I want you to picture something for me. You are
driving your car. It is a busy Tuesday. Maybe
you're running a bit late and you come up to
a massive four -way intersection. But as you
get closer, you realize something is wrong. The
traffic lights are completely dark. No red, no
green. Nothing. No yellow. Just dead. And there
is no police officer in the middle waving people
through. It is just, well, it's anarchy. That
is the definition of a high -stress situation
right there. Right. You have cars creeping forward
inch by inch. You are trying to make eye contact
with the guy in the SUV across from you, wondering
if he's going to stop or just gun it. You are
relying entirely on the hope that everyone else
is paying attention and following the unwritten
rules. It is amazing how quickly our sense of
safety just evaporates when you remove that external
authority, you know, the traffic light. Suddenly
you have to trust total strangers with your life.
Exactly. And I think most of us assume that this
kind of Wild West scenario only happens on the
ground when the power goes out. But what if I
told you that in the sky where the stakes are
infinitely higher, this is standard operating
procedure for thousands of airports every single
day? It sounds terrifying when you put it that
way, but you are absolutely right. We're talking
about non -towered airports. Today, we are doing
a deep dive into a specific event that shows
exactly what happens when that trust between
strangers breaks down. We are unpacking the tragedy
of United Express Flight 5925. And this is not
a story about an engine exploding or a wing falling
off. No, not at all. This is a story about a
few spoken words that went missing and the devastating
consequences of assuming the coast is clear.
This is a really heavy case. It happened back
on November 19, 1996 at Quincy Municipal Airport
in Illinois. And you hit the nail on the head
earlier. This was not a mechanical failure in
the traditional sense. It was a failure of communication,
timing, and human psychology. So let's set the
stage. When I think of commercial flying, I am
picturing O 'Hare or JFK. Massive control towers,
guys in headsets tracking blips on a radar screen
telling pilots exactly what to do down to the
second. But Quincy is not that, is it? Not even
close. Quincy Municipal is what we call a non
-towered field. And just to give you some context,
the vast majority of airports in the United States
do not have a control tower. It is just not economically
feasible to staff every small airstrip with air
traffic controllers 24 -7. So if there is no
controller who is directing traffic, I mean,
if I'm a pilot flying a plane full of passengers
into Quincy who gives me permission to land.
Nobody gives you permission. You give yourself
permission. Really? Yeah. It is a system called
see and avoid. Essentially, the pilots are completely
responsible for coordinating with each other.
They use a common traffic advisory frequency
or CTAF. CTAF. OK, so is that like a like a conference
call? Think of it more like a chaotic group chat
or maybe a CB radio channel for everyone within
a 10 mile radius of the airport. You hop on the
frequency and you announce your intentions. You
say, I am 10 miles out or I am turning left.
I am landing. You are constantly broadcasting
your position so that every other pilot builds
a mental map of where you are. That seems like
it requires a massive amount of trust. You are
trusting that everyone else is on the right frequency,
that they are speaking clearly and that they
are actually looking out the window. It absolutely
does. And the thing is, 99 .9 % of the time it
works perfectly. Pilots are professionals. But
the system has a single point of failure. It
relies entirely on active listening and accurate
perception. Right. If you miss a radio call or
if you misinterpret silence. The safety net completely
disappears. Which brings us to that cold November
afternoon in 1996. Who are the players on the
board here? Because it was not just one plane
involved. Right, we have a cast of three aircraft.
The main character, so to speak, is United Express
Flight 5925. This is a Beechcraft 1900C. It is
a twin -engine turboprop airliner. Just a solid,
reliable workhorse for regional flights. And
who is flying it? In the cockpit, we have Captain
Kate Gatchy and First Officer Darren McCombs.
They are coming from Burlington, Iowa, bringing
10 passengers into Quincy. They are the ones
in the air, approaching the airport to land.
Okay, so they are coming down. Who is on the
ground waiting? This is where the geometry of
the situation gets really critical. On the ground
preparing to take off, we have two smaller private
planes. The first one is a Beechcraft King Air.
It is a high -performance private aircraft flown
by a 63 -year -old pilot named Neil Reinwald.
