Chapter 6 — Between Two Runways

The shift schedule posted on the wall of the briefing room had a blank space that lasted for two weeks, right below the bold words ACCESS INSPECTOR — AFTERNOON SHIFT, where the name Ky Boi Thu often appeared, now only a handwritten dash remained.

Than Van Khoat stood in front of the board, holding a cup of cold coffee, looking at that empty space longer than necessary before turning to Uong Dieu Van who was entering the room to prepare for the shift.

"Five people qualified for access, now there are four left," he said, his voice not hiding his frustration. "Not to mention that in the next two weeks, three people will request leave that has already been approved. Someone has to tell the station chief that we can't keep prolonging this situation."

"Do you think Ms. Thu wants that?" Van asked again, her voice sharper than usual when defending her friend, even though she knew Khoat was not completely wrong.

"I didn't say she wanted to," Khoat replied, lowering his voice a bit. "I say the reality is that we are short-staffed, and the cadets are carrying more than they should at this stage."

They both looked at Kha Viet Bach, sitting at the table at the back of the room, engrossed in reviewing emergency procedure documents, his pen continuously tapping on the edge of the notebook, a new habit that had appeared since the shift that day.

Tra Son air traffic control tower operates with a minimum staff according to regulations of the Department of Aviation: four controllers with access certification for each shift, plus supervisory students when needed. That number is already close to the safety threshold even under normal conditions, calculated based on the average flight traffic of a regional airport, not a high-density airport. When losing someone, no one on the station needs to explain how thin the gap is between "close to the threshold" and "below the threshold".

"I've already calculated," Khoat continued, his voice still frustrated, "if all three of you take leave at the same time as Ms. Thu's investigation, there will be cases where we only have two people with enough certification, and we have to pull the trainees into semi-official positions. That's not the way an air traffic control station should be operated."

"I won't argue with you about that," Van replied, her voice softening. "I just don't want to hear that every time I mention missing people, I blame Ms. Thu."

"I don't blame her." Firmly put the coffee cup on the table, stronger than necessary. "I blame the system for allowing an important station like this to operate with a thin staff for many years, to the point where just one person is absent and everything is tense."

This afternoon shift, Bach was placed in charge of the small flow as usual, but for the first time there was no one directly monitoring nearby — Van had to take on both the main approach position and the overall monitoring position, an arrangement that they both knew was temporary, just to fill the gap until someone from another station could be dispatched to assist.

At sixteen o'clock, an agricultural plane asked permission to fly low over the western area to spray the tea hills, at the same time another commercial flight was approaching from the east. Bach watched the two, his eyes constantly switching between the two screens, his hand holding the microphone tighter than necessary.

“Agricultural trip, keep altitude below five hundred feet, area of operations limited to the west of the main road,” he said, his voice trying to keep it steady, but Van, busy with the commercial trip, could still hear a slight tremble in it.

The agricultural pilot replied in the affirmative, but three minutes later, the plane's dot of light on the secondary screen moved a little closer to the main axis than the agreed limit — not dangerously so, but enough for a sober controller to immediately repeat it.

Bach saw that shift. He hesitated, not because he was unsure, but because he was trying to decide whether to interrupt Van, who was busy coordinating the commercial trip, or handle it himself.

Three seconds passed.

"Agriculture, please confirm your current location, it seems you are east of the restricted area," he said, finally speaking, his voice regaining certainty.

"Sorry, crosswind, adjusting," the pilot replied, and the dot of light moved back into place.

Nothing serious happened. The agricultural plane completed its spraying in the designated area, the commercial flight landed safely ten minutes later, and on paper, this afternoon's shift would be recorded as any other normal shift — no incidents, no additional reports, no one outside the radar room knowing that there had been a three-second moment, so small that it was not worthy of any record, that had left a twenty-five-year-old cadet wondering whether he was learning the right lesson. But when the shift ended, Bach sat alone at the duty desk for another ten minutes, writing in his personal notebook the words: "Three seconds of hesitation before speaking. Be faster next time."

Van read that text as she passed by, stopped, and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You handled it fine," she said. "Three seconds isn't a problem, as long as you say it before it becomes a problem."

"Miss Van," Bach said, without looking up, "I keep thinking about that day. The day Ms. Thu had to go-around. If I were sitting in the same position that day, alone, without Ms. Thu by my side, I don't know if I would have made it in time."

"No one forces you to handle such situations alone at this stage," Van said. "That's why there are supervisors."

"But what if one day there's no one to supervise? Like today, I have to take care of the commercial trip and keep an eye on you."

Van did not have an immediate answer. She looked out the window, where the afternoon light was fading on the runway, and thought about how she herself had felt the same tension throughout today's shift, even though she had eight years more experience than Bach.

"That's exactly what I was going to say to the station chief," she said at last. "We can't keep operating undermanned like this forever, even if each individual shift still ends safely."

That evening, in the briefing room, Chuong Ba Vong sat listening to Van and Khoat explain the lack of manpower, his hand lightly tapping on the table, a familiar gesture whenever he was considering something beyond his immediate authority.

"I have submitted a proposal to temporarily transfer two controllers from the neighborhood station," he said. "Awaiting approval from the Corporation. It may take one to two weeks."

"One to two weeks is too long," Khoat said bluntly. "Ms. Thu has suspended the investigation and doesn't know when the investigation will be completed. The three other people's leave has been approved. We are operating at the minimum level of danger."

"I know, Khoat." Vong's voice is not softer, just more tired. "I have reported this situation to my superiors three times this year, not just this time. The problem is not that I don't see the danger. The problem is that I am not the one who signs the payroll budget."

That sentence fell into the briefing room, no one refuted it further, because everyone knew it was the truth — a truth with no bad guys behind it, only a series of slow administrative processes that no one in this room had enough power to shorten by will alone.

"I will call Deputy Director Thinh directly tomorrow," Vong added, rubbing his hands over his face, a tired gesture he rarely showed in front of employees. "It's not about radar this time. It's about payroll. Maybe it's a little easier to talk about, because at least it's not an investment that needs bidding through many levels."

"How do you think he can help?" asked, his voice was less harsh, giving way to the general fatigue of the whole room.

"I'm not sure," Vong admitted. "But he's the only person at the port authority who actually listens when I talk, instead of just nodding along. At least that's what I can count on right now."

Van left the briefing room, passing by the waiting area, where Bach was still sitting there, his personal notebook open in front of him, underlining the words "three seconds of hesitation" one more time, as if underlining could help him remember it better next time.

"Go home and rest," Van said. "There's still an early shift tomorrow."

"Yes." Bach closed the book and stood up, but before heading out the door, he turned back and asked, his voice lower than usual. "Ms. Van, do you think Ms. Thu can come back? I mean, really come back, not just come back on paper."

Van looked at him for a moment, then looked out the window, where darkness had covered the runway, leaving only the directional lights flashing steadily along the sides.

“I hope so,” she said. "Because if someone like her doesn't come back, I'm not sure any of us would have the courage to believe we would be okay after a similar incident."