Mayday (30 page)

“A hundred and twenty-five million,” Johnson said.

“Right. Well, there’s the chance the Straton
will
land at the airport. But it might crash into a crowded passenger terminal or plow into a couple of taxiing airliners. Which
reminds me, aren’t you supposed to notify the airport of a possible crash landing or something? How about the city of San
Francisco . . . Civil Defense or something?” He paused. “And remember, even if we don’t stick you with negligence, you still
have to cover everything that exceeds your limits of liability and everything we can’t cover because of bankruptcy.” He let
a second pass, then continued, “Beneficial might be able to restructure the company. Trans-United, on the other hand, will
go under for good. This is potentially the biggest bad-news media event of the decade. No one even cares to know the name
of the insurance company involved. But the Trans-United logo will become as notorious as the swastika. Front page of
Time,
for Christ’s sake. And not just for a week or two, as with most accidents. No, sir, if that plane smacks into Frisco, or
especially if it lands, the attorneys will parade those poor bastards through the courts . . . through the media.
Three hundred
human beings whose brains have been turned to mashed potatoes. You will personally spend the next ten years in courtrooms.
And there won’t be a lot of people lined up at your ticket counters in the interim. If we don’t take you down, the FAA will
and the press will. It’s happened in the past, for less nightmarish accidents.”

Johnson scowled but didn’t speak. Metz was making sense—too much sense.

“How many people earn their livelihood here?” Metz asked. He took a deep breath. “God, I almost wish that thing would go down
by itself. I mean, dead is dead. Final. A few weeks of splashy media happenings. Then no one will even remember the name of
the airline. Hell, I don’t remember the name of the airline involved in the last big crash. All airline names sound the same
to the average guy. Like insurance company names. You see, if the thing goes into the drink, then all the facts go down with
it. Nothing to photograph. No one to interview. The media gets bored with that. The National Transportation Safety Board can’t
poke through the debris and sift it all and reconstruct the events. At those depths in the mid-Pacific, and with the Straton’s
position unknown, the flight recorder with all that information is gone. John Berry and crew are gone. No one knows anything
for sure. It would take years of legal hassling to determine who was liable, and to what extent. The airline itself could
even be a sympathetic victim, what with the likelihood of a bomb.”

“Right,” said Johnson. Bombs were out of his jurisdiction, even if the airline’s security department could be faulted. And
with no physical evidence in hand, there was no way any lawyer could prove that the maintenance cutbacks somehow lessened
the aircraft’s survivability.

Metz was speaking faster now. “We can implicate the Straton Aircraft people, too. We could drag our feet in court for ages
and retire with our distinguished careers intact before it gets untangled. But if John Berry sails into San Francisco International
Airport . . . well, there’s no room for legal maneuvering when conclusive evidence of the airliner’s negligence is parked
on the ramp, and the local mental institutions are packed to the rafters with living, breathing, drooling proof of the outcome
of Trans-United Flight 52.”

Metz had not yet mentioned the idea that those people would be better off dead. It was a touchy argument, so he left it in
reserve. “Okay, Ed. That’s all the cards, all face up on the table. Think about it. Good luck to you. Good luck to us.” He
unbolted the door and opened it.

“Shut the goddamned door. Get in here.”

Metz shut and bolted the door. He looked at Edward Johnson and asked him, “The question is, can you give Berry flying instructions
that will put that aircraft in the ocean?”

Johnson nodded. He’d already given it some thought.

“I think so. The poor bastard will never know what happened.”

J
ohn Berry turned his head and looked over his shoulder into the lounge. He was about to call to Stein, but Stein wasn’t there.
Terri O’Neil stood at the door, looking in like a departed spirit who had returned home and who could not cross the threshold
without an invitation. Berry looked past her. His eyes darted around the lounge. “What the hell . . . ?”

Sharon Crandall looked over at Berry. “What’s the matter?” She turned her head and followed his gaze. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

Berry jumped down from the pilot’s chair and stood in the doorway. Harold Stein was gone. But worse than that, six passengers
from the lower cabin had found their way up to the lounge. As he watched, Berry saw another appear out of the stairwell. He
looked back at Sharon Crandall. “Stay here and keep them out of the cockpit.”

Crandall stood and placed herself in the doorway. Terri reached out toward her. Crandall took her friend’s hands in hers and
held them, but would not let her pass.

Berry stepped quickly into the lounge, taking Terri by the arm and pulling her along.

He saw Linda Farley sprawled out near the piano. He walked to the middle of the lounge, ignoring the people milling around
him. “Linda!”

She didn’t answer.

Berry felt an unexpected fear seize him. He released the flight attendant’s arm and ran across the carpeted lounge. John knelt
beside the girl, took her shoulder, and shook her. “Linda!”

Linda Farley opened her eyes slowly.

First Officer Daniel McVary, lying a few feet away, opened his eyes also. But his eyes opened quickly, in a flash, wide and
staring, like a night creature’s when the sun goes down. He lifted his head.

Berry helped the girl to a sitting position. He could see that her lips were dry and cracked, and dried tears streaked her
face. “Almost home, honey.”

Linda Farley’s head turned, out of habit, toward the man she had been told to look after. She screamed.

“He’s awake!”

Berry looked down into the bloodshot eyes of the copilot.

