Blackout

by Nance, John J. ;

“Okay,” Steve replied.

  “Airspeed, somebody?”

  “One-forty-five,” Dallas said.

  “There!” Steve Delaney said. “I’m lining up! It’s good!”

  “Robert?” Dan prompted.

  “Down six hundred, altitude twelve hundred,” Robert replied.

  “Attitude, John?”

  “Plus one degree.”

  “Steve, keep it steady … keep it lined up. Make small corrections, very small corrections, in roll and pitch. Okay?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Robert?” Dan prompted again.

  “Down eight hundred now, altitude just under a thousand.”

  “We should be three miles, John. Right?” Dan asked.

  “Yes. Three.”

  “Dallas, can you see the runway clearly? Does it look empty?”

  “Yes. The runway looks clear, but there’s lightning on the north side.”

  “Concentrate on the runway. Does it have lights on each side?” Dan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Down nine hundred, six hundred feet.”

  “Steve,” Dan said, “I’m pulling back gently. We want the descent rate a little less. Now, is the end of the runway coming up in the windscreen, or moving under us?”

  “Ah, it’s … ah … moving under us.”

  “Speed?”

  “One-forty.”

  “Steve, let the nose down just a hair,” Dan added. “Is the end staying in the same place now?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Steve replied.

  “Down nine hundred, two hundred feet,” Robert said.

  Dan reached up and verified by feel that the landing lights were on. “Okay … are we headed straight down the runway?”

  “Yes!” Steve replied. “But something’s wrong! There’s … a … OH NO! THERES A BUILDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RUNWAY!”

  “Dallas? What does he mean?”

  “Jeez, Dan, this isn’t a runway! There’s …”

  “DAN! This is a taxiway! It ends in a building!”

  Dan Wade’s left hand crammed the throttles forward and pulled back on the yoke, pressing the right rudder pedal hard to keep the airplane aligned.

  “We’re going around!” Dan croaked. “Max power. Steve, keep wings level!”

  “I am!”

  “Are we climbing?”

  “Yes, a little!” Steve said.

  “I’m … guide us straight out, Steve. Are we clear of hills?”

  “I don’t know … there’s the runway, under us! Oh, man, I lined us up on the wrong thing!”

  “Steve, keep us climbing gently straight ahead. Let’s go up to a thousand feet and turn east. It’ll want to turn left. Don’t let it.”

  “There’s a hill over there … in front,” Steve yelled. “And a lot of lightning just ahead.”

  “Steer us away,” Dan replied, feeling the yoke go to the left.

  “We’re climbing eight hundred, at five hundred feet,” Robert said.

  “Airspeed?”

  “DAN! WHICH WAY DO I GO?”

  “Steve, stay calm! Hold on to the airplane and aim to the left of that storm and keep us clear of any hills. Most are to the west. Keep climbing.”

  “Gotta come left more,” Steve said, his voice high and strained. “Lightning!”

  “Yes, to the left!” Dallas echoed. “I can’t tell how far. Can’t see for these clouds. We’re in the clouds now, Dan.”

  “Steady, Steve. Keep her climbing, and keep her going straight. We’ll go back around to the east, around the storm, and try it again.”

  Unseen by the copilot, a tremendous flash of light illuminated the cockpit.

  “Dan, we’ve flown into a storm,” Robert said, as calmly as he could.

  “DON’T TURN, STEVE! Just keep climbing on this heading. We’ll have to take the bumps.”

  Another lightning flash flooded the cockpit with a ghastly light, followed almost instantly by a gigantic booming sound.

  “SWEET JESUS, HELP!” Dallas exclaimed.

  “DAN,” Steve yelped, “we’re right in the middle of it!” The aircraft had begun to heave and buck in the violent air currents of a thunderstorm cell.

  “Keep climbing. Robert?”

  “Ah … up … ah, one thousand, and altitude now at one thousand two hundred.”

  “Airspeed, someone?” Dan asked.

  “I can hardly see after that flash!” Steve said.

  “One-sixty,” Dallas said. “And heading two hundred eighty degrees.”

  “I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING, DAN!” Steve yelled.

