"Imagine how I feel, Trish."
"Forgive me," she said.
"It never happened," he said.
But it happened over and over in his mind for the next several years. The pangs hit him at the strangest times. It might be when he was frolicking with Raymie or playing with Chloe or just talking with Irene. At times he felt such a compulsion to confess to his wife that he had to find other things to distract himself.
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Nothing had really happened, and while it had been stupid and would have infuriated him if it had been Irene with some guy, he knew telling her would only hurt her and that nothing positive could come of it besides getting it off his conscience. Trish had long since left the airline, married, and moved away.
So what was the guilt all about? It certainly hadn't come from their church, something he had feared when first they began to attend. He actually liked the generic flavor of the services. No one 'was made to feel like a worthless sinner. There was just lots of inspiration and friendliness. No wonder people enjoyed going there.
Strangely, in the last several months, Irene had seemed to grow restless. "There has to be more," she said more than once. "Don't you ever feel like you'd like to reconnect with God, Rayford? Personally, I mean."
He had to think about that one. "That implies we were once connected."
"Weren't you, ever? I feel like I was. Until He didn't answer my prayers."
Rayford shook his head. "I was never really into it. I mean, I'm okay with church. And I believe in God; don't get me wrong. But I don't want to become some fundamentalist or literalist or whatever they call those people who talk to God every day and .think He talks to them too."
"I don't want to be a weirdo either, Rare," Irene said. "But feeling like you're actually talking with God and He's communicating with you? What could be better than that?"
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By age twenty-one, Nicolae Carpathia was nearly finished with graduate school and ran an import/export empire with Reiche Planchette low on his payroll. Carpathia was on the cover of every business magazine in Europe, and while he had not yet made the cover of Time or Global Weekly, that couldn't be far off.
He lived in a mansion on the outskirts of Bucharest, not a half mile from where his biological fathers had been assassinated a few years before. Viv Ivins enjoyed quarters on the top floor and managed his personal affairs. She supervised his valets, his drivers, his household and garden staff. His every need was cared for.
Nicolae was in the middle of two projects: clandestinely hiring an off-the-books cadre of professional facilitators who would make sure his least cooperative competitors met the same fate his fathers and his mother had, and surrounding himself with the politically astute. His next horizon was government. First he would get himself elected to the Romanian parliament. Then he would angle for the presidency. Next step Europe. Ultimate goal: the world.
There was no such position yet, of course, leader of the world. But by the time he ascended, there would be. He just knew it.
The day would come when Rayford Steele tried desperately to communicate with God. He and Irene had been married a dozen years. Chloe was eleven, Raymie three.
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Rayford had just been named captain on a Pan-Con Boeing 747-400 and was about to fly from O'Hare to LAX with a first officer who introduced himself as Christopher Smith. "I go by Chris." A couple of years younger than Rayford, Chris said he was married and had two elementary-school-age boys. He seemed a seasoned, no- nonsense guy--the type Rayford appreciated. Having only two men in the cockpit of a heavy was going to take some getting used to.
The only other newbie on the crew was a young flight attendant named Hattie Durham, who looked enough like the infamous Trish that Rayford had to once again slug it out with his conscience over the Christmas party fitsco a few years before. Hattie was introduced to him by his favorite senior flight attendant, Janet Allen. When she sent Hattie back to her chores, Janet whispered, "Just between you and me, Captain, she's a little ditzy.. Ambitious, though, I'll give her that. Wants my job on an international route."
"Think she'll make it?"
"I'm not sure she knows when we're in the air or on the ground just yet."
As he and Chris Smith settled into the cockpit, Ray- ford said, "I love flying these. They handle nice and solid on final because of the weight."
"Tell me about it," Smith said. "Wind doesn't affect 'em much, does it?"
"Got to love a stable approach," Rayford said. "The downside is you can't maneuver quickly. It's no fighter jet."
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Rayford reached behind his seat for the maintenance logbook. He was to read all the past write-ups before pushing back from the gate. He was about halfway through when Janet interrupted with the credentials of a jump-seater--a pilot from another airline catching a free ride. By the time Rayford studied the document and signed off on it, it was time to go.
Once in the air, First Officer Smith split his time between reading the Chicago Tribune, monitoring the instruments, and answering all radio calls from traffic control. Rayford was a stickler for rules and would not have read recreationally while in the air, but since Smith seemed an old hand and didn't miss a thing, he didn't say anything.
The sun hung just below Rayford's glare shield, making him squint even behind his dark gray lenses. The next time Chris Smith looked up, he said, "Oops, how
long has that been there?"
"What?"
"That message," Smith said, pointing. He tossed his paper on the jump seat and sat up straighter.
Rayford shielded his eyes and found the message screen reading "ENGINE #1 OIL FILT."
His lower monitor, normally blank, now displayed engine readings. Oil pressure was normal, even on the engine in question, the one farthest to his left. "Engine number one oil-filter checklist, please," he said.
