John Berry’s head throbbed and waves of nausea passed over him. In the distance he could hear sirens, brakes screeching, the shouts of rescue workers, bullhorns, radios squawking, and the cries of injured people around him.
He got himself into a sitting position and tried to look around, but his right eye was blurry and he rubbed it; his hand came away with blood. “Damn…”
He glanced at the Straton towering over him. The huge jetliner sat on its belly, but the aircraft was tilted to the right and its nose was pointing back toward the direction from which he’d landed. Incredible, he thought, looking at the size of this thing that he’d brought in. The cockpit had been so small… He suddenly felt a sense of overwhelming awe and pride. “My God…”
Berry thought he’d been unconscious for only a short time since hitting the concrete, because the scene around the Straton was still chaotic with trucks and ambulances rushing toward the aircraft. He looked up at the left wing. Small wisps of smoke were still rising from the areas around the fuel lines, but the flames were out. Several fire trucks were positioned on both sides of the airliner, spraying foam across the wreckage from a safe distance.
Berry took a deep breath. It was strange, he thought, that his body still felt as if it were in the Straton; he still felt the vibrations of the airframe, the pulse and sound of the engines-like a sailor who steps off a ship and walks with a swaying gait. He ran the palms of his hands across the warm concrete, as if to assure himself he had returned to earth.
He took another deep breath to try to clear his head, but there was an acrid smell in the air and his stomach heaved again.
Berry stood unsteadily and looked around the runway. About twenty people were sprawled on the concrete, some unconscious, some moaning, a few crawling. Berry looked for Sharon and Linda-looked for the orange life vests among the injured passengers. But neither Sharon nor Linda was on the ground.
He looked up and saw that the yellow escape chute was still attached to the cockpit emergency door. Berry shouted up at the open door, “Sharon! Linda!”
A figure appeared at the door, and Berry saw that it was the copilot, Dan McVary.
McVary stood at the threshold for a second, then took a step forward, as if he were walking down a flight of stairs. He fell backward and careened quickly down the chute, howling as he accelerated. His feet hit the runway and the sudden deceleration pitched him forward, and he tumbled right into the arms of John Berry.
Both men stared at each other for a few long seconds, and as Berry looked into the eyes of this man who had caused him so much trouble, he realized that anger and hate were totally inappropriate emotions. He said to McVary, “I brought your plane home, buddy. You’re home.”
McVary kept staring at Berry, showing neither comprehension nor aggression. Then he seemed to slacken in Berry’s arms, and a tear rolled down his cheek.
A medic pushing a gurney was racing toward the people at the foot of the chute, and Berry called out to him, “Hey! Take this guy. He’s the copilot. He needs help.”
The medic detoured to Berry, and together they forced McVary onto the gurney. Berry said, “You’d better strap him in.”
The medic nodded, and as he fastened the straps, he asked Berry, “Hey, what’s with these people?”
Berry replied, “Brain… Lack of oxygen. They’re all… They’re not well. Unpredictable.”
The medic nodded. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not supposed to be moving around. Just lie down here and wait for a stretcher.”
“Okay.”
The medic pushed the gurney down the runway toward a dozen parked ambulances and a few dozen trucks that had been pressed into service to transport dead and injured.
Berry tried to make sense of what was going on around him. It appeared that most of the rescue workers and vehicles were staying a respectable hundred yards or so from the Straton until the firefighters gave assurances that the airliner wasn’t going to blow. There were no ladders or hydraulic platforms at any of the doors or at the holes in the sides of the aircraft. All Berry could see were hoses shooting chemicals at the huge aircraft, nose to tail, top to bottom, wingtip to wingtip. The giant airliner was dripping, glistening, as pools of chemicals collected around the craft. Berry noticed that a fire truck was shooting white foam at the tail, obliterating the Trans-United logo. This, he knew, had less to do with fire fighting than with public relations.
He noticed, too, that a number of medics had braved the risk of explosion and were removing the passengers who had slid down the only deployed chute, which was the one from the cockpit.
Berry looked up at the cockpit emergency door and shouted again, “Sharon! Linda!”
He grabbed the arm of a passing fireman and shouted, “My wife and daughter are in the cockpit! I have to get up there!”
The fireman looked up at the towering dome of the Straton 797, the place where the first-class lounge and cockpit were. The man shook his head. “We don’t have anything on the scene that can reach that high.”
“Then get a goddamned truck and ladder here! Now!”
“Steady, fella. We’re going in through the passenger doors in a minute. We’ll get into the dome and get your family.” He added, “I have to ask you to clear this area. Back where the ambulances are. Go on.”