  Dan raised his left hand. “Wait, did you say two-eight-zero degrees?”

  “Yes,” Dallas said.

  “NO!” Dan said. “Aim more north! Use your instruments now. Turn right. Keep climbing. I’m going to raise the gear.” Dan reached out and snapped the landing gear lever to the Up position, feeling the undercarriage respond. “Altitude?”

  “One thousand seven hundred, but we’re not climbing,” Robert said.

  “Attitude, John?”

  “Ah, up five degrees.”

  Robert’s voice cut in. “Dan, we’re descending three hundred feet per minute.”

  “Watch your pitch, Steve!” Dan shoved the throttles as far forward as they would go as he added back pressure to the yoke to pull the nose up. “Attitude?”

  “Up seven, no, eight degrees.”

  “We’ve stopped descending, Dan, but we’re at one thousand three hundred.”

  The sound of a call chime rang through the cockpit, unheard by Dan. Dallas answered it, then replaced the handset. “Dan, the rain’s put the fire out!”

  “Thank God,” Dan said. “We turn north now, we’ll be over the coastline. Need more altitude.”

  A tremendous burst of wind slammed into the 747 at the same moment another round of staccato lightning strikes all but blinded everyone but Dan. The gut-wrenching sound of repeated thunderclaps coursed through their souls as the turbulence became severe; the instruments bounced too wildly to be read.

  “HANG … ON … EVERYONE!” Dan shouted. “STEVE … IT’S UP TO YOU TO KEEP THE NOSE UP! KEEP IT AT FIFTEEN DEGREES UP! AIRSPEED, ANYONE?”

  “CAN’T READ IT!” Dallas cried.

  “HEADING? HEADING PLEASE!”

  “TWO HUNDRED SOMETHING …” Dallas yelled.

  “NO! NO, NO, NO!” Dan yelled. “THERE ARE MOUNTAINS TO THE WEST. TURN RIGHT!”

  “DAN, WE’RE DESCENDING AGAIN!” Robert yelled. “WE’RE HOLDING AT A THOUSAND …”

  A sudden massive impact threw them all forward against the shoulder straps with incredible force as the belly of the 747 found a ridgeline. John Walters felt himself propelled forward, his body frozen for a split second by another lightning strike. The mountain ridge ripped off all of the engines and most of the flaps, leaving the remaining structure of wings and fuselage skittering in disintegrating confusion at more than a hundred knots past the ridge and settling progressively into the mountain jungle canopy. The airframe rapidly decelerated as flaps and wing panels, engines and lower fuselage parts were ripped away. The lower deck and coach cabins, galleys, seats, and passengers were progressively yanked into the thickening buzz saw of passing trees as the 747 spread its parts through the jumble of vegetation below.

  For those in the cockpit, the sensory overload became total. The unbelievable sequence unfolded too rapidly to grasp or see or understand. The airplane disintegrated like a block of cheese skimming a kitchen grater, shedding more and more parts and ribs and components until only a portion of the liberated upper deck of the 747 remained intact. And finally, all that remained habitable of what had been an enormous airplane slid to a halt in the middle of a verdant jungle clearing.

  In the minutes that followed, the thunderstorm moved east, leaving behind the normal sounds of a misty predawn jungle, broken in places only by the sound of liquids hissing on hot metallic objects.

  chapter 18

  NATIONAL RECONNAISSANCE OFFICE, MA/R
T’LAND

  NOVEMBER 12—DAY ONE

  4:30 P.M. LOCAL/2130 ZULU

  Janice Washburn gently touched the sleeve of the technician next to her and gestured for him to zoom in closer. Normally the scenes they monitored from orbit carried no emotional reaction, but this was different.

  The computer-generated picture assembled itself at last from the transmissions of two different satellites, causing her to gasp. “Am I seeing …”

  “I’m afraid so, Janice. This is the hot spot I found a few minutes ago, right on the track they were flying, and there are no longer any airborne seven-forty-sevens within their flight range from the previous contact. They’re down.”

  The picture coalesced to a field of intense white images defining the wreckage path of Meridian Flight 5.

  “How about survivors?” she asked, in little more than a whisper.

