Berry nodded, and dropped the subject.
Berry looked around the cockpit. He was trying to anticipate every one of their needs, no matter which way things went. “Is there a life raft in the cockpit?”
“No. The rafts are all back there.” She paused. “But the inflatable escape chute from the emergency door doubles as a life raft. It’s not as big as the others, but it would be okay for three people.”
“Right.” He thought for a moment. “I think I can put it down into a smooth sea. Let’s go over the ditching procedures. Linda, listen to what Sharon—”
The alerting bell rang again.
TO FLIGHT 52: DO YOU READ?
ACKNOWLEDGE.
SAN FRANCISCO HQ.
Berry shook his head. “Those bastards. I’d love to tell them we’re sailing in and see what they have to say about that.”
Crandall stared at the message. “This is so . . . obscene. What kind of person does it take to do something like this? To try to murder people . . . innocent people who haven’t done anything . . . ?”
Berry remembered his earlier thoughts about climbing above the weather. If he had the fuel, the oxygen, and the confidence to fly, he would have done it. That climb would probably have killed dozens more passengers. Berry wondered if he was really any better then the people in San Francisco HQ, whoever the hell they were. “Sometimes it’s a matter of expedience. It’s not personal, usually. Maybe we shouldn’t take it personally.”
“I take it personally.”
There were sounds coming from the lounge again, whining and moaning, some cries of agony from the injured, and the sound of scraping against the door. Berry heard someone striking the piano keys. For a moment he thought someone was trying to play.
Berry knew that everyone there would drown if he ditched at sea, and he admitted that he would do very little—nothing, really—to save any of them.
He took Sharon Crandall’s arm and turned her wrist toward him. “It’s two-twenty-four. We have a few hours before we reach the coast.” He tried to think in terms of what they would need for an airport landing. He looked down and made sure the autopilot was still engaged, then unbuckled his seat belt and slid out of the flight chair.
“Where are you going?”
Berry laughed involuntarily. “Not far, you can be sure.”
She smiled at her foolish question.
Berry knelt down behind the captain’s chair and slid his hand beneath it.
“What are you looking for?” Sharon asked.
“Charts. I need them for radio navigation signals.”
“The radios don’t work.”
“The navigation radios might. They’re separate from the transmitters and receivers.” Berry continued to fish around beneath the captain’s seat, but he came up empty-handed. “Damn it. They were probably blown out. We could really use them. Damn.” The possibility of finding San Francisco Airport without a good navigational signal was very remote, even if they had fuel enough to wander up and down the coastline, which they didn’t.
“How important are they?”
“We’ll get by without them.” Berry slid back into the captain’s seat. “We can search through all the frequencies on the radio dial when we get closer. We’ll find the right one.” But Berry knew there were too many channels and they had too little time.
Crandall unbuckled her seat belt. “I’ll look over here.”
“Okay.”
She leaned forward and ran her hand beneath the co-pilot’s seat. “Nothing. Wait . . .” She leaned as far to the right as the side console would allow. “I think I’ve got something. Yes.” Sharon pulled out a stack of crumpled papers. “Here.”
Berry took them quickly. “Charts,” he said. “They must be the copilot’s.” He thought for an instant about McVary back in the lounge. These were his charts and this was his cockpit. Now it was Berry’s, for whatever that was worth. Berry carefully opened the charts one at a time.
“Are they the right ones?” Sharon asked anxiously.
Berry smiled. “Yes.” He pointed to one. “Here’s San Francisco. This is the frequency I wanted.”
“Will the radios work?” Sharon had her doubts.
“Not yet.” Berry folded the charts so that the San Francisco area was faceup. “When we get within range, we’ll see if we can pick up a signal.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then wherever we see land is where we go. Could you recognize features on the coast?”
“I think so. I’ve seen it enough times.”
“Would you know if we were north or south of San Francisco? Or if we were near any other city? Any airport?”
She didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “When we get there, I’ll have a better idea.”
“All right. Think about it.”
“I will.” She stretched her bare legs out and leaned back in the seat. “Let’s talk. Let’s not think about what has to come later.”
“Might as well. I’ve run out of things to do already.”
Sharon closed her eyes. “Tell me about . . . your home.”
Berry would have preferred to talk about something else. He settled back and tried to think of what to say. As he did, the autopilot disengage light flickered again, and the autopilot switch popped to off. Berry grabbed the flight controls. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Autopilot?”
“Yes.” Now he knew that he couldn’t trust it anymore. The autopilot had undoubtedly been damaged during their wild descent. He had no choice but to hand-fly the Straton for the rest of the flight. As Berry concentrated on retrimming the manual flight controls, he could hear from behind him the persistent scraping against the door and the dissonant pounding on the piano. It was beginning to get on his nerves. Then he heard the data-link alerting bell.
“John. They’re sending another message.”
Berry looked at the screen. It was a repeat of the message they had sent a few minutes before. The bastards were still sending out bait, on the chance that Berry had somehow managed to keep the Straton from falling into the Pacific. “Screw them,” he said. He was, without a doubt, taking it personally.
15
Jack Miller walked alone through the long empty corridor outside the dispatch office. Edward Johnson had taken his detailed report and told him to go home, again denying him entry to the communications room. Jack Miller knew that his days at Trans-United were nearly over.
He heard footsteps coming quickly up the stairs at the end of the corridor. He stopped.
The figure of Chief Pilot Kevin Fitzgerald—tall, muscular, tanned, wearing faded jeans and T-shirt— appeared suddenly from the stairwell. He came quickly toward Miller, who stepped aside and exchanged nods with the man. Miller cleared his throat. “Captain Fitzgerald . . .”
The chief pilot moved quickly past him and turned his head back as he kept walking toward the door at the end of the corridor. “What is it, Jack?”
“Everyone is in the administration building. Executive conference room, sir.”
“Damn!” He turned and headed back. “Nothing happening here?”
“No, sir. Communications with 52 has been lost.”
Fitzgerald kept walking, retracing his steps to the stairs. “Screwed up, Jack. It’s all been screwed up. No one knows what the hell is going on.”
“Yes, sir,” he called to the retreating figure.
Fitzgerald disappeared down the stairs.
Jack Miller stood alone in the corridor for a few seconds. He considered for a moment, hesitated, then broke into a run down the corridor and took the steps down, three and four at a time.
In the parking lot, he saw Fitzgerald get into a foreign sports car. He ran to it.
Fitzgerald started the engine and looked at him.
“What is it, Jack?”
Miller found he couldn’t speak.
“I’m in a hurry. Is it important?” Fitzgerald looked up at him. He put a softer tone in his voice. “What
’s up?” He turned off his engine.
Miller stepped up closer to the window. “Captain, I have to speak to you.”
Fitzgerald had handled men long enough, and he knew Jack Miller well enough to know that he was about to hear something important and disturbing. “Get in the car. We can talk while I drive.”
“No, sir. I think you’d better stay here.”
Fitzgerald swung the door open and climbed out of the car. “Shoot.”
“Well . . .”
“Forget all the modifiers, Jack. Give it to me straight and quickly.”
“I think . . . I’m sure something here smells.”
Fitzgerald nodded. “Go on.”
Jack Miller began his story.
With the door closed, the Trans-United communications room had become hotter. Fumes from the color-reproduction machine lay heavily in the stagnant air. Edward Johnson sat with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loose.
Wayne Metz kept mopping the perspiration from his face with a damp handkerchief. He nodded in satisfaction. “I think that’s it, Ed.”
Johnson nodded slowly. He felt badly—there was no doubt about it—but he also felt that the weight of the world—the weight of the Straton—was lifted from his shoulder. He was annoyed that Metz was having trouble concealing his glee. The man didn’t understand flying, didn’t understand airlines or the people who worked for them. He only understood liabilities and how to eliminate them. Johnson reached out and pressed the data link’s repeat button and held it down.
