Los Rodeos, 1977

CW: References to terrorism, depiction of a plane crash

March 27, 1977, 4:56 p.m.

It has been a bright Sunday afternoon in the Canary Islands. Two planes will crash in ten minutes.

Boeing 747 KLM 4805.

“Refueling’s complete, Captain.”

The Captain nods, upright in his seat. “Thank you, Engineer. Purser, is boarding complete?”

“Yes, Captain. Two hundred and forty-eight on board.”

The Captain turns to her, lowering his glasses to the tip of his nose. “I thought there were two hundred and forty-nine when we left Amsterdam. Are you sure it’s complete?”

The Purser flushes. “It is. The KLM guide decided to stay in Tenerife."

The Captain stares at her for a moment, then he turns back to the controls and puts the glasses away in his pocket. “All right. First Officer, request taxi clearance.”

The First Officer places the headset’s left earcup back on his ear and swings the boom mic down to his mouth. He’s always a little uncomfortable when the Captain is in the cockpit. The Captain was his instructor — he probably trained more than half of the company’s pilots — and is the face of KLM on many company brochures. “Approach KLM four eight zero five on the ground in Tenerife.”

The radio crackles. The response comes right away.

“KLM-ah-four eight zero five, roger,” replies the Controller.

The radio crackles again.

“We require backtrack on 12 for take-off Runway 30.”

The Tower instructs the KLM 747 to move down the main stretch, take the third exit on the left and follow the parallel lane toward the far end.

KLM 4805 confirms, but the Tower comes over the radio again. “Okay, KLM 80-ah-correction, four eight zero five, taxi straight ahead-ah for the runway and-ah-make-ah-backtrack.”

“Roger, make a backtrack.”

The Flight Engineer looks at his wristwatch. The wedding ring catches his eye for a moment.

“KLM 4805 is now on the runway.”

“Four eight zero five, roger.”

The Captain frowns at that. The First Officer replays the full conversation in his mind, just in case. Something’s off. His knee starts jumping.

“Approach, you want us to turn left on Charlie 1, taxiway Charlie 1?”

“Negative, negative, taxi straight ahead-ah-up to the end of the runway and make backtrack.”

The knee stills.

“Okay, sir.”

That’s actually an easier maneuver, the Captain thinks. He turns to the First Officer and gives him a small nod.

The Captain’s forehead lines thin out — not a bit more calming for the First Officer, though.

The First Officer lets out a silent sigh. They had been talking about the company’s new duty time limits and the feeling was that they needed every minute they could scrape together to return to Amsterdam within the rules.

Apparently, there’s now a narrow margin to reach Las Palmas and fly back home. And that margin lies between two bad options: KLM booking a few hundred hotel rooms for all the passengers, and the possibility of the Captain — the company’s golden boy — having to face a pilot’s license review.

As flight 4805 rolls down the main lane, another 747 —Pan Am 1736— asks for instructions to move. They’ve been blocked behind KLM’s 747. The possibility of moving again can barely soothe the anger. Or relieve the impatience among the passengers. After all, Pan Am 1736 comes from Los Angeles and, though the flight crew changed during the stopover at JFK, the airplane should have arrived at its destination in Las Palmas around two and a half hours ago.

They watch as KLM’s 747 starts moving toward the far end of the runway.

“Tenerife, Clipper 1736.” The voice of the Copilot is thin and rusty. He sips his coffee after speaking. He twists his lips in disgust and then clears his throat.

The door opens. Passengers yawn. Children’s feet stomp — as if jumping — while a woman’s voice hushes a toddler to sleep. An old man’s complaints come in from the cabin.

An assistant purser walks into the cockpit. She holds a donut in her hand, her skinny little finger sticking out. The Copilot is hungry. Or not. Maybe he just needs some sugar. He sips again, and again his lips twist.

The voice comes through the radio with a slight accent. “Clipper 1736, Tenerife.”

“Ah-er we’re instructed to contact you and also taxi down the runway, is that correct?” the Copilot says as the donut leaves the cockpit before he can stop it.

The door between the cockpit and the cabin shuts, leaving the routines of passengers behind.

