a sense of precision that's comforting. But the truth is that rolling big airplanes out to a runway and telling them when to fly is a process fraught with complications that cannot be scheduled. That is why planes never seem to be on time.

Another thing airlines fail to do is let people know when a plane is going to be late. On a recent flight from Denver, the pilot could see at Dispatch in Denver that he was going to hold over O'Hare for "at least an hour." On the ground at O'Hare, the time on the sign at the gate was moved up in five- and ten-minute increments until it finally registered an hour and 15 minutes late when the plane arrived. Those on the ground, instead of anxiously hanging around a crowded gate, watching the clock, might have gone for a drink if they'd known the truth. A simple way to get the information for yourself is to find out how long the delay has been with other flights that have already landed. Everybody waits about the same length of time. Even hot pilots.

Stay away from companies having financial or managerial problems. It can't help their performance. Maintenance can be reduced and pilots pressured to take chances in the name of profit. Distracted managers might not be watching operations closely enough. A.L.P.A. reported in 1974 that "Ozark Air Lines has in the past disciplined captains [for refusing] to fly aircraft they deemed nonairworthy or to fly into weather they deemed not suitable for the flight involved." One pilot was discharged when he refused to fly into turbulence. Another pilot, who later did fly into bad weather, had a fatal crash.

Never fly in a newly designed aircraft. It takes a while to get the bugs out of them. When the Lockheed Electra came out, it had to operate at reduced speeds because of wing problems. The 707 had problems initially, though they were eventually worked out and this craft has now carried more passengers than any other airliner in history (perhaps a reason to fly 707s). L-1011s and 747s were something of a nightmare when they were first put into service. This is one reason A.T.C.s started calling the 747 a hog, though pilots are still known to get offended by this term. A recent transmission:

"United four oh one," said the A.T.C., "please taxi to runway two two right and await clearance for take-off right behind the United hog there." It was a slip of the tongue.

"Don't you think," the pilot asked dryly, "that it's a little strange to call a twenty-five-million-dollar piece of machinery a hog?"

"I can't help it if the price of pork went up."

But the original 747 did have its share of problems. It had JT-9D Pratt & Whitney engines, a new-generation gas turbine. And it had, as James Sparling put it, "really disastrous, catastrophic engine failures, turbine wheel separations and fragmentations, whipping out of fuel cells, draining fuel in mid-flight, knocking out flight controls and knocking out other engines... you wouldn't get me on a 747 in the early days." In October 1974, a 12-foot flap fell off a KLM 747 on approach to O'Hare. The plane landed at the airport. The flap landed in a suburban front yard.

And if you're thinking of flying in a DC-9, one of the more popular airplanes these days, consider this study done by A.L.P.A. The DC-9's fatality rate per 100,000 flight hours is three times as great as that of a 727, even though there are only half as many DC-9s in operation. DC-9s were found to have twice as many fatalities on departure when compared with the 727. And the DC-9 mid-air-collision rate was four times that of the 727. It has been suggested that a factor in this striking difference is that the 727 has a three-man crew, while the DC-9 has only a pilot and a copilot. Others suggest that since the DC-9 makes shorter runs, the greater number of take-offs and landings makes it more prone to mishaps. FAA spokesmen said the A.L.P.A. was just trying to make DC-9s look bad so they could get more jobs for pilots. But one pilot who flew DC-9s said the two men in the cockpit were "busier than one-armed paper hangers."

After taking all of these precautions, memorizing the location of the exits and learning how to operate door locks and staying cold sober for the flight--after choosing the best airport in the country and finding out that the weather is good all over the world, after making sure you're on the best aircraft made, on the finest airline in the country, and your own brother is flying it--what do you do if you are involved in a crash? You get out of the plane. The worst enemy of any airline employee who is trying to help people get out is the hero who stands up and says, "All right, everybody keep calm, don't panic, let's get organized." For what you want to do when the plane stops is to get everyone out as fast as possible and in any way possible. Women and children first? No way. Get everybody out in whatever order they come. Pregnant women? Throw them out. Cripples? Shove them out, kick them out--if you have to, knock them unconscious and toss them out. But whatever you do, don't try to create an orderly procession, because order takes time and time means a lot when you've landed in a big puddle of aviation-grade kerosene.

• • •

It has taken a long time for airlines to get where they are. The first big advances in aviation came with World War One, when 1.25 billion dollars of Government funds was poured into an Armed Forces Air Mail service. The first transcontinental flight was made in 1923.

Under Herbert Hoover, private air-mail routes were awarded by Postmaster General Walter Folger Brown. He was supposed to give routes to the lowest bidders, but instead, in a series of secret meetings in 1930 known as the spoils conferences, he and airline executives worked out the routes. Boeing kept its Northwest route. A Northern route went to a company called Transcontinental & Western Air, Inc., now known as TWA. And a Southern route went to American Airways.

