Could it happen again? Could two jetliners collide on another runway and produce a catastrophe to match the one that exploded at Tenerife? The experts will never say "Never," but the chances of such a recurrence are reassuringly slim. Tenerife was a freak accident at a minor airport, brought about by a chain of incidents, coincidences and human failures that are unlikely to occur again. As John McLucas, the outgoing head of the Federal Aviation Administration, told TIME Aviation Correspondent Jerry Hannifin, "We cannot say that it's impossible for a situation like Tenerife to occur in the U.S. But we can say we are doing everything possible to prevent such a situation—unless somebody screws up."
The record speaks for itself. In 1976 the U.S. airline industry had the safest year in its history. The 2,300 airliners flew 2.5 billion miles, carried 220 million passengers and had only four fatal accidents. The record low was in 1975, with three fatal accidents, but only 45 people were killed in 1976—compared with 124 the year before. Flying by commercial jet in the U.S. is now at least 15 times as safe per passenger-mile as driving in a car. The passenger who shows his ticket to the smiling stewardess and buckles himself into his narrow seat has a 99.999% chance of arriving at his destination safe and sound. Indeed, flying has become so routine that the notably pragmatic insurance companies charge pilots no more for policies than they do ribbon clerks.
In Western Europe and Japan, where the goal of reducing the possibility of human error is pursued with zeal and effectiveness, the safety record is also good. For the most part, major foreign airlines fly the same American-made planes as U.S. carriers—Boeings and McDonnell Douglas DC-9s and DC-10s. In Europe, particularly in France, Great Britain, West Germany and the other industrialized countries, airline technology is fully as sophisticated as it is in the U.S., and in some aspects the Europeans are more advanced. France, for example, uses a battery of jet engines to blast away fog from Paris' two international airports—De Gaulle and Orly. That technique has not been adopted in the U.S. largely because of the noise and the pollution it creates. Using their advanced instrument landing systems, the French and the British airlines operate under conditions that would shut down most American airports.
West Germany's excellent safety record has been compiled against overwhelming odds. The nation has the most dangerous airspace in Western Europe: 11,000 private, military and commercial flights a day—one every eight seconds—crisscross an area roughly the size of Illinois. What is worse, the coordination between commercial and military flights is so poor that Chancellor Helmut Schmidt has ordered a Cabinet study of the problem. In 1976 there were 221 "near collisions"—approaches close enough to terrify those who knew what had happened. Says a senior air traffic controller at Koln-Bonn airport: "It's like playing Russian roulette in the air." The fact that there have been no collisions in recent years is testimony to West Germany's wary pilots, sophisticated ground equipment and a superb group of air controllers, surely one of the most harassed contingents in a highly demanding profession.