Mayday

  She took it and drank. “Thank you.”

  Berry knelt down beside McVary and pushed his eyelids back. Partly dilated. Breathing regular, but shallow. He looked up at the girl. “Did he move at all?”

  Linda nodded. “He opened his eyes once. He said something, too, but I couldn’t understand it.” She pointed to Stuart. “That one never moved.”

  Berry turned to Stuart. The blood and vomit on his face were dry and crusty. Berry pushed back the eyelids. The pupils were fully dilated. The Captain’s skin was clammy and his breathing was irregular. The man was dying.

  Berry rose and looked down again at McVary. If the copilot regained consciousness, and if he was at all coherent, they might have a chance. The plane was flyable. All it needed was someone to fly it. Berry thought he could do it if someone talked him through it. Someone on the radio, if he could get it working, or this copilot. Without help, he’d have to wait out the hours in full consciousness of his impending death. He almost envied the others.

  “Listen!”

  Berry shot a glance at the girl, then steadied his breathing and listened.

  “The stairs,” she whispered.

  Berry nodded. “Be quiet.” The circular metal stairway that led down to the first-class cabin had apparently been loosened, and Berry remembered it creaking when he’d used it. It was creaking now.

  Berry heard the footsteps on the stairs clearly now. They were coming slowly, hesitantly. He thought there was only one person, but he couldn’t be certain.

  He walked quickly around the lounge searching for something to defend himself with. The barstools were fastened to the floor, the scattered bar bottles were miniatures, and the mixers were in small cans with pop tops, which meant no openers were needed. A canister of precut lemons and limes was in the galley. No knife. “Damn it.” He looked over the floor. Almost everything else that was movable had been sucked down the stairwell. He searched desperately for an attaché case, an umbrella, the blind man’s cane, but he knew he would find nothing. The footsteps got louder.

  Linda Farley screamed.

  Berry looked at the stairwell and saw the top of a man’s head. He shouted at the girl, “Get in the cockpit and stay there. Go on!” He then moved quickly past the stairwell and knelt beside the body of Carl Fessler. He pulled the man’s belt off and wrapped it around his right hand, which still ached from the confrontation in the cabin. He let the buckle end swing free.

  Berry stood quickly and moved to the opening in the rail around the stairwell. He looked down and saw a large man looking up at him. “Stop!”

  The man stopped.

  Berry saw that the man’s hands were on the floor a few inches from his ankles He moved back a step. “Go down!” He raised the belt.

  The man hesitated.

  Berry knew that as long as he stood there he could keep anyone from coming up the stairs. But he couldn’t stand there indefinitely. “Go!”

  The man backed down a few steps. He looked at Berry with an uncomprehending expression. He opened his mouth and made a small sound, then spoke clearly. “Who are you?”

  Berry leaned over and looked at the man’s face. Flecks of vomit covered his chin and white shirt. His eyes looked alive. No blood covered his face, no saliva ran from his mouth. “Who are you ?” Berry asked.

  “Harold Stein.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “What?”

  “What is your home address?”

  The man took another step down. “Where’s the pilot? I was in the lavatory when . . .”

  “Answer me, damn it! Tell me your home address!”

  “Chatham Drive, Bronxville.”

  “What day is this?”

  “Tuesday. No, Wednesday. Look, who are you? Good God, man, don’t you realize what’s happened down here? Where is the pilot?”

  Berry felt his chest heave and his eyes almost welled with tears. There were now three of them in that small minority. “You’re all right?”

  “I think so.” Things were becoming more clear to Stein. “The people down here . . .”

  “I know. Come up. Come up, Mr. Stein.”

  Harold Stein took a hesitant step.

  Berry backed off. He unwound the belt from his hand and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. “Come on. Quickly.” He glanced over his shoulder at the three men and two women sitting on the horseshoe-shaped couch behind him. Some of them were starting to stir. “Hurry.”

  Stein pulled himself up to the lounge deck. “What in the name of God . . .”

