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An Entity of Type : owl:Thing, within Data Space : 134.155.108.49:8890 associated with source dataset(s)

(RADIO CHATTER) CONTROLLER: Midwest 509, you're clear to taxi. Runway 23, over. PlLOT: I copy, tower. CONTROLLER: Be advised. We have gusts at 7 knots, 270. PILOT: Roger, tower. East Juliet 27. PILOT: Control, this is 509-er. We're in 23 and awaiting clearance. Over. HAWKE: Hey, Dom? Dom? You here? HAWKE: Hey, Dom, what's the matter? DOMINIC: Nothing. It's nothing. What did Archangel wanna see you about? HAWKE: Some mission up north. It'll wait. What's wrong? DOMINIC: All these years I missed seeing her grow up. Now I'm even gonna miss seeing her before they... HAWKE: Dom, I still don't understand.

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  • Sins of The Past (episode)/Transcript
rdfs:comment
  • (RADIO CHATTER) CONTROLLER: Midwest 509, you're clear to taxi. Runway 23, over. PlLOT: I copy, tower. CONTROLLER: Be advised. We have gusts at 7 knots, 270. PILOT: Roger, tower. East Juliet 27. PILOT: Control, this is 509-er. We're in 23 and awaiting clearance. Over. HAWKE: Hey, Dom? Dom? You here? HAWKE: Hey, Dom, what's the matter? DOMINIC: Nothing. It's nothing. What did Archangel wanna see you about? HAWKE: Some mission up north. It'll wait. What's wrong? DOMINIC: All these years I missed seeing her grow up. Now I'm even gonna miss seeing her before they... HAWKE: Dom, I still don't understand.
dcterms:subject
abstract
  • (RADIO CHATTER) CONTROLLER: Midwest 509, you're clear to taxi. Runway 23, over. PlLOT: I copy, tower. CONTROLLER: Be advised. We have gusts at 7 knots, 270. PILOT: Roger, tower. East Juliet 27. PILOT: Control, this is 509-er. We're in 23 and awaiting clearance. Over. HAWKE: Hey, Dom? Dom? You here? HAWKE: Hey, Dom, what's the matter? DOMINIC: Nothing. It's nothing. What did Archangel wanna see you about? HAWKE: Some mission up north. It'll wait. What's wrong? DOMINIC: All these years I missed seeing her grow up. Now I'm even gonna miss seeing her before they... HAWKE: Dom, I still don't understand. DOMINIC: It was an overdose. They found her on the beach. HAWKE: Who? DOMINIC: My God, what a way for your kid to die. HAWKE: Kid? DOMINIC: And the funeral is tomorrow. Three thousand miles away.
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