The pair was fully aware of the pandemic influenza. Two days of nonstop television coverage convinced the pilots getting home was an emphatic priority. The Center for Disease Control was blaming the airline industry for defeating quarantines by transporting contagious people to uninfected areas. World health authorities demanded action. Congress was squawking. The pilots heard frequent news predictions of nationwide grounding of all air traffic… some even included military flights.
The irony of such talk was that all airlines were facing startling demand from travelers who feared becoming stranded as they had after nine-eleven. Alaska Airways with its far flung routes was nearly crippled by the hysteria. The last flight arriving in Nome was two days ago. A company notice reported that the infection rate among its flight crews had reached alarming proportions, especially within its hub of operations in Seattle. The airline was considering suspending all flight operations due to illness and crippling absenteeism. The airline would announce its plan the following morning. The pair waited with growing anxiety having no alternate plan of their own.
Ted, the company airline mechanic and compulsive snoop, told Pappy that the bat flu had arrived at the Nome hospital five blocks from where they stood. Pappy was convinced that by morning, panic, fear, and suspension of flights would strand them in the crowded inn with little hope of escaping town and ultimately the deadly disease.
Pappy spent the remainder of the morning looking for a way out. A few small private aircraft continued to arrive and depart at Doolittle. Pappy thought they needed an aircraft of their own or all was lost. He wandered among the airport hangars dressed in his white airline uniform with his airside pass dangling from his shirt.
He found one… a twin engine turboprop highly regarded for northern conditions. The DeHavilland Twin Otter seated nineteen passengers and had been recently retired from serving rural Alaska airports. Larger than really necessary, the craft was robust and fitted with oversized tires designed for landing on unpaved airstrips.
Pappy sought Ted, the company mechanic, working in his shop on a floatplane alongside two robust men dressed in coveralls.
Ted was a slight, agile man, an independent minded Aussie usually dressed in an unkempt uniform. A recent divorcee, he habituated the hangar, playing poker until wee hours of the morning with his few remaining friends.
“Ted, can I talk to you ‘bout that matter from this morning?”
Ted cocked his head toward two bearded mechanics in coveralls and said, “These boys are with me and they’re okay.”
“That puddle jumper how y’all plan to get outta town?” asked Pappy.
“Got a better idea?”
Pappy threw caution to the wind; there wasn’t time to beat around the bush. “Yea, I do. What’s the story with that company Otter in the other hangar?”
“Officially, it’s not there, but so it has for months.”
“Still airworthy?”
“It’ll fly with a little prep and fuel. I like it! Damn fine aircraft and a bold idea. Wish I’d thought of it myself.”
“Could you get it ready in an hour or even sooner?”
“Maybe…one way or another. What do you have in mind?”
“Leave that to me. Just have it ready.”
“All right, but I need these guys to help, so they’re comin’ with us.”
“Us?”
“I’m not leavin’ them behind after helping me. It’s three of us or count me out.”
“Then buzz me from the pump when it’s ready for fueling.”
“Nothin’ doing. I’ll gas it myself. It’ll be less suspicious.”
Pappy forced himself to keep his voice under control. “Then bring it over near the terminal, but not to a gate… and no more stowaways. That will bring trouble.”
“The terminal? Good God, why? Everyone there will wantta get outta Saigon.”
“It’s got to be a papered flight for the badges. Don’t mess with the plan, Ted.”
“Sounds risky as hell. Why don’t the four of us just bug outta here soon as it’s ready? Tell ‘em whatever they want to hear.”
“That air marshal calls in a hijacking and we won’t see a hundred miles before we’re all burning embers in hell. That’s why.”
“With all that’s going on, who’s gonna care?”
“Haven’t you been listening to all the palaver about flying around quarantines? Well I have and I’m telling you they’ll come after us.” Pappy paused, letting the warning sink in but didn’t hear an answer. “So… you with me or not?”
“As I said, maybe.”
“I’m not buying ‘maybe’ and I don’t like what I’m readin’ here, Teddy.” Pappy’s voice dropped to a threatening growl. “If you count me out and take that Otter on your own, I’ll sic those Air Force jockeys on you myself!”
The crowd in the lobby had diminished to several dozen people milling about the ticket counter where a flustered, long suffering clerk attended the desk trying to answer questions. Mac waited until last, “Is anyone making arrangements for those of us left stranded here? Please, be honest. Is there any hope of a flight through here today?”
“Thankfully, I don’t make those decisions, but I will tell you the list of standbys is very long.” Glancing about, she lowered her voice. “If you want an honest answer, a flight out today is highly unlikely.”
“Then, what about luggage? I checked my bag; now I need it for the night.”
“Sir, you’re not the first person to ask,” she said, sounding sincere, “but there’s no one outside available to find your luggage.”
“Look, the clothes on my back are all that I have. I can sort through the bags myself. I’ve tagged mine with colored ribbon.”
“I’m sorry, but we cannot allow anyone on the flight line unsupervised.”
“How can I get it done then?” Can you call someone?”
