“Air Saudi 66,” another voice spoke, “this is Latin Air 4566.”
Andrew let his head fall forward for a moment and heaved a sigh. At least someone had responded, though not ATC. “Go ahead, Latin 4566.”
“We are not getting a response from ATC. There are more than 40 flights in the vicinity seeking direction as well. Did you say your fuel is critical?”
“That’s correct,” he replied.
“Are you a 767 or something similar? If you are on this frequency, you are probably not far from Torreon.”
Andrew fished around in the pilot’s seat pouch, found the pilot’s iPad and powered it up. Luckily, the man hadn’t password protected it. Most of the planet’s airport approach maps and runway details were there. He quickly found Torreon and the small Francisco Sarabia International Airport. “I’m an A380, Air Latin.”
“Roger that,” the other pilot replied, and a long silence followed. Andrew paged around and found Mexico City International. He used the iPad’s navigational aid; it was more reliable than the plane’s. Over 250 miles. He would be lucky to make 100.
“Can you make Mexico City?” asked the Air Latin pilot.
“Negative,” Andrew replied. He was finally leaving the storm behind, but a new fear was beginning to take hold. He could see a bit of the land below him through clouds. It was rocky and bleak. The runway at the airport in Torreon was 1,700 meters long. The book said that for a normal landing, he’d need 1,900 meters. He’d be light on fuel, so maybe he could trim a hundred meters. But he’d never landed a commercial jet, and this pig was the biggest of them all. And, who knew what kind of damage the storm had done?
“Air Saudi 66,” a female voice chimed in and, for a moment, his heart raced. Was ATC back?
“Air Saudi 66, go ahead!”
“This is Air Mexico 1244,” the voice came back, and his spirits crashed again. “Can you make Monterrey?”
Monterrey, he thought, and punched it up on the iPad. Runway 16/34 was only 1,600 meters, but 11/29 was 1,800 meters! Trying not to get too excited, he punched in the navigation information. It was about 80 miles. He didn’t need a second to think about it; he put the plane into a bank to turn toward Monterrey.
“Air Mexico, thanks,” he said, “I think you just saved our lives.”
“The wind is usually from the south this time of year,” the female pilot warned him, “and you’ll have to use the east/west runway since it’s longer, but it’s better than a highway.”
“For sure, Air Mexico. I don’t think they make highways big enough for this thing.”
“God speed,” Air Latin offered. A few others jumped in with advice on approach and well wishes. Two even turned to follow him, a 747 out of Brisbane and an A320 that had come up from Rio. None of them were as fuel critical as he was, but they were short on options as well.
When you were almost out of fuel, 80 miles seemed like a trip to the Moon, especially since the low fuel alarm went off every minute on the instrument panel of the 560-ton airplane he really didn’t know how to fly. He completed the turn using the autopilot, then set it for a quick descent. Eighty miles was actually less distance than he should have used to descend this aircraft from 25,000 feet. However, since he’d slowed to only 315 knots, it wouldn’t be that difficult.
Once he was within 25 miles, he used the barely-functioning radar navigational system to try and locate the Monterrey airport beacon. It wasn’t there. He tried their published ATC frequency and, just like earlier, got nothing. The storm was behind him now and the early morning sky below 10,000 feet was clear. He’d been on the descent approach vector for several minutes, dropping below 3,000 feet. Ahead and to the north was a low mountain and as he passed, he got his first look at the resort city of Monterrey. “Oh, fuck me,” he said.
They’d built the city on and around a series of low hills. Housing areas clustered around shopping and historic districts, and a few industrial zones. The smoke from ten thousand fires spiraled into the sky over the devastated city. The center of the city, once a series of modern high-rise buildings built around older structures, was a crater a half mile across. There was only one possibility. Someone had nuked Monterrey. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cursed, and grabbed the dead pilot’s iPad again.
