Mayday

  He came to the holes in the fuselage and examined the swath of wreckage from left to right. He had no doubt that something had passed through the Straton, something that could be called an Act of God, or an Act of Nature, or an Act of Man—but not an act of Trans-United negligence. The irony of the situation struck him, and he would have laughed at himself or cursed his take-charge personality, but he could philosophize later, when he was on vacation or in jail. Right now, he needed to get into the cockpit and to the data-link printout tray.

  He moved forward in his cumbersome bunker coat. The farther he got from the holes, the worse the smoke was. He strapped on his oxygen mask and drove on.

  It was darker toward the front of the aircraft, so he took his flashlight and turned the beam toward where the spiral staircase should be.

  The beam of light picked out the galley and toilet cubicles and also illuminated figures moving around toward the front of the aircraft—but he couldn’t see the staircase.

  He moved up the aisle, past the rescue workers who were clearing the aisles of the dead and putting them in seats. Johnson noticed that the rescue people were also strapping the injured onto stretchers and backboards, as much to protect them from internal injuries as to keep them from wandering around like the living dead. “Jesus Christ, what a mess, what a mess . . .” Total decompression at 60,000 feet. Let the Straton Aircraft Corporation bright boys explain that to the news media.

  Ed Johnson got to the place where the spiral staircase should have been, but it wasn’t there. It was, in fact, lying on its side in the aisle ahead, looking like some giant corkscrew. “Damn. . . .” But then it occurred to him that this was better.

  Johnson stopped a passing rescue worker and spoke loudly through his oxygen mask, identifying himself as a National Transportation Safety Board investigator and asked, “Are any of your people in the dome?” He pointed the flashlight up at the circular opening in the ceiling.

  The rescue worker looked up at the opening. He said,

  “No, sir . . . I don’t think so.” He called out to the people around him, “Hey, do we have anyone up in the dome yet?”

  A woman called back, “No. There was that chute deployed there. Everyone up there either got out or is probably dead.” She added, “If we have unconscious people up there, they’ll have to wait. We have our hands full here.”

  The rescue worker near Johnson said, “We’ve got about two or three hundred dead and injured here, but I’ll get some people up to the dome—”

  “No. You’ve really got your hands full here. Just give me a boost up there, and I’ll look around.”

  “Okay.” The man called out for help, and two men appeared who made a cradle by joining hands with the third. “Step up.”

  Ed Johnson shouldered the fire ax and stepped onto the three men’s hands and arms, steadying himself on one of their shoulders with his free hand.

  One of the men said, “Check first for bleeding, then breathing, then—”

  “I’m trained in CPR. Lift!”

  The men lifted in unison, and Johnson felt himself lifted—propelled, actually—up and into the opening. He grabbed at the upright newel post that still stood on the floor, and swung himself up into the first-class lounge.

  He remained on the floor and looked and listened, the sounds of his own breathing into the oxygen mask filling his ears. The lounge was completely dark, its windows thick with foam. He heard someone moaning nearby and smelled the same evil odors he’d smelled below. God. . . . He breathed deeply and stayed motionless awhile and listened.

  He oriented himself without turning on the flashlight and began crawling toward the cockpit, dragging the ax with him.

  The carpet—which Johnson knew was royal blue and cost too much—was wet with different liquids, all of which felt disgusting. He stopped, wiped his hands on his coat, and pulled on the fireproof gloves. He renewed his resolve and crawled on.

  Johnson knew the layout of the lounge, and with only one detour to get around a body, he came to the cockpit door, which he discovered was open.

  Johnson shouldered the steel-cut ax and made his way in a crouch through the opening and into the cockpit.

  He stopped, kneeling on one knee, and looked around. The windshields were covered with foam, but light came through the small emergency door. The smoke here was very light, and what little remained was being suctioned out the open escape hatch. Johnson rose up a bit and peered out the door, spotting the sloping yellow chute. He turned back to the cockpit, but his eyes took a minute to readjust to the darkness. When they did, he spotted a man lying on the floor at the base of the copilot’s seat. The man was dead or unconscious. Johnson glanced all around the cockpit, but there was no one else there, dead or alive.