When Roosevelt took office and Brown's actions came to his attention, the contracts were canceled. So the companies changed their names and got their old routes back.

As the airlines became fatter, they began to find competition annoying. This was when they formed the A.T.A., today the second largest lobby group in Washington. In 1938, their efforts resulted in the establishment of the Civil Aeronautics Board, creating a closed market. The big four--United, TWA, American and Eastern--still dominate the industry and no new carriers have been added since 1938.

In the late Thirties, flying became the glamor way to travel. Anything newer, bigger, flashier was snatched up by airlines and still is today, as one can see from the ongoing in-flight-frill competition and the way the jet age began. In 1955, Juan Trippe, head of Pan Am, ordered Boeing 707s, which were at the time a technological breakthrough comparable to the introduction of computers. No one could survive without jets. When the planes were delivered in 1958, the recession had struck, so the CAB granted an 18 percent fare increase over the next three years. By the mid-Sixties, the airlines were in their greatest boom.

The second big order of new equipment was also made by Trippe, who bought a number of 747s. Again he was first (and horribly premature) and again the others had to answer the challenge. At $25,000,000 a shot, everyone went into massive debt to get the jumbo jets. Then the 1970 recession took hold. Once more, the CAB upped the ante. Between 1970 and now, fares have gone up an additional 26.9 percent. Today, more fare increases are in the wind.

There doesn't seem to be much in the way of explanation for the behavior of top airline executives. One observer simply concluded that the airlines appear to be hopelessly mismanaged by manic depressives who react to good times as if they will last forever and to bad times as if they were the end of the world. One stock analyst whose specialty is investments in airlines says that the type of characters who started commercial aviation are responsible for this behavior. Hip-shooting, adventurous pioneers in the industry, exemplified by men such as Robert F. Six, founder of Continental Airlines, showed a kind of Old American Wild West attitude in the early days about getting things done. But that didn't help much in making sound decisions when they found themselves heads of enormous bureaucracies. The problems became evident in the way airline stocks performed. If the general stock market went up ten percent, airlines would go up 30 percent. If the market dipped a little, airline stocks would plunge. The only airline that grew steadily over the years (through intelligent decision making and cautious use of frills) was Delta (you may have noticed Delta airplanes don't always look as brand-spanking-new as others--not getting that new paint job was money in the bank). Now, for the first time, even Delta isn't doing as well as it used to and investors fear that the golden days of the airline industry are over. Not too far in the future, we may see the airlines in the same fix the railroads are in today. "If you take the salaries airline executives pay themselves," says Robert Murphy, former CAB member, "you'd think they had the cream of the crop there. They earn a quarter million on up a year. They shouldn't need a twenty-thousand-a-year man at the CAB to bail them out of their mistakes."

Actually, according to Ruben B. Robertson of the Aviation Consumer Action Project (ACAP), the CAB functions essentially to grant wishes of the airlines. "It's like a Government-sponsored trade association," he said. In June 1974, Robert Timm, then CAB director, flew with his wife to Bermuda on a United Aircraft Corporation jet. The tab was picked up by United, a big plane manufacturer. Among his other companions were William Seawell, chairman of Pan Am; Charles C. Tillinghast, TWA chairman; Harding Lawrence, Braniff chairman; and Arthur Kelly, president of Western Airlines. Recently, Timm has come under Congressional investigation for such escapades. It turns out that he's made a regular practice of accepting free services, meals, and so on, from airlines, not only in this country but all over the world. In April 1974, Timm took off on a monthlong European tour of ten countries, spending much of his time with top airline executives. A CAB spokesman said there was nothing improper about its director's meeting with any citizens.

Neither is there anything odd in the curious connections between airlines and Nixon. Timm himself, with no professional aviation experience, was appointed by Nixon. Clark MacGregor, former chairman of CREEP, is a vice-president of United Aircraft Corporation. Dwight Chapin went to work for United for a while. He is now fighting to stay out of jail because of his involvement in Watergate. Herbert Kalmbach's law firm was also hired by United. Kalmbach got six months for indiscreet campaign practices.

And recently, a bizarre incident involving the suicide of CAB official William Gingery opened a whole new can of worms (or tarantulas, as Eckols would say). Gingery left a note that implicated Richard J. O'Melia, acting chairman at the time, in the obstruction of investigations into possible illegal political contributions by airlines. Senator Edward Kennedy, who was heading a Congressional subcommittee that was investigating CAB affairs, called O'Melia, who flatly denied the charges made in Gingery's suicide note. O'Melia turned around and accused Timm of ordering him to stop those investigations. Timm denied O'Melia's charge and no one yet knows who is lying.