Landing maps that pilots carried held relatively limited information. Basically, they included the flight approach patterns, and runway and taxiway layouts of an airport. There were some details on the surrounding terrain, mostly to warn pilots of hills and high radio towers or buildings. He knew he had to stay above 1,000 feet to clear the hills he’d just gone over. Radio towers were no longer a concern. All that remained were charred stumps.
The Monterrey airport was not very close to the downtown area; it was southeast of the charred remains of the city center. He looked at the airport runway, now less than 20 miles away, and then toward the ruins. “Maybe eight miles,” he guessed. It was difficult to see past the city; the smoke obscured his vision.
The plane passed over the southern outskirts of the city and began to bounce as it encountered rising currents from the fires below. As the plane continued to descend, it got worse. Much worse. He grabbed the flap control and gave it two more clicks, and an alarm sounded. “Flap failure,” the information center warned him. He glanced at the flap control. It was at twenty percent. Landing required one hundred percent flaps. “Great.”
“Air Saudi, what happened to Monterrey!” one of the flights behind him called out.
“Dear God, the whole city is on fire!” the other exclaimed.
Andrew ignored them, and when they started screaming, he reached out and flicked off the radio. He was going to land, no matter what. The fuel indicator was no longer registering. The question was whether he was landing on the wheels, or on the nose.
As he passed within a mile of the crater that was once the center of a city, he reached down and grabbed the lever with a plastic wheel on it, pulled out, and snapped it down. On the console five indicators representing the plane’s landing gear went from black with white lines to yellow with X marks. There was a loud buzz that dropped in volume, but continued to sound as the gear began cycling down. First the nose gear indicator switched to green, then the two rear inboards, and after an eternity, the outboards. Andrew breathed and shook sweat from his forehead. Something had finally worked right.
Two miles out, he was below 500 feet and going way too fast. He reduced throttle as far back as he dared and slowed to 225 mph. “Too damned fast,” he said. He searched the group of control levers, found what he wanted, and deployed the speed brakes. The speed dropped to under 200, and the information center warned him, “Do not attempt landing with speed brakes deployed.”
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Insufficient Flaps.”
“I know,” he growled.
As if it were listening, it displayed another warning. “Glide path not optimal. More flaps.”
“That’s a negative,” he said, and felt the response in the joystick. It was incredibly sluggish, taking almost a second to respond to his commands. His breath was coming in gasps. He was flying on the ragged edge.
“Pull up,” a voice suddenly yelled, and an annoying chirp sounded. “Pull up.”
Whatever, he thought, but then the plane began to throttle up on its own. “Oh, no you don’t!” he cried, searching the control screen. Master Override was in yellow in the bottom corner. He stabbed it hard enough to hurt his finger. Instantly the throttle dropped to almost nothing, and the stall alarm screamed in his ear.
“Piece of shit!” he yelled, giving it more throttle and a little nose down. The turbines spooled up, and the stall alarm stopped. He battled to keep the speed as slow as possible, see-sawing between descending flight and stalling.
“Three hundred,” the automatic altimeter warned.
Andrew scanned the approaching airport. There were a few planes parked at the terminal and one about to roll onto runway 11/29, but he thought it was clear. One of th
e hangars was burning, and he thought he saw some people near the terminal. They appeared to be standing around. That was strange.
“No time to worry about it,” he said. The runway appeared clear, and that was all that mattered. He didn’t think he’d have enough fuel to go around.
The starboard outboard engine warning went off; it had flamed out. “Fuel critical,” the computer warned.
Andrew instantly turned off the port outboard engine to balance thrust and further reduced power. The stall alarm went off, and he stowed the speed brakes and decreased his angle of attack, turning the biggest commercial airliner in the world into an unpowered glider.
“Two hundred, one fifty, one hundred. Fifty, forty, thirty.”
The antenna and outer marker equipment loomed. “Shit!” he yelled and gritted his teeth. The outer marker passed under the plane so closely, he could read the writing on the antenna. He pulled back, flaring the huge plane. The air speed dropped, and the stall alarm renewed its panic. “Stall!” it warned. “Stall!”