“Affirmative, taxi into the runway and-ah leave the runway third, third to your left.”

“Third to the left, okay.”

The Pilot sits back down. His legs still feel heavy. A cloud spills over the crest of the hill to the south. It’s kind of beautiful. He still wonders why they made them land in Tenerife when they had enough fuel to hold over Las Palmas until they were cleared to land.

The cloud pours down the hill and looms over the airport like a tsunami. A nightmare disguised as white cotton tufts. The Copilot tries to find his way, but visibility is down to barely a thousand feet.

“Third, he said,” says the Engineer.

“Three,” says someone else behind him. Probably one of the two Pan Am men that had boarded in Tenerife.

The cloud stretches down the runway. Light dims and scatters.

Then the Tower comes over the radio again. The accent is stronger this time. “Third one to your left.”

Threads of cloud move across the runway. Tiny drops of water stick to the windshield. The Pilot keeps the Pan Am rolling, but slowly. “I think he said first.”

“I’ll ask him again.”

“I don’t think they have takeoff minimums anywhere right now,” the Pilot starts. “What really happened over there today?”

“They put a bomb in the terminal, sir, right where the check-in counters are,” says one of the company men behind him.

“Well, we asked them if we could hold and—” The Pilot turns his head. He then realizes who he’s talking to. “—uh—I guess you got the word, we landed here…”

Four minutes before the accident, both airplanes roll down the main stretch. Pan Am’s 747 follows behind KLM’s.

“KLM four eight zero five, how many taxiway-ah did you pass?” Without ground radar, the Tower must rely on radio to sort the traffic in the heavy fog.

The First Officer glances at the Captain for a moment. “I think we just passed Charlie four now.” He taps his chest pocket. The cigarettes pull at him, but the Captain clears his throat right then. He’ll have to settle for the gum.

After a crackle, the Tower speaks again. “Okay … at the end of the runway, make 180 and report-ah-ready-ah-for ATC clearance.”

The Flight Engineer sees the Captain lifting his wrist. The Casio screen lights up at the push of a button.

Behind them, in the other 747’s cockpit, the Copilot is still trying to match the instructions to what the mist reveals.

“The first one is a ninety-degree turn.”

“Yeah, okay,” the Pilot says.

The Copilot keeps looking around, squinting. “Must be the third … I’ll ask him again.”

“Okay,” says the Pilot. He knows the man needs a moment.

Gesturing, the Copilot continues. “You gotta make a 90-degree turn.” He turns to look toward the left side of the runway. “Ninety-degree turn to get around this … this one down here, it’s a 45.”

There’s no way a 747 is going to take that turn, he thinks. Not here. With this fog, we might end up on the grass.

He finally asks the Tower. “Would you confirm that you want the Clipper 1736 to turn left at the third intersection?”

“The third one, sir, one, two, three, third, third one.” This time, the voice from the Tower is the one with the softer accent. They must be taking turns with the traffic up there.

“Very good, thank you,” says the Copilot, tilting his head and looking back at the Pilot.

“That’s what we need right? The third one,” the Pilot says then.

“Uno, dos, tres,” adds the Engineer, as if that could pull another answer from the Tower. When it doesn’t, he weighs the maneuver once more. “We’ll make it yet.”

That’s when the Tower informs both planes: the runway’s centerline lighting is out of service. Suddenly, the day dims again.

KLM’s 747 confirms first. “I copied that.”

Pan Am’s Copilot sounds grimmer. “Clipper 1736.”

Then the Pilot intervenes, gesturing at the document compartment. “… we need eight hundred meters if you don’t have that centerline …” About twenty-six hundred feet…

Still, the 747 keeps rolling down the runway.

The Copilot points at the next taxiway. “That’s two.”

The Engineer looks toward it. “Yeah, that’s 45 there.”

“I know.” The Pilot tries not to raise his voice. With close to ten hours under their belts, it’s not just the stiffness in his legs anymore. He has to deal with a headache as well. “Okay, the next one is almost a 45, huh, yeah.”

“But it goes… Yeah, but it goes ahead, I think gonna put us on taxiway.” To the Pilot, that makes sense. That’s C4, but it looks like something the 747 can handle easily.