The message printed.
TO FLIGHT 52: DO YOU READ?
ACKNOWLEDGE. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.
The message printed again and again as he held his finger on the repeat button. A long stream of printouts began to collect in the link’s receiving basket. Johnson looked at his watch. “That should be enough to show one every three minutes for the last hour.” He released the repeat button, they typed a final message.
TO FLIGHT 52: IF YOU READ, TRANSMIT
MAYDAY OR ANY COMBINATION OF LETTERS
OR NUMBERS. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.
They both waited in silence.
Metz looked at the clock. Two-thirty. He cleared his throat. “That’s it.”
“I suppose.” Johnson thought for a moment. There was no possibility that a weekend pilot could have survived after a flame out of all four engines. At 11,000 feet, he would have had less than five minutes until impact. That was enough time to reignite the engines if he knew how, but Berry had neither the skill nor the knowledge to keep the Straton under control. Five minutes. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the thought of the huge Straton falling 11,000 feet into the Pacific. His mind conjured up a vivid picture of the scene in the cockpit as Berry and the others fell toward the sea. By then, they probably knew for certain that someone had murdered them—if they had time to think about it. “My God, Wayne. It’s really over.” His knees were shaking, and he hoped Metz did not notice.
Metz glanced around the room. “Did we forget anything?”
Johnson looked at him. “If we did, you wouldn’t know what the hell it was anyway.”
“Okay,” said Metz, “none of this is pleasant. Don’t take it out on me. I’m only trying to see if we left a loose end hanging around. Loose ends can become nooses. We’ve come too far to—”
“Do you have the printouts?”
“Yes.” He pointed to the sports jacket hanging over a chair.
“Put the jacket on.” Johnson took his own jacket and threw it over his shoulder. He walked toward the door. For an instant he wished he were back on the loading ramp, throwing around luggage in the bright sunlight with the other men, talking about women and sports, untouched by the years of compromise, untroubled by the corporate casualties he had engineered, and un-haunted by the specter of the Straton that he knew he would see every day of his life.
Johnson was aware of someone staring at him through the glass door. He looked up and saw Kevin Fitzgerald’s form filling the doorway. The doorknob rotated.
Instantly, Metz could see the antagonism between these two men, and he could see also the change in Johnson’s demeanor. He suddenly felt frightened again.
Johnson turned to Metz as he hurried to the door. “It’s Fitzgerald. Follow my lead. Don’t volunteer anything. ” Johnson quickly unlocked the door. “How are you, Kevin?”
Fitzgerald stared at the door latch for a long second, then looked up. “What’s the latest?” He walked into the communications room, and looked around.
“You’ve been briefed at the conference room?”
“No, I was beeped at the beach. I called in and got the message. No one mentioned the conference room, and I came here, naturally.”
“Right.” Had he forgotten to station someone in the parking lot? No, he had told Miller to do it. That bastard. Damn. Johnson knew he was lucky that Fitzgerald hadn’t arrived earlier. “This whole thing has been fucked up from the beginning. ATC mostly, although our people have stepped on their dicks a couple of times, too.”
“There’ll be time enough for public executions later. Who’s this?”
Johnson turned his head. “This is Wayne Metz. From Beneficial Insurance—our liability carrier.”
Metz extended his hand. “I’m very sorry about this, Captain Fitzgerald.”
Fitzgerald took his hand perfunctorily. “Yeah. Us, too.” He turned to Johnson. “Still no word from them?”
“No. It’s been over an hour now.” Johnson motioned toward the data-link. “I’ve been repeating my last message every three minutes. No response.”
Fitzgerald strode up to the machine and ripped the paper from it. He strung out the messages between his outstretched arms, looked at them, then dropped them across the data-link. He turned to Johnson and seemed to stare at him a second longer than would have been considered polite. “I understand that this pilot— Berry—had the aircraft under control.”