The massive rear wheels slammed onto the very edge of the runway hard enough to make him to go “Oof!” The titanic plane shuddered violently, he’d blown several tires. He pulled back as hard as he could to keep the nose from driving into the tarmac. The much lighter nose gear would have crumpled like cheap lawn furniture.
Andrew managed to bring the plane down in a semblance of a normal touchdown, then reached over and grabbed the thrust reverse controls, jerked them back, and snapped them into position. He pushed the inboard throttle controls all the way up, deploying the air brakes at the same time. The two inboard engines spooled up with a scream of power, panels opening on their sides and directing their thousands of pounds of thrust mostly forward.
All five sets of warning stripes raced by and his mind started counting distances. 1,500 meters, 180 mph. 1,200 meters, 150mph. 1,000 meters, 120 mph. Both remaining engines flamed out. “I’m not going to make it,” he said as he reached a foot over and pulsed the brakes. The excessive speed warning went off, but since he’d already hit the master override it took his command, and he felt the sickening lurch of the wheels skidding. Rubber flew like shrapnel from the three blown tires, pelting the underside of the huge wings. He actually saw pieces of one tire fly out of the corner of his eye. 500 meters, 100 mph.
“Come on you fucking beast!” he yelled. Only 250 meters left, and he was still going 80 mph. He tapped a control he’d located earlier, disabling the antilock system, and with the veins standing out on his neck, he stomped the brake pedal.
More than 550 tons of super-sized aircraft skidded for a moment then started to go sideways. There was nothing Andrew could do; he was just along for the ride. He’d lost track of how much runway he had left when the starboard landing gear went off the end and hit grass. With a maddening jerk, the plane came to a sudden and shuddering stop, pitching him sideways violently. His head slammed into a panel, and he blacked out.
* * * * *
Chapter 16
Saturday, April 21, Evening
Dr. Lisha Breda stared at the lab work and shook her head in disbelief. The more tests she did, the more unbelievable the results became. She looked up from filing some of the data on the project’s computers to glance at the LCD monitor a tech had installed only hours ago. On it, the grainy image of Grant Porter, former research specialist, was walking back and forth in his cage. Only a few of those who remained in the station were aware he was still alive…if alive was an accurate term.
After the earlier operation, she’d stitched him back up and followed all the protocols, but figured that was that. No one had been more surprised than she when she’d looked up a few hours later to see him walking around again. She’d noted in her casebook that the patient demonstrated no noticeable decrease in abilities from the procedure. But that was just the beginning.
The prepared slides of brain tissue displayed the same chemical reaction to the preserving dyes; they turned a surreal shade of green. Worse, as she observed the condition of the brain matter, she noted cellular activity two hours after removing the sample. “This isn’t possible,” she’d said into a verbal log, but then she’d laughed out loud. The whole situation was impossible!
“Doctor,” her new assistant, Edith, called. “You should look at this.”
Lisha took a sip of cold coffee and got up, her back complaining loudly as she hobbled over to the other woman’s bench. Her screen displayed a scan of brain matter. She’d managed to isolate a pair of neurons, the specialized brain cells that made intelligence possible.
“Good slide,” Lisha complimented.
“Thanks, but that’s not what I wanted to show you.” The young woman gestured to a computer display measuring incredibly tiny electrical charges. As Lisha watched, it recorded a reading and then, again, a moment later.
“Are you certain of the source?”
“This is the second slide I prepared, Doctor.”
Lisha nodded. “I see.”
“That isn’t the most alarming part,” Edith said and pulled up a file on her computer. “Something was tickling the back of my mind.” The computer displayed another slide of neurons, the one the girl said she’d done earlier. “I’d been concentrating on the electrical responses and didn’t notice where they came from.”
Lisha watched for a moment before she realized. “They’re reorganizing?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Edith.” Lisha went back to her desk and fell into the chair with a sigh. She desperately needed sleep, but she wanted answers even worse.