Berry turned and hurried toward the tail of the aircraft.
He felt dizzy, and guessed he had a slight concussion. He surveyed the area around him, and in the far distance he saw the main terminal and more vehicles headed his way. He spotted a number of vans with antennas and dishes on their roofs, and he knew they were television vans. A line of police cars with rotating lights kept them at bay and kept the growing crowd from getting closer.
It occurred to John Berry that somewhere around here was the person or the people who had access to the data-link and who had tried to put him and everyone aboard the Straton into the ocean. Undoubtedly, he thought, someone from the airline. Someone high up who could commandeer the company data-link and clear everyone else out of the area. But that was not his main concern at the moment. His main concern was the two people he’d left behind.
Trans-United’s chief pilot, Captain Kevin Fitzgerald, moved around the ambulances, between the wheeled gurneys, and among the aluminum trestles on which lay stretchers. He spoke quickly to medics and doctors and looked at each of the twenty or so passengers who had slid down the chute and were being taken here, far from the aircraft that could potentially explode.
Based on what Jack Miller had told him, and on the passenger manifest, Fitzgerald was looking for passengers John Berry, Harold Stein, and Linda Farley, and flight attendants Sharon Crandall and Barbara Yoshiro. But so far, no one answered to those names. In fact, he realized, no one was answering to any name. Within a few minutes, the enormity of what had happened struck him.
Fitzgerald came to a gurney about to be loaded on an ambulance. On it lay a man wearing a bloodstained white shirt with epaulettes, and a black and white name tag that said “McVary.”
Fitzgerald motioned the attendants to hold up a moment, and he leaned over McVary, seeing that he was conscious and strapped down. Fitzgerald recalled meeting Dan McVary once briefly at a training seminar. Fitzgerald said, “Dan. Dan. Can you hear me?”
McVary looked at the chief pilot, a man who yesterday was his boss, a man with whom he’d always wanted to have a few words. But today, First Officer Daniel McVary wouldn’t have even recognized himself in the mirror and certainly did not recognize Chief Pilot Kevin Fitzgerald. “Aarghh!”
“Dan? It’s Kevin Fitzgerald. Dan? Dan, can you…?” No, Fitzgerald realized, no, you can’t, and no, you never will. “Damn it! Oh, my God, my God, my God…” Suddenly, he realized what Edward Johnson and Wayne Metz were about.
A fire truck came by, and Berry jumped on the running board beside the driver. He said, “Drive under the wing.”
The driver did a double take, but rather than argue a small point with someone who looked like he meant it, the driver turned slightly and drove toward the tilted wing.
Berry climbed up a small ladder fixed to the side of the cab and balanced himself on the roof. As the fire truck passed beneath the wing, Berry jumped forward and landed on all fours on top of the wing.
He scrambled up the slick, foam-covered wing toward the fuselage where the wing-top emergency door was located. He slid precariously sideways, then found some traction and finally reached the door, grabbing for the recessed emergency latch.
He caught his breath and pulled at the latch, but the small door wouldn’t open. “Damn it!” He propped his knees under the door and kept pulling, but the door held.
Down below, firemen were yelling to him to come down. Berry stood and edged toward the front of the wing, pressing his body against the fuselage for friction even as his shoes slipped on the foam. He inched his body closer to the hole in the fuselage, which was just above and forward of the wing.
A fire truck pulled up to the Straton only a few feet below him. The firemen were still shouting at him, and he saw now a hydraulic platform rising up toward him with two rescue workers on it.
Berry realized he couldn’t quite reach the hole in the fuselage, and he conveyed this to the firemen below by turning toward the rising platform and nodding his willingness to come down. The platform came up to a level position with the wing, and one of the rescue workers held on to a safety rail while reaching out to Berry with his other hand. Berry grabbed the rescue worker’s hand and jumped onto the platform.
Before the platform began to descend and before either of the rescue workers could react, Berry broke the man’s grip and dove off the platform into the hole in the side of the fuselage.
He found himself on the floor amid the pulverized and twisted wreckage. A few bodies lay in the swath of destruction, and Berry could hear a few people moaning. He pitied these men, women, and children who had lived through the terror of the explosion and decompression, then the oxygen deprivation, followed by the crash landing and smoke inhalation. It occurred to him-no, it had always been there in his mind-that he should have just pushed the nose of the airliner into the Pacific Ocean.
But he hadn’t done that, so he had left himself with some unfinished business.
The two rescue workers on the platform were shouting to him to come out. “Hey, buddy! Come on out of there! It could still blow. Come on!”
Berry glanced back at them standing in the sunlight and yelled, “I’m going up to the cockpit to get my wife and daughter!”
