Mayday (31 page)

Linda Farley moved back and climbed into the pilot’s chair. Sharon Crandall edged out of the copilot’s chair and tried to
get in a position to help.

It occurred to Berry that anyone with as much mental ability as McVary seemed to have might be capable of understanding reason.
He spoke softly. “McVary. McVary. Do you understand me? Can you speak?”

McVary seemed to listen to the words, but he kept circling. He opened his mouth. “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

Berry nodded. “Yes. Please go. Go. Out to the lounge. Lounge. Lounge . . .”

McVary picked his head up and looked into the lounge, then suddenly bolted toward his flight chair.

Sharon Crandall screamed and tried to get out of his way. McVary grabbed her and threw her to the side.

Berry caught McVary from behind, and both men fell to the floor. Berry struck his head on the seat track and a black, searing
pain shot through his skull.

He was aware that he was on the floor and that Mc-Vary wasn’t. He knew that the copilot could not be restrained by Linda or
Sharon, but he couldn’t get to his feet. He felt blood running over his forehead and face. He saw McVary’s legs near his face.
He looked up. McVary was struggling with Sharon. Everything became blurry, then he heard a noise, a noise that filled the
cockpit and sounded like the rushing of steam through a burst pipe. McVary screamed.

Berry was aware that Sharon was helping him sit up. He looked around. McVary was gone. The door was closed again. “What happened?”

Sharon Crandall dabbed at his bleeding wound with a handkerchief. She motioned toward Linda Farley.

Berry looked at the girl. She stood, trembling, with a bright red fire extinguisher in her hand, Halon still visible around
its nozzle.

Crandall touched Berry’s cheek. “Can you stand?”

“Yes. Of course.” He stood slowly and looked at Linda Farley. “Good thinking. Very good.”

Linda dropped the fire extinguisher and ran to Berry. She buried her face in his chest.

Berry patted her head. “It’s all right. You didn’t hurt him. Just scared him a little.” He cradled her head in his hand and
with the other hand reached out for Sharon. The three of them stood quietly for a few seconds, calming themselves.

Berry heard scratching on the door and stepped over to it. He could see faces through the small piece of oneway glass in the
door. He took a deep breath, then hit the door with his shoulder, sending two men and a woman sprawling. He looked back into
the lounge. A procession of people were coming, one at a time, out of the stairwell, filling the lounge from wall to wall,
pressing closer to the cockpit bulkhead. Berry looked at their blood-red eyes set in those gray, ashen faces. His head swam.
His hold on reality was beginning to weaken. An irrational thought flashed through his mind, the thought that he was already
dead and this place was not the Straton but some sort of perpetual flight that would never end, never land. . . .

He pulled the door shut tightly and turned, facing back into the cockpit. He felt sweat on his face and his breathing had
become difficult.

Sharon Crandall looked from the door to his face, then back at the door. There was fear, thought Berry— no, terror—in her
eyes. Berry controlled his voice and spoke to her. “We . . . we’ve lost a major advantage . . . with them in the lounge .
. . but . . . as long as we keep them out of here . . . out of the cockpit . . .”

His world was shrinking, reduced to these square yards—this small room that contained their only link with the world they
had left . . . that contained the instruments of their survival and the only mechanical and human intelligence left onboard.

Sharon Crandall held Linda Farley and nodded, but she did not see how they were going to keep the passengers of Flight 52
out of the cockpit.

Edward Johnson walked to a long shelf and took down a heavy spiral-bound book. Wayne Metz watched him carefully. The man was
still walking a mental tight-rope, and the slightest thing could upset his balance.

Johnson sat on a stool and placed the book on the counter. He picked up the telephone.

Metz spoke softly, choosing his words carefully. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Johnson didn’t answer. He placed the slip of paper that Evans had given him on the counter and began dialing. At the same
time, he opened the big book in front of him.

Metz was becoming anxious. “Who are you calling? What’s in that book?”

Johnson looked at him as the phone began ringing on the other end. “I’m calling ATC.”

“Why?”

“Because, Wayne, from now on I have to handle it just like it’s supposed to be handled.”

“What’s in the book?”

Johnson spoke into the telephone. “Mr. Malone, please.” He looked up at Metz. “There’s a coffeepot in that cabinet. Make coffee.”
He turned to the phone. “Mr. Malone, this is Ed Johnson. Vice-President of Operations at Trans-United.”

“Yes, sir. What’s the story with 52?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t look very good. They are no longer transmitting.”

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“Before I fill you in, take down these coordinates of their last estimated position. Please take the necessary steps to begin
a search-and-rescue operation.”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

Johnson read the coordinates. “They turned before we lost contact, so they are now on a heading of 120 degrees at a speed
of approximately 340 knots. You can extrapolate from there.”

“Yes, sir. Hold the line while I get the ball rolling on this.”

Johnson flipped through the book in front of him.

Malone came back on the line. “The search-and-rescue operation will be rolling shortly. Is there any chance they could still
be flying?”

“Always a chance. Incidentally, when was the last time you heard from them, Mr. Malone?”

There was a short pause. “At eleven o’clock they radioed their position.”

Johnson nodded. “Why didn’t you call us?” “Well . . . we were trying to contact them. Actually, we didn’t try until they’d
missed their next mandatory report. It should have occurred at 12:18, so it’s not that long. And all the airlines’ 797s have
a little radio trouble because of the altitude and—”

“I understand. We’ve been a little lax here too, I’m afraid. My dispatcher didn’t have his regular oneo’clock update from
them and he let it go for a while.” He would have to fill in the missed 12:00 update. “Then, when he tried to radio, he experienced
the same trouble that you apparently did. But, of course, he wasn’t concerned.”

