Authors: Boyd Morrison
Locke had heard the weather forecast, so he knew what Dietz meant. In the next hour, the wind was expected to die down and fog would roll in, making a landing impossible until it cleared. He saw the cloud formation approaching from the west, and just beneath it about five miles away, a yacht slowly motored past. White, at least 80 feet long. A beauty. Probably a Lurssen or a Westport. Why it would be in the middle of the Grand Banks, Locke couldn't guess, but it wasn't in any hurry.
He also had no idea why an archaeologist was so impatient to meet with him that she was willing to fly out here. She'd repeatedly called Gordian's headquarters over the last few days, and when Locke took a break from his work on the platform, he'd returned her call. All he could get out of her was that she was a professor at UCLA, and she had to see him right away.
When he told her that he was going straight from Scotia One to a job in Norway, she'd insisted on seeing him before he left. The only way that would happen, he told her jokingly, would be if she took the two-hour flight out to the rig. To his surprise, she jumped at the chance and agreed to the trip, even willing to pay the exorbitant fee for the helicopter ride. When he asked why, all she would say over the phone was that it was a matter of life and death. She wouldn't take no for an answer. It was just the kind of mysterious distraction that could spice up an otherwise routine assignment, so he finally relented and arranged for the rig's manager to clear her for a visit.
To be sure Dilara wasn't yanking his chain, Locke checked her credentials out on UCLA's web site and found the picture of a beautiful ebony-haired woman in her mid-thirties. She had high cheekbones, striking brown eyes, and an easy smile. Her photo gave Locke the impression of intelligence and competence. He made the mistake of showing it to Grant Westfield, his best friend and his current project's electrical engineering expert. Grant had immediately made some less-than-gentlemanly suggestions as to why Locke should meet with her. Locke didn't reply, but he had to admit her looks added to the intrigue.
Dietz, who was now holding two flashlights equipped with glowing red traffic wands, moved to the edge of the landing pad near Locke. He pointed into the sky above the other side of the pad.
"There it is," Dietz said. "Right on time."
Against the gray backdrop of clouds, Locke saw a dot quickly growing in the distance. A moment later, he could hear the low throb of helicopter blades occasionally burst through the wind. The dot grew until it was recognizable as a 19-passenger Sikorsky, a workhorse of the Newfoundland oil fields.
He was sure Dilara Kenner was on board. She had made it clear in their phone conversation that there was no way she was missing the flight, and he believed her. Something about the certainty and toughness in her voice. She'd sounded like a woman to be reckoned with.
Less than a mile away, the helicopter was slowing to make its descent to the landing pad when a small puff of smoke billowed from the right turbine engine on the helicopter's roof.
Locke's jaw dropped open, and he said, "What the hell?" Then he realized with horror what was about to happen. An electric shiver shot up his spine.
"Did you see that?" Dietz said, his voice ratcheting up an octave.
Before Locke could reply, an explosion tore through the engine, causing chunks of metal to rip backward through the tail rotor.
"Holy shit!" Dietz yelled.
Locke was already in motion. "They're going down!" he shouted. "Come on!"
He leaped onto the landing pad and dashed toward the opposite side. Dietz chased after him. Like a thunderclap after a distant lightning strike, the sound of the blast boomed seconds after the actual explosion. As he pounded across the center of the pad's huge H, Locke watched the shocking destruction of the Sikorsky.
Two blades of the tail rotor were torn off, and the remaining blades beat themselves to death against the tail section of the helicopter. The powerful centrifugal force of the still-intact main rotor began to spin the helicopter in a tight spiral.
Locke's brain was screaming at him to do something, but there was no way for him to help them. He skidded to a halt at the edge of the platform, where he had a full view of the chopper. Dietz stopped next to him, panting with exertion.
The Sikorsky didn't immediately dive into the ocean. Instead, the tail swung around in a circle as the helicopter plunged downward. Only an expert pilot could control such a mortally crippled helicopter.
There was a flicker of hope. If the Sikorsky didn't hit too hard, the passengers might have a chance of getting out alive.
"Those guys are dead," Dietz said.
"No, they're going to make it," Locke said, but he sounded less convinced than he wanted to.