"Roger," Chris said, digging into the right side pocket for the emergency manual. Rayford did not recall this procedure on his last simulator ride and so assumed it
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Tim LaHaye & Jerry B. Jenkins was not a big deal. On the other hand, neither had he finished checking the maintenance log.
While Chris was finding the right section, Rayford grabbed the log and speed-read. Sure enough, engine number one had required an oil-filter change in Miami before the leg to O'Hare, and metal chips had been detected on the used filter. They must have been within acceptable limits, however, as the mechanic had signed off on the note. And the plane had made it to Chicago without incident.
"'Retard thrust level slowly until message no longer displayed,'" Chris read.
Rayford followed the procedure and watched the message screen. The throttle reached idle, but the message still shone. After a minute he said, "It's not going out. What next?"
"'If ENG OIL FILT message remains displayed with thrust lever closed: FUEL CONTROL SWITCH... CUTOFF.'"
Rayford grabbed the control cutoff switch and said,
"Confirm number one cutoff switch?"
"Confirmed."
Rayford pulled out and down in one smooth motion while increasing pressure on the right rudder pedal. Engine number one shut down and the auto throttle increased power on the other three. Airspeed slowly decreased, and Rayford doubted anyone but Janet would even notice. And she knew enough not to bother the pilots right then.
He and Chris determined a new altitude, and he instructed Chris to call air-traffic control at Albuquerque to get clearance to descend to 32,000 feet. They then
positioned a transponder to warn other traffic that they might be unable to climb or maneuver properly if there was a conflict.
Rayford had no question they could reach Los Angeles without incident now. He called Janet. "You probably noticed we descended awhile back."
"I did. Seemed a little early for step-down into LAX,"
"Right. I shut down n
umber one due to a minor oil problem. I'll make an announcement shortly."
Rayford became aware of the strain on his right foot and remembered he had to increase pressure to compensate for the uneven thrust of the remaining engines. C'mon, Rayford. Fly the airplane.
"Mind taking the controls for a minute, Chris?
I should call the company."
"I have the airplane,"' Chris said.
Following protocol, Rayford confirmed, "You have the airplane."
After Rayford informed Pan-Con of the situation, the dispatcher told him of low visibility at LAX. "You'll want to check weather as you get closers"
"We have plenty of fuel if we have to divert," Rayford said. "In fact, I wish we had less. We're going to land a little heavy."
"Roger."
Rayford made his announcement, telling passengers he had shut down the number one engine but that he didn't expect anything but a routine landing at LAX. The lower the plane flew, however, the more he could tell that the power margin had increased. He did not want to have to go around, because going from near idle to full power on three engines would require a lot of rudder to counteract the thrust differential.
LAX tower was informed of the engine issue and cleared the Pan-Con heavy for initial landing sequence.
At 10,000 feet Rayford began checking descent figures. Chris said, "Auto brakes." Rayford responded, "Three set."
That configured the plane to brake itself at a medium rate unless Rayford intervened manually. LAX approach control turned Rayford and Chris over to the tower, which cleared them to land on runway 25 left and informed them of wind speed and RVR (runway visual range).
Rayford flipped on the taxi lights and directed Chris to zero the rudder trim. Rayford felt the pressure increase under his foot. He would have to keep up with the auto throttles as the power changed and adjust the rudder pressure to match. He was as busy as he had ever been on a landing, and the weather was not cooperating.
Low cloud cover blocked his view of the runway. "Glide slope's alive," Chris said.
"Gear down," Rayford said. "Flaps 20."
Rayford worked with Chris, setting the speed to match the flap settings and feeling the auto throttles respond by reducing power to slow the plane. "Glide slope intercept," he said, "flaps 30, landing check." He set the speed indicator at 148, final speed for a flaps-30 approach with that much weight.
Chris followed orders and grabbed the checklist from the glare shield. "Landing gear," he said.
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"Down," Rayford said. "Flaps." "Thirty." "Speed brakes." "Armed."
"Landing check complete," Chris said.
The plane could land itself, but Rayford wanted to be in control just in case. It was a lot easier to be flying than to have to take over if the autopilot had to be suddenly switched off.
"Final approach fix," Chris said.
A loud horn sounded when Rayford clicked off both the autopilot and throttles. "Autopilot disengaged," he said.
"One thousand feet," Chris said.
"Roger."
They were in the middle of clouds and would not likely see the ground until just before touchdown.
A mechanical voice announced, "Five hundred feet." It would announce again at fifty, thirty, twenty, and ten feet. They were ninety seconds from touchdown.
Suddenly Rayford overheard a transmission. "Negative, US Air 21," the tower said, "you are not cleared for takeoff."
"Roger, tower," came the answer. "You were broken. Understand US Air 21 is cleared for takeoff."
"Negative!" the tower responded. "Negative, US Air 21! You are not cleared to take the runway!"
"Fifty feet," the auto announcer called out. "Thirty." Rayford broke through the clouds.
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"Go around, Cap!" Chris shouted. "A '57 is pulling
* onto the runway! Go around! Go around!"