“I’ll notify a baggage handler. Wait until you hear your name called.” Picking up a phone, she turned her back. Her body language was clear. Nothing was going to happen; no one gave a damn. But at least, Mac knew where to find his bag.
As he turned to leave, the clerk taped a hand lettered sign to the ticket counter.
ALL FLIGHTS TODAY ARE CANCELLED
She hurried away before anyone else could question her.
A few diehards remained in the nearly silent lobby. A man burst into the lobby holding a single sheet edition of the Nome Nugget. Mac rushed over to read the headline:
BAT PLAGUE HERE
With a brief glimpse Mac learned that the local hospital was treating several men afflicted with the flu. His indecision three weeks ago at the Seattle airport flashed back. His course of action was now clear. He must leave Nome right away and find refuge.
The only airport official visible was a security guard standing at the far side of the boarding lounge near the last gate. Mac cautiously passed through the vacant screening station and beckoned him. As he did so, the young guard help up his hand and said, “That’s far enough! The departure lounge is closed. What’s the problem?”
“Well, when I arrived for my flight this morning, I checked my bag. But now all flights are cancelled, so I need it back. The clerk told me the luggage was assembled somewhere outside on the flight line.”
“Look, that’s a bitch, because all flights are cancelled. But they put me here to be sure that nobody goes through that door. Otherwise, I’d be outta here myself.”
“So you’ve heard the news.”
“Who hasn’t? Just standing here by myself has me spooked. I need to get home to my kids where I belong.”
“Yea, a public waiting room sure can’t be a healthy place to hang around just now… only slightly better than the waiting room inside that hospital.”
“Look, I’ll tell
you something you might like to hear.” The guard lowered his voice. “I’m off in a coupla hours and then you won’t have to deal with me. Okay?”
“Another shift come on duty after you?”
“Yea, normally. But would you show up knowing what’s happening? Tell you what. I’ll sweep you with the wand so I’m doing my job. That way, neither of us will get into trouble. Then sit here quietly and don’t leave, not even to go to the head. With me standing here, no one will question you. If no one arrives after I leave, you can decide what you need to do. Okay?”
After the guard swept him, Mac said, “Good luck to you and your family.”
“God help us all.”
Mac sat in the vacant lounge, his mind wind milling. Should he change his plan and find Abel? Abel would surely find a way to survive if anyone could. Remote activity on the tarmac put such thoughts aside. He pulled out his pocket journal to look busy writing while scoping for any opportunity.
7
Deadhorse Dormitory, Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, Sept. 30th. Lazlo awoke hearing road noise coming from the Dalton Highway. Somewhat paranoid, he rose to watch the traffic which seemed about normal.
It was a red sky in the morning kind of a day with a steady wind blowing and perhaps a storm brewing. Scowling, he looked around the room. The mild euphoria induced by the medication had worn off. Troubled, he saw his quarters in a different light. The place hadn’t seen a housekeeper in months with detritus everywhere, stale air, a broken television set, and filthy windows. He wasn’t in a prison cell but the place felt unkempt, cheap, and depressing.
He searched cabinets hoping to find coffee but remembered there wasn’t power. Standing in his underwear, he realized the room was colder than yesterday. Time to get dressed, he thought, and take care of things he had neglected… like somehow charging his stone dead cell phone.
His thought became a telepathic message. Immediately a phone began ringing with a loud traditional ring tone. Lazlo found the phone in the weather foyer, a public phone booth with a mounted seat. Warily he answered with a monotone voice, “Lazlo.”
“Lazlo Fodor?” queried a deep familiar voice.
“Yes. That you boss?”
After a pause so long that Lazlo thought he might have been mistaken, “Yea, it’s me, but now I really don’t know what to say. They told me you might be alive but I thought that wasn’t likely. So, welcome to the living. I don’t think I’ve ever said that to anyone before, so how are you doing?”
“I’m recovering… nothing worse than just a bad cold. I don’t think I ever had that bug anyway.”
“Well everyone else thinks you do and that’s why I’m calling. I’m trying to head off a potential problem here. We may have to evacuate most of this place and we can’t include you. You’ve got to stay where you are… You definitely can’t leave that dormitory.”
“This place is a dungeon, boss… no power, no heat, damn little food and bad weather coming. How can I deal with all that by myself? Please move me back to camp.”
“No way… no how! I can deal with the power and the food, but if I was to bring you back here to camp you wouldn’t last five minutes.”
“Say what?”
“You’re a pariah. Someone would kill you. Everyone knows about you. You’ve been the talk of this place for three days. They’re frightened and think you brought that bug with you. They won’t believe you’ve survived. No one’s heard of anyone who has. So stay outta sight!”
“Isn’t there anyone at the infirmary who can vouch for me? Maybe that doc? She gave me medicine that really worked.”
“She left for home on the last flight out of here. Nothing is getting through to us. Alaska Air shut us down.”
“So what’s happening? Haven’t heard any news since I got here.”
