Mayday (44 page)

“The copilot . . . Dan McVary . . . seems to be instigating. . . .”

“I know.” Berry wondered how a single obsession could take hold in that damaged a brain. How was he communicating his leadership
to the others?

“The extinguisher feels like it’s nearly empty.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Why not?”

“Look, I’m sorry. I got a little carried away. Okay?” She nodded, and tears started to form in her eyes. “I’m sorry, too.
It wasn’t your fault. You’ve done so well, John. I don’t know if any of our regular pilots could have done the same.”

“No, they couldn’t have. Because they would have realized it was hopeless from the start.” He reached out and ran his hand
over the side of her face. “I have a good crew.” He turned and looked down at Linda Farley. “You’ve been a good member of
the crew.” He smiled at her.

Linda gave him an embarrassed smile.

Sharon Crandall put her hand on his arm. “Want me to take the wheel?”

“No. I’ve got it.”

“Do you want to try to engage the autopilot again?”

“No. It’s just as easy to fly it myself. I need the practice.”

“Okay.”

Berry would have liked to have the autopilot, not only to relieve him at the wheel but because the autopilot might have made
it possible for him to try for an automatic landing if they found the airport—although he didn’t really know how to set that
up, either. Without the autopilot, he would have to hand-fly the damaged Straton right into the touchdown. He scanned the
horizon and watched his radio bearing indicator.

“John! It moved!”

Berry leaned far out of his seat and stared down at the indicator on the copilot’s navigation radio.

They both looked at it for a long time, but the needle lay lifeless in the center of its scale. Berry saw too that the distance-to-go
readout was blank.

“I thought I saw it move.” She tried to sound emphatic. “I was sure I did.”

“Nothing.” He straightened up in his chair. “Keep an eye on it.”

“Right.”

Berry settled back again. Everything on the instrument panel remained unchanged. Dead voice radios. Dead navigation radios.
Amber autopilot-disengage light on. Heading of 131 degrees. Airspeed of 340 knots. Altitude of 900 feet. The only change was
the fuel gauge, which had sunk below the one-eighth mark. Even if they spotted land now, it was going to be very close.

Berry looked up at the horizon. Nothing. The long, uneventful three-and-a-half-hour portion of the flight had raised their
hopes, but now with land supposed to be in sight, the tension was beginning to show. He tried to calm the mounting uneasiness
within him.

Sharon pointed to the horizon. “What’s that?”

Berry sat up and peered out the window. For the last half hour, every patch of low sea fog had become California, every hazy
discoloration on the horizon had been San Francisco. Their imaginations and their hopes kept creating solid land out of each
vapor, only to see it melt away as they approached. He stared at the low hazy line on the horizon and saw it move, then drift
away as an ocean breeze caught it. “Nothing. More fog.”

“It might be the fog of San Francisco.”

“It might— What?”

“The San Francisco fog.” She looked at her watch. “It’s just past six. That’s nearly always the time that the fog rolls in
during the summer.”

Berry looked at her. “Why the hell didn’t you remind me? Damn! What am I supposed to do if the airport is covered with fog?”

“Well . . . you can make an instrument landing, can’t you?”

Berry resisted the temptation to remind her of his meager qualifications. “No. A full instrument landing is out of the question.”
He had no business in the Straton’s captain’s seat. There were more instruments in the Straton’s cockpit than there were combined
in the last ten planes he had flown. “Damn, I should have headed north or south to another airport.”

Crandall reminded him, “Since we don’t know where we are, we may already be north or south of San Francisco.” She tapped her
finger against the fuel gauge. “We’ll be lucky if we even see the coast. I wouldn’t worry about the San Francisco fog yet.”

Berry looked down at the gauge.
One-sixteenth.
“Yes. You’re right.”

“Maybe we can put it down near the beach,” she said as she stole a glance at him. “Can we do that?”

“I suppose. If we get that far, and if I see that the coastline is covered with fog, I’ll ditch it.” Berry knew that a ditching
into heavy fog would be suicide “I’d like to try for the airport, but we would have to consider the people on the ground.
. . .”

