He longed for the comfort of the high-backed couch in front of the fireplace where he sat with Miriam most evenings. He pictured the wide stairway that led to the second floor and the bedrooms. His and Miriam’s on the left. On the right, Susan’s, wallpapered in pink gingham, the aquarium crammed with tropical fish. Beyond that room was Debbie’s, all navy and white, filled with miniature toys and the dollhouse he had made for her last birthday.
He began to cry.
He had to act, he decided. He had to do something for them. If he couldn’t bring back their minds, he could, at least, comfort their bodies, keep them from being savaged by the others.
Without realizing it, he was standing on the circular staircase. He thought briefly of Berry’s admonitions to wait. He thought of his duty to stand there and guard the gates of hell. Hell. To hell with Berry. To hell with them all. He could not wait. Not for Berry, not for Barbara Yoshiro, not for anyone.
He glanced back into the cockpit. Berry and Crandall were busy. He looked toward the piano. Linda Farley was sitting on the floor, half asleep. He glanced down. The stairs were clear. They might not be clear again. He descended quickly into the lower region of the Straton.
At the base of the stairs, he looked around cautiously. People were lying everywhere. Some were slouched against the walls of the lavatories and galley. They seemed to be in a resting state, like wild things after a period of frenzy. It wouldn’t last long, he suspected.
The people around him were whimpering softly or chattering to themselves. Now and then he thought he heard a clear word or phrase, but he knew he had not. He wanted so desperately to have someone to help him that he was beginning to create human dialogue out of the animal noises that came from those blood-smeared mouths.
Stein moved cautiously around the lavatories and back toward the area of debris.
Among the sunlit rubble, a golden-colored dog lay sleeping with a meaty bone under its paws. It seemed so incongruous even beyond the incongruity of the sunlight on the twisted deck. Then he remembered the Seeing-Eye dog.But who would let a dog have a fresh bone onboard an … Then it struck him. “Oh, dear God.”
He turned quickly away from the dog and saw, a few feet from him, Barbara Yoshiro. She was sitting on the floor with her head buried between her knees, her long black hair obscuring her face. He moved quickly toward her. She could help him bring his family up to the lounge. He reached down and shook her shoulder. He spoke softly. “Barbara. Barbara, are you all right?”
The flight attendant picked her head up.
Stein recoiled. The face that stared at him was horribly contorted and smeared with blood. “Barbara …” But it was not Barbara Yoshiro. It was another flight attendant, whom he vaguely recognized. In the sunlight he could see purple blotches on her cheeks and forehead where blood vessels had burst. The eyes stared at him, red and burning. He stepped back and collided with someone behind him. “Oh! Oh, no, please no!” He stumbled out of the rubble, knocking into people as he moved.
He looked around wildly for Barbara Yoshiro. He called back in to the dimly lit tourist cabin. “Barbara! Flight attendant!”
Someone yelled back at him. “Burbura! Fitatenant!”
Stein put his hands over his face and slumped back against a seat.God in Heaven .
Slowly, he took his hands from his face and looked up. His eyes moved reluctantly toward the center row, thirty feet from where he stood. Only Debbie and Susan were still sitting in their seats. Miriam was gone.
Debbie was trying to stand, but each time she rose, the seat belt pulled her back.
Susan was lying slumped over the seat that had been his, her hands clasped together, thrust out in front of her.
Harold Stein moved toward his daughter, slowly, hesitantly. He stood over their seats and looked down. “Debbie. Debbie, it’s Papa. Debbie!”
The girl looked up uninterestedly, then resumed her up-and-down movements, patiently, persistently trying to stand. Odd liquid vowel sounds came from her lips.
Susan was breathing, but was otherwise motionless.
Harold Stein knew in that instant that there was neither hope nor salvation for his family or for anyone on this ship. And now he knew what he had to do.
He turned and ran down the aisle, pushing aside the staggering people in his way.
He found Miriam wandering aimlessly near the rear galley. “Miriam! Miriam!”
She did not respond.