As a result of the note, the CAB's own enforcement bureau filed complaints against American Airlines and Braniff International. It accused American of faking entertainment expenses and hiding the money--at least $275,000--in a secret fund for the Nixon campaign. Chairman George Spater had already pleaded guilty in 1973 to charges of making illegal donations and was fined $5000. Others accused by the CAB are still working for American. Braniff was even less discreet: According to the CAB, it simply sold an unreported 3000 or 4000 airline tickets to generate nearly $1,000,000 for the campaign.

But, in spite of a few embarrassing illegal maneuvers and deaths, in spite of the prediction that airlines may be looking at a rather bleak future in financial terms, the Government and airline officials are going ahead full tilt, pulling in and spending money as if nothing at all were happening. In 1970, the Airport Development Aid Program Fund was established, putting an eight percent tax on each airline ticket. There is a 1.9-billion-dollar surplus. Since hijacking became popular, a 34-cent tax on tickets has been charged for anti-hijacking measures. Just over $100,000,000 was collected in the 1974 period, $25,000,000 more than was spent on security.

No doubt, the way certain Senators and officials are treated when they fly encourages Washington's friendly attitude toward airlines. Until recently, Allegheny's service manual instructed employees to recognize CAB members and Congressmen "on sight and greet them by name." Company officials were expected to greet them, "provide any assistance that the passenger may request, give priority to unloading passengers' flights" and accompany them to baggage-claim areas to make sure everything was in order. This kind of treatment encourages good relationships and good news when an airline needs a fare hike.

Though these practices have recently come under investigation, it's no wonder the airlines wanted special treatment for VIPs: The way they treated ordinary passengers wouldn't do their image much good on the Hill. Take, for example, getting bumped. Airlines book beyond their capacity and planes occasionally leave ticket holders behind. The CAB and the ACAP say that over 100,000 passengers a year are bumped. That's a lot of irritated people.

In April 1972, one such person was Ralph Nader, who was scheduled to speak in Hartford, Connecticut, and was left behind in Washington. Nader, of course, sued and the U.S. District Court in Washington awarded $50,000 in damages, calling Allegheny's act "wanton and willful misconduct." If you get bumped, an airline's own tariffs generally provide that you be placed on another flight that will delay you no more than two hours (four for international flights) at your destination. If they don't do this, you should be paid up to $200, depending on your ticket's value, within 24 hours. But if you want to sue, don't cash the check. There's a waiver on the back.

The reason the airlines would like CAB officials, Senators, et al., to be accompanied to baggage-claim areas can be explained by the way airlines handle baggage. U.S. airlines lose, damage or misplace 3,000,000 pieces of luggage a year. In one recent year, the world's airlines paid out more than $78,000,000 in baggage claims. This sum is staggering, considering that most limit their liability to $500 (though if the U.S. airlines paid $500 for each piece they lost in a year, they would dole out one and a half billion dollars). World Airways is the only carrier that doesn't have a limit and hasn't denied a claim. With that exception, your chances of getting even the $500 maximum are slim. The payment is for depreciated costs and there is a long list of things that are not covered: books, jewelry, cameras, fragile items, silverware, manuscripts, business papers, negotiable securities, cash, artwork, antiques. ... The fact is that most valuable things are not safe in your checked luggage. An airline captain said, "Wherever possible, I take my baggage on board. When I've got skis going, though, I live in mortal fear."

All liability on international flights is computed by weight, about $9.07 a pound. So you might consider carrying bricks if you have anything of value in your suitcases.

With so much wrong with flying, it seems remarkable that 54 percent of the adult American population has flown--up from 38 percent ten years ago. This makes the airliners about as special as superfast, airborne Greyhound buses. And one reason everyone continues to push ahead with the airlines is that they are tremendously good business (they're not going broke yet), not only because you pay for them but because they provide more than 300,000 direct jobs and countless thousands of incidental jobs, for designers, insurance men, bureaucrats, lawyers, airport bartenders, shoeshine men, janitors, architects, ironworkers et al.--and because they move all the things we like to have: things like strawberries, snake antivenin, the Juilliard String Quartet and the painting that illustrates this article. Trafficking in stolen tickets is big business. Banks are making huge profits, having lent airlines millions at high interest rates for jumbo jets. D.F.W. is the largest airport in the world--Manhattan would fit inside the land it covers. That $700,000,000 facility will soon take second place to one near Montreal. The International Air Transport Association (IATA) says that by 1990 there will be planes capable of carrying 1000 people, or almost three times the capacity of today's jumbo jets. The supersonic planes are coming back. By 1976, you should be able to cross the Atlantic--Washington to Paris--in about three and a half hours. This aircraft lands at such a nose-high altitude that it is equipped with a jointed nose that tilts out of the way so the crew can see where it's going. Ten miles in the sky, the plane will go so fast that the windshield would be destroyed if it weren't specially strengthened. The skin of the plane will reach 120 degrees centigrade at speeds approaching Mach 2.05, where two planes closing on each other would have virtually no chance to take evasive action. As if that weren't far enough into the future, some are looking forward to "space-line" flight, say, New York to Tokyo--lift-off, space shuttle, re-entry and landing--all in under an hour.

