Through Hell and High Water

CHAPTER 9: 'THE MAN' FROM MACON: A COMMANDING PRESENCE

By Jane O. Hansen | Sunday, May 14, 2006, 05:11 PM

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

New Orleans — Col. John Holland stepped off the red, white and blue Emory Flight helicopter Wednesday morning — a vision of calm and control.

I need to get to your command center, he said.

A new player in the bold rescue of Tulane Hospital was about to assume control of the rooftop helipad. He would make all the difference in how many choppers could land, how quickly they could load up and take off, and whether they could do it without anyone getting killed.

Tulane’s corporate owner had marshaled all the resources. But it would be a Georgian in a teal blue flight suit who would bring expertise to the operation. The mission may have appeared simple and smooth to some onlookers. But the landing of so many helicopters was fraught with peril — something pilots understood better than anyone.

With 30 years in the military and 36 as a pilot, Holland would become known simply as “The Man.”

That night, when police Cmdr. Dan Bitton flew his helicopter into New Orleans, there wasn’t a star in the sky. He told his crew — all cops from north of Chicago — that when they located the parking garage roof at Tulane, they wouldn’t land without first doing a “go-around.”

That’s the command used on approach by any member of the crew who becomes uncomfortable with a landing. He simply says, “Go around.” The pilot pulls up and out. No questions asked.

The four agreed Wednesday night they would do a maximum of two go-arounds. If they weren’t confident by then, they’d abort the mission.

Even in daylight, the flight path to Tulane was risky, requiring pilots to navigate through a canyon of tall buildings. On a pitch-dark night, in a city without light, it was death-defying.

Bitton was at the controls, wearing night vision goggles.

As a seasoned cop, Vietnam veteran and pilot with more than 14,000 hours of flight time, Bitton, 52, was a fearless cowboy prone to pushing the envelope. He was among the first to be trained in a new generation of goggles approved for use in taking off and landing.

As he maneuvered around buildings and power lines, his head was in constant motion. The helicopter, a Eurocopter EC-135, was equipped with sophisticated radar equipment. But nothing could prepare them for this sea of blackness.

The night vision goggles blocked peripheral vision, so Bitton swiveled his head to the left, to the right, up, down. To see what was in front of him, he had to look directly ahead through the goggles. To see the aircraft’s instrument panel, he had to look beneath them. If he looked under and out, he’d see nothing but pure black.

To get everyone out of Tulane quickly, the Hospital Corporation of America would eventually lease 24 helicopters and secure the aid of six military choppers. HCA also positioned nearby supplies of food, water and medicine. Pilots such as Bitton, trained to fly at night, were critical to keeping the operation moving.

Building to your left! Building to your right! yelled his crew from the Winthrop Harbor Police Department.

After about 15 minutes, Bitton’s crew spotted what they believed was the parking garage roof. They had no way to communicate with anyone there. Bitton discussed his approach with the crew — what angle he would bring in the aircraft, from what direction, where he’d land.

The tension was high, and Bitton tried to lighten the mood. Hey, it’s as easy as pie to fly, he said. But they all knew this wouldn’t be easy.

As they began the approach, no one spoke. Then, Go around! Bitton immediately gave the helicopter power and climbed to a safe altitude to circle.

OK, guys, what do you think?

The crew member who’d spoken had suddenly seen a nearby hotel and thought Bitton was too close.

Then another crew member spoke: Commander Bitton, do you think you can do this?

Yes.

He told them where he planned to start and finish. They agreed to give it one more try. But only one.

As each helicopter landed, Sharif Omar waited until the rotors slowed down enough that he could run up and yell, What can you take? The pilots called the shots.

They told him the type of patient the craft could carry — ambulatory or stretcher. Where they could take patients depended on how much fuel they had, where they were based, and how many hours they had been flying. Under federal aviation regulations, pilots can be on duty only 12 hours before they have to rotate out.

Some helicopters had no medical equipment on board and could not take patients who would need it. If the aircraft was low on fuel, it could fly only a limited distance. Others could fly only to the location from which they had come.

Omar, Tulane’s 26-year-old associate vice president of operations, had been put in charge of the makeshift helipad Tuesday morning. But he had no experience directing air traffic. When John Holland and his co-pilot alighted Wednesday, wearing helmets and visors and saying they were there to help, to Omar they were knights in shining armor.

Less than 24 hours earlier, Holland had been home in Macon with his wife of 28 years, Betty. At 55, he was director of aviation for the Southeast region of LifeNet, a private company that provides helicopters for medical emergencies. The company owns Emory Flight, which transports patients to and from Atlanta hospitals.

Holland grew up on a dirt farm in Reidsville, Ga., raised by his grandparents, who were sharecroppers. He went straight from high school into the Army and finished advanced flight training by the time he was 22.

Over three decades, he served around the world — in the hostile demilitarized zone of Korea, in South America, in the Middle East. By the time he retired from the Army in 1999, he had reached the rank of colonel.

