Mayday (18 page)

Brewster looked across the room. “Sure, Mr. Miller. Just a few minutes.” He glanced at the wall clock. Three minutes to twelve.
They would both be late for lunch. He unrolled the chart on his desk, weighted it down at the corners, then picked up a pencil
and began transcribing pertinent temperatures onto a blank sheet of paper.

John Berry stared at the rotary code selector on the data-link. The thing to do, he decided, was to change codes and send
again. A longer message this time. That impulsive SOS had been too brief, enigmatic, he realized. He looked around the cockpit
for code books but realized that, even if there had been any, they had probably been sucked out. He would have to try each
channel, transmit a complete message, wait for a reply, and if there was none, go on to the next channel. Somewhere, the counterpart
to this machine would print. He’d begin monitoring each channel again after he’d transmitted on all of them. It was a shotgun
approach, but it was far better than waiting. The urge to hit the key was getting the better of him. “I think I’m going to
try another channel. What do you think?”

Sharon Crandall looked at the blank video screen. “Wait a minute or two. I remember that the pilots sometimes waited ten minutes
or more for a reply.”

“Why?”

“Well, they don’t send anything important on it. They just want it so they can leave a message in the communications room—for
the record.”

“Have you seen the communications room in San Francisco?”

“Once. I used to date a pilot. He brought me in there and showed me the data-link, weather printouts, and all that.”

“Sounds like fun. Where’s the communications room? Physically, I mean.”

“The room’s off the main dispatcher’s office.”

“Anyone on duty there?”

She thought for a moment. “No. I don’t think so . . . just machines. But people go in and out, though.”

Berry nodded. “Okay. We’ll have to wait for someone to go in there and spot the message. Where’s the machine located?”

“It’s in the middle of the room. The room’s small. They’ll see it.”

“Okay. I hope so.”

Crandall felt defensive, but didn’t know why she should. She tried to concentrate on the panel. Maybe she could come up with
something else. The markings above the controls and gauges seemed so cryptic. RMI. LOM. Alternate Static. Gyro Transfer. “Here.
This is something I remember. The ADF. I think it’s some kind of radio.”

Berry forced a weak smile. “Yes. The automatic direction finder. It’s to home in on an airport’s signal. Maybe we can use
it later.”

“Oh.” She sat back. “I’m worried about Barbara. It’s been a while since we’ve heard from her.”

Berry had found the cockpit clock, but it seemed to be malfunctioning. “What time is it?”

She looked at her watch. “It’s six minutes past twelve, San Francisco time.”

Berry glanced at the clock again. 8:06. Eight hours beyond San Francisco time. He realized it was set to Greenwich Mean Time
and remembered that airlines always measured time from that internationally recognized starting point. Berry shook his head
in disgust. Everything in this cockpit seemed to provide him with useless information. The radios were filled with frequencies
that wouldn’t transmit. The course indicators sat blindly in the center of their scales. The clock told him that at that moment,
halfway around the world, neon lights shined on Piccadilly and the London theater had raised the curtain on their first acts.
All that useless information was unnerving. He had, he realized, become increasingly morose. He needed to pull himself out
of it. He coughed dryly into his hand to clear his parched throat. “At least the weather’s good and we have some daylight
left. If this happened at night . . .”

“Right.” Crandall answered with little enthusiasm.

They both lapsed into silence. Each knew the other was nervous, yet they couldn’t bridge the gap to comfort each other. Berry
felt himself wishing that Stein were free to come to the cockpit. Crandall wished Yoshiro would hurry back. Neither of them
bothered to wish that the accident had never happened; neither of them was thankful for being alive. Their whole existence
was reduced to worrying about the next course of action, the next few minutes.

Berry half rose in his seat and looked back into the lounge. “How is it going, Mr. Stein?” he shouted.

Harold Stein called back. “They seem quiet down there. Up here, too. No change in the copilot.”

“Call out for Barbara Yoshiro.”

Stein called loudly down the stairwell and listened closely. He turned toward the cockpit. “Nothing.”

Sharon picked up the interphone and looked at the console. “I don’t know which station to call.”

“Try any one.”

Crandall selected Station Six in the rear of the aircraft and pressed the call button. She waited. No one answered. “Should
I call another station, or wait on this line?”

Berry was impatient. “How would I know?”

“I’m frightened for her.”

Berry was becoming angry. “I didn’t want her to go back in the first place. She’s become part of the problem now and no help
with the solution.” He took a deep breath.

Sharon Crandall rose in her seat. “I’m going down there.”

