B006U13W The Flight (Jenny Cooper 4) nodrm (46 page)

How extensively the viruses were distributed and how precisely they were controlled remained unknown. If Sanders was to be believed, it appeared – anecdotally, at least – that many aircraft and airlines were already affected, meaning that no commercial flight could be considered completely safe. When Patterson had queried the wisdom of taking a 380 across the Atlantic to attend their Washington meeting, Sanders had replied that the first rule of warfare was that lightning never struck twice. Like a fool he had accepted the logic, not stopping to think that the analogy was entirely false: lightning was a random event; Cobalt’s programs were precision weapons.

The plane banked to the right and steepened its angle of descent. The strange whine grew louder, piercing his eardrum like a dentist’s drill. Patterson clamped his eyes tight shut and prayed that death would come quickly.

Sitting in the rear seat of the helicopter, Jenny struggled to hear the conversation Ransome was having on his phone over the noise of the engine. It seemed there had been some communication with the aircraft. She was desperate for news. It was selfish of her – there were probably many children, mothers and fathers and young people with their whole lives ahead of them on board – but all she could think of was Michael.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked as he rang off.

He didn’t answer.

‘What’s going on with the plane?’

‘Their only communication has been by cellphone and they’re navigating using a hand-held GPS.’ He seemed more angry than distressed. ‘200 million pounds’ worth of aircraft . . .’

Jenny felt the knot in her stomach tighten. ‘Where are they?’

‘Approaching the Severn estuary between Newport and Cardiff. They’ve dumped their fuel and are heading in to land at Filton.’

They broke through the blanket of low cloud at 6,000 feet and the landscape opened out beneath them. The estuary spanned the horizon from right to left, sparkling orange and yellow in the slanting sun.

‘300 miles per hour,’ Cambourne called out, no longer bothering to attempt the translation to knots. ‘9,500, 9,000 . . .’

‘Yes?’ Finlay barked.

‘We’ve lost reception – “searching for satellites”.’

Attempting to assist, Michael leaned forward from his seat behind Cambourne’s, but there was nothing to be done. Even pressed right up to the windshield the message remained stubbornly on the screen. ‘It’s probably the battery – it uses more juice on a weak signal.’

‘Where the hell does that leave us?’ Finlay said.

‘Grateful we’re in daylight,’ Michael said. ‘I know this bit of country, I’ll navigate. Turn five degrees left.’

‘Where are the RAF when you need them?’ Cambourne said. ‘Someone to guide us down wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘Trying to find a working plane, I expect,’ Michael replied. ‘The nearest Tornado’s probably in East Anglia. Expect them to arrive just about the time we’re touching down.’

Finlay had flown simulators on direct law, but no matter what the instructors said, it was a million miles from reality. Without the flight computers making their constant automatic adjustments, the aircraft had all the finesse of an oil-tanker in a force nine gale.

‘Keep her going down, nice and steady, ten miles to landing.’ Michael tried to sound reassuring, but his heart was beating so hard he could hardly force out the words. He had no idea how Finlay was remaining so calm; the man was made of steel.

The nose tipped down further as Finlay manually adjusted the trim and throttled back. The engines were now turning at little more than idling speed as they began their gliding descent towards an airport which remained invisible to him. As they crossed onto the southern side of the estuary the city of Bristol spread out ahead of them, but Finlay had no idea where to locate the runway.

‘I see it,’ Michael said. ‘Five degrees right. Six miles to go—’

Finlay was flying blind, relying solely on Michael’s visual cues. Without him, ditching on water would have been the only viable option, but with this little control he was sure they wouldn’t have stood a chance.

‘You can see the M5 motorway going from left to right,’ Michael said. He pointed dead ahead. ‘There’s Filton.’

Finlay’s eyes finally picked out the thin strip of concrete he was aiming for. He eased to the right, then back a touch to the left. He estimated they were at 1,500 feet with four miles to go. All he had to do was hold a steady course and bring her gently in.

‘Gear down.’

Cambourne operated the lever that would bring the 380’s landing gear down by force of gravity alone. There was no display to tell them it was engaged. It would have to be an act of faith.

