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2020-11-05
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2010-10-02
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Emergency Landing!

Summary:

Barry, Robin and Maurice encounter some 'turbulence' en route from L.A. to New York.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction. It portrays the stage personas of the BEE GEES and David English only. This story was written for fun and not for fortune.

Author's note: This story was written in the Spring of 2001--shortly after "This Is Where I Came In" was released, and before 9-11 and the stricter airport security regulations went into effect.    

"Emergency Landing!"

 

A BEEGEES Fanfiction Story

  By Ross

Chapter One


Rick Hallis' first hint of trouble came, when the Lear he was piloting began an unauthorized descent.

His expert eyes scanned the aircraft's electrical console.

Not surprisingly, the plane's ant-icing system's warning light was on.

He'd figured all along it was his wing de-icers. 'Probably, just a bad fuse...' he thought to himself and thumbed his radio transmitter. "Minneapolis Center," he calmly spoke into his headset mic', "this is Lear, Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero. IFR. Outbound L.A.X. Inbound LaGuardia. Course: Zero-Five-Zero True. Bearing: Three-Six-Zero. Heading: One-Zero-Three...at Three-Six-Five knots. Descending out of Four-Two-Zero. Requesting permission to descend to Seven Thousand, Over..."

"Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero," a voice came back through his headset's earphones, "This is Minneapolis Center. We've got you on the scope. What is the nature of your request?"

"Minneapolis Center, Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero is experiencing mechanical difficulties. Our wing de-icers quit." He glanced out the cockpit's window at the milky-white deposit on the leading edge of his left wing, "Rime buildup is causing us to lose altitude. Over..."

"Minneapolis Center. Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero, are you declaring an in-flight emergency at this time?"

"Negative, Minneapolis Center," Rick quickly came back, "All Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero needs right now is a lower altitude, some warmer air and, probably, a new fuse..."

"Minneapolis Center," the somewhat relieved and slightly amused air traffic controller came back, "There is traffic at your requested altitude. However, Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero is cleared for Five Thousand. Maintain your current radar vector heading...and keep us posted!"

"Roger that, and thanks, Minneapolis Center," Rick replied with a smile. "Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero descending to Five Thousand..."he finished speaking and flicked on the 'FASTEN SEATBELTS' sign, for his passengers.

******************************************

Speaking of his passengers...

The seven who were lounging in the Lear's main compartment looked up, as a loud 'ping' caught their attention.

"See!" one of three brothers on board exclaimed and gave the sibling seated on the sofa beside him a playful nudge. "I told you it felt like we were falling," he stated further, with a very British accent and pointed to the bright red sign that was now flashing above the entrance to their plane's cockpit.

There followed the unmistakable sound of metal seatbelts ‘clicking' into place.

"Probably just dropping down to avoid some turbulence..." his equally English accented twin told him rather disinterestedly, but obligingly set his open book down so he could have both hands free to obediently ‘buckle-up'.

"Where's big brother?" the bearded twin wondered, pulling his personal stereo's in-the-ear headphones off and tossing the ‘Paint Ball Monthly' magazine from his lap.

"He's sprawled out on a bunk in the back, humming and strumming into his tape recorder..." the clean-shaven of the two told him before burying his face back into his mystery novel.

The questioner shoved his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose and gave his black, fedora-style hat an adjustment, as well, before rising stiffly to his feet.

***************************************

"Barry," Maurice Gibb called into the little cubicle containing a bunk, and his prone, but propped up--and also bearded--older brother, "Time to buckle-up..."

Barry looked rather perplexed and sat bolt upright on the bed, to gaze out the jet's window. The sudden movement sent the portable tape recorder and acoustic guitar tumbling from his chest. "We can't be landing already!" he determined, following a quick glance at his Rolex. Then he turned back to his younger brother and passed his observations along, "There are-en't any airports down there...There are-en't even any roads!"

"We're probably just dropping down to avoid some turbulence," Maurice parroted. "Your back bothering you?" he wondered, as Barry carefully swung his long legs over and off of the bed.

"A little..." his now vertical sibling replied--er, lied, as his feet hit the floor. Barry's back was bothering him a lot. He'd been cooped up in hotel rooms and limo's--and airplanes--for over a week. He'd just flown over fifteen thousand miles. Now, he wanted--er, needed to walk. He snatched up his coat from the foot of the bed.