He has a flight instructor on board, Laura Winkleman
Brooks, but she is just a passenger for this
particular leg of the trip. And then there is
a third plane, right? A smaller one. Yes, a Piper
Cherokee. It is a small, single -engine, private
plane. It is taxiing out behind the King Air.
Now, usually three planes at an airport is no
big deal at all. But Quincy has a specific layout
that turns this into a puzzle. The runways intersect.
Like a literal X on the ground. Exactly like
an X. Imagine it in your head. The United Express
flight is coming in to land on runway 13. Meanwhile,
the King Air and the Piper Cherokee are taxiing
out to take off on runway 4. Those two runways
cross each other. Right in the middle. I see
the problem. If the United plane lands at the
exact same time the King Air takes off, they're
going to meet right in the middle of that X.
Precisely. And in aviation, two objects cannot
occupy the same space at the same time without
catastrophic results. The rules of the road say
that landing traffic generally has the right
of way, but the ultimate rule is to never enter
a runway unless you are absolutely sure it is
clear. So put us in the cockpit of the United
Express. Captain Gatchi is coming in. She knows
this is a non -towered airport. She knows there
are planes on the ground. She's probably on high
alert, right? She is. She is doing everything
completely by the book. As they get closer to
landing, she is on that common traffic advisory
frequency. She sees the planes on the ground
or at least knows they're in the vicinity and
she wants to confirm their intentions. She specifically
asks about the King Air. Because the King Air
is the one at the front of the line to take off.
Right. She keys her mic and asks. Effectively,
King Air, are you holding short or are you taking
off? She needs to know if they're going to wait
for her to land and pass the intersection. And
what does she hear back? The first time she asks,
it is just silence. No response. That is unnerving.
Silence is not a yes and it is not a no. It is
just a giant question mark. Exactly. And when
you are hurtling toward the ground at 130 knots,
a question mark is incredibly dangerous. So she
asks again. She is diligent. She gets on the
radio a second time and asks the King Air to
confirm they are holding short of the runway.
And this is the moment, right? This is where
everything pivots. This is the fatal second.
She asks the question. And this time she gets
an answer. But it is not from the person she
thinks it is. It's the third pilot. The guy in
the little Piper Cherokee. The pilot of the Piper
Cherokee is sitting behind the King Air on the
taxiway. He hears the United crew asking if traffic
is holding. He decides to be helpful. He keys
his mic to confirm that he is holding. He is
basically saying, don't worry about me, I'm stopping.
He says, Cherokee holding short. It is a completely
standard call. But here is where technology and
bad luck collide in the worst possible way. At
the exact millisecond the Cherokee pilot starts
speaking, a safety system in the United Express
cockpit activates. A safety system? Yes, the
Ground Proximity Warning System, or GPWS. Because
the United plane is getting close to the ground
for landing, the computer triggers an automatic
altitude alert. It is a loud electronic tone
or a voice call out inside their cockpit. So
you have a voice on the radio and a loud beep
in the cockpit happening at the exact same time.
We call it stepping on a transmission. The loud
electronic alert in the cockpit drowned out the
first word of the radio call. The Cherokee pilot
said, Cherokee holding short. But the United
pilots. Did not hear the word Cherokee. They
just heard the tail end of the sentence. They
just heard holding short. Exactly. Oh, wow. I
see where this is going. They just asked the
King Air a direct question. Yes. They asked the
King Air, are you holding? They heard a voice
say, holding short. Their brains filled in the
gap. This is a textbook example of confirmation
bias. Yeah. They expected the King Air to answer,
so when they heard a partial confirmation, they
assumed it was the King Air. They hear what they
want to hear. The King Air is stopping. The runway
is mine. That is the exact conclusion they drew.
They believe the intersection was perfectly clear.
But in reality, the King Air, the plane that
was actually the threat, had never said a single
word. Why not? Why was the King Air totally silent?
The investigation suggests the King Air pilot
simply was not paying attention. He may not have
heard the query, or he might have been distracted
by something in the cockpit. He never announced
his takeoff clearly on the radio, and he never
responded to the United crew. So he thinks the
coast is clear too. He pushes the throttle forward.