The Straton listed to the right and was pitched slightly upward. Berry made his way up the left-hand aisle toward the spiral staircase.
The windows were covered with foam, and the farther he got from the two holes in the fuselage, the darker it got and the heavier the smoke became. He heard people moving around him, and he felt someone push past him in the dark. It was strangely silent, except for an eerie sort of growl coming from somewhere close by. Berry thought it could be a dog.
He had given up on Barbara Yoshiro and Harold Stein a long time ago, but he had to give it a try. He shouted, “Barbara! Barbara Yoshiro! Harold Stein! Can you hear me?”
There was no reply at first, then someone, a male, close by in the dark, said, “Here.”
“Where? Mr. Stein?”
“Weah. Mista. Heah.”
“Damn it! Damn it! Shut up!” Berry felt himself losing control, and tried to steady his nerves. He was fairly certain that Yoshiro and Stein were either dead or unconscious, and beyond his help.
He continued on in the dark, crouching lower because of the smoke. Finally, he found the spiral staircase and grasped the handrails, discovering that the whole unit was loose. He took a few tentative steps up the stairs, then stopped and glanced back toward the shaft of sunlight passing through the holes in the midsection. He tried to see if any of the rescue workers had followed him, but all he could see was one of the brain-damaged wraiths stumbling around, his hands over his eyes, as if the light were blinding him.
Berry took another step up, and the spiral staircase swung slightly. “Damn…” He shouted up the stairs, “Sharon! Linda!”
A voice shouted back, “Shaarn. Linaah!”
Berry took a deep breath and then another step, then another, carefully making his way up the swaying staircase, shouting as he went, “Sharon! Linda!”
And each time he was answered with “Shaarn! Linaaah!”
He could hear people now at the bottom of the stairs, and also people in the lounge at the top of the stairs. Smoke from the cabin was rising up the staircase and, he guessed, out the open emergency door in the cockpit, so it was as if he were standing in a chimney. He found a handkerchief in his pocket and put it over his face, but he felt nauseous and dizzy again, and thought he might black out.
This was more than heroics, he thought. For one thing, he knew he couldn’t live with himself if he survived by getting down the chute and they died in the cockpit, so close to safety. Also, there was the matter of the data-link printouts, which would prove that he wasn’t crazy when he told the authorities that someone had given him instructions that would put the Straton into the ocean. And then there were his feelings about Sharon Crandall…
He took another step up the staircase. A shadow loomed at the top, and a hand from below grabbed his leg. A voice shouted, “Shaarnn!” Someone laughed. A dog growled.
He was back in hell.
Edward Johnson and Wayne Metz stepped out of the rapid intervention vehicle a hundred yards from the massive Straton, which was surrounded by yellow fire trucks that looked small by comparison, and Johnson was reminded of carrion-eating beetles around a dead bird.
Johnson surveyed the evacuation site-the aluminum trestles and stretchers, the gurneys, empty wheel-chairs, ambulances pulling away. He found a woman with a clipboard who looked official, and he identified himself as the senior vice president of Trans-United, which he was, and which he wanted to continue being, which was why he was here; he had to control the situation to the extent possible, and with any luck, the man named Berry would be dead, and so would the flight attendant, and the data-link printouts would be sitting in the collecting tray in the cockpit. If none of that was true, Johnson knew he’d have to make some tough decisions and do some unpleasant things.
The woman with the clipboard identified herself as Dr. Emmett of the airport Emergency Medical Service.
Johnson asked her, “Doctor, how many people have you pulled out?”
Dr. Emmett replied, “We haven’t pulled any out. Some came down that chute. Twenty-two, to be exact.”
Johnson glanced at the yellow chute in the far distance.
Dr. Emmett continued, “The rescue workers will enter the aircraft shortly. Then we’ll have our hands full.” She thought a moment, then said, “Unless, of course, they’re all dead from smoke inhalation… which is possible since we’ve seen no one inside trying to get out, and no one has deployed any other emergency chute.”
Johnson nodded and asked her, “What’s the condition of the people you’ve got here?”
Dr. Emmett hesitated, then said, “Well, they all seem to have suffered some physical trauma… bleeding, contusions, and such, but no burns. All seem to have experienced smoke inhalation-”
“Their mental state, doctor,” Johnson interrupted. “Are they mentally well?”
Dr. Emmett considered a moment, then replied, “No. I thought at first it was just shock and smoke inhalation-”
Johnson interrupted again and said, “They experienced a period of oxygen deprivation when”-he pointed to the hole in the distant fuselage-“when that happened.”
She nodded. “I see.”