Taking control of the Tulane roof was not out of character for Holland. Nor was this his first disaster rescue.

He had learned the value of communication systems while running the air rescue operation for Hurricane Andrew in 1992. In addition to the satellite tracking system on each of the three aircraft he brought to New Orleans, he made sure each had cellphones with different providers. He knew some would get signals where others wouldn’t. Also key was finding a place to refuel.

Once inside the Tulane command post — a small, dark, windowless room — Holland could see how exhausted everyone was. Four or five senior personnel huddled around their only light, a battery-operated lantern.

Holland told them he had some experience in this type of disaster and if he could help with the helipad … Yes, please, they interrupted.

He was impressed with their demeanor. He had seen commanders lose it in a crisis, yelling and screaming at troops. But these people were calm, clear and professional. As a retired colonel, Holland knew how senior leadership should act, and he saw in them model behavior.

Returning to the roof, he asked for a head count.

The first estimate: About 500 employees and family, plus 120 or so patients. Not good enough, Holland said. I need a more accurate count. The total grew from 620 to 800, then to 1,000. Eventually, it topped 1,200.

Holland briefed Omar and the others on how the rooftop operation would work. With reddish-brown hair, a matching mustache and smile lines around his eyes, Holland had an uncommonly melodic voice that rarely rose out of control yet commanded respect. There would be no running and no yelling, he said. Both fueled chaos and threatened safety.

He trained them to use hand signals to communicate over the din of the helicopters. Fist in the air meant “Stay where you are.” Arms out to the side: “Hold your hover.” Arms straight up: “Land here.” Arms straight down: “Bring it down.” Finger across throat: “Shut it down.”

He encouraged upper management to wear the same colored shirt each day; he would remain in his teal blue Emory flight suit. The uniforms would signal who was in charge.

When a helicopter landed, Holland checked the fuel and used a steno pad to scratch out notes to the pilot. How many more flights could he make? “One more, fuel first, then we’ll be back,” one pilot wrote back in a jagged scrawl, his hand shaking from the vibrating aircraft.

When helicopters returned, they brought back batteries, food and other supplies coordinated by HCA headquarters. Holland developed a taste for honey nut granola bars and Pop-Tarts.

He wrote down a radio frequency that pilots could use to communicate with other aircraft headed to Tulane. Radio traffic was building, and he had found a frequency that wasn’t commonly used.

To expedite the rescue, Holland ordered that a secondary staging area be set up on the seventh floor of the parking garage, just below the rooftop. He formed two lines: Patients on stretchers or in wheelchairs would be carried or wheeled up the ramp; ambulatory patients and others who could walk would climb the stairs to the roof.

After he communicated with each pilot, Holland pointed to the appropriate line and held up fingers indicating how many could come up. Omar and the others repeated the gesture like an Indian hand signal, relaying the information down the ramp.

The roof was becoming a more dangerous place. To save time, they had begun “hot loading” the helicopters — a risky procedure. It involved putting people aboard with the rotors running instead of shutting them down, shaving 25 minutes off the process.

Later, when ham radio operators arrived to help, the system began moving even faster.

“Hams,” as they call themselves, live for the roles they can play during disasters when other forms of communication fail. Two members of the Tallahassee Amateur Radio Society had volunteered to go to New Orleans. One set up on the Tulane roof; the other initially was stationed at the airport and later joined his buddy at the garage. They communicated with a third ham at the Tallahassee office of HCA, who relayed information on which hospitals had agreed to take patients, which kind of aircraft were on the way, and the grid coordinates to pass on to the pilots.

By late Wednesday, they had such an organized flow of traffic that some helicopters landed there by mistake. One — a chopper filled with isolettes — was due at another hospital to evacuate babies.

To improve night landing, Holland instructed staff to drive four cars up and park them in the corners of the garage roof, their high beams pointed toward the middle. The beams’ cross point gave pilots a reference as they descended into the concrete valley.

When Bitton finally landed Wednesday night, Holland helped bring him down. Pilots like Bitton, who had a military background, recognized a kindred spirit in Holland. Bitton told Holland he was short of fuel. Where could he find some? Holland told him there was a military post at the I-10 causeway.

*That’s a zoo, *Bitton said.

Holland didn’t know where Bitton was headed when he lifted off. He just knew he’d be back.

By now, the operation was running so well that, where once they wondered whether they could land a single helicopter, they were landing six. In a gesture of support, an HCA hospital in Florida airlifted in a giant American flag. The maintenance staff hung it just under the storm-battered Tulane Hospital sign that crowned the building at its highest point.

I was put here for a purpose, Holland thought to himself. This is where I’m supposed to be.

Still, he worried the operation was moving too slowly. Hundreds of people awaited evacuation.

And what about the animals? someone asked as people were being loaded into a chopper.

Holland responded with a blank stare.

What animals?

ON TUESDAY: At Charity Hospital, desperate calls to the media. Chapter 10 of 22.

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