By the time it had dropped several hundred feet, the helicopter's forward motion had stopped. Just before it splashed into the water, it tilted, and the main rotor blades churned the water like a egg beater until they were ripped apart. The Sikorsky came to rest on the ocean surface starboard side up.
"They're trapped inside!" Dietz cried.
"Come on," Locke said to himself, picturing Dilara Kenner's smiling face. His jaw were clenched so tightly, he thought his teeth might crack. "Come on! Get out of there!"
As if in reply, the door of the rapidly sinking helicopter slid open. Four people in bright yellow survival suits jumped out into the water. Only four.
Dietz pointed his flashlights at the floundering chopper and asked, "Where are the rest of them?"
Locke was shouting now. "Get out of there!"
The nose of the Sikorsky dipped below the water level, where it was bashed by the waves. Water flooded through the open door. The tail pointed straight up unto the air and then disappeared beneath the waves.
Locke kept staring at the place where the chopper went under. Each passing second without seeing the other passengers stretched for an eternity.
Then when it seemed like they couldn't possibly make it to the surface alive, three more survival suits popped up and bobbed on the waves. Seven survivors. With five passengers and two pilots, that meant seven for seven. They all made it.
Locke clapped his hands together, and yelled, "Yes!" He slapped palms with Dietz, who was grinning from ear to ear.
"Those lucky sons of bitches!" Al yelled, staring at the people floating in the water.
Locke shook his head at their good fortune. He'd seen the results of a couple of helicopter crashes in Iraq. No survivors in either of them. But for the Sikorsky passengers, it wasn't over yet.
"That water must be freezing," he said. "They won't last long, even with the survival suits."
Dietz's grin disappeared. "I'm sure Finn's on the phone with the Coast Guard by now..."
Locke cut him off. He could feel the time pressure already. "They're too far away. Remember the fog?"
"Then how do we get them out?" he asked. "You mean they lived through the crash, but they're going to die in the water?"
"Not if I can help it."
Locke knew he was the only one on board Scotia One with expertise in aviation disasters. He had to convince the rig manager, Roger Finn, that they couldn't wait for the Coast Guard to send a rescue chopper. That might be tough since Locke had been hired by the platform's parent company and Finn barely tolerated his presence on the rig.
"Keep an eye on them," Locke said to Dietz and sprinted back across the landing pad in the direction of the stairs.
"Where are you going?" Dietz yelled after him.
"To the control room!" Locke yelled back.
Hurtling down the stairs, Locke had just the slightest moment when he thought maybe he shouldn't get involved. It was his instinct to swoop in and insert himself into the situation, but no one was depending on him for help. It wasn't his responsibility. The oil rig crew and the Coast Guard would handle it. They would save the passengers.
But Locke thought about what would happen if he was wrong. There were seven people struggling to stay alive out there, including Dilara Kenner, who he had personally invited to the rig. If those passengers died and he hadn't done everything he could, their deaths would be on his head even if nobody else knew it. Then he would be plunged back into more months without sleep for days at a time, his mind needling him with all of the things he should have done. The thought of those sleepless nights was what kept his feet moving.
Captain Mike "Hammer" Hamilton leveled his F-16 at 35,000 feet, and his wingman Lt. Fred "Fuzzy" Newman matched his course. After scrambling from March Air Force Base just east of LA, they had both lit their afterburners to get out over the ocean before the airplane they were intercepting crossed the coast. Now the private 737 designated N-348Z was clearly visible on Hammer's radar. They were closing at a relative speed of 2000 miles per hour.
"Two minutes to intercept," Fuzzy said.
"Copy that," Hammer said. "LA Control, this is CALIF 32. Any more comm traffic from the target?"
"Negative, CALIF 32. Still nothing." During the briefing on route, Hammer was told that all communication had been lost with an airplane that had turned back on a course to Honolulu. When it had turned around, it was to get medical attention for some passengers who had gotten sick. Then the pilot's communications had become increasingly distressed. Apparently, everyone on board, including the flight crew, had come down with the mysterious illness.
