by C. F. WALLER
WAYPOINT
A novel by
C. F. Waller
WAYPOINT
Copyright © 2017 by C. F. Waller
The right of, Charles F. Waller to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1988
ISBN: 978-1-5323-4173-1
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at cfwaller.com for links and book information
Table of Contents
Acknowledgement
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Epilogue
Other Books by C. F. Waller
Acknowledgement
Thanks to Ken Ester and Dave Cassidy for fielding endless questions. During the six months, I spent researching this novel, I was able to tour private hangars and actually fly in Ken’s Cessna 172 on several occasions. Since I attend church with them, the constant taps on the shoulder, followed by implausible questions happened almost every week.
In a surprising twist, the things they told me wound up changing the plot completely. This is not the novel I began writing back in the fall of 2015. I’m happy to say it’s far better and more accurate than anything I have written previously, due in no small part to these two men.
Understanding that research often crosses swords with great story telling, I leave prospective readers with this…
“I tried to be as factually correct, as was interesting”
—James H. Patterson, Author
Prologue
April 5th 2006
Indonesian Airlines Flight 387
Rubbing my eyes, I squint to bring my surroundings into focus. My coffee, thankfully long cold, soaks my pants. A half-eaten foil pouch of pretzels sits on the edge of the folding tray dangling off the seat in front of me. My temples throb and the twinge of a headache stabs me in the right eye. The couple to my left doze, the woman breathing is short gasps. What sort of a nightmare is she having? I am tempted to shake her awake, but this chivalrous gesture fades as the idea of reaching over her husband to do so seems unwise.
While annoyed at the coffee bath, I am thankful for a reprieve from my own nightmare. I wonder how long these will haunt me. Reaching camp four but being unable to summit Everest will forever be a weight around my neck. Six months of training and the fifty-thousand-dollar price tag will be sarcastic fodder for my in-laws for years to come. At least I didn’t die and become a permanent ice sculpture. If they only knew how impossible a task it really was. The thin air at twenty-six thousand feet was like walking around on Mars.
Folding the tray into its upright position, I lean over and retrieve the paper cup that once held my coffee. It almost escapes my fingertips as rolls to the left. The plane is tilting slightly, then without warning, banks sharply. Across the aisle, a young girl sits between her parents, a doll in a pink dress now pinned to her lap by the seatbelt. They appear to be napping, but as the angle of the turn grows, the man’s head lolls over into the aisle. He fails to wake, his fingers almost touching the floor.
Righting myself, I scan the rows of seats, but find everyone sleeping. Overhead the seatbelt light glows red, but I unhook my mine anyway. I need to pee, even though my soaked pants look as if I did already. Struggling against the G-force created by the turn, I grip the seatback and rise. A dozen rows forward, the stewardess who brought me the coffee lies face down in the aisle. I push off the seats, working my way forward. Why isn’t anyone going to her aid? The plane suddenly levels off nearly tossing me on top of an elderly woman. A soda can hovers on the edge of her tray table then tumbles into the aisle splashing on my shoes.
My head pounds, a light headed feeling washing over me. I wobble there, trying to clear my thoughts. This hypoxic sensation is very familiar. Am I feeling the left-over effects of the climb? Another shift jolts me with adrenaline, the nose of the plane tipping down. The lifeless body of the flight attendant slides forward, then stops when her shoulder bumps into a seat support. I stagger down the aisle, gripping seat tops with every step. None of the people I pass are awake, several sucking down air in short gasps, akin to the woman in my own row.
Stepping over the flight attendant, I kneel, putting a finger of on the side of her neck. I fail to feel a pulse, then hold my breath to quiet my own gasping. This second attempt finds the faint thumping of her heart. She’s not dead, but what happened to her? Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, her lips tinged blue. She appears to have fallen flat on her face, the floor doing the lion share of the damage.
I slip, tumbling on my backside, more from dizziness than a shift in the floor. From this angle, the hand of a second flight attendant peeks out from the kitchen area. Shinny crimson fingernails and a decent size wedding ring adorn the fingers. I scramble over on all fours, but find the woman on her back, eyes wide, staring blankly at the ceiling. A finger on her neck reveals no pulse. I press her soft skin for a full minute searching in vain for any sign of life. Is this a dream?
From behind me, a heavy thump echoes against the cockpit door. A moment later it slips open, a uniformed man falling out. His hat rolls past me, down the aisle, before hitting the first body littering the floor. I try to stand, but stagger only two steps before falling sideways, hitting my forearm on a grey cart used for beverage service. Only two feet from the downed pilot, or co-pilot for all I know, my eyes dial in and out of focus. He gasps, then mumbles frantically, his voice almost happy.