“That’s understandable, Mr. Johnson. But what exactly happened to the aircraft? How did you finally make contact with them?”

“Well, we’re not certain exactly what happened. A short while before I called you, we received a message on our company data-link.
It was a distress message. It said only SOS.”

“SOS?”

“Yes. No identification of any sort. We thought, of course, that it was a hoax of some sort.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then, some time later, a dispatcher discovered another message sitting in the data-link. There is no way to determine how
long either message sat in the data-link.”

“What did the message say?”

Johnson pulled the message toward him and read, “‘Emergency. Mayday. Aircraft damaged. Radios dead. Mid-Pacific. Need help.
Do you read?”’

“That was it?”

“My dispatcher acknowledged immediately, then called me. Are you writing this all down?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. They did not immediately call you, I’m afraid, because there was some confusion over the way the message was received
and because of the wording in our company emergency handbook.”

“Wording?”

“Yes. It says—let me read it.” Johnson placed the handbook over the big book in front of him. “It says, ‘When Air Traffic
Control notifies you of a midair emergency, contact the following.’ So my dispatcher called the numbers on the list but never
thought to call Air Traffic Control, since your number wasn’t listed in the FAA-approved handbook. He may also have believed
that someone else was calling you already. You know how it is, when you see a fire, you think everyone’s called. . . . Anyway,
it was a damned stupid oversight and he will be properly reprimanded. In any case, there is nothing lost except some time
in getting a search-and-rescue underway.”

“Yes, I see.” Malone’s voice sounded apologetic. “Do you know what the nature of the emergency was?”

“I suspect that the damage to the aircraft was too great to continue flying.”

“What damage is that?”

Johnson put a tone of sadness and anger in his voice. “A bomb—or structural failure . . . two holes in the hull. Decompression
killed or incapacitated the crew and passengers.”

“Good God. . . . Then . . . who . . . ?”

“A private pilot was in a positive pressure area. The lavatory, probably. He made the transmissions and turned the aircraft
at our suggestion. I suspect, too, that he may have touched something in the cockpit that led to the final . . . led to the
possible . . . crash. I hope to God it’s only because of a malfunction of the data-link machine . . .” Johnson found something
in the book that he needed.

“Yes. Let’s hope so. Do you have copies . . . ?”

“Yes. I’ll send copies of the printouts to you right now. It shows everything we know and everything we’ve done.”

“As soon as possible, please.”

“There won’t be any further delay on our part. I’m taking personal charge of the operation at this end.”

“Yes. Very good. I’m still a bit concerned—”

“There has, of course, been an unconscionable delay in getting the ball rolling here, and we will take full responsibility.”

“Well, of course, Mr. Johnson, it was an unusual set of circumstances, to say the least.” There was a pause. “What time did
you say you received the first data-link transmission?”

Johnson took a deep breath. He had figured that it must have been at about 12:15. He looked at his watch. It was now 1:30.
“About one o’clock.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Not when you’re trying to deal with an unusual set of circumstances. But, of course, you’re correct. And please keep in mind
that the Straton was still flying up until a few minutes ago, and may still be flying this way, I should add.”

“Yes. Well, we’ve all been a bit . . . slow.”

“Please keep me up-to-date on the search operation.”

“Of course.”

“Meanwhile, the printouts are on the way. I’ll have them faxed to this number we show for you.”

“Good.” “And we’ll keep transmitting on our data-link at three-minute intervals in the event . . .”

“Yes, very good. I’m sorry.”

“So are we.”

“Thank you.” He hung up and turned to Metz. “Well, that went all right. A little trouble with the Federal Aviation Agency
is better, I guess, than losing my job and bankrupting the company.”

“I’d say so. Will the ATC people come here?”

“Not them. FAA air carrier inspectors. But as long as they think we’re out of contact with the Straton, they won’t be in any
rush to get here.”

“How about the rescue operation you just set up?”

“They’ll probably call the Navy and Air Force, and commercial shipping in the area. That’ll take hours. By that time we’ll
have . . .” Johnson stopped, then looked directly at Metz. “By then, we’ll be finished with this.”

Metz nodded. “How about your Trans-United people? Will they want to come here?”

“I’ll take care of that in a minute.”

“Good. What’s that book you’ve been looking at?”

“Get me a cup of coffee.”

Wayne Metz had not gotten anyone a cup of coffee in ten years. But he turned toward the coffeepot.

Johnson slid off his stool and walked to the data-link. He took the printouts from the receiving basket and quickly read through
them again. No times. No indication of spaces between the messages. Nothing that could be considered poor judgment on the
part of Trans-United. The last messages since Miller’s “. . . working on bringing you home” looked a bit compromising, and
he tore them off. With his pen he marked the SOS message:
Discovered by dispatcher in link machine at approximately 1 P.M.
He walked to the door and opened it.

At Johnson’s appearance the room became quiet. Johnson’s eyes swept the room and fixed each man in turn. He said tonelessly,
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid we’ve lost contact with Flight 52.”

There was a rush of moans and exclamations.

“I have called the Air Traffic Control and they have initiated a search-and-rescue operation. Of course, the problem may simply
be the link, but . . .” He stepped a few feet into the room. “I will remain in the communications room and continue transmitting.”
Johnson was aware of Metz behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the man holding a cup of coffee. That was good for
the dispatchers to see. There was no doubt that Edward Johnson ran things and ran people. He turned and took the coffee from
Metz. He spoke in a low voice. “Get back in the communications room and close the damned door. If that alerting bell goes
off and they hear it, we’re finished.” He turned and addressed the dispatchers. “Gather round, please.”