“The news is unimaginable. That bug has spread to every corner of the planet. There’s no treatment for it that works despite your experience or what you think. Sometimes I wonder if we might be better off just sitting right here… except that we need food, and winter is coming on. Laz, there are more than two thousand people living in this camp. We can’t feed that horde for long. And how are we going to evacuate so many people without airliners?”
Lazlo thought his boss sounded despondent but felt little sympathy for him. “So you’re telling me I’m stuck here? Can I at least get some food… and turn on the power?”
“I’ll take care of food and power today, but stay put. And Laz…good luck. Maybe something positive will happen to change all this, like a National Guard rescue. I think we’re down to that.”
Well, there he was…indefinite isolation at Camp Pariah, thought Lazlo. No doubt that doc leaving town said all that was necessary.
Back in the day room, Lazlo realized he was ravenous. He’d eaten one sandwich since his flight arrived three days ago. He spread out the five day food packages from the infirmary. Displayed on the table, it didn’t look like much. He had never been a prepper, or even much of a shopper, so he didn’t know how much food was necessary … say for even a week. Something should develop by then, he hoped. But then… nothing might happen at all this far north. And he’d just been told that he wouldn’t be evacuated. His boss predicted he was going to be ignored. Somehow, he must find a way home.
Presently, he heard a vehicle pull up near the dormitory entrance. Lazlo watched the driver step out of a British Petroleum pickup dressed in fluorescent fireman’s turnouts walking boldly to the weather foyer. He opened the door, and placed a large cooler inside.
The man began spraying the front of the building in sweeping motions. Lazlo wondered if the driver really expected some sort of disinfectant would protect him.
The pickup left and a few moments later Lazlo whooped in celebration as a ceiling fixture in the day room lighted and the furnace started. His boss had come through! Three of his problems were solved in five minutes.
When Lazlo went into the foyer to grab the cooler, he noticed orange paint sprayed across the door glass. Despite the warning to stay out of sight, Lazlo stepped outside, turned around and was stunned by what he read:
BAT FLU HERE STAY AWAY OR DIE
Lazlo stammered out loud, “Why that double talking son of a…” then stopped in mid sentence reconsidering. Maybe… just maybe, I’m better off this way, he thought. His boss had just chased everyone away…unless they were fools. Maybe now I don’t have to stay out of sight every waking minute. Let them wonder why someone is wandering around inside. Bet they don’t walk in to find out why – or who.
Even with quantities of sandwiches, fruit and vegetables, frozen chicken, sausages and cheese, he decided to conserve as much as possible. Soon, others would be thinking about hoarding food just as he should.
What if he was abandoned? Distressing thoughts nagged him. The trip overland to Fairbanks by the Dalton Highway was five hundred miles. By car it meant a stop overnight near Coldfoot and a second tank of gas…two days… or maybe just one day if he pushed hard. He reasoned he didn’t need more than three days of food and a warm sleeping bag. But what were his chances of finding an abandoned car or truck… unless he absconded with one?
Walking home in the wilderness seemed especially foolhardy… and considering the spreading plague, did he really want to go to Fairbanks after all? Lazlo admitted that solitary confinement wasn’t helping him think clearly. He returned to the panoramic windows to help relieve his mind.
His cell somewhat charged, a message from Barbara appeared from three days earlier:
UNLOCKED CABIN TO FIND PEOPLE INSIDE POINTING GUNS ONE WAS SICK FLED TO GOOD NEIGHBOR LET US USE BARN CLEANED UP WE ARE OK
Lazlo was about to call when two more messages from the next day popped up:
MOM SICK PAPA W/MOM WE R OUTSIDE IN TENT WE SCARED ILU J
And then:
MOM DIED WE
R ALL SICK ILU4EVER J
Lazlo immediately dialed Barbara, but got the message, “Your call did not go through.” While the last two messages were from Barbara’s cell phone, the messages were from his youngest daughter Jill. He tried her phone and got the same message. His phone displayed no more messages… from anyone!
Lazlo was thunderstruck. He realized from the last text and especially from the last line that his entire family was likely dead. Dazed, he stared though the window. He had let them down and now they were gone… all for this inconsequential job. Where had his head been? And now… why didn’t he have tears? He felt numb and guilty and sad but lacked all the tragic emotion that reason supposed he ought to feel. And he didn’t care so much about living on either.
8
Jimmy Doolittle Terminal Building, Nome, Afternoon of Sept. 30th. Walking back from the hangar, Pappy was troubled by Ted’s objection to loading near the terminal. Ted was right. An Alaska airliner taxiing anywhere for a flight might cause a stampede.
The flaw inspired the hint of another plan… one that he would have to go about carefully. His Captain was a rigid, by-the-book old codger. But the man was a devoted grandfather and that might sway his cooperation. Neither security nor the air marshal could be trusted. Everyone needed to take utmost caution to remain undiscovered.
When Pappy returned to operations, everyone was watching television. Pappy gave the Captain a conspiratorial wink. “We’ll be out on the line having a smoke,” he said to the marshal.
“Thought you boys quit a long time ago… bad for ya,” the air marshal muttered without looking away from the screen.
Flight To Pandemonium Page 5