“Maybe he, maybe he counts this three,” suggests the Copilot.

“I like this.”

Only a minute before the accident, KLM 4805 reaches the end of the runway and turns around. Both planes are facing each other.

“Body gear disarmed. Landing lights on. Checklist completed.”

The First Officer glances briefly at the Captain. “Wait a minute, we don’t have ATC clearance.” They still need two authorizations before they can lift off.

The Captain looks out the window, as if confirming he’s not in the simulator. The fog gives the afternoon a dreamlike appearance. “No, I know. Go ahead, ask.” He taps the altimeter twice — a habit, a part of a routine he’s been performing ever since flight school — then laces his fingers behind his neck and stretches.

“Uh, the KLM four eight zero five is now ready for take-off and we’re waiting for our ATC clearance.”

“KLM eight seven zero five … you’re cleared to the Papa beacon. Climb to and maintain flight level 90, right turn after take-off, proceed with heading 040 until intercepting the 325 radial from Las Palmas VOR.”

The callsign is not exactly theirs, obviously a simple mistake. With the instructions for the route, they first need to read back the ATC clearance. A final clearance will then be all they need to take off.

“Ah, roger, sir, we’re cleared to the Papa beacon flight level 9-0…”

“Let’s go, check thrust,” says the Captain, pushing the levers. The four engines become louder.

The First Officer completes the readback with one eye on the Captain. “… right turn out 0 4 0 until intercepting the 325 and we are now at take-off.”

It’s thirty seconds to disaster when the voice of the Tower comes through the speakers. “Okay—”

In Pan Am’s 747 cockpit, the Pilot’s listening to the radio. Something’s off and he can’t hold it in. “No, uh.” The words come out, but not over the radio. Through the windshield, nothing makes the situation any clearer. He then pushes the transmit button as the Tower clarifies KLM’s status. Their voices overlap.

“—stand by for take-off … I will call you.”

“And we’re still taxiing down the runway, the Clipper 1736.”

Both conversations mix and degrade. When they reach KLM’s 747 cockpit, the radio emits a short whistle over them. The Tower shifts the conversation to the other plane.

“Ah-Papa Alpha 1736, report runway clear.”

“Okay, we’ll report when we’re clear.” The American Pilot can feel the air filling his lungs again.

The Tower answers as if they had felt that too. “Thank you.”

The Pilot turns to the others in the cockpit, his eyes wide open for a moment. Relief. “Let’s get out of here.”

The Copilot agrees, briefly pointing his index finger forward. “Yeah, he’s anxious, isn’t he?”

“Yes, after he held us up for an hour and a half, that bastard. Now he’s in a rush.”

Meanwhile, Pan Am’s 747 aims for C4. At seventeen seconds to collision, KLM Flight Engineer frowns at the conversation he just heard over the radio. “Is he not clear, then?”

The airplane speeds down the runway, accelerating.

“What do you say?”

The Flight Engineer turns to the Captain. “Is he not clear, that Pan American?” Only then does he turn to the First Officer, checking whether he’d gotten it wrong.

“Oh, yes.” The Captain seems to be sure about that.

The American Pilot’s guts won’t settle and so he stares at the runway, trying not to blink. Then his stomach turns.

“There he is … look at him. Goddamn, that son of a bitch is coming!”

“V1,” announces KLM’s First Officer.

Aborting is no longer safe. The Captain pulls back on the control column.

The nose of the airplane lifts from the ground.

The four engines roar and shake the structure.

Pan Am’s Copilot shuts his eyes and bends over. The Pilot squeezes all the power he can from the engines to get out of the way.

“Get off! Get off! Get off!”

The KLM 747’s main gear leaves the ground.

Then crashes into the Pan Am. The gear, the engines, the wings, tear off the upper part of the fuselage of the other plane. The upper deck lounge is sheared off .

The KLM 747 remains airborne for about five hundred feet before it hits the ground and skids down the runway.

Another thousand feet.

Only half a plane holds together. The other is all on fire, flickering in an ocean of fog and smoke.

Everywhere.