  Still in a slight crouch to stay beneath the curls of smoke on the ceiling, he made his way toward the observer’s station, then snapped on the flashlight and scanned the beam until he saw what he was looking for—the data-link printer. The beam rested on the tray and illuminated a page of white paper. Thank God.

  Johnson stood, pulled off his gloves and his oxygen mask, and went to the printer, where he retrieved six sheets of paper from the collecting tray. Mission accomplished. He scanned the papers with his flashlight, then turned them over. “What the hell?”

  A voice from behind him answered, “Blank printer paper from the machine.”

  Johnson swung around and pointed his flashlight toward the voice. The dead man was sitting up now, his back to the copilot’s seat. Johnson’s heart literally skipped a beat, then he got himself under control.

  Neither man spoke for a few seconds, then Johnson said, “Berry?”

  “That’s right. And who are you?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “I’d like to know the name of the man who tried to kill me.”

  Johnson held the ax out in front of the flashlight so Berry could see it. Johnson said, “And may still kill you.”

  Berry’s eyes focused on the big ax. He hadn’t considered facing a weapon.

  Johnson said, “You’re a brave man, Mr. Berry.”

  “You’re a heartless son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Not really. You of all people understand why I had to do what I did. And after what I saw down there, I wouldn’t change a thing I did.”

  Berry said, “You shouldn’t try to play God.”

  “Why not? Someone has to do it.”

  “Who are you?”

  “It really is best if you don’t know.” “If you intend to kill me with that ax, what difference does it make if I know who you are?”

  Johnson said, “The reason you’re still alive and may stay alive is that you don’t know who I am.”

  “The only reason you’re still alive is that ax.”

  Johnson ignored him and said, “If you can produce those data-link printouts, we can make a deal for your life.”

  Berry stood, and Johnson yelled, “Don’t move!”

  Berry stared at the man in the dim light for a few seconds, then said, “The printouts were hidden on the person of the girl who survived.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I put her and your flight attendant Sharon Crandall down that chute into the arms of medics. They were both breathing but unconscious. If either of them dies, I’ll see that you’re executed or I’ll kill you myself.”

  Johnson stood motionless for a second, then said, “Brave talk for a weaponless man facing an ax.”

  “Look, pal, I don’t know who you are, but the game is up. Drop the ax.”

  “I’m not so sure the game is up. I have the option of bashing in your skull—it’ll look like contact trauma— then I’ll slide down that chute and go to Hangar 14, where the survivors are, and find Linda Farley and Sharon Crandall.”

  Berry tensed, and his eyes darted toward the emergency opening.

  Johnson moved a few feet and blocked Berry’s path. Johnson said, “If you have those data-link sheets with you, I give you my word I wo
n’t harm you. Or them.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “I don’t want to kill you. I’d rather we just called one another liars during an investigation. Even if I wind up in court, I’d trust a California jury to find me not guilty. Hell, they find everyone not guilty. Then I’ll write a book and make a lot of money. I’ll even make you a hero in my book.” Johnson laughed and continued, “Come on, Berry. Give me the sheets. Save your life. You’ve come too far to die now.”

  Berry took a deep breath and replied, “I told you, the evidence is gone. Down the chute with the girl.” He shrugged. “You’re finished.”

  “No. You’re finished.” Johnson hesitated, then raised the ax.

  From the lounge came the opening notes of “Jingle Bells” on the piano. A few seconds later, a voice called out, “I never got much beyond this. In fact, it’s the only piano piece I know.”

  Johnson swung around and peered into the dark lounge. “Oh . . . my God. . . .”

  The piano music stopped and a man approached through the murkiness. The man’s big form filled the cockpit door. Kevin Fitzgerald said, “Hello, Ed.”

  Ed Johnson stood frozen.

  Fitzgerald said, “Can you massacre both of us with that ax? I doubt it. I doubt you even want to. So drop it.”