“Berhenti menggelitik saya,” he chuckles, then sucks in hard. “Anda akan membayar untuk ini.”
For the first time since waking, I am face to face with another conscious person. Unfortunately, the language is foreign to me. I have picked up a bit of Nepali and some Maithili, a local dialect used by Sherpa’s, during my two months in Nepal, but he’s speaking Indonesian. At least that’s my best guess. I lean over him on all fours, but he doesn’t seem to notice me.
“What has happened?”
He continues to mumble, tr
ying to push me away weakly. My own dizziness blurs my vision. What is wrong with me? I cough, a symptom of the climb, not whatever this is. Reaching up, I get my fingers on the counter overhang and drag myself to my feet. This act is almost more strength than I can muster. I would certainly fall backward were the plane not tipping down. At my feet, the uniformed man points at the ceiling wide-eyed, then giggles in a childlike way.
“Unbelievable,” I wheeze, then step over him.
Using the walls on either side to hold myself upright, I stare into the cockpit. Clear blue skies fill the windshield. The right chair is empty, but in the left a man sits, his head hanging to one side. White clouds suddenly blot out the blue sky as we plunge downward. When they clear, I can see greenish blue water far below. What is happening? The angle of the floor levels out somewhat, but I struggle to comprehend what I am seeing. The wheel in front of the unconscious pilot moved by itself.
My stomach twists, the pangs of nausea washing over me. Without warning I vomit coffee down the front of my white dress shirt, then crumple to the floor. My vision shrinks to a pin prick, then darkness drowns me.
Chapter One
Present day
A high-pitched squelch precedes his voice. I wake for a split second then drift back off. Before I can reclaim my comfortable dream it happens again.
“John, I need you up here,” echoes out of the walkie-talkie on the bedside table.
It’s tempting to throw the source across the small cabin, but I unhappily choose door number two, swinging my feet off the bunk. What does he want now? My mouth is as dry as sand, tongue plastered to the roof of my mouth. A brown glass bottle with the label peeled off rests on the bedside table. I take a swig, wincing when warm beer hits my stomach, sending a tremor up my spine. When I replace the bottle on the nightstand, it slides to the right, nearly winding up on the floor. Plucking it out of midair, I place it on the rubber coaster that keeps the ship’s deck free of broken glass. The squelch fills the cabin for a third time.
“John, you’re going to want to see this.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I complain, before pressing the button. “What cha got?”
“You need to see the initial side-scan data.”
“I thought that was going to take two weeks,” I grumble, putting a cigarette in the corner of my mouth and digging in my pants pocket for a light. “They only been at it six days?”
“Just come already,” the exasperated voice demands.
“Yeah, yeah, all right,” I grunt, finding the lighter, then stand on unsteady legs.
I exit the cabin into a poorly lit passageway then climb a set of switchback metal stairs, coming out into fresh air. The sun won’t be up for an hour, but the oceans horizon already glows orange and blue. I stroll along scanning the water for our other ship, but find only the occasional whitecap. They are probably dragging the sonar already.
“Early bird gets the worm,” I cough into a closed fist.
I lean on the railing, attempting to light my smoke, but the stiff wind blows the flame out before it catches. Turning away, I cup my hand over the end and flick the thumb wheel relentlessly until it lights. The scent of lighter fluid drags an image of my long dead father roughly snatching this very lighter out of my hand when I was a boy. I click the top back and forth several times in thoughtful reverence.
The deck suddenly shifts, leaving me clutching the railing to balance. Salty mist covers my forearms, making the hairs stand up. I swallow hard, my stomach twisting from the rolling of the boat, then exhale a plume over the rail. I don’t mind boats, but deep water isn’t my thing. Out here in the middle of nowhere feels less like a cruise and more like a disaster movie. I spend several minutes getting my sea legs, all the while flicking the top of the lighter back and forth. After smoking only half my cigarette, I flick it overboard, then climb yet another set of rusting stairs to the conference room.
“What’s on fire now?”
Inside the room is a large rectangular table that would seat six for dinner. Three-hole punch binders and spiral notebooks are strewn on its surface as well as long ribbons of paper. The long strips look like EKG tape, the kind you’d expect to see on television medical dramas. They are six inches across and each is several feet long. A side table holds a large printer that’s clearly the source; the tail end of a recently printed strip hangs down the front. The only occupant, Todd, studies a wall mounted flat screen, finally noticing me when I clear my throat to get his attention.
“Took you long enough,” he complains without looking my way.