  “Later. You wouldn’t be a pilot by any chance, would you?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m an editor.”

  Berry thought he was beyond disappointment, but his heart sank lower still. He regarded Harold Stein for a moment. Fortyish. Big. Intelligent face. He could be of some help.

  Stein’s eyes were fixed on the cockpit door. “Hey, what the hell happened to the pilot? ”

  Berry jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  Stein looked more closely at the scene in the lounge. “Oh, no! My God . . .”

  “Okay, Mr. Stein. Forget that. Let’s talk about survival.”

  “Survival.” Stein nodded. He was taking in about ten percent of what was happening. He’d known they were in very serious trouble, but he thought the pilots were still in control. He looked at the cockpit again and saw the captain’s wheel move. “Who’s . . .?”

  “Autopilot.”

  “What happened?”

  Berry shrugged. “Bomb, I guess.” But the two holes didn’t look like bomb damage to him, and he’d heard no explosion before the other noises. “Did you see or hear anything?”

  Stein shook his head.

  The two men stood awkwardly in the middle of the lounge, unsure of what to do next. The overwhelming scope and speed of the disaster had kept them off balance, and they needed the situation to remain static for a few minutes until they got their bearings. Finally, Stein spoke. “Just us two?”

  Berry turned toward the cockpit. “Linda, come on out!”

  The girl ran out of the cockpit and placed herself beside Berry, and under his encircling arm, as though she were being displayed at a family reunion.

  Berry felt her body trembling. He looked down and spoke to her. “This is Mr. Stein. He’s going to help us.”

  Stein forced a distracted smile. His eyes were still darting around the lounge.

  “I’m John Berry.” He extended his hand.

  Stein took it.

  Berry looked down at the girl. “This is Linda Farley.”

  It was surreal, yet comforting, to go through the amenities. That was all they had left. Behave normally, in a civilized manner, and rational thought and action would follow. Berry said, “Let’s sit down.” He’d developed a proprietary attitude about the lounge and cockpit. He indicated an empty horseshoe-shaped sofa with a cocktail table opposite the cockpit door. “Do you need a drink, Mr. Stein?”

  “Harold. Yes, please.”

  Berry went to the bar and found two Canadian Clubs and another cola. He carried them to the table and sat. He broke open the seal on his bottle and drank. Around him was a scene that had badly shaken him only ten minutes earlier, but like any survivor of a disaster, his mind was blocking out the destruction, the dead, and the dying, which was now irrelevant, and he was focusing on the problems he had inherited.

  Harold Stein drank the liquor and let his eyes wander around the lounge. The two men in uniform lay beside the piano in the far corner to the left of the stairwell. One moved, the other didn’t. A third uniformed man lay against the rear wall of the lounge, his face and torso covered with a blanket. The bar in the opposite corner was in a shambles. Directly in front of him was another horseshoe-shaped couch. Three men and two women sat strapped into it. Their bodies moved spasmodically from time to time; every change of position presented Stein with a new tableau, each more grotesque than the last.

  Stein turned away and focused on a grouping of the club c
hairs along the left wall. A man wearing dark glasses sat in a frozen position, his hands apparently reaching for a hanging oxygen mask. An old man opposite him lay across the cocktail table, apparently dead also. An old woman, the most animated of anyone, was hiding behind the old man’s chair, occasionally peeking out and whimpering. A young flight attendant, also conscious, was weeping by herself, curled up on the floor near the cocktail table. Clothes and sundry lounge paraphernalia were strewn over the plush blue carpet. “This is monstrous.”

  “Let’s stay calm. This,” Berry waved his arm, “doesn’t concern us . . . unless they become . . . unmanageable.”

  “Yes, all right.” He seemed to be considering. “Maybe we ought to . . . help these people . . . get below.”

  Berry nodded. “Yes. They’re an unsettling influence, but I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to do with them. I . . . Anyway, it wouldn’t be an easy job. Let it lie for now.”

  “All right.”

