by Tim LaHaye
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rayford announced, “I want to thank you again for your cooperation today. We’ve been asked to put down on the only runway that will take this size plane and then to taxi to an open area about two miles from the terminal. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to use our inflatable emergency chutes, because we will not be able to hook up to any gateways. If you are unable to walk to the terminal, please stay with the plane, and we will send someone back for you.”
There was no thanking them for choosing Pan-Continental, no “We hope you’ll make us your choice next time you need air service.” He did remind them to stay seated with their belts fastened until he turned off the seat belt sign, because privately he knew this would be his most difficult landing in years. He knew he could do it, but it had been a long time since he had had to land a plane among other aircraft.
Rayford envied whoever it was in first class who had the inside track on communicating by modem. He was desperate to call Irene, Chloe, and Ray Jr. On the other hand, he feared he might never talk to them again.
CHAPTER 3
Hattie Durham and what was left of her cabin crew encouraged passengers to study the safety cards in their seat pockets. Many feared they would be unable to jump and slide down the chutes, especially with their carry-on luggage. They were instructed to remove their shoes and to jump seatfirst onto the chute. Then crew members would toss them their shoes and bags. They were advised not to wait in the terminal for their checked baggage. That, they were promised, would eventually be delivered to their homes. No guarantees when.
Buck Williams gave Hattie his card and got her phone number, “just in case I get through to your people before you do.”
“You’re with Global Weekly?” she said. “I had no idea.”
“And you were going to send me to my room for tampering with the phone.”
She appeared to be trying to smile. “Sorry,” Buck said, “not funny. I’ll let you go.”
Always a light traveler, Buck was grateful he had checked no baggage. Never did, not even on international flights. When he opened the bin to pull down his leather bag, he found the old man’s hat and jacket still perched atop it. Harold’s wife sat staring at Buck, her eyes full, jaw set. “Ma’am,” he said quietly, “would you want these?”
The grieving woman gratefully gathered in the hat and coat, and crushed them against her chest as if she would never let them go. She said something Buck couldn’t hear. He asked her to repeat it. “I can’t jump out of any airplane,” she said.
“Stay right here,” he said. “They’ll send someone for you.”
“But will I still have to jump and slide down that thing?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sure they’ll have a lift of some sort.”
Buck carefully laid his laptop and case in among his clothes. With his bag zipped, he hurried to the front of the line, eager to show others how easy it was. He tossed his shoes down first, watching them bounce and skitter onto the runway. Then he clutched his bag across his chest, took a quick step, and threw his feet out in front of him.
A bit enthusiastic, he landed not on his seat but on his shoulders, which threw his feet over the top of his head. He picked up speed and hit the bottom with his weight shifting forward. The buggy-whip centripetal force slammed his stockinged feet to the ground and brought his torso up and over in a somersault that barely missed planting his face on the concrete. At the last instant, still hanging on to his bag for dear life, he tucked his head under and took the abrasion on the back of his head rather than on his nose. He fought the urge to say, “No problem,” but he couldn’t keep from rubbing the back of his head, already matted with blood. It wasn’t a serious problem, only a nuisance. He quickly retrieved his shoes and began jogging toward the terminal, as much from embarrassment as need. He knew there would be no more hurrying once he hit the terminal.
Rayford, Christopher, and Hattie were the last three off the 747. Before disembarking, they had made sure all able-bodied people got down the chutes and that the elderly and infirm were transported by bus. The bus driver insisted that the crew ride with him and the last passengers, but Rayford refused. “I can’t see passing my own passengers as they walk to the terminal,” he said. “How would that look?”
Christopher said, “Suit yourself, Cap. You mind if I take him up on his offer?”
Rayford glared at him. “You’re serious?”
“I don’t get paid enough for this.”
“Like this was the airline’s fault. Chris, you don’t mean it.”
“The heck I don’t. By the time you get up there, you’ll wish you’d ridden, too.”
“I should write you up for this.”