"Any luck?" Maurice asked, aiming his gaze at the now retrieved tape recorder.

When they'd arrived from Tokyo that morning, a rather cryptic faxed message was waiting for them at the airport. The hand-delivered note was from their good friend, David English, and it simply read:

‘"Boys, I need you to write me a song. Right away. I'll explain later. Thanks. David."

Two of The Brothers Gibb had felt the whole thing was just a joke. But, Barry--who'd taken the request seriously--had been slaving away on the project, for the past two hours. "I've got the melody dead-to-rights," he announced, as he stepped into his shoes and out into the now slanting corridor.

"And the lyrics?"

"Nothing comes to mind..." the songwriter confessed, his heavily accented voice filled with frustration.

"Nothing?!" his baby brother queried in disbelief.

"Not one word!" Barry glumly admitted and followed his amazed sibling back up to the Lear's main passenger compartment.

*************************************

"What's up, Rick?" Barry Gibb asked, ducking into the plane's cockpit and plopping himself carefully down into the co-pilot's seat--to buckle-up.

"The heating elements that run along the wings aren't working," Rick calmly explained, "The ice is building up and causing us to lose ‘lift'...so we're going down to where the air is warmer...to melt the ice off the wings...and change a fuse..."

"How low do we have to fly before we find some warmer air?" his visitor wondered, running his concerned gaze over the jet's jumble of complicated-looking gauges and dials.

"We'll be leveling off at 5,000 feet," Rick replied.

"So," the songwriter glanced at the altimeter and did some quick math, "about six more miles...and we'll have nothing to worry about?"

The plane's pilot flashed his famous passenger a reassuring smile and gave him a nod, "Nothing to worry about!"

Barry leaned back in his seat and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

**********************************************

Several minutes and six vertical miles later, another loud 'ping' caught the aircraft's occupants' attention.

All seven looked up in unison and watched the 'FASTEN SEATBELTS' sign go off. They continued watching, as the eldest Gibb brother ducked back out of the cockpit.

"There's something wrong with the heater things on the wings," Barry announced, seeing their questioning stares. "We've descended to 5,000 feet, because the air is much warmer down here and the ice won't build up. Rick figures it's just a blown fuse. Nothing to worry about!" he added, passing along the pilot's reassuring words and smile.

Everybody exhaled sighs of relief. The three bodyguards on board unbuckled and rejoined their in progress poker game...which--Barry noted--their friend and sound engineer, John Merchant, appeared to be winning.

Robin Gibb gave the good news bearer a grateful smile and then angled his deep-blue-tinted glasses back down to his book.

"C'mon, Marj'!" Maurice enthusiastically declared to the plane's only female passenger, and quickly freed himself from his seat, "Let's go rustle us all up something to eat--and drink!"

The Bee Gees' personal secretary obligingly unbuckled her belt, rose to her unsteady feet and followed one of her three bosses over to the plane's galley.

"How's the new song coming along?" Robin asked, as his older brother collapsed carefully down into the heavily padded seat across the aisle from him.

"Incredibly well," Barry came back, "if you like ‘instrumentals',"he sarcastically tacked on.

Robin glanced up and smiled again. "I really like the melody," he confessed, and then helpfully added, "You just need to take your mind off of it for awhile."

Speaking of distractions...

Barry was about to reply that what he really needed was Robin's help--when the Lear suddenly lurched--rather sharply--to the left, jolting him--and the plane's other unbelted passengers--clean out of their seats!

Cards flew from the table, and the players were pelted with poker chips.

Robin was the only one to remain seated. The bookworm hadn't bothered to unbuckle.

Maurice cursed as he--and the carafe of scalding-hot coffee he was carrying--went careening across the plane's plush passenger compartment and crashing into the outer hull--amazingly, without spilling a drop! Unfortunately, the coffee mugs in his other hand didn't fair as well. Four out of five broke on impact.

Marj' Griffith came toppling out of the galley and she--and the tray of catered food she was toting--slammed into an inside wall, sending sandwiches--and salami--sailing everywhere!

"Nothing to worry about, huh?!" Robin rather alarmedly remarked upon righting himself. "Something's just gone very wrong! Something more than just the fuse for the heater things on the wings!" he added, in reference to the horrible grinding sound coming from the Lear's left engine. He, and his fellow passengers, turned to stare out the plane's blood-splattered? windows.

