Mayday (41 page)

“John! There’s a printer at the rear of the cockpit! I forgot about it.” She tore off her seat belt and jumped down from the
flight chair. She moved quickly to the aft bulkhead and peered into a space in the corner near the fuselage wall. “Here it
is.” She reached in and tore the narrow sheet from the printer, then grabbed a stack of folded messages from a collecting
basket. She held them up and stretched them out. “John! It’s all here. Everything.”

Berry found that he was smiling. Nothing, he admitted, is as sweet as revenge. “Let me see them.”

She brought over the stack of perforated paper, no more than five inches wide, and let the loose end fall. It reached down
to the center console between the seats. Each small perforated section held a computer-typed message.

Berry scanned the messages hanging in her hand. “That looks like all of them.” He turned back and stared out the windshield.
He could see Sharon’s reflection in the dark, wet glass, standing beside him, the paper trailing down from her hand as she
read from it.

He watched her for a few moments, her movements, her facial expressions.

Sharon refolded the messages. “We have to get back and expose these people.”

Berry nodded. If they died in the crash and the cockpit were destroyed, or if they put down at sea, the printouts would probably
not survive. He turned to Crandall. “Give me those. Get life vests for all of us.”

Crandall opened the pouch on the bulkhead and handed out the orange life vests. She watched as Berry and Linda put on their
life vests, then put one on herself. She took a first-aid kit from the emergency locker on the bulkhead and treated a small
cut on Linda Farley’s forehead. She moved beside Berry. “Hold still. You have a lot of scrapes and cuts.”

Berry watched her as she dabbed antiseptic cream on his arms and face. “Where did you get that kit?”

“In the emergency locker.”

“What else is in there?”

“Not much. Most of the emergency equipment is in the cabins and lounges.” At the mention of the lounge, Crandall looked toward
the cockpit door. She had, until just then, forgotten about what was on the other side.

Berry handed her the printouts. “Put these into Linda’s vinyl pouch on her life vest. Try to wrap them so they’re waterproof.”

Sharon Crandall understood that he was trying to prepare for the worst. She walked to the locker behind the observer’s chair,
took out two items, and brought them up front to Berry. “This is a waterproof flash-light. These are asbestos fire gloves.”

Berry smiled. “Very good.”

Crandall unscrewed the end of the flashlight, removed the batteries, and stuffed the printouts into the empty battery case.
She screwed the end back on and slipped the asbestos gloves over both ends of the flash-light. She wrapped the entire package
securely with a length of bandage from the first-aid kit and placed it in the pouch fixed to Linda’s life jacket, then snapped
it shut. “Linda, you know this is important. If anything happens to us, show this to . . .”

“A policeman,” said the girl.

Crandall smiled. “Yes. A policeman. Tell him it’s very important.”

She nodded.

Sharon Crandall sat back in the copilot’s seat.

Berry reached out and took her hand. He said to her, “No one can say you didn’t earn your flight pay this trip.”

She squeezed his hand and smiled. “When you first came aboard, I said to myself, ‘That guy would make a good pilot. . . .”’

“You noticed me when I came aboard?”

“Well . . . you were wearing blue socks with brown shoes.” They both laughed, then Sharon sat back and listened to the engines,
and felt their power vibrate through the airframe. She turned back to him. “John, can you land it?”

Berry looked out the windshield. The rain was tapering off and the sky was becoming lighter. Below, the ocean seemed less
turbulent. He glanced at the weather radar. It seemed less cluttered with images, and as far as he could determine, the weather
to their front was clearing. “Depends on the weather in San Francisco.” He knew it depended a great deal on his ability. He
glanced at the fuel gauges. “Depends on the gas, too. The afterburners drank it up. We’re eating it up now at this altitude.
But we can’t use any fuel to climb back up there, and the weather at those altitudes might turn bad again.”

“Do you think we have enough fuel to make it?”

“I don’t know. Too many variables. But I’m willing to bet you a dinner that we at least see the coast before we run out.”
Berry smiled to hide his real feeling. He knew what a sucker’s bet it was.

“I’ll bet you we make it to the airport. I want to go to the Four Seasons in New York.”

Berry nodded. “All right.” Then his smile faded. “Listen, if we have to ditch at sea, I’ll know in enough time and we can
prepare ourselves. That close to the coast, we should be picked up.” But he wondered if they would go down near a shipping
lane. He thought about the possibility of sharks but didn’t know how prevalent they were on the West Coast. He wanted to ask,
but decided to wait until they were close. The more he thought about ditching in the sea, the more it seemed to be a beginning,
not an end, to their problems. But something else was bothering him. Even a safe landing at San Francisco might not be the
end of it. “Sharon, we’ve got to come up with a plan. Something for after we land in San Francisco.”

“What?” She was puzzled. To her, getting the damaged Straton safely to the airport was all they had to do. “What are you talking
about?”

“These people,” he said, pointing to the data-link, “tried to kill us. They won’t stop just because we’ve landed.”

“That’s crazy.”

The two of them sat silently for a few seconds. Sharon wondered if Berry could be right. Perhaps she was making too little
of it. She said, “If we land at San Francisco in one piece . . . well, we’ll have to be aware that not everyone on the ground
is happy to see us.”

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.

J
ack 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.”