“Have you noticed any people who look mentally… normal?”
“I don’t think… Some of them are unconscious and I can’t-”
Johnson said, “We know there were at least three people who were not affected by the loss of oxygen-a man, a female flight attendant, and a young girl. There may also be another female flight attendant-Oriental-and another male passenger who is not… brain damaged.” He looked at Dr. Emmett and asked her, “Have you seen anyone like that?”
She shook her head. “No. No women in flight-attendant uniforms for sure, and no young girls. About ten men, but…” She glanced at her clipboard and said, “We’ve taken identification from those who had ID on them-”
“The men were named Berry and Stein.”
Dr. Emmett scanned her list, then shook her head. “No… but there was one man in a pilot’s uniform… name tag said McVary… He was not well.”
Johnson nodded to himself as his eyes scanned the people in the stretchers around him.
Dr. Emmett said, “Another gentleman was asking about those people.”
Johnson turned back to her and described Kevin Fitzgerald, right down to his tan.
Dr. Emmett nodded.
Johnson asked, “Where is that gentleman now?”
She shrugged and motioned around at the controlled chaos spread up and down the runway. “I’m sure I have other things to worry about.”
“Right-”
It was Dr. Emmett’s turn to interrupt, and she said, “We’re taking everyone who got out of that plane and who might get out of that plane to Hangar 14, where a field hospital is being set up.” She added, “The field morgue is in Hangar 13. Please excuse me.” She turned and walked quickly away.
Johnson took Metz’s arm and steered him toward the aircraft.
Metz asked, “Where are we going?”
“To the Straton, Wayne.”
“What if it explodes?”
“Then we don’t have to face charges of attempted murder. We’ll be dead.”
Metz broke free of Johnson and said, “Hold on. If it explodes, the evidence goes with it. I’m waiting here.”
“Wayne, don’t be reactive. Be proactive.”
“Don’t give me that management-seminar shit. I came this far with you, but no further. If you want to get closer to that… that fucking aluminum death tube filled with gasoline-”
“Kerosene.”
“-and brain-damaged people, go right ahead.” He added, “I’ll stay here near the ambulances and see if our friends get this far.”
Johnson looked at Metz and asked him, “And if you happen to see them, what will you do?”
Metz didn’t reply.
“Will you kill them?”
He shook his head.
Johnson reminded Metz, “Wayne, if that guy Berry lives, you and I will spend at least ten, probably twenty years in a state or federal prison. I have better ways to spend my golden years than walking around an exercise yard in blue denims.”
Metz seemed to stare off into space for a long time, then said, “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Johnson laughed unpleasantly. “I figured you’d say that.” He turned to Metz, then said, “Okay, partner, you can stay here and watch the store. But if I don’t get to Berry and Crandall, and if I don’t get my hands on those data-link printouts, then you can be certain that you’ll be in the cell next to mine.” Johnson turned and walked toward the Straton.
Wayne Metz watched him go, then turned suddenly and ran toward an ambulance. He shouted to the attendants, who were about to close the doors, “Wait! I need a ride!” He brushed past them and jumped into the back of the ambulance.
The attendants shrugged and closed the doors.
Wayne Metz found himself crammed among three stretchers on which were three people. The first thing he realized was that there was a smell of vomit, feces, and urine coming from them. “Oh… ah… ah…” He covered his face with his handkerchief.
The ambulance suddenly took off at high speed, and Wayne Metz stumbled into a stretcher that held a middle-aged man whose face was smeared and crusty with things Wayne Metz didn’t want to think about. Metz’s stomach heaved, and he made a retching sound. One of the patients let out a howl and another began to grunt.
Metz backed up to the doors and called out to the two men in front, “Stop! Let me out!”
The driver called back to him, “Next stop, Hangar 14. Pipe down.”
Metz would have opened the doors and jumped, but the ambulance was going very fast.
As the vehicle streaked toward Hangar 14, the three patients on board began screaming and babbling, then one of them howled again.
Metz felt a chill run down his spine, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. “Oh… God… get me out of here…”
“You jumped on board,” said the attendant in the passenger seat. “Now, keep quiet.”
“Oh…” Metz forced himself to look at the faces of the three people strapped into the stretchers. “Oh, my God…” The term “continuing liability” suddenly struck home.
He realized he was out of a job, but that didn’t seem so important anymore compared to spending a decade or two in the penitentiary.
Metz turned and looked out the rear window of the ambulance and focused on the retreating Straton. He said a quiet prayer. “God, let the Straton explode, killing everyone on board, especially Berry and Crandall, and anyone else who has the mental capacity to testify against me, and please, God, let the data-link printouts burn, and let Ed Johnson go up in smoke, too. Thank you, God.”