All of this may be very exciting to airline owners who hope to pull themselves up once again by their bootstraps, but in truth, we will be subsidizing the whole venture, because more taxes and surcharges will surely be needed and as long as the CAB has control, fares are guaranteed to keep going up, at the same time they continue to confuse anyone who tries to understand them. Jack Yohe, director of the CAB's Office of the Consumer Advocate, says that most agents don't even want to know what proper fares are. Consumer Reports concluded that the "structure of international air fares is so complicated that you stand a good chance of wasting hundreds of dollars if you don't spend some time boning up on the possibilities."

One way to get around this mess is to work for an airline. Then you and your family will become one of the "nonrevenue passengers." The A.L.P.A. advises members: "Don't brag about your status. .. especially to a passenger paying full fare. Imagine his reaction if you are paying $15 for your seat and he has to pay $300 for his."

International fares are not set by the CAB but by the IATA, a cartel of most scheduled international airlines (Icelandic is an exception, providing cheap transatlantic travel and maintaining an attractive safety record). The IATA sets its own rates and then submits them to the CAB for approval. If precedent means anything, the CAB is almost certain to allow the rates requested. Recently, it approved an incomprehensible package of fares to Europe that has made those trips more expensive than ever. The following day, it approved "no frill" fares on certain domestic routes that allow up to 35 percent off. Yet some fares are as much as 100 percent higher than necessary wholly as a result of the CAB. This represents some 3.5 billion wasted dollars.

These methods of handling business discourage development of safety equipment and procedures that will equal in excellence the rest of aviation's technical potential. Emphasis is placed on promotional improvements, such as spending $250,000 each for remodeling older planes to look like wide-bodied jets, an alteration that does nothing at all for the comfort or safety of the craft. For that price, they could have installed a fuel-explosion protection system, ground-proximity warning, stronger seat moorings, new seat belts and a collision-warning device--and had money left over.

Barry Goldwater asked, "Is it going to take the mid-air collision of a fully loaded 747 to wake us up...?" Well, the Paris crash was of a fully loaded jumbo jet.

Some airline critics would like to see less Government control of the industry, which, they say, would cut fares in half and improve safety. President Ford has recently proposed legislation that would limit the power of the CAB, encourage price competition and permit new airlines to be formed and old companies to fly new routes. As Lewis A. Engam, chairman of the FTC, said, "You may be pleased when you find yourself next to an empty seat, but how pleased would you be if you knew you were paying for it?" Walter D. Scott, of the Office of Management and Budget, calls the CAB system "outdated, inequitable and uneconomical... stifling competition, discouraging innovation and fostering inefficiency," none of which could possibly be good for safety. In a time when no one can afford anything, Ford's proposed bill may have to go through. That would be a step in the right direction. But business is good. And the Washington lobby is awfully strong. The in-flight lobster and stereo have so far attracted more customers than the knowledge that airlines are doing all they can to get you there safely at a reasonable price. So this leaves you sitting at home, about to make reservations for a three-week trip to the Yucatán. It's either the airlines or Amtrak, Greyhound or Trailways--or the family car--and you can't even have fun going 90 mph in Nevada anymore. So what can you do? There may be no hope for improving commercial air travel: The Department of Transportation just appointed a panel to study aviation safety. It includes a university president and two astronauts. It does not include any airline pilots, A.T.C.s or aviation mechanics.

There are no encouraging answers. If you have problems with an airline, write to the president of the company. Probably nothing will happen, but it helps to get it out of your system. So does writing to the President of the United States. You can also write to Jack Yohe, the CAB's consumer-advocate officer. He's a terrific guy, but he doesn't have much power. And there's always small-claims court, if your case is right for it. But you should probably write to the ACAP in Washington. Your letter will help it stockpile ammunition for later use. The airlines know the ACAP is a Nader organization. And not even G.M. messes with Nader. But if your complaint is a serious one--say, your wife or husband was killed in a plane because of lax standards or careless practices--then you don't have much recourse. The several hundred million dollars' worth of lawsuits resulting from the Paris crash will be in court for years. As John Galipault, president of the Aviation Safety Institute, says, the airlines' procedure when a crash occurs is to "notify the insurance underwriters, notify the next of kin and go about their business." But the final insult is that if you're killed, they don't even refund the price of your ticket.