Rayford could not imagine missing the 757. Time slowed, and he saw Irene, Chloe, and Raymie clearly in his mind, imagined them grieving, felt guilty about leaving them. And all the people on the plane. The crew. The passengers. And those on the US Air.
In slow motion he noticed a red dot on the center screen of the instrument console with a minus 2 next to it. The auto announcer was sounding, Chris screaming, the tower shouting on the radio, "Pull up! Pull up! Pull up!"
Rayford mashed the go-around buttons on the throttles twice for maximum power and called out, "God, help me!"
Chris Smith whined, "Amen! Now fly!"
Rayford felt the descent arresting, but it didn't appear it would be enough. Rayford imagined the wide eyes of the US Air passengers on the ground. "Flaps 20!" he barked. "Positive rate. Gear up." Smith's hands were flying, but the gap was closing. I'll never miss another Sunday at church as long as I live. And I'll pray every day.
The plane suddenly dipped left, the three good engines causing the slight roll. Rayford had not added enough rudder to counteract them. If he didn't adjust, the wing- tip would hit the ground. They were a split second from the 757's tailmstanding nearly four storiesmand about to bottom out. Rayford closed his eyes and braced for impact. He heard swearing in the tower and from Chris. What a way to go.
The Pan-Con heavy could not have missed the US Air by more than inches, and the left wingtip missed the ground by less than that. Climbing slowly now, Rayford was drenched and, he was sure, ashen. "How did we miss them, Chris?"
"Your prayer musta been answered, Cap. Praise the Lord and pass the diapers."
The tower was still shouting, interrupted by the US Air cockpit. Rayford's knuckles were white, and, finally persuaded he was alive, he set about getting control of the plane. All he wanted was for the flight to be over. When the tower gave a final vector, Rayford announced an auto land.
"I second that!" Chris said.
The pilots configured the plane again and ran the landing checklist. The screen read LAND 3, indicating that all three autopilots were functioning normally. They touched down without incident.
Rayford heard applause from the cabin, but no one was as relieved as he was. He knew messages would be waiting from the ground agent to call operations and the tower. That was all he needed, to rehash the nightmare.
Had God answered his prayer by making him err on the rudder and cause the slight turn that allowed the right wing to miss the US Air? Strange kind of intervention, Rayford thought, but he had made a bargain. This time he might just have to make good on it.
TWENTY-SIX
NICOLAE CARPATHIA was awakened from a sound sleep. At least he thought he was awakened. Maybe he was still dreaming. There had been no noise, no light. His eyes had simply popped open.
As was his custom when a dream seemed too real, he reached under his silk pajamas and pinched himself. Hard. He was awake. Just like that, on full alert. He sat up in the dark bedroom and peered out the window.
What was that? A figure sitting on the roof? There was no way up there without a serious ladder. Another ten feet and the figure would have reached Aunt Viv's level. Nicolae was tempted to direct it that way. If the figure had an ill motive, better her than him, and he would have time to escape.
But the figure wasn't moving. Holding his breath, Nicolae slipped slowly out of bed, quietly drew open the
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drawer of his bedside stand, and pulled out a massive Glock handgun. As he crept toward the window, the figure turned to look at him, and Nicolae froze, though there was no light in the room, no way for the figure to see him.
He lifted the Glock to eyelevel, hands shaking. But before he could pull back the firing mechanism, the figure lifted a finger and shook its head, as if to say he wouldn't need that. "I am not here to harm you," Nicolae heard, though not audibly. "Put down your weapon."
Nicolae set the Glock on the bureau and stared. His heart rate slowed, but he didn't know what to do. Unlock and raise the window? Invite the figure in? In the
next instant he was transported outside, still in his pajamas, and now he and the figure, a male, stood in a desolate wasteland. Nicolae tensed at the growls and howls and whines of animals. He pinched himself again. This was real.
The figure was draped head to toe in a hooded black robe, his face and hands and feet hidden. "Wait here," the man said. "I shall return for you in forty days." "I cannot survive here! What will I eat?" "You shall not eat."
"Where will I stay? There is no shelter!"
"Forty days."
"Wait! My peoplem"
"Your people will be informed." And with that the figure was gone.
Nicolae wished the time would speed as it had when
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Irene' Steele tried to fight off a niggling restlessness by telling herself that hers was the lot of many young mothers. She had a daughter in school and a prekinder- garten son, not to mention a traveling husband. Her days were long and hard and anything but boring. Money was an issue, of course, but she couldn't deny she had been fully aware of Rayford's materialistic bent from the beginning. Maybe he was trying to fill some hole too. Nothing ever seemed enough. The luster of a new gadget or toy seemed to quickly fade.
Irene fought to inject deeper meaning into their lives. But Rayford seemed restless at family picnics, bored with walks that ended with keeping the kids from fighting or running too far ahead. Rayford was good enough with Chloe and Raymie, but his days off were filled with golf and television.
Just about the time Irene contented herself with a diagnosis of sleep deprivation, one of the other young mothers in the neighborhood raised a curtain for her that Irene hadn't even realized existed. She and Jackie--