The three men in the cockpit exchanged apprehensive glances. They could all see the runway dead ahead, there was nothing more to be said. The only one who could get them on the ground was Finlay. He gave a thumbs-up and adjusted the trim for the final approach. For the first time in twenty years he was flying in the raw. He pretended he was back in the little two-seater Cessna in which he had first taken to the air.

The helicopter reached the eastern fringes of Bristol in time for Jenny and Ransome to see the 380 gliding like a distant eagle towards the far side of the city, the sun glinting off its starboard wing. Even five miles away it looked huge and graceful. There was no smoke trailing, no outward sign of distress as it continued its slow descent. Jenny closed her eyes and said a silent prayer.

With two miles to touch-down Finlay realized he had brought the 380 in a little low for comfort, but better to strike at a shallow angle than come in too steeply. They couldn’t have been at more than 500 feet. Cambourne shot him an anxious glance. Finlay eased the throttle lever forward; the engines flared but the nose skewed ten degrees to the right.

He wrestled the controls, pumping the pedal rudder with left foot. ‘What’s wrong with the right engines?’

‘Must be the fuel pumps,’ Cambourne said.

Finlay had the nose lined up again, but they were falling quickly. Leaning on the rudder, he touched the throttle, but this time the sheer to the right was matched with a sudden flick-up of the nose as they met a pocket of warmer air. Suddenly the runway was at ten o’clock and coming up fast.

Finlay fought the rudder and started to bring the nose round once more, but it refused to come fully square. They were heading for the ground at an angle that would see them career across the grass and into the hangars. He had run out of options. He pushed the joystick hard left. The plane tilted. Back right. The starboard wing started down, but not in time. The tip of the port-side wing clipped the airport’s perimeter fence. Dragged suddenly to the left, the plane thumped hard onto the ground with the sound of splintering metal. Finlay jammed on the brakes, but the aircraft was already leaning over onto its left side. The forward landing gear gave way under the strain, sending the nose plunging towards the tarmac. Michael threw his hands over his face as shattered glass and a hail of sparks flew through the cockpit window. He heard Finlay cry out in pain. Then all was peace.

The plane was tilted sideways, supported by the remains of its port-side wing. The smoking wreckage of two engines was scattered over the runway for several hundred yards behind it. The tip of the nose cone had been ripped away and the cockpit was staved in. Smoke was still curling upwards from the foam-smothered fuselage. Jenny absorbed every detail as the helicopter circled, then came in to land on the grass.

Ignoring the protests of the fire crew, she jumped out and followed Ransome as he strode towards the wreckage. Two escape slides had been activated and traumatized passengers were sliding down, some with bloody wounds on their foreheads where they had struck the seats in front.

A pair of fire-fighters were in the forward doorway at the top of a ladder. Others were clambering over the broken wing to reach the door at the mid-section. There were hands at the cabin windows, and at one the battered features of an unconscious man. She scanned the faces of the walking wounded looking for Michael, but didn’t see him; neither was there any sign of Dalton or Patterson. The only person who caught her eye was a straight-backed figure of about sixty who was shouting instructions to a bemused policeman. Ransome had noticed him, too, and was hurrying towards him calling his name: ‘Sanders. Sanders, you bastard!’ The man turned with a startled expression as the airline boss threw a punch directly into his face which sent him sprawling to the ground. The bewildered policeman ran over and after a brief tussle Ransome found himself laid out on the ground; a knee was forced into his back and his wrists tethered in plastic restraints.

He called out to her to intervene. ‘Tell them who he is, tell them,’ Ransome yelled, but her attention had been caught by a bloodied figure who had been helped to the forward door and was now standing at the top of the ladder. As if prompted by some sixth sense, he turned his head. It was him. It was Michael.

W
HEN THE CELL DOOR OPENED
, Moreton was smiling. ‘To the best of my knowledge, Jenny, you have the proud distinction of being the only British coroner ever to have been arrested twice in two days. I suppose congratulations are in order.’

Too weary to pick a fight, she held back from making the caustic remark that his sarcasm deserved and levered her aching body off the concrete shelf in the all-too-familiar cell beneath New Bridewell police station.

‘You would have thought the police had better things to do,’ she said.

‘The rule of law has to be upheld, even in extremis,’ Moreton answered, ‘though you’ll be glad to know that no charges will be laid against you.’