The communications became increasingly erratic and strange, as if the pilot was succumbing to some kind of madness. His last communication had been so odd that LA control had played it back for Hammer. It was the eeriest radio call he had ever heard.
"Flight N-348 Zulu, this is LA Control. Your last message was garbled. Say again."
"I can't see!" the panicking pilot said. "I'm blind! I can't see! Oh, Jesus!" Hammer had never heard a pilot lose it like that.
"Are you on autopilot?"
"Yes, on autopilot. Oh God! I can feel it!"
"Feel what? N-348 Zulu? Feel what? What is happening?"
"I'm melting! We're all melting! Make it stop!" The pilot screamed in obvious pain, and then the communication abruptly terminated. That was an hour and 20 minutes ago.
"Have they made any move to descend?" Hammer asked. Since 9/11, the primary mission of his Air National Guard wing was homeland defense. Standard operating procedure was to intercept all aircraft that had lost communication. If there was any indication that the aircraft was in the control of terrorists and suspected of being used as a weapon, there would be no choice but to take it out. But from what he'd heard, Hammer didn't think that's what they were dealing with. No way a terrorist could make a pilot act like that.
"Negative," the controller said. "They haven't deviated course or altitude."
"Copy that. Intercept in one minute. You heard him, Fuzz. When we get there, we'll circle around and pull alongside, see what we can see."
Hammer spotted the bright blue 737 in the distance, and it quickly filled his windscreen. He and Fuzzy shot by and banked around, reducing their throttles to half what they were. They nudged forward until they were flying even with the 737, Hammer on the port wingtip and Fuzzy on the starboard wing.
"LA control," Hammer said, "We have intercepted the target. It is flying straight and level at flight level 350. Air speed 550 knots on course 075." If it stayed on that course, it would fly directly over Los Angeles.
"Copy that, CALIF 32. Describe what you're seeing."
"The plane seems to be in good shape. No damage on my side."
"None on mine, either," said Fuzzy.
"I can't see any movement inside. I'll move a little a closer to get a better look."
Hammer nudged the F-16 forward and starboard until his wingtip was in front of the 737's. Anybody on board would surely see him. Those still conscious would be pressing their faces against the windows, but none did.
"Any signs of life, CALIF 32?"
"Negative." The bright sunlight streaming through the starboard windows was visible through the port windows, allowing Hammer a clear view of the seatbacks. According to the briefing, the plane had the movie star Rex Hayden and his entourage on board. He expected to see heads lolling backward in some of the seats, but he couldn't see a single person. Strange.
"Fuzzy, you see anything from your side?"
"Negative, Hammer. It's as quiet as a..." The next intended word must have been "cemetery" because Fuzzy stopped himself abruptly. "Nobody on the starboard side as far as I can see."
"LA Control," Hammer said, "You got your info wrong. This is an empty flight. Must be a ferry."
After a pause, the controller came back. "Uh, that's a negative, CALIF 32. Manifest shows 21 passengers and six crew."
"Then where the hell are they?"
"What about the pilots?"
Hammer pulled farther ahead until he had a view straight into the cockpit. The windows were clear. Large-jet pilots wear a four-point belt. Even if the pilots were unconscious, the seat belts would keep them upright.
Instead, Hammer saw a disturbing sight. The belts were connected, but slack. The cockpit was empty. If what they were telling him was correct, 27 people had simply vanished over the Pacific.
"LA Control," he said, hardly believing his own words, "there is no one on board the target."
"CALIF 32, can you repeat that?"
"I repeat, N-348 Zulu is completely deserted. We've intercepted a ghost plane."
Locke's heart was pounding by the time he reached the Scotia One control room, a state-of-the-art facility that allowed control of every aspect of the rig's operations, including all the pumps and valves on the platform. It also served as the rig's communications station.
Three men sat at terminals, busily going through their emergency checklists while Finn barked into the phone. He was a squat man with hair the color and consistency of steel wool, and his voice boomed with the authority of a drill sergeant. Locke listened while he caught his breath.
"We've got seven in the water...Yes, an explosion...No, our standby ship left yesterday to help with a spill at Scotia Two. They have survival suits on...When?...Okay, we'll sit tight until then." He hung up the phone.