“What is it that can’t wait?”
“Side-scan data has been trickling in,” he explains, tapping a finger on the wide color screen. “We need to call someone.”
“Call who?”
“Someone,” he shakes his head, eyes on the screen in a studious way.
I try to comprehend what’s got him in such a tizzy, but the image is only fuzzy shading and zig-zag lines. None of it makes much sense to me. All this sonar mapping of the bottom seems like massive overkill. We picked up the Gulfstream’s black box signal two weeks ago. We already know it’s down there. I don’t understand why we need blurry line drawings. We got some dive guys coming, so why drop a million bucks on side scan sonar? Probably more than a million.
“You should call someone now,” he repeats when I don’t answer.
“At least show me what’s got you all riled up before I call in the cavalry?”
“Just look,” he explains, running a finger down the screen. “These long sections are laid side by side. The sonar drags in one long line, then we mesh the images.”
I already know this, but play along. On the screen is what looks like a topographical map of the sea floor. It’s all line scribbles to me, but Todd is moving his finger around and looking indignant. Babysitting this nerd is barley worth the money.
“How long’s each pass?”
“Every strip is roughly twenty miles,” he explains, putting a finger on either end of the screen.
“Where’s our bird? Which cluster of wavy lines belong to us?”
“This is the Gulfstream,” he indicates, tapping his finger on a dark patch shaped like the letter T.
“How deep?”
“Six thousand feet, give or take.”
“That’s a lot of water.”
“True, but not the reason I called.”
I nod for him to continue.
“The Gulfstream’s a little less than a hundred feet long,” he squints, running a finger down the dark shaded area. “This is the fuselage here and this area is one wing.”
“Just the one?”
“Might have lost one on impact,” he shrugs, moving his finger to the other side. “Honestly I’m surprised it’s in one piece.”
“Yeah, I expected this to be a Humpty Dumpty. So what’s got you freaked out?”
“Just look,” he exhales, frustrated over my lack of urgency, then drags his thumb over the other two thirds of the screen. “You need to call someone.”
“I have no idea what you’re pointing at.”
“Fine,” he huffs, clearing one end of the table.
I watch as he studies the long strips of paper, then lays them out flat. After riffling the drawers of a desk along the wall, he uses scotch tape to hold the ends down. This takes nearly ten minutes, during which I want to go outside and partake of another cigarette, but it’s clear he’d be angry if I did.
“Okay, this is the same thing as up there, only its printed out. There’s the 550,” he indicates, tracing a blue line around the Gulfstream’s resting place with a marker.
I nod, but when he starts circling something else, I inch closer for a better view. A few inches down field from our baby is more dark shading. As he traces around it, a tingle explodes in my chest. Is that another plane?
“Is that what it looks like?”
“Yes, and the problem is size,” he asserts, finishing his trace around a perfectly intact airplane.
<
br /> “How so?”
“Using our Gulfstream as a yardstick,” he nods, putting his marker over it, then needing at least two pen widths to cover the same distance on the second plane. “Ours is almost a hundred feet. This one is twice that, and the wingtip to wingtip measurement is roughly the same,” he declares, turning the pen to illustrate the wing spread.
“So it’s what?”
“I Googled a ton of planes, but best guess,” he sighs and pauses. “It’s probably a triple seven.”
This statement floats in the room as we stare at each other. He’s suggesting that there’s an intact commercial airliner under six thousand feet of water, virtually under my feet. In the middle of the Indian Ocean? I’m mulling this over, but notice he’s waiting impatiently to continue.
“What?”
“Will you call someone now?”
“Slow down. Whatever this is, it’s been there awhile. It’s not going to hurt anyone to wait till after we are done.”
“I don’t think we can.”
“Don’t think we can what? We can tell Bates, but I feel confident that he will want to retrieve the case from the Gulfstream before sounding the alarm.”
“Really?” he almost shouts. “How about now?”
He leans down and starts tracing. Down field what, I judge to be at least two miles, is a second outline. It’s close to the same size, although one wing tip seems to have been broken off. Todd holds his hands out to his sides wearing a pained expression. I massage my forehead, a hangover pounding on the inside of my skull. When my pause exceeds his ability to remain silent, he starts tracing again. I almost reach out to stop him, as if my doing so would keep another plane from existing.
“This is bigger than—.”
“Just wait,” I beg, sifting through my mind for a good excuse.
“No John, it gets worse. Much, much worse.”
He traces around what is now the third commercial sized jet liner, then stabs a finger in the very corner of the outside strip. He taps his finger on the spot over and over like a jackhammer.