He was done with calling their names, done with pretending that anyone was who they had been a few hours before. This wandering wraith standing before him was not his wife.
He took her arm and led her back to the four adjoining seats that had held him and his family.
Stein unbuckled the two girls’ belts. He put Susan over his shoulder and pulled Debbie to her feet and led her into the aisle. Alternating with his free hand between his wife and daughter, he maneuvered them both into the area of the rubble.
The two holes that had caused this immense grief were hardly more than a dozen feet away. The wind howled through those open wounds and the noise filled his ears and made it difficult to think clearly. He hesitated, then headed for the larger hole.
Sweating and out of breath, he laid down the burden that was his daughter, then forced Debbie and Miriam to sit. Several cables whipped over their heads, and occasionally one would lash Miriam or the girls, causing them to cry out. A cable whipped across Stein’s face and opened a gash on his forehead.
He bent over Susan, and despite his resolve not to speak to any of them, he whispered in her ear. “Sue, honey, Papa’s here with you. It’s going to be all right now.” He turned and looked down at Debbie. She looked at him, and for a moment he thought he saw a spark of life in those dead eyes, but then it was gone. Debbie was their firstborn, and her birth after so many childless years had been the single most joyous event in their lives. He bent forward and kissed her on the forehead.
There was no doubt in his mind that he had been spared the fate of the others for the specific purpose of allowing him to do his duty toward his family. He felt sorry for those who had to go on suffering. He felt sorry for Berry and Sharon Crandall and Linda Farley and Barbara Yoshiro. They had to suffer more than the others and would go on suffering until the aircraft crashed, or worse, landed. He honestly pitied them all, but felt no more responsibility toward any of them. The gates of hell were unguarded, and it was just as well. It might hasten the end for everyone. He, Harold Stein, had been given an unheard-of opportunity to escape from hell and escort his family to a place of eternal rest, and he was not going to shrink from that responsibility.
He wrapped his arms around his daughters’ waists, and with no further thought lifted them toward the hole. He watched as they left his hands, one at a time, and sailed away in the slipstream, end over end, through the sunlit blue sky. Each of his daughters disappeared from his view for a moment behind the tail of the craft, then he saw them again, briefly carried by the Pacific wind down toward the sea before he could see them no more.
Without a moment’s pause, Stein turned and lifted his wife to a standing position. He walked her toward the hole. She seemed to come along willingly. Perhaps she understood. He doubted it, but perhaps their love—that silent communication that had developed between them—was stronger. … Stein forced himself to stop thinking. He looked at the hole, but he could barely see it through the tears in his eyes. He looked back at Miriam’s face. Two lines of dried blood ran from her tear ducts down her cheeks. He pulled her face to his chest. “Miriam, Miriam. I know you don’t understand, but …” His voice trailed off into a series of spasmodic sobs.
He stepped closer to the hole. He could feel the force of the slipstream as it pressed against his body. “Miriam, I love you. I’ve loved you all.” He was going to say, “God, forgive me,” but he was certain that this was what God had intended for him to do.
With his arms wrapped tightly around his wife, Harold Stein stepped out of the aircraft and away from t
he nightmare of Flight 52.
* * *
Lieutenant Peter Matos fidgeted in the seat of his F-18 fighter. A hundred yards ahead, the Trans-United Straton flew a steady course. Matos forced himself to glance at his panel clock. Its luminescent numbers seemed to jump out at him. He was amazed to see that it had been more than an hour since the Straton had turned toward California. To Matos, it seemed no more than a few minutes. He shook his head in disbelief. During all that time, all he remembered was receiving a few transmissions from Commander Sloan and doing some calculations with his navigation equipment. But other than those brief duties, he could not account for the missing minutes.