He begins his takeoff roll on runway 4. At the
same moment, the United Express touches down
on runway 13. It is like a horror movie where
you were screaming at the screen, you have two
planes rushing toward the same point, and neither
pilot realizes the other is there until it is
too late. The United pilots spot the King Air
at the very last second. We know this because
investigators found heavy skid marks on the runway.
They slammed on the brakes. They tried to steer
the plane away. But you cannot stop a 16 ,000
-pound aircraft instantly. Physics is just unforgiving.
They collide right at the intersection. They
do. The wings impact, the engines smash together,
the King Air is effectively destroyed by the
sheer force. The United Express plane skids off
the runway, slides across the grass for about
110 feet, and finally comes to a stop. Now, this
is the part of the story that I found the most
haunting when I was reading the reports. Because
usually when we talk about plane crashes, the
impact is the end of the story. But that was
not the case here at all. No. And this is the
detail that keeps safety investigators up at
night. The collision was violent, yes. But according
to the NTSB, the impact itself was survivable
for everyone on board the United Express flight.
Wait, everyone on the commercial plane survived
the initial crash? All 12 people. Two pilots
and the 10 passengers. The fuselage remained
largely intact. They were shaken up. They were
terrified. But they were alive. They were conscious.
So why did we lose them? Because they could not
get out. Yeah. The collision warped the frame
of the aircraft. The United Express plane, the
Beechcraft 1900, has a main cabin door that doubles
as stairs. It is called an air stair door. And
it operates with a cable system. I have seen
those. They kind of fold down and out. Right.
The impact bent the fuselage just enough that
the door jammed completely shut. They were trapped
inside a metal tube. Trapped. And tragically,
the collision had ruptured the fuel tanks. A
fire broke out almost immediately on the outside
of the plane. I cannot even imagine the panic.
You survive the crash. You can look out the window
and see the grass, see the sky. But the door
will not budge. And people were trying to help.
This is the truly heartbreaking part. The pilot
of the Piper Cherokee. The guy who made that
stepped -on radio call, he saw the whole thing
happen right in front of him. He and other pilots
at the airport rushed over to the wreckage. They
were outside, pulling on that door handle with
everything they had. But they could not force
it open. No. The damage was too severe. And Quincy
Municipal Airport, like many small airports,
did not have a dedicated fire rescue team sitting
in a truck with the engine running right next
to the runway. But by the time the local volunteer
fire department arrived, the fire had spread
completely. So the smoke got them. That is right.
The cause of death for all 12 people on the United
Express and the two pilots in the King Air who
died in the collision was smoke inhalation. It
was a survivable crash that turned into a fatal
tragedy because of a jammed door and a lack of
immediate rescue equipment. It is what we call
the Swiss cheese model of accident causation.
You have these layers of defense pilot vigilance,
radio procedures, aircraft design, emergency
response. Usually if one layer has a hole in
it, then... next layer stops the accident. But
in Quincy, the holes in every single layer lined
up perfectly. So when the NTSB, the National
Transportation Safety Board, finished their investigation,
who did they blame? Did they blame the Cherokee
pilot for speaking at the wrong time? The fatal
transmission that stepped on radio call was listed
as a major contributing factor. It explains why
the United crew is confused. But the NTSB placed
the primary blame squarely on the shoulders of
the King Air pilot. Neil Reinwald, the one who
never answered. Correct. The official cause was
a failure to monitor the common frequency and
a failure to scan for traffic. Scan for traffic?
That sounds so basic. It is basically look both
ways before you cross the street. It is basic,
and that is exactly why it is so damning. Even
with the radio confusion, even with the technological
glitch, even with the Cherokee pilot chiming
in, all the King Air pilot had to do was turn
his head to the left. The United plane was not
invisible. It was right there. It was a clear
day. Visibility was perfect. If the King Air
pilot had just looked down Runway 13 before you
crossed the hold line, he would have seen a large
twin turboprop airliner bearing down on him.
So he was flying blind. He was relying entirely
on what? Why would he not look? Complacency.