Barry was back on his feet and halfway to the cockpit before his bodyguard could even reach him. "I'm all right, Donny!" his boss assured him and brushed his steadying hand from his shoulder.

********************************

Speaking of the plane's cockpit...

Pilot Rick Hallis had his hands full! One moment, they were flying smoothly along on auto-pilot and he was changing a fuse. The next, they were smashing into a freakin' flock of birds! According to the Lear's instrument panels, he was about to lose his left engine! He couldn't tell if there was any other structural damage to the plane because his windshield was completely covered with bird guts, feathers and blood! Lots and lots of blood!

"Minneapolis Center," he spoke as calmly as he could, and turned his windshield wipers on. The blades didn't budge. "This is Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero. No-ow I would like to declare an in-flight emergency! Acknowledge..."

"This is Minneapolis Center," the FAA controller anxiously acknowledged, "What is the nature of your emergency, Two-Four-Two-Zero?"

"Minneapolis Center, Two-Four-Two-Zero has just experienced a mid-air collision with an entire freakin' flock a' birds! I just lost my left engine and my right engine is running hot! Over..."

"This is Minneapolis Center. Roger that, Two-Four-Two-Zero! Any other visible structural damage?"

"Two-Four-Two-Zero has no visibility at the moment, Minneapolis Center. The birds took out my wipers and my cockpit windshield is a bloody mess! Over..."

"This is Mineapolis Center.StandbyTwo-Four-Two-Zero...Two-Four-Two-Zero, advise you turn left Four Degrees to Radar Vector Seven-Three-Niner and try climbing to Seven Thousand--to aid VORTAC. (Have better radar and radio contact.) That'll put you on a direct course to Sawyer International. Sawyer is a converted Air Force Base and has more than enough runway for an emergency landing. It's also the nearest airfield equipped to handle your...situation. You can reach the Sawyer controllers on emergency frequency Six-Zero-Niner Point Three. They have been alerted and are waiting for you to contact them. So, we're going to sign off and turn you over to them. Good Luck, Two-Four-Two-Zero!"

"Left four degrees...Radar Vector Seven-Three-Niner...Flight Level Seven Thousand...and Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero thanks you once again, Minneapolis Center..." Rick paused only long enough to dial in the new radio frequency. "Sawyer International, this is Bravo Golf Sierra Two-Four-Two-Zero requesting emergency landing instructions. Over..."he heard the cockpit door close behind him and glanced back over his shoulder.

Whoever his visitor had been, they'd left without saying a word.

**************************************

Speaking of the cockpit's wordless visitor...

The rest of the Lear's rattled passengers waited patiently for Barry to report back to them. But the eldest Gibb brother remained silent upon his return.

The somber look on his big brother's face spoke volumes, however, and prompted Maurice to demand, "What the bloody hell happened?!"

Barry sank slowly down into his so-suddenly-vacated seat, propped his elbows up on the arm rests, clasped his hands together in front of his face and pressed two of his long, slender fingers to his tightly pursed lips. "It seems we just flew into a flock of birds. We've lost our left engine and will--very shortly--be making an emergency landing at a place called ‘Sawyer International'. I know the sign's not flashing, but now might be good time to buckle--" something suddenly occurred to him and he stopped talking to start rummaging through the pockets of his jacket--which he'd left draped over the back of his chair. His right hand emerged from one of the coat's pockets with the object of his search--his satellite cell phone. He hit the speed dial and then drew in a deep breath before raising the instrument to his once again tightly pursed lips. "Linda, darling! How wonderful it is to hear your voice! How are you and the children?...I know I just asked you that an hour ago, I just never get tired of hearing your answer. Have you finished packing?....She is? Marvelous!....Yes, that would have been a lovely surprise. But, I'm afraid I'll be a little late arriving at LaGuardia...Why-y? Well, our plane's developed a bit of a mechanical problem and we're being diverted to ‘Sawyer International'....I have no idea whatsoever. Somewhere in the Midwest, I assume...I don't know that, either. I suppose it depends on how long it takes us to get a flight out of ‘Sawyer International'. You know how Robin feels about chartered planes..."he glanced around and saw that his fellow passengers had followed his lead, for they all had cell phones pressed tightly to their ears, and were talking in hushed tones to their loved ones, as well.

TBC