Berry reached out and grabbed her wrist. “No. You’re not going anywhere. I need you here.” Berry looked intently at her. An
unspoken message passed between them: Berry was now in command.

Crandall sank slowly into her seat. Finally, she nodded. “Okay.” She looked at John Berry, and he returned her stare. She
felt strangely calm and confident in this man’s presence.

“Try the rest of the flight-attendant stations,” Berry said in a low, calm voice. “I’m going to start changing channels on
the data-link. Maybe if we work on it, we can get our luck to change.” Berry let his fingers slip gently off Crandall’s wrist,
and he reached across the console toward the data-link.

Jack Miller was trying to decide if he should give Flight 52 more time. He looked up at Brewster. “How’s the data-link today?”

Brewster looked up from the weather chart. “What?”

“The link? Is it behaving?”

“Oh.” He hesitated. “No. Just got a garbled message, as a matter of fact.”

“Okay.” He swiveled his chair and looked at Evans. “Okay, Dennis. In ten minutes, call them on the radio. Be gentle.”

“Always gentle, Chief.”

“Right.”

Jerry Brewster abruptly laid his pencil down and walked quickly to the communications room. “Damn waste of time,” he mumbled.
He opened the door, ignoring the stench of color-enhancement chemicals, walked to the center of the room, and slid into the
chair in front of the data-link keyboard. He saw that there were no messages on the screen, then set the machine to automatically
choose and transmit on whatever channel the last incoming message had used. The SOS. He knew this procedure would work only
if the aircraft had not changed the code settings on its own machine. Brewster placed his hands over the keyboard and typed
a message almost as short as the one he had received.

A copy of his message displayed on his own screen.

Berry thought he felt a barely perceptible pulsation in the machine, and had actually seen one of the unit’s lights blink
for an instant. He jerked his hand away from the code selector as though it were red hot.

The bell that signaled an incoming message rang twice. Its tone filled the 797’s cockpit like the bells of Notre Dame on Christmas
Eve.

Sharon Crandall let out a startled cry.

John Berry felt his chest heave and his throat constrict.

Letters began to print on the data–link’s video screen.

Sharon Crandall reached out and grabbed Berry’s arm.

Berry almost rose out of his seat. “Who are we?” he shouted. He let out an involuntary laugh. “I’ll tell them who the hell
we are!” He put his fingers on the keyboard. “What the hell is our flight number?”

“Fifty-two. Flight 52! Hurry! For God’s sake don’t let them get away!” For the first time since it had all begun, tears came
to Sharon Crandall’s eyes and she sobbed quietly. She watched John Berry’s trembling hand type out a message.

“Jesus Christ!” Jerry Brewster bent over the data-link screen as he watched its message display.

FROM FLIGHT 52. EMERGENCY. MAYDAY. AIRCRAFT DAMAGED. RADIOS DEAD. MID-PACIFIC. NEED HELP. DO YOU READ?

Brewster hit the print button, then ripped the copy off the machine and stared at it. His heart pounded and his mind raced
in a thousand different directions. He took a hurried step toward the door but stopped abruptly and returned to the data-link.
He knew they would want an immediate acknowledgment. Anyone in that situation would. With fingers that seemed reluctant to
do what they were told, he banged out a short reply.

TO FLIGHT 52. MAYDAY CALL RECEIVED. STAND BY ON THIS CHANNEL.

Brewster pushed the transmit button and prayed that the damned machine wasn’t having a bad day. He saw his message displayed
before he ran toward the door.

Brewster burst into the large dispatch office and shouted, “Quiet! Listen! Flight 52 is in trouble!” His excited voice cut
through the droning noises in the crowded office. The room quickly fell silent except for the ringing of an unanswered telephone.

Jack Miller jumped out of his chair and sent it rolling into the desk behind him. “What happened?” He moved quickly toward
Brewster.

Brewster waved the message excitedly. “Here! From the data-link.”

Miller grabbed the message and scanned it quickly. He cleared his throat and read from it in loud, halting tones. “Mayday
. . . Aircraft damaged . . . radios dead.” Miller was not completely surprised. In the back of his mind that empty data on
his computer screen had grown more ominous with each passing minute. Yet he had put off making the call that would have resolved
the open question. It was natural to want to assume that everything was perfectly all right.

A murmur of excitement arose from the dispatchers in the room and grew into loud, disjointed questions and exclamations of
disbelief.

Miller turned to Brewster. “Did you respond?”

“Yes. Yes, I acknowledged. I told them to stand by.”