Distraction. We will never know exactly what
was happening in that cockpit. But he violated
the golden rule of non -towered airports. Trust
no one. Verify everything. He likely assumed
that because he did not hear anyone screaming
at him on the radio, the runway was empty. And
on the flip side, the United crew assumed that
because they heard a word that sounded like holding,
the runway was safe. That is the psychological
trap. We call it expectation bias. When you are
under a high workload like landing a plane, your
brain craves simplicity. You want the answer
to be yes. You are actively looking for information
that confirms your plan. They needed the king
air to be holding short. They heard holding short.
Their brains filtered out the ambiguity because
the partial data matched their desire. It is
chilling because we do that in everyday life
all the time. We hear what we want to hear. You
read a text message and interpret the tone based
on what you are feeling, not what is actually
there. Absolutely. In a boardroom or a relationship,
that might lead to an argument or a lost deal.
In aviation, it leads to two planes colliding
on a runway. That is why the training for these
airports changed so drastically after Quincy.
What changed? Did they start building towers
everywhere? No, that is still too expensive.
But they changed the way pilots are trained to
communicate. Now, there is a massive emphasis
on specificity. You never, ever just say holding
short. You have to say who you are. You have
to say, Cherokee 5 Hotel Papa is holding short
runway 4. And if you are the landing pilot and
you hear a garbled message or a beep steps on
the call sign, you do not assume. You ask again.
You say, aircraft holding short, say call sign.
You treat ambiguity as a threat. Ambiguity is
the enemy. If there is even a 1 % doubt about
who is talking, you assume the runway is blocked
until proven otherwise. That is the lesson written
in blood here. What about the door? Did they
fix the plane so that does not happen again?
There were recommendations regarding door maintenance
and emergency exit training. The industry also
took a hard look at rescue capabilities at small
airports. But, you know, you can engineer a stronger
door and you can upgrade the radios. But the
core lesson keeps coming back to human performance.
The human element. Exactly. You cannot engineer
a solution for a pilot who simply decides not
to look out the window. That is a behavioral
issue, not a mechanical one. It is really a story
about the intersection of high tech and low tech,
isn't it? You have these advanced turboprops.
You have GPWS computers shouting warnings. But
the failure point was the human eye and the human
ear. We love our technology. We rely on it completely.
The United Pilots relied on the radio, a piece
of technology, to tell them it was safe. But
the NTSB report was scathing about the fact that
the Mark 1 eyeball, just looking outside, would
have saved everyone. That is a profound takeaway
for all of us, honestly. We are not piloting
planes into rural Illinois, but we navigate these
intersections all the time in our own lives.
We do. Think about managing a project. If you
assume you know what your team is doing because
you sent an email but you never actually verified
it, or if you assume a client is happy because
they have not complained but you have not actually
asked them, you are creating that exact same
danger zone. Cherokee holding short versus holding
short. The difference between life and death
was literally one word lost in a beep. It forces
you to ask yourself, are we verifying reality
or are we just seeing what we expect to see?
This has been an incredible deep dive. We have
covered the mechanics, the psychology, and the
tragedy of the aftermath. It is a story that
really sticks with you long after you hear it.
It certainly does. It is a case study that is
taught to almost every single pilot during their
training, but the principles apply to everyone.
Before we wrap up, I want to leave you, the listener,
with a final thought to chew on. We live in a
world that is noisier than ever. Our phones are
beeping, Slack is pinging, the news is shouting
at us from every screen. We are constantly being
stepped on by digital noise. Exactly. The pilots
of flight 5925 were betrayed by a digital alert
that drowned out a human warning. But the ultimate
failsafe was right there, a window. All they
had to do was look up. Just look up. In an age
of endless notifications and digital distractions,
are we forgetting to just look up and see what
is actually right in front of us? Are we assuming
the coast is clear just because our phone did
not tell us otherwise? That is the big question.
Sometimes the most advanced safety tool you have
is your own attention. A heavy but absolutely
necessary lesson from United Express Flight 5925.
Thanks for guiding us through the wreckage and
the report today. My pleasure. Stay safe out
there. And to you listening, thanks for diving
deep with us. Stay skeptical, verify your sources,
and for heaven's sake, look both ways. We will
see you on the next one.