  “You . . . what?” He looked over his shoulder at Berry, then back at Fitzgerald. Suddenly he realized he’d put his foot in a trap and his neck in a noose.

  Fitzgerald addressed John Berry and said, “Thank you, Mr. Berry, for agreeing to act as bait.”

  Johnson’s eyes widened, and he said, “You mean . . . you’ve met . . . ?”

  “Just before you arrived,” Fitzgerald replied. Fitzgerald said to Berry, “The gentleman with the ax is Mr. Edward Johnson, senior vice president of Trans-United Airlines. A good company man who has the best interests of the airline at heart. Not to mention the best interests of Ed Johnson.” Fitzgerald said to Johnson, “I sort of figured it was you.”

  Johnson snarled, “Bullshit!”

  “No, really, Ed. You have the right combination of balls, brains, selfishness, and total lack of conscience.”

  “Oh, fuck you, Kevin. I don’t need a fucking lecture from you. I tried to save this airline. You and your fucking pampered pilots wouldn’t do that.”

  Fitzgerald lost his patience and snapped, “My pilots save this airline every damn day they’re up there, you desk-bound son-of-a—”

  “Enough!” yelled Berry. He had a feeling this was an old argument. “Enough.” He said to Johnson, “Drop the damned ax, or so help me God, I’m coming right at you, and I’m going for your eyes. Drop it!”

  Johnson stood motionless for a second, then swung the ax in a wide arc and with incredible strength sent it sailing into the front windshield, which shattered in a thousand pieces. He said to Fitzgerald, “Fuck you. Try to prove it.” Johnson strode over to the emergency door and stood crouched at the yellow chute for a moment, then looked back over his shoulder and said to Berry, “If you had any real balls and any conscience whatsoever, you would have put this fucking planeload of living dead into the water instead of trying to save your own ass. You can both go to hell.” And with that, he propelled himself, legs first, down the long yellow chute.

  Fitzgerald said to Berry, “Don’t pay any attention to him.”

  Berry didn’t reply.

  Fitzgerald continued, “As I said to you before, and I’ll say again, you did the right thing, and you did it well. Regardless of Mr. Johnson’s opinion, Trans-United is grateful.”

  “Good. Do you think I’m too old to get a job flying commercial airliners?”

  Fitzgerald smiled and replied, “You’re obviously capable.”

  Berry smiled for the first time in a long time. He looked around, then said, “I’ve seen enough of this cockpit.”

  Fitzgerald nodded.

  Both men slid down the yellow chute into the sunlight and landed on their feet.

  21

  John Berry passed through the ornate iron gate into the tea garden. He walked slowly down bamboo-railed paths, over grassy slopes, and beside red-leafed Japanese maples.

  He crossed small stone bridges that passed over little streams and lichen-covered rocks, and came to a chain of five pools filled with water lilies and goldfish. Over a still pond in the distance curved a wishing bridge, its reflection in the water completing a perfect circle. Waiting on the bridge was a woman and a girl.

  He moved toward them, passing fantastically misshapen bonsai trees and delicate trees of plum and cherry. The day was still and the smell of camellias and magnolias hung in the air. The setting sun cast elon-gated shadows of stone lanterns over the paths and dappled the grass between the trees.

  John Berry quickened his pace, and found that his heart was beating rapidly. Then he stopped abruptly at the foot of the bridge, as though the vision in front of him would vanish if he came closer. He looked up and smiled hesitantly.

  Sharon Crandall, dressed in a light blue sundress and straw hat with a wide brim, smiled back. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Linda Farley waved a greeting. “We thought you got lost.”

  Berry stepped onto the bridge and approached them. He stood awkwardly for a moment, then impulsively bent down and kissed Linda Farley on the cheek. “How are you feeling?”

  She nodded. “Good.”

  “Good.” He straightened up and handed her a large box of chocolates. “Here. The prize for spotting land first.”

  Linda took the chocolates and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He turned to Sharon. “I wanted to bring you something, but I didn’t know—”

  “Dinner in New York.”