But as he watched the Straton, nothing happened. It smoked, but didn’t blow. “Please, God.”
The patients were babbling, the ambulance reeked, and Wayne Metz’s heart was racing. He had never in his life been so miserable. He began sobbing and choking.
The attendant had climbed out of his seat and come up behind Metz. “Here. Take these. Tranquilizers. Take the edge off. Make you feel good. Here.”
Metz swallowed the two pills whole. “Oh… get me out of here…”
“Sit down.”
Wayne pounded on the doors of the ambulance. “Stop!”
One of the patients shouted, “Stob!”
The attendant said to Metz, “Sit down, pal, before you fall down.”
Suddenly, Metz felt light-headed and his knees felt rubbery. “Oh… what… what was…?”
The attendant said, “Did I say tranquilizers? I meant sedative. I always get them confused.”
“But… I…”
“You cause trouble, you get a Mickey Finn. Lie down.” The attendant helped him to the floor.
“But… I’m not… a… I wasn’t… I’m not… a passenger.”
“I don’t care who you are. You’re in my ambulance, and you’re causing trouble. Now you’re out like a light.”
Metz felt his bladder release, and everything went dark.
Ed Johnson surveyed the scene at the port side of the Straton. The fire chief had declared the aircraft safe from combustion, and rescue workers wearing fire suits and oxygen masks were being lifted on hydraulic platforms into the body of the dead beast.
Johnson saw the main guy with the gold trim and went up to him. “Chief, I’m Ed Johnson, VP of Trans-United. This is my plane.”
“Oh, hey, sorry.”
“Yeah.” He asked, “Anyone alive in there?”
The chief nodded. “Yeah. The rescue workers are reporting on their radios that they have dozens-maybe hundreds in there.” He added, “We’re strapping them into scoop stretchers-immobilizing them-you know? Then we’ll begin to start taking them out.”
Johnson nodded. His mind was working on his own problem.
The chief thought a moment, then said, “These people… They don’t seem right, according to what I’m hearing on the radio… I mean, nobody tried to get out…”
“They’re brain damaged.”
“Jeez.”
“Right. Hey, can you get me in there?”
“Well…”
“It’s my aircraft, Chief. I have to be on it.”
“It could still catch fire,” said the chief, though the possibility had greatly diminished. He added, “Toxic smoke and fumes.”
“I don’t care. I have to be in there with my passengers and crew.” Ed Johnson gave the chief a man-to-man stare, not entirely phony, but partly recalled from the old days before all the politics and compromises. He added, “This is my aircraft, Chief.”
The fire chief called out to one of his men and said, “Get this man a bunker coat, gloves, and an air pack, and get him up into the craft.”
“Thanks,” said Johnson.
As he waited, he stared up at the hole in the side of the craft and said, “What the hell…?”
The chief followed his gaze and said, “Yeah. It’s, like, blown in. One of the guys said he thought it could be a meteor strike. You know? Or a piece of satellite. But the two holes are in the sides — horizontal. The other one is blown out — and a lot bigger-like something went in this side and out the other. Maybe a missile. What do you think?”
“Jesus Christ…” It suddenly hit him. A missile. A runaway missile. A fucking runaway military missile. Or a drone. Something that operated at 60,000 feet and didn’t explode when it hit the Straton. Some military fuckup of the first order, like all those stories about TWA Flight 800. But this one had actually happened. A missile. That had to be it. And he’d been worried about structural failure or a bomb smuggled aboard through lax Trans-United security. And all the time it wasn’t their fault. “Jesus H. Christ. What a fuckup.”
“What’s that?”
Johnson glanced at the fire chief. “Wish me luck.”
“Right.”
Two firemen helped Ed Johnson into a bunker coat, showed him the fireproof gloves and flashlight hanging from Velcro straps on the coat, and fitted him with a Scott Air-Pak. Johnson let the mask hang on his chest. He said, “Let me have one of those axes.”
One of the firemen shrugged and handed Johnson a steel-cut ax. The fireman said, “Be careful with that. It’s sharp as a razor.”
Good. “Thanks.”
A hydraulic lift raised Ed Johnson up to the rear catering-service door, that had been opened by the rescue workers.
Johnson stepped from the sunlight into the cavernous Straton 797, lit now by battery-powered lights. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness.
After half a minute he could see, but he could not comprehend. “Oh, my God…”
Slowly, he made his way up the left aisle, past rescue workers, past dead and injured passengers strapped in their seats or lying on the floor.
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 won’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.
Mayday