“Millions of people disappear into thin air and I should worry about getting written up for riding instead of walking? Later, Steele.”
Rayford shook his head and turned to Hattie. “Maybe I’ll see you up there. If you can get out of the terminal, don’t wait for me.”
“Are you kidding? If you’re walking, I’m walking.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“After that dressing-down you just gave Smith? I’m walking.”
“He’s first officer. He ought to be helping the last passenger off the ship and first to volunteer for emergency duty.”
“Well, do me a favor and consider me part of your crew, too. Just because I can’t fly the thing doesn’t mean I don’t feel some ownership. And don’t treat me like a little woman.”
“I would never do that. Got your stuff?”
Hattie pulled her bag on wheels and Rayford carried his pilot’s bag. It was a long walk, and several times they waved off offers of rides from units speeding out to pick up the nonambulatory. Along the way they passed other passengers from their flight. Many thanked Rayford; he wasn’t sure for what. For not panicking, he guessed. But they looked as terrified and shell-shocked as he felt.
They shielded their ears from flights screaming in to land. Rayford tried to calculate how long it would be before this runway was shut down, too. He couldn’t imagine the other open strip holding many more planes, either. Would some have to try to put down on highways or open fields? And how far away from the big cities would they have to look for open stretches of highway unencumbered by bridges? He shuddered at the thought.
All around were ambulances and other emergency vehicles trying to get to ugly wreckage scenes.
Finally in the terminal, Rayford found crowds standing in lines behind banks of phones, their cell networks apparently overloaded. Most had angry people waiting, yelling at callers who shrugged and redialed. Airport restaurants were already sold out of or low on food, and all newspapers and magazines were gone. In shops where staffers had disappeared, looters walked off with merchandise.
Rayford wanted more than anything to sit and talk with someone about what to make of this. But everybody he saw—friend, acquaintance, or stranger—was busy trying to make arrangements. O’Hare was like a massive prison with resources dwindling and gridlock growing. No one slept. Everyone scurried about, trying to find some link to the outside world, to contact their families, and to get out of the airport.
At the flight center in the bowels of the place, Rayford found much the same thing. Hattie said she would try making her calls from the lounge and would meet him later to see if they could share a ride to the suburbs. He knew they were unlikely to find any rides going anywhere, and he didn’t relish walking twenty miles. But all hotels in the area were already full.
Finally a supervisor asked for the attention of the fliers in the underground center. “We have some secure lines, about five,” he said. “Whether you can get through, we don’t know, but it’s your best chance. They do bypass the normal trunk lines out of here, so you won’t be competing with all the pay phones in the terminal. Streamline your calls. Also, there are a limited number of helicopter rides available to suburban hospitals and police departments, but naturally you’re secondary to medical emergencies. Get in line over here
for phones and rides to the suburbs. As of right now we have no word of the cancellation of any flights except for the remainder of today. It’s your responsibility to be back here for your next flight or to call in and find out its status.”
Rayford got in line, beginning to feel the tension of having flown too long and known too little. Worse was the knowledge that he had a better idea than most of what had happened. If he was right, if it were true, he would not be getting an answer when he dialed home. As he stood there, a TV monitor above him broadcast images of the chaos. From around the globe came wailing mothers, stoic families, reports of death and destruction. Dozens of stories included eyewitnesses who had seen loved ones and friends disappear before their eyes.
Most shocking to Rayford was a woman in labor, about to go into the delivery room, who was suddenly barren. Doctors delivered the placenta. Her husband had caught the disappearance of the fetus on his camcorder. As he shot her great belly and sweaty face, he asked how she felt. “How do you think I feel, Earl? Turn that thing off.” What was she hoping for? “That you’ll get close enough for me to slug you.” Did she realize that in a few moments they’d be parents? “In about a minute, you’re going to be divorced.”