  “Could be, but it just happened. So far, I’m not seeing any.”

  She whirled around to search his eyes. “That aircraft carried over …”

  “Two hundred. I know, Janice. We just have to wait.”

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  He nodded. “This whole debris field is too hot, too many fires. The heat is masking any survivors who might be there. Remember, we’re looking at infrared.”

  She lifted the receiver she’d been holding to relay the news to her senior, George Barkley, then turned back to the technician. “George wants to know if you could bring back the shot of that small jet?”

  He nodded, entering a flurry of keystrokes into the keyboard. A still infrared image of a small two-engine jet appeared on the screen.

  “Where is he?”

  “When this was taken, he was ten miles east of Da Nang, off the coast. But we’ve lost him beneath a thunderstorm that moved over Da Nang a little while ago. He was right over the crash site earlier, but flew back offshore. He’s just orbiting.”

  “What’s our confidence level he’s been tailing the seven-forty-seven?”

  The technician said, “High. Very high.”

  Janice raised the phone to her ear, still curious, reminding herself to feed the latest reports to Langley immediately.

  IN THE JUNGLE,

  12 MILES NORTHWEST OF DA NANG, VIETNAM

  The realization that he was alive came slowly to Robert MacCabe.

  Aside from the flickering orange light of countless fires somewhere in the distance, it was dark—and cold. The feel of damp air on his face and the lack of familiar background noise of commercial flight jolted him back to the reality that he wasn’t awakening from a nightmare, he was still living it.

  We were trying to fly … no, to land … and something happened …

  Robert tried moving his right arm, and found it still attached and usable. He checked his left, and progressively his entire body, finding everything intact.

  Where am I? Total confusion reigned for a few seconds until his short-term memory flooded back, causing him to sit bolt upright in what was left of the right cockpit jump seat.

  Oh my God! We’ve crashed!

  He tried to stand, but couldn’t. I must be hurt! But there was no pain.

  Robert reached down with rising apprehension to feel his waist, the concept of paralysis hovering in the back of his mind.

  He struggled again, hearing twisted metal parts rocking against one another. Still he couldn’t stand. Something was preventing him from moving his lower waist. Something was binding him to the ruined seat.

  The seat belt!

  With great relief, Robert reached down and snapped off the belt, standing up gingerly, his mind confused by the flickering images and ghastly shadows everywhere. He was in the remains of the cockpit, and the shell of the window frame was still intact.

  There was a form slumped forward just below the broken windows. Robert moved to it, stumbling over debris that held his feet in the darkness. He pulled the body back, recognizing the bandage over the eyes. The copilot.

  “Dan! Dan, can you hear me?” Robert doubted he was hearing his own voice at first. It was oddly pitched and strained. “Dan! Answer me!”

  The figure stirred and tried to sit up. “Wha …?”

  “Dan, this is Robert MacCabe. Can you hear me?”

  Dan shook his head. “I … I can’t see you …”

  “We’ve crashed, Dan. Somewhere in Vietnam. Do you remember?”

  There was a sound to the left, a low moan, and Robert glanced over at the remains of the captain’s seat, now dislodged, the bottom end showing in his direction.

  Dan was nodding, his hand on his head. “Oh my God.”

  “Stay put, Dan. I’ve got to check on the others.” He picked his way through the jumbled debris on the floor of the cockpit and pulled the captain’s seat back upright, bringing Steve Delaney with it. He, too, was coming around, and basically uninjured except for a few minor cuts to his head.

  Dallas was trying to dig herself out. She was dazed and shaking like a leaf.

  John Walters had not been strapped in at the moment of impact. He was lying lengthwise on the broken front of the instrument panel. Robert reached for his wrist, aware of the awkward position of the man’s head and neck. There was no pulse.

  “Where the hell are we?” Dallas mumbled, holding Robert’s shoulder.

  “Dallas, are you okay?”

  She nodded, her hand to her head, her dark face barely visible in the orange light. She sat on a remarkably intact jump seat. “Depends … how you define okay,” she mumbled. “How ’bout you?”

  Robert sank back on the remains of his jump seat and tried to clear his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know why we’re alive.”