Peter, snap out of it. Do something. Right now. Matos felt as if he were in a trance, hypnotized by the enormous and unchanging Pacific. He sucked hard on his oxygen mask to clear his head.Check the flight instruments , he said to himself. Matos knew that he should get himself back into his normal pilot’s routine. It was the best way to get his thoughts back on the right track. The gauge readings were familiar and friendly. Starting on the panel’s left side, he saw that the oil pressure was normal, the engine temperatures were normal, the fuel …
Matos stopped. His brief moment of reverie ended abruptly.Jesus Christ . The F-18’s fuel situation was not yet critical, but Matos could see that it soon would be. Even though he had taken off on this mission with the maximum fuel the aircraft could carry, he would, without any question, have to do something very soon.
Matos bit into his lower lip while his mind wrestled with the alternatives. But he knew what he had to do first. He read the hurriedly punched coordinates into his computer. He read the results. “Shit.” He had very little extra fuel left. The luxury of waiting out the Straton was coming to an end.
What would happen next? Matos agonized over his choices. Should he defy Commander Sloan? He had never defied an order before, and the idea was unnerving. Bucking James Sloan—and the United States Navy, for that matter—was too drastic a course to consider. It was outside the range of his thoughts, just as theNimitz would soon be outside the range of his fuel.
Matos glanced at the Straton. It was flying evenly and steadily. Too steadily. He knew damn well that he had exaggerated those last damage reports he had sent to Sloan.Fatigue cracks have developed along the cabin wall. The wing spar may be damaged. It can’t fly much longer. It will overstress soon . None of that was exactly false, but it wasn’t true either. There were some cracks and signs of stress, but …
“Navy, three-four-seven, do you read?”
Sloan’s sudden transmission startled Matos. “Roger,” he answered, gripping tightly to the F-18’s control stick, “go ahead.” He could tell from the Commander’s voice that he had grown impatient with their unspoken plan. A sense of dread flooded Matos. He had, he now realized, put off the inevitable as long as he could.
“What’s the situation?” Sloan asked tersely.
“No change so far.”
“Nothing?” Sloan sounded honestly astonished. “What about the fatigue cracks? What about the wing spar?”
“A little more deterioration. Maybe. Not much.” Matos wished he hadn’t begun this lie. It had only made things worse. He allowed his eyes to wander over to the missile-firing controls on his side console. He was sorry he had waited. He should have shot the Straton down immediately, before he had time to think about it.
“Matos, your damage reports have been pure bullshit. You’ve only made this goddamn job longer and harder for everyone. Don’t think I’ll forget that.”
“No. The Straton was getting worse,” Matos lied. “Its airspeed is still steady at 340, but its altitude has drifted slightly …” Something caught Matos’s eye. It was a small, dark object below the Straton. It was falling rapidly toward the sea. Was it part of the fuselage? Was the airliner finally coming apart? Matos peered over the side of his canopy, and as he did his finger slipped off the transmit button.
“Matos,” shouted Sloan as he latched on to the radio’s clear channel, “I don’t give a shit about airspeeds and altitudes. Will that goddamn airplane go down? That’s what I want to know. Answer the fucking question.”
“Homeplate—people are falling out of the Straton!” Matos had not heard one word of Sloan’s last message.
“What? Say again.”
“Yes. They’re falling. Jumping.” Matos edged his fighter downward, closer to the airliner. He could see clearly now, as he watched another body tumble out of the port-side hold.Oh, my God . “There’s another one! There must be a fire inside.” It was the only reason Matos could think of for a person to jump to a certain death. He watched the second body turn end over end until it was too far away to see its flailing arms and legs. It receded farther and farther away, until it was no more than a black pinpoint silhouetted against the sea. Then he saw it hit the waves and disappear instantly beneath them.
“Do you see any smoke?”
Smoke?Matos jerked his head up and stared at the Straton. But everything appeared as it had before. Too calm. Too steady. Matos ran his tongue across his parched lips, then pushed the transmit button. “No visible smoke. Not yet.” His new bubble of hope hadn’t yet burst, but it was quickly losing air. No smoke, no fire, nothing. What could be happening in there? For a brief instant he realized the kind of person he had turned into. He pushed that thought aside. He could live with the memory of this accident—even if it was his fault—as long as he didn’t do anything else to the Straton.Please, God, let it go down. By itself .