  Berry leaned forward. “Where were you when the . . . air let go?” Berry had begun to look for answers. If he could figure out what happened, he might be able to figure out what to do next.

  “I told you. I was in the lavatory.”

  The girl put down her cola. “Me, too, Mr. Berry.”

  “Okay,” said Berry. “That’s it. I was in the lavatory, too. The lavatories held more of their pressure. Did either of you black out?”

  They both nodded.

  “Okay. But we’re all right now. The people who didn’t put their masks on are dead. Those who did are either dead or brain damaged.”

  Stein leaned forward and spoke softly. “Brain damaged?”

  “Yes. Of course. That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it?”

  “Well . . . yes. I . . . my wife . . . two kids . . .” Stein put his hands to his face.

  Somehow Berry hadn’t thought of the possibility that Stein was not traveling alone. Berry had traveled alone for so many years that it had accustomed him to think only of himself. Even at home, he seemed to think mostly in ones. Everything had happened so quickly that his thoughts had never gotten to the obvious, even concerning Linda Farley. She most of all would certainly have been with someone. “I’m sorry, Harold. I didn’t realize . . .” He could see that he was losing Stein, and the girl was going with him. “Listen, I’m a pilot and I have experience with these things, and the effects of . . . of oxygen deprivation are temporary. I didn’t mean brain damage—that was the wrong word. I think I can land this thing, and when everyone gets the proper medical attention, well, they’ll be all right. Now, you’ve got to help me so I can bring us all home. Okay?” He turned to the girl, who was crying again. “Were you with anyone, Linda? Come on. Take a deep breath and speak to me.”

  Linda Farley wiped her tears. “Yes, my mother. We were . . . I tried to find her before. Then everything happened so fast . . .”

  “Yes, I’m sure she’s all right. Where was she sitting?” As soon as he asked the question he regretted it. But something made him want to know.

  “In the middle. I think near where the hole is.” Her eyes filled with tears again. She understood what that meant.

  John Berry turned away from them and focused on a picture hanging on the far wall near the piano. Dalí’s celebrated The Persistence of Memory. A bizarre grouping of melted watches, lying across a surreal landscape. If ever a painting fit a room, it was that painting in this room. He turned away and stared down at the white plastic table in front of him. He had been spared any concern beyond his own survival. He was thankful at least for that. If they ever got back, he would be the only one who would not carry any scars of this. In fact, he thought with some guilt, he could come out of it better than he’d gone in. But there were close to three hundred and fifty souls onboard. Souls, he remembered, was the official term. How odd. And most of those souls were dead or dying. It was a hell of a high price to pay for Berry’s personal resurrection. If he survived.

  Berry glanced at Stein. The man wore a numbed expression. He was obviously haunted by the presence of his brain-damaged family, who sat no more than a hundred feet from him. Berry wondered how he, himself, would stand up under a similar strain. For an instant he conjured up the image of Jennifer and his two children.

  He tried to examine his feelings. The thought had crossed his mind to give up and simply wait for the fuel to run out, but he had also thought about trying to fly the airliner, fly it to a landing. He glanced at Stein and the girl. He thought of the others in the cabin of the 797, and the word euthanasia came into his mind.

  Berry knew that the pulse of the engines was lulling him into a false security, a lethargy that made it diffi-cult for him to act as long as there appeared to be no immediate danger. But every minute that passed was a minute less flying time. He wondered if there was actually enough fuel left, considering the high fuel consumption at low altitudes, to get him to a body of land. He supposed he could ditch the plane in the ocean. Did the Straton have an emergency signal transmitter in the tail like his Skymaster did? If so, was it working? If it was there and if it worked, a ship might eventually come. But he didn’t know if the three of them could clear the aircraft before it sank. And how about the others? And if some of them did clear the aircraft, how long would they have to float with their life vests in the ocean? He thought of sunstroke, dehydration, storms, and sharks. Clearly they were all as good as dead unless he did something. For some reason, known only to God, he, Linda Farley, and Harold Stein had been given a second chance, an opportunity to save themselves. He suddenly stood. “Okay. First priority. Find others who did not suffer . . . decompression. Mr. Stein . . . Harold . . . you go below into the cabins and make a search.”