Daniel McVary sat up, his head hitting the leg of the piano. He let out a grunt and rolled over, then crawled toward Berry,
his tongue hanging out like a dog’s.

Berry pulled the girl toward him and lifted her to her feet.

McVary continued to crawl toward them.

Berry pushed the girl behind him, then slowly, cautiously, bent over and helped the copilot stand. He looked into the man’s
eyes. This was the man on whom Berry, a few hours before, had placed all his hopes. But that was before he had fully understood
the scope of what had happened to the men, women, and children of Flight 52. Before he had made contact with San Francisco,
before he had gained some confidence in himself. He saw now that this man standing in front of him, red eyes blinking and
face twitching, could be of no more help to him than the others. Reluctantly, with some sense of guilt, he turned the man
around and gently pushed him away. McVary stumbled a few feet, collided with the piano, and lay sprawled across it.

Berry looked up at the cockpit door. Terri O’Neil was again trying to enter the cockpit. Sharon was standing in the doorway
with her arms thrust in front of her, pushing her friend away, too gently, Berry thought. A man who had come up from the cabin
was also heading toward the cockpit. Berry looked quickly around the lounge. The other passengers were aimlessly stumbling
into the lounge furniture and into each other. Berry wondered what force, what residual human intelligence it was that possessed
and propelled them in so persistent a fashion. What were they seeking? What were they
thinking?

Berry took Linda’s arm and pulled her to the staircase. He knelt and yelled down. “Stein! Harold! Can you hear me!”

There was no answer from Stein, only the howling wind and the coarse, vulgar sounds of the others. “Stein! Barbara! Barbara
Yoshiro! Can you hear me?”

A group of passengers were on the stairs, climbing toward him. Berry waited a second until the first one, a young woman with
long blonde hair, came within reach. He put his hand on her face and pushed. She stumbled back, lost her footing, and fell
into the man behind her.

Berry rose quickly and wiped his wet hand over his trouser leg. “Oh, Jesus!” he mumbled.

Linda Farley cried out.

Berry turned in time to see the copilot lunge at him. McVary’s outstretched hands hit him in the face and Berry stumbled back,
almost falling into the stairwell. He recovered quickly and grabbed McVary’s arm and pushed him toward the stairwell. He took
the girl’s arm and walked quickly toward the cockpit door, pushing people aside. At the door, he pulled away Terri O’Neil
and two men near her. He pushed Linda into the cockpit past Sharon. “Get back.”

He pulled the door by its broken latch and drew it shut as far as its sprung hinges allowed. “Damn it! We can’t lock this.”
He turned and faced Crandall.

Sharon Crandall had her arms around Linda. The girl was sobbing quietly, pressed against her body. Crandall was stroking the
girl’s hair.

It was several seconds before anyone spoke, then Crandall said, “What could have happened to Stein . . . to Barbara?”

Berry ignored the question. He glanced back at the door. It was open about three inches. Someone pressed on it and it closed
a bit more. He was satisfied that the closed door presented enough of an obstacle for the moment. He sat in the pilot’s seat
and turned back to the girl. “Linda, keep watching the door. Sharon, sit in the copilot’s seat.”

Crandall sat and turned to him. “John, what about Barbara . . . and Harold Stein? Can’t we . . . ?”

Berry shook his head impatiently. “Forget them.”

His hands were still shaking. “Stein . . . Stein went below to be with his family, and I don’t think he’s coming back . .
. ever. Barbara . . . well, she must have run into something too big to handle.”

Crandall nodded.

Daniel McVary focused on the door to the cockpit. Several half-thoughts ran through his mind. The predominant one concerned
water. He wanted water, and he remembered that he had drunk water in the place behind the door. He’d sat in a chair surrounded
by big windows and drunk from cups. He was beginning to remember a lot more. He remembered that he belonged in the chair.
His mind’s eye flashed pictures, clear and vivid, but their exact meaning wasn’t fully understood.

Daniel McVary’s brain still functioned on many levels, but there were huge dead areas, black places, where nothing lived,
no synapses connected, no memory was stored. Yet the brain was finding open circuits around these dead areas and thoughts
were forming, wants and needs were recognized, action was contemplated.

First Officer McVary’s mind focused on the image behind the door that he had seen before it closed. Someone stood near his
chair. A woman. He wanted to go back to his chair. The man who had pushed him was in there also. His arm still hurt. He stepped
toward the door.

Linda Farley shouted. “Mr. Berry!”

Berry spun around and jumped out of his seat, but it was too late. The copilot crossed the threshold and walked into the cockpit.
Berry lunged at him, but Mc-Vary lurched out of the way and stumbled against the side wall of the cockpit.

Berry stood still, holding his breath. He watched as the copilot brushed across a board jammed with circuit breakers and several
switches, afraid to move toward him again, knowing that if those switches were inadvertently moved, he might never be able
to set them right again.

Very slowly, Berry began moving toward McVary and reached out his hand toward the copilot as the man kept groping at the console
and electronics board to regain his footing.

McVary got his balance and turned. He came to meet John Berry. Berry proceeded more cautiously, aware that the man had a fair
amount of agility and even some cunning. They moved toward, then around, each other, circling cautiously in the confined area
of the cockpit.

A group of passengers stood at the door, craning their heads, watching.