Then came the scream and the dropping of the camera, terrified voices, running nurses, and the doctor. CNN reran the footage in super-slow motion, showing the woman going from very pregnant to nearly flat stomached, as if she had instantaneously delivered. “Now, watch with us again,” the newsman intoned, “and keep your eyes on the left edge of your screen, where a nurse appears to be reading a printout from the fetal heart monitor. There, see?” The action stopped as the pregnant woman’s stomach deflated. “The nurse’s uniform seems to still be standing as if an invisible person is wearing it. She’s gone. Half a second later, watch.” The image moved ahead and stopped. “The uniform, stockings and all, are in a pile atop her shoes.”
Local television stations from around the world reported bizarre occurrences, especially in time zones where the event had happened during the day or early evening. CNN showed via satellite the video of a groom disappearing while slipping the ring onto his bride’s finger. A funeral home in Australia reported that nearly every mourner disappeared from one memorial service, including the corpse, while at another service at the same time, only a few disappeared and the corpse remained. Morgues also reported corpse disappearances. At a burial, three of six pallbearers stumbled and dropped a casket when the other three disappeared. When they picked up the casket, it too was empty.
Rayford was second in line for the phone, but what he saw next on the screen convinced him he would never see his wife again. At a Christian high school soccer game at a missionary headquarters in Indonesia, most of the spectators and all but one of the players disappeared in the middle of play, leaving their shoes and uniforms on the ground. The CNN reporter announced that, in his remorse, the surviving player took his own life.
But it was more than remorse, Rayford knew. Of all people, that player, a student at a Christian school, would have known the truth immediately. The Rapture had taken place. Jesus Christ had returned for his people, and that boy was not one of them. When Rayford sat at the phone, tears streamed down his face. Someone said, “You have four minutes,” and he knew that would be more than he needed. His answering machine at home picked up immediately, and he was pierced to hear the cheerful voice of his wife. “Your call is important to us,” she said. “Please leave a message after the beep.”
Rayford punched a few buttons to check for messages. He ran through three or four mundane ones, then was startled to hear Chloe’s voice. “Mom? Dad? Are you there? Have you seen what’s going on? Call me as soon as you can. I’ve lost at least ten students and two profs, and all the married students’ kids disappeared. Is Raymie all right? Call me!” Well, at least he knew Chloe was still around. All he wanted was to hold her.
Rayford redialed and left a message on his own machine. “Irene? Ray? If you’re there, pick up. If you get this message, I’m at O’Hare and trying to get home. It may take a while if I don’t get a copter ride. I sure hope you’re there.”
“Let’s go, Cap,” someone said. “Everybody’s got a call to make.”
Rayford nodded and quickly dialed his daughter’s dorm room at Stanford. He got the irritating message that his call could not be completed as dialed.
Rayford gathered his belongings and checked his mail slot. Besides a pile of the usual junk, he found a padded manila envelope from his home address. Irene had taken to mailing him little surprises lately, the result of a marriage book she had been urging him to read. He slipped the envelope into his case and went looking for Hattie Durham. Funny, he had no emotional attraction whatever to Hattie just now. But he felt obligated to be sure she got home.
As he stood in a crowd by the elevator, he heard the announcement that a helicopter was available for no more than eight pilots and would make a run to Mount Prospect, Arlington Heights, and Des Plaines. Rayford hurried to the pad. “Got room for one to Mount Prospect?”
“Yup.”
“How about another to Des Plaines?”
“Maybe, if he gets here in about two minutes.”
“It’s not a he. She’s a flight attendant.”
“Pilots only. Sorry.”
“What if you have room?”
“Well, maybe, but I don’t see her.”
“I’ll have her paged.”
“They’re not paging anyone.”
“Give me a second. Don’t leave without me.”
The chopper pilot looked at his watch. “Three minutes,” he said. “I’m leavin’ at one.”
Rayford left his bag on the ground, hoping it would hold the helicopter pilot in case he was a little late. He charged up the stairs and into the corridor. Finding Hattie would be impossible. He grabbed a courtesy phone. “I’m sorry, we’re unable to page anyone just now.”