  Stein looked at the staircase. The thought of going down there with three hundred dysfunctional and probably dangerous passengers was not comforting. He didn’t move.

  Berry had another idea. “All right. Stay here.” He went into the cockpit and looked around for a moment. Finally, he found what he needed: He grabbed the PA microphone and pressed the button. He heard the squelch-break and took a deep breath. “Hello. This is . . . the Captain speaking.” His own voice boomed out in the lounge, and he could hear the echoes of his words coming up the stairwell. “If there is anyone in the aircraft who . . . who . . .” Damn it. “Who is not affected by decompression, who feels all right, and who can think clearly, please come up to the first-class lounge.” He repeated his message and went back into the lounge.

  Berry and Stein stood at the railing of the staircase and watched and listened. Some of the passengers were shaken out of their lethargy by the voice and were making odd noises—squeals, grunts, groans, and growls. A high piercing laugh came from the far recesses of the cabin and penetrated into the lounge. Stein shuddered and shook his head spasmodically. “Good God.”

  They waited, but no one came.

  Berry turned to Stein and put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m afraid that’s not conclusive. Someone may be trapped or frightened out of his wits. You’ll have to go down.”

  “I don’t want to go downstairs,” Stein said in a small voice.

  Berry bit into his lower lip. He realized that if he allowed it, Harold Stein would soak up time and attention like a sponge. It was an understandable need. But John Berry could not spare the time, or allow himself a normal man’s compassion. “Stein, I don’t give a damn what you want. I don’t want to die. Neither does the girl. What we want isn’t enough anymore. All that matters is what we need. I need to know if anyone else on this goddamned airplane can help us. We’ve got to find a doctor, or someone from the crew. Maybe another pilot.”

  Berry glanced toward the cockpit. The sight of the empty flight deck sent a chill down his spine. He shrugged it off and turned back to Stein. “Take this belt. Find other weapons. We may need them. Linda, you stay here in the lounge and look after these people. Especially look after the copilot over there. All right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If anyo
ne acts . . . funny, let me know. I’ll be in the cockpit. Okay? Linda? Harold?”

  Stein nodded reluctantly. He half believed that his family would recover and almost believed that Berry could fly the aircraft. “I’ll bring my family up here. I’d rather they be up here. They’ll be okay in a little while.”

  Berry shook his head. “They’re fine where they are. Later, when they are more aware, we’ll bring them up.”

  “But—”

  “I have to insist. Please go. I have other things to attend to in the cockpit.”

  Stein glanced back at the empty cockpit. “The radio? Are you going to try to contact . . .?”

  “Yes. Go on down below. Let me worry about the cockpit.”

  Harold Stein rose slowly and took the belt and wrapped it around his right hand. “Do you think they’re very . . . dangerous?”

  Berry glanced around the lounge. “No more than these people.” He paused. He owed Stein more than that. Some lies were necessary. Other were self-serving. “Be careful. I was attacked down there. Different people react differently to oxygen loss. The brain is a complicated . . . Just be careful. Each flight-attendant station should have a call phone. You may be able to use the phones if you want to speak to me.”

  “All right.”

  Berry turned abruptly and walked quickly back into the cockpit.

  Stein watched as Berry slid into the pilot’s seat. He glanced at the girl, forced a smile, and began descending the staircase.

  Berry had an urge to shut down the autopilot and take the wheel. Just for a second to get the feel of the machine. To take his fate into his own hands. He stared at the switch on his control wheel and reached out his hand. Steering the giant aircraft could possibly be within his skills. But if the craft somehow got away from him, he knew that he would never be able to get it back under control. Yet eventually he knew he’d take the wheel when the fuel ran out. At that point, he would have absolutely nothing to lose in trying to belly-land in the ocean. So why not try a practice run now? His hand touched the autopilot disengage switch. No. Later. He took his hand away.