  “Yes. We made it to the airport, didn’t we?” He paused. “You’re looking well.”

  She put her hand on his cheek and frowned at his cuts and bruises. “You look as though you lost a fight.”

  “You should have seen the other guy.” He looked out at a red-tiled pagoda surrounded by carefully pruned vegetation. “This is quite a place.”

  “Yes. I thought you’d like it. It’s a beautiful example of how man and nature can live in harmony.”

  “You come here often?”

  “Whenever I have a lot of thinking to do.” She looked down at her reflection in the pond. “I used to come here with Barbara Yoshiro sometimes.”

  “I . . .” He didn’t know what to say. “I think she would have been happy to know you came here and thought of her.”

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  They crossed the bridge. On the far side they passed through a thicket of leafy bamboo and took a path to the west. They walked in silence for a long time, came to a grassy slope, and climbed it. A breeze came up, and Berry stood on the summit of the hill. Small puffs of white clouds rolled across the sky. Gulls circled in the distance and the vapor trail of a high-flying jet left a white line on the deep blue sky. “No fog today,” he said.

  “No.” Sharon Crandall walked a few yards down to the western slope, took off her hat, and lay in the sunny grass. “No. No fog today. We could have used this weather yesterday at this time. But then, that wouldn’t have been consistent with yesterday’s luck.”

  “No.” Berry sat down beside her.

  They both watched in silence as Linda walked slowly down the grassy slope and toward a brook at the base of the hill.

  “Don’t go too far,” Crandall shouted after her. She turned to Berry. “She has her good and bad moments. She just finished crying before you got here. She hasn’t come to terms with it yet.”

  “Her mother?”

  “She wasn’t one of the survivors.”

  Berry nodded. It was, in his mind, better that way. Easier, in the long run, for Linda.

  Sharon Crandall looked down at the young girl and watched her for a few seconds, then turned back to Berry. “I spoke to Linda’s grandmother.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She’s the only rela
tive, except for some cousins in Kansas or someplace. Linda’s father died years before. The grandmother lives in a small apartment on the south side of the city. She’s going to take custody of Linda now, but she is very concerned about being able to raise a young girl by herself. When I told her I’d like to help out, she was very happy.”

  “I’d like to help out too, if I could.”

  “Sure.”

  Neither of them spoke for some time, then Berry said, “Golden Gate Park reminds me of Central Park.”

  Crandall smiled. “Does it?”

  She closed her eyes and stretched out in the grass and kicked off her shoes. “I don’t really want to hear the latest, but you might as well tell me.”

  Berry looked down at her face. The sun lay on her features the way it did in the cockpit of the Straton and highlighted the nice cheekbones and soft lips. “The latest. The latest is that we have to speak with the FBI again tomorrow morning.”

  “I figured that. What else?”

  “Well, Commander Sloan was flown in to Alameda Naval Air Station this morning from the carrier Nimitz and is under custody there. Incidentally, even though it was a top-secret test, all the radio transmissions to and from the fighter were automatically recorded in the Nimitz central radio room. It’s some kind of electronic recording loop that they keep for safety investigations, and it erases itself every twenty-four hours. Apparently, Sloan didn’t know that, because only safety officers have access to that stuff. You’d think people would be more careful about recordings these days. Anyway, the Navy got to the recordings before they automatically erased, so the charge against Sloan is evidently going to be murder.”

  “How about the other two Navy men?”

  “The pilot is still missing at sea. Admiral Hennings hasn’t been found onboard yet. Apparently he jumped. But they want that downplayed. The Navy’s not saying much about what exactly was on the recordings, but they did tell me that it proved conclusively that Sloan was the instigator. My impression was that Sloan conned and bullied the Admiral and the pilot into the cover-up. And the original mistake was Sloan’s, too. After the Straton’s late departure from San Francisco, Sloan never received updates from Air Traffic Control because of a technical problem. He just assumed that the area was clear of traffic, even though he was supposed to check.”