“This is an emergency and I am a Pan-Continental captain.”
“What is it?”
“Have Hattie Durham meet her party at K-17.”
“I’ll try.”
“Do it!”
Rayford stood on tiptoe to see Hattie coming, yet still somehow she surprised him. “I was fourth in line for a computer in the lounge,” she said, appearing at his side. “Got a better deal?”
“Got us a helicopter ride if we hurry,” he said.
As they skipped down the stairs she said, “Wasn’t it awful about Chris?”
“What about him?”
“You really don’t know?”
Rayford wanted to stop and tell her to quit making him work so hard. That frustrated him about people her age. They enjoyed a volleying conversation game. He liked to get to the point. “Just tell me!” he said, sounding more exasperated than he intended.
As they burst through the door and onto the tarmac, the chopper blades whipped their hair and deafened them. Rayford’s bag had already been put on board, and only one seat remained. The pilot pointed at Hattie and shook his head. Rayford grabbed her elbow and pulled her aboard as he climbed in. “Only way she’s not coming is if you can’t handle the weight!”
“What do you weigh, doll?” the pilot said.
“One-fifteen!”
“I can handle the weight!” he told Rayford. “But if she’s not buckled in, I’m not responsible!”
“Let’s go!” Rayford shouted.
He buckled himself in and Hattie sat in his lap. He wrapped his arms around her waist and clasped his wrists together. He thought how ironic it was that he had been dreaming of this for weeks, and now there was no joy, no excitement in it, nothing sensual whatever. He was miserable. Glad to be able to help her out, but miserable.
Hattie looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, and Rayford noticed she took a sheepish peek at the other seven pilots in the copter. None seemed to return her gaze. This disaster was still too fresh and there were too many unknowns. Rayford thought he heard or lip-read one of them saying, “Chr
istopher Smith,” but there was no way he could hear inside the raucous craft. He put his mouth next to Hattie’s ear.
“Now what about Chris?” he said.
She turned and spoke into his ear. “They wheeled him past us while I was going into the lounge. Blood all over!”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, but, Rayford, he didn’t look good!”
“How bad?”
“I think he was dead! I mean, they were working on him, but I’d be surprised if he made it.”
Rayford shook his head. What next? “Did he get hit or something? Did that bus crash?” Wouldn’t that be ironic!
“I don’t know,” she said. “The blood seemed like it was coming from his hand or his waist or both.”
Rayford tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Do you know anything about First Officer Christopher Smith?”
“He with Pan-Con?” the pilot said.
“Yes!”
“Was he the suicide?”
Rayford recoiled. “I don’t think so! Was there a suicide?”
“Lots of ’em, I guess, but mostly passengers. Only crew member I heard about was a Smith from Pan. Slit his wrists.”
Rayford quickly scanned the others in the chopper to see if he recognized anyone. He didn’t, but one was nodding sadly, having overheard the pilot’s shouting. He leaned forward. “Chris Smith! You know him?”
“My first officer!”
“Sorry.”
“What’d you hear?”
“Don’t know how reliable this is, but the rumor is he found out his boys had disappeared and his wife was killed in a wreck!”
For the first time the enormity of the situation became personal for Rayford. He didn’t know Smith well. He vaguely remembered Chris had two sons. Seemed they were young teenagers, very close in age. He had never met the wife. But suicide! Was that an option for Rayford? No, not with Chloe still there. But what if he had discovered that Irene and young Ray were gone and Chloe had been killed? What would he have to live for?
He hadn’t been living for them anyway, certainly not the last several months. He had been playing around on the edges of his mind with the girl in his lap, though he had never gone so far as touching her, even when she often touched him. Would he want to live if Hattie Durham were the only person he cared about? And why did he care about her? She was beautiful and sexy and smart, but only for her age. They had little in common. Was it only because he was convinced Irene was gone that he now longed to hold his own wife?