“When was the last time you ate?” Edith asked.
“I don’t remember,” she admitted.
“I heard one of the guys caught a tuna earlier, and they’re making sushi,” Edith said.
“That sounds…really good,” Lisha said, and ponderously got back to her feet. Not for the first time, she wished she had more time to work out and lose the extra 50 pounds she was carrying around.
Edith glanced up from her computer. “I’ll call if that cell growth test finishes.”
“I’m going to grab a couple of hours of sleep, too.” Lisha glanced at her watch and was shocked to see it was 8:00 p.m. “If I don’t call by midnight, come get me?” Edith agreed, and Lisha headed into the hall.
The converted oil rig was much less crowded. Lisha passed one person going the other way. “Did you have some sushi?” she asked the man, a maintenance technician, if she remembered correctly.
“The cook was still getting it ready,” the man said. “I was going to grab a shower and then head back.”
“You sure it’ll still be there?”
“It’s a 70-pound tuna; I think it’ll last!”
“Excellent,” Lisha said and continued on.
Down a metal stairway and across the hall, she heard the buzz of conversation even before she opened the door. To her surprise, it was rather upbeat and boisterous. It was the first time she’d heard laughter since the incident.
Inside, a dozen or more of the survivors were at two of the long tables. Someone had brought in a board game and was playing with another person, while several others observed and offered their strategic advice. At the counter, she could see all three of the cooks working. Lisha strolled over; two were delicately filleting a huge tuna steak, while the other laid out seaweed sheets and covered them with rice.
“Evening doctor,” the lead cook said, glancing up from his knife work.
“Christopher,” she nodded.
“Still need another 15 minutes or so,” he said. Lisha made a face, then shrugged. “But you can have some crab rolls if you want.” He used his knife to point, a drop of tuna blood dripping from the tip. “It’s canned crab, though, I’m sorry to say.”
“That’s fine,” Lisha said and looked over the tray. It was already half-empty, so she took a metal serving plate and grabbed a dozen slices. She could see cucumber and cream cheese inside as well. She added a swirl of soy sauce.
“Save r
oom for this,” one of the other cooks said and popped a chunk of tuna in her mouth. She rolled her eyes and chewed with a smile. “Ish weal good,” she said around the meat.
“Savage,” the first cook joked, and mock-threatened her with his knife. They both laughed as they went back to preparing more rolls.
Lisha tossed a chunk of the canned meat into her mouth and walked to a table. As she chewed and swallowed, she was surprised to realize just how hungry she was. The pile of crab rolls she’d taken quickly disappeared.
“You’re eating more than you’re cooking!” the cook laughed at his assistant.
“She was practically eating it as I was taking the hook out,” a man called from across the room. Lisha took note of him, another mechanical worker. She wanted to thank him for catching the fish. It was having a profoundly positive effect on morale.
The cutting and shaping done, the head cook was busily rolling and cutting the sushi pieces. Lisha’s plate was empty, and she was weighing her options, wondering if having a few more pieces of the crab sushi would mean she wouldn’t have room for the fresh tuna sushi. She’d gone as far as walking back to the serving table when she noticed the assistant who couldn’t stop sampling the fish. She was standing a few feet away from the preparation table, staring off into space with a confused look in her eyes.
“Are you okay?” Lisha asked. The assistant cook’s head jerked around at Lisha’s voice, her eyes going wide. “Hello?”
“I uh…” the cook said, then shook her head violently. “It hurts,” she said and bent over slightly, grabbing her head with both hands. “I can’t think…voices…”
The room was gradually falling silent as people noticed the strange behavior. Lisha put her plate down and moved to go around the serving table, meaning to check on the woman, when she suddenly screamed, bringing Lisha’s plan to an abrupt halt and a shuddering silence to the room. The scream went on and on, then morphed into a howl of rage.
Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die Page 16