Johnson wondered where he got that information if he hadn’t been to the executive conference room. “It seemed that way. At first, anyway.”
Fitzgerald continued, “Damage to the aircraft was extensive, but not critical.”
“Apparently it was critical.” Miller. He had been speaking to Miller.
“He sent no last message indicating he was in trouble? No Mayday?”
Johnson’s heart began to pound. Why was he asking questions like this? “There are the original printouts of the first messages on the counter. I had them copied and sent to ATC and to the conference room. They may answer some of your questions.”
Fitzgerald spread the messages out on the long counter beneath the Pacific chart. He had already looked up the pilots’ names on the crew scheduling sheet in the main dispatch office. Fitzgerald quickly scanned the printouts. Stuart . . . McVary . . . Fessler
. . . Brain damage. . . . Good God. Miller’s words did not have the impact of these actual printed messages from the damaged Straton. Fitzgerald glanced between the messages and the markings on the Pacific chart. “Why didn’t someone get a pilot in here right away to give him instructions?”
“Things happened too fast. Look, Captain, if you have any questions, let’s take them over to the executive conference room. This is hardly the place or time for this conversation.”
Fitzgerald ignored him and looked back at Wayne Metz. “What’s your function here?”
Metz felt immediately intimidated by this man.
“Well . . . Captain, from a liability standpoint, I wanted to be absolutely certain that we had done everything humanly possible to minimize your exposure and ours.” Fitzgerald kept staring at him, and he knew he was supposed to keep talking. “And you can imagine, Captain, how even a minor oversight could be blown out of proportion by the attorneys for the injured parties. Actually, your company rule book recommends that the insurance carrier be present during—”
“I know what the company rule book says.” Fitzgerald turned to Johnson. “Where’s our legal man? Where’s our hull insurer? Wh
ere’s Abbot, the Straton Aircraft representative?”
“At the conference, I suppose. Look, Kevin, I don’t know why you have a bug up your ass, but if there are any questions, we’d better go and settle them at the conference.” Johnson didn’t want Kevin Fitzgerald in this room, though he knew it should no longer matter.
“Come on, Captain. I have to lock up this room.” He regretted the remark as soon as he made it.
“Lock it? Why?”
Johnson didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “We’re supposed to leave it intact for the government investigators.”
Fitzgerald shook his head slowly. “Read your manual, Ed. That rule only applies to the scene of the accident. I don’t think,” Fitzgerald said, gesturing slowly around the room, “that this qualifies as the location where the accident occurred.”
Yes, it does. Johnson was becoming edgy, and he tried to hide it with a show of impatience. “Then stay here. I have to go to the conference.” He moved toward the door.
Metz followed.
Fitzgerald stayed where he was.“Hold on.”
Johnson turned.
“I know you don’t know anything about flying, but if you were a pilot, lost over the ocean, and your only means of communication was malfunctioning, you wouldn’t want everyone at the other end walking out of the communications room. Would you?” He stepped up to the data-link and typed.
TO FLIGHT 52: IF YOU CAN RECEIVE US
DON’T THINK WE HAVE ABANDONED YOU.
THIS LINK WILL BE MANNED
CONTINUOUSLY UNTIL YOU ARE FOUND.
SAN FRANCISCO HQ
Fitzgerald looked up at Johnson. “Call Miller in here.”
Johnson thought he had sent Miller home, but as he looked up, he saw him sitting at his desk. Bastard. “Miller! Get in here.”
Jack Miller walked quickly into the communications room. He looked squarely at Johnson.
Johnson saw the defiant expression on his face and knew that Jack Miller was under the protection of Kevin Fitzgerald. Son-of-a-bitch. When this was behind them, he’d see to it that Miller never dispatched anything bigger than a lunch wagon. “The Captain would like to speak to you.”