  Thirty-five feet away in the shattered forward half of the upper deck first-class cabin, Dr. Graham Tash worked to extricate himself from the tangle of wires and tubes that engulfed him, the remnants of the overhead panels. He vaguely remembered feeling the jet pull up from a landing, but what had happened then?

  Susan! he thought suddenly. Oh my God!

  Graham turned to his left and began pawing through the debris that covered the aisle seat, exposing his wife’s blond hair.

  “Susan!”

  She stirred, giving him hope as he worked rapidly to free her from the tangle.

  “Graham?”

  “Honey! Oh my God, are you okay?”

  There was a long hesitation as she took inventory, then nodded and opened her eyes, blinking at the reflection of fire on his skin and wondering why there was a campfire nearby. His voice seemed to fade away into a void.

  Susan Tash sat up abruptly and looked around in shock. The remains of the 747’s upper deck still resembled a passenger cabin, but it was little more than the shell of sidewalls and windows attached to the floor that remained. Some of the seats were still visible as well, but most of the ceiling had collapsed, and she realized that there was nothing but debris behind her.

  She took a ragged breath. “Graham … what … what …”

  “We crashed, Suze! We crashed, but we made it!”

  The airline CEO who had been sitting in the first row had not fastened his seat belt. The impact had catapulted him into the forward bulkhead where he now lay, moaning quietly.

  Susan got to her feet, grabbing for support against rubbery legs, and tried to move toward him. “Graham,” she said, as her husband held her and guided her toward the front, “he’s hurt. We’ll need a flashlight.”

  A beam of light snapped on by her shoulder, pointed at the shattered floor.

  Susan looked over at the silhouette of a disheveled woman she finally recognized as Britta.

  “We always carry these,” Britta said in a matter-of-fact manner.

  “Are you okay?” Graham asked Britta.

  Britta nodded, a shaky right hand brushing back what had become a wild mane of hair, while she tried to straighten a hopelessly torn white blouse.

  There was a commotion ahead of them, and Britta raised the beam of light directly into Robert MacCabe
’s face as he stumbled through what used to be the cockpit door.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry,” Britta said, lowering the flashlight beam to the torn and littered floor.

  “Who’s there?” Robert asked, his voice unreal and raspy.

  “Britta Franz and two passengers. Doctor …”

  “Graham and Susan Tash,” Graham said.

  Robert nodded drunkenly. “Dan and Dallas,” he began, stopping to clear his throat, “… and … and … Steve made it,” he said. “They’re up front. Be careful. The floor is jagged in places.”

  Britta nodded.

  “How is everyone downstairs?” Robert asked.

  Britta looked at him blankly, her right hand rising, then falling limply to her side, an apparent attempt to gesture somewhere behind.

  “I … can’t find it. There’s no … stairway either.”

  Graham had been focusing on Rick Barnes’s prone body, preparing to kneel beside the man and examine him. He turned and looked behind them at the field of orange flames burning and flickering in a thousand places, all radiating toward what was becoming a light purple glow on the horizon.

  A lightning strike somewhere in the distance shot a bolt of terror up Graham’s spine as if it had struck him directly. He realized he was looking at the remains of the storm that had almost killed them.

  “I think … the others must be somewhere back there,” Britta said, looking blankly in the same direction, obviously in shock. “We … we’ve got to find them.”

  Graham followed her gaze, recognizing the clearing of broken trees as the final flight path of the 747. He could see shapes in the distance, bits and pieces of fuselage, a shell with windows on one side, and other terrible shapes in the dark, but nothing as large as a survivable part of an airliner cabin.

  There were over two hundred people on this airplane! he thought. My God! There could be hundreds injured back there!

  “Doctor. Please. Mr. Barnes is injured,” Britta was saying.

  Graham turned to look at the airline CEO and knelt down as Britta played the flashlight over his face. “Can you hear me, Mr. Barnes?” Graham asked.

  Rick Barnes moaned, but didn’t speak.

  Britta found the aircraft first-aid kit, and Graham went to work on the obvious facial injuries, stabilizing Barnes and concluding there were probably internal injuries in addition to a serious concussion.