‘Who do I have to thank for that?’

Moreton smiled. ‘Consider it a gesture of goodwill.’

She had been arrested by a sharp-eyed constable even before she had had a chance to meet Michael off the plane, and had spent a long eight hours locked up without communication or explanation. The fact that Detective Sergeant Fuller hadn’t come down to gloat suggested that her fate remained the subject of debate, but Jenny was taking nothing for granted. Stepping out of the cell and into the corridor, she realized she felt the giddy rush of liberation – she had begun to convince herself that this time she really would be cast into the outer darkness. Perhaps Moreton wasn’t so unprincipled after all.

She followed him along the corridor past locked cell doors with the names of the noisy, unhappy occupants scribbled on wipe-clean boards screwed to the dull green walls. He seemed in a hurry to escape, as if frightened that he might become contaminated by his unsavoury surroundings.

As they stepped into the welcome fresh air, Moreton said, ‘I trust the experience has discouraged you from straying again.’

This time Jenny couldn’t hold her tongue. ‘Would you have preferred an aircraft with six hundred people aboard to have gone down in the Irish Sea?’

‘Fair point, Jenny, I won’t deny it, but let’s not squabble – we’ve a meeting to attend. I hope you don’t mind coming as you are.’

‘What meeting? Where?’

‘Not far – but do try to be sensible. This really is for the best.’

During the short journey to the city council building on College Green, Moreton updated her on the details of the crash landing. Thankfully there had been only three fatalities, but unfortunately one of them had been Captain Patrick Finlay, who had been struck on the head by debris from the nose cone flying through the broken cockpit window. Miraculously, First Officer Cambourne had escaped with minor wounds, as had most of the cabin crew. Over half the surviving passengers had suffered broken limbs and minor head injuries, but none was in a life-threatening condition. Of the two who had died, one had suffered a coronary and the other a fatal blow to the head caused by failing to wear a seat belt. The quick action of the fire crews had prevented an engine fire, which had ignited on landing, becoming an inferno that would have engulfed the entire plane. The full picture was still being formed, but in the words of the emotional rescue worker whose impromptu interview was being continually played on the rolling news, the angels that had failed to arrive for Flight 189 had certainly turned up for work today.

The Aircraft Disaster Management Committee had uprooted itself from London and set up a temporary HQ in a large second-floor meeting room at Bristol City Hall, only a five-minute walk from Jenny’s office and a stone’s throw from the Marriott. In her makeshift office on the opposite side of College Green, Mrs Patterson would doubtless be convening a committee of her own, unaware that her husband was currently sitting less than a hundred yards away with many of the answers she craved. But Greg Patterson was in no mood to show Jenny even a hint of gratitude, and barely lifted his eyes to acknowledge her presence as Moreton introduced her to the other seven men and one woman arranged around the large table. To Patterson’s right sat Guy Ransome, who greeted her with a wan smile; to his left, Wing Commander Tommy Sanders – the man whom Jenny had seen next to the plane at Filton issuing orders. The woman, who reminded Jenny of a particularly fierce judge she had once known, was Eleanor Hammond from the Secret Intelligence Service. The five remaining men were Assistant Chief Constable Raymond Butler of the Avon and Somerset Police, Amrit Singh, a senior civil servant who sat on the government’s Joint Intelligence Committee, Air Chief Marshal Colin Talbot, Senior Investigating Officer Edward Marsham from the Air Accident Investigation Branch, and Sir James Kendall.

Singh, a genial, round-faced man in his mid-fifties, acted as chairman.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Cooper. Please accept my apologies for the manner of your delay.’

‘Apology accepted,’ Jenny said in a tone dry enough to draw an anxious glance from Moreton. ‘Before we begin, can I ask what’s happened to Michael Sherman and Mick Dalton? I believe they were travelling with the two gentlemen sitting opposite me.’ She nodded towards Patterson and Sanders.

‘They’re being debriefed, Mrs Cooper,’ Eleanor Hammond interjected, ‘as these gentlemen will be in due course, and you also – if you would be so kind as to cooperate. Mr Patterson and Mr Sanders have been asked to assist us this evening as their connection to events is of a slightly different order from the others.’