“Matos, don’t give me more bullshit,” Sloan said angrily, but then quickly changed his tone. “Is there any turbulence? Do you see any reason for them to jump?”
“No, but … wait … wait …” Matos kept his finger pressed firmly to the microphone button. “More people are jumping. Two of them. Together. Yes. There must be something going on. Definitely. A fire, or fumes. Something. No doubt. We should wait. Wait. It will go down. I know it will.”
Sloan did not answer for a long time. When he finally did, his voice had again assumed a flat and official tone. “Roger, three-four-seven. Understand. We will wait.”
* * *
As he fell with his wife in his arms, Harold Stein raised his head up and stared at the Straton above him. In that split second he saw and identified a jet fighter hovering above and behind the huge aircraft. The silver image of a long rocket hanging from its belly stuck in his mind. In a clear flash of understanding, he knew what had happened to Flight 52.
* * *
Wayne Metz disengaged the BMW cruise control and took the airport entrance at sixty miles an hour. He drove directly to the Trans-United hangar and slipped the BMW into a VIP space. He sat staring up at the blue and yellow hangar for a full minute.
He had come up with a plan that could greatly reduce Beneficial’s enormous liability. A plan that would lessen his own liability as well.
The plan had not been difficult to formulate. It was an obvious one. The problem now was to convince Edward Johnson that their interests coincided, and that these mutual interests could best be served by Wayne Metz’s plan. He thought he knew Johnson well enough to risk approaching him.
Metz rummaged around his glove compartment and found his Trans-United ID card. He got out of his car and crossed the hot tarmac toward the hangar. He spotted the personnel entrance and quickened his pace. A group of airline employees stood near the door talking, and Metz brushed by them. He flashed his Trans-United “Official Visitor/Contractor” identification card at the guard, then pushed open the small inner door and mounted a flight of steps two at a time. He moved quickly down a long corridor and opened a blue door markedDISPATCH OFFICE .
Metz approached a clerk. “I’m here to see Edward Johnson.”
The clerk pointed to the glass-enclosed communications room. “Over there. But I don’t think he’s seeing anyone.”
“He’s seeingme .” Metz crossed the office and stood in front of one of the thick glass panels. In the small room he could see Edward
Johnson looking down at a big machine. Another man stood next to him. In an instant, Metz could see that they were both highly tense, and guessed that the tension was not completely a result of the situation but was partly generated by a friction between the two men. Metz knew that his plan could work only if he were alone with Johnson. He watched for another few seconds. The other man appeared to be a subordinate. Johnson could get rid of him. Metz rapped sharply on the glass.
Johnson looked up, then walked to the door and unlocked it.
Wayne Metz entered the communications room. “Hello, Ed.”
The two men shook hands perfunctorily.
Johnson noticed that several of the employees were looking up from their work. He glared back at them, and heads lowered all over the office. He slammed the door and bolted it. “Goddamned center stage.” Everything in this damned Straton program was too visible. He motioned to Miller. “This is Jack Miller. He’s the senior dispatcher. Fifty-two was his flight.”
Metz nodded absently to Miller, then turned to Johnson. “Was?Did it … ?”
“No. Wrong tense. It’s still up there. But it’s my flight now. Jack is helping out.” Yet Johnson knew that deep down he had already written the Straton off. The past tense fit the Straton, but he’d have to be more careful when he spoke of the aircraft. You had tosound optimistic. “Actually, we haven’t communicated with them since I spoke to you. But the flight is steady and there’s no reason to keep calling. If he wants us, he’ll call.”
Metz nodded. “It looks like he might make it, then?”
Johnson shook his head. “I didn’t say that. We’ve got to talk him through an approach and landing.” He decided to be blunt with Metz. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s almost certain death.” He motioned toward Miller. “Jack’s a bit more optimistic. He thinks this guy Berry can make a perfect three-point landing and taxi to the assigned gate.”
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