“Then don’t try it. Whatever you want to do is all right. Just take it easy. You’ll do the best you can when the time comes.”

“Right.” His nerves were becoming raw, and he hoped he had something left in him when the time came to put the plane down.
From the first time he stepped into the cockpit and saw the disabled crew, he knew that, barring any midair catastrophe, he
would have to put the Straton down eventually. That time—as the fuel gauges told him—was nearly here.

“It’s not always foggy.”

“What? Oh, right.”

“And when it is, the fog usually comes in slowly. We may be able to beat it. And sometimes it doesn’t get as far as the airport.”

“Good.” He noticed that no one offered to bet a dinner on it.

The Straton continued on its southeasterly flight path, the sinking sun casting the airliner’s shadow onto the smooth ocean
in front of its port wing. Berry scanned the horizon for land, and watched for other aircraft or ships that might recognize
that the airliner was in trouble. But they were alone.

“John! It moved again!”

He looked quickly down at the copilot’s panel. “It’s not moving.”

She stared at the navigation radio bearing indicator, but the needle was dead. “It did. There’s no question this time. I saw
it. Damn it, I saw it.”

“Okay, okay.” Berry watched the needle carefully. He’d heard stories of desperate pilots who had wanted to see runway lights
or encouraging indications from their instruments so badly that they hallucinated into existence whatever they needed.

“I saw it move.”

“Okay. Let’s watch it.”

They stared at it for a full minute. Berry picked up the radio chart and rechecked the frequency. The navigation radio in
front of Crandall was unquestionably tuned to the San Francisco station. Berry turned and looked back at its indicator. “Still
dead,” he said in a whisper, as if his voice would scare away the signal.

She said nothing.

As they both watched, the needle finally gave a small, barely perceptible bounce.

Sharon Crandall jumped in her seat. “Did you see it?”

Berry’s face broke into a wide smile. “I saw it. You bet I saw it.”

The needle began to bounce more vigorously as the navigation radio received the signal more strongly. The electronic pathway
to San Francisco suddenly opened to them.

As the small needle quivered with the electronic impulse of San Francisco Airport’s directional beam, John Berry knew how
all the lost and lonely aviators, seamen, and explorers felt when they laid eyes on the object of their search. “We’re heading
home. Not much farther to go now.”

“John, we’re going to make it. I know it.”

“Our odds have certainly improved. Turn that dial. That one—until the needle centers.”

She did as he said.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Now read me the number that shows on the display.”

“One-three-nine.”

“Okay.” Berry faced the wheel and began steering the Straton through a shallow right turn until the compass heading of 131
degrees swung to the new heading of 139 degrees, then leveled out.

Sharon looked back at Linda Farley, who had maintained her usual silence. “We have San Francisco on the radio.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

She smiled. “No. It’s a . . . navigation radio. Like a compass. We know where the airport is now.”

“Do they know where we are?”

Berry spoke. “Not yet. But they’ll see us on radar soon.”

Linda Farley leaned forward in her seat and asked,

“Are you going to land the airplane, Mr. Berry?”

Berry nodded. “Yes, I am.” He paused. “But we might still have to land in the water. You remember what Sharon told you about
landing in the water?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Berry set his navigation radio from Salinas to San Francisco. “I’ll read it from here on. Look for land.” He adjusted
the dials and watched as the distance-to-go meter began cycling into place. He looked at the readout and smiled. “San Francisco
Airport dead ahead—ninety-three miles.”

“Ninety-three miles,” she repeated. “How much longer?”

“About fifteen minutes. What time is it?”

“Eight minutes past six.”

Berry nodded. “Well, we’ll be on the ground no later than six-thirty.”

“Oh, dear God, I can’t believe it.” Her voice became choked. “Oh, John—oh, God, I can’t believe it.” She put her face down
into her hands and her body began to shake. “We’re almost home.”

“Yes,” Berry answered absently. He had let his eyes drift toward the fuel gauges. The needles were almost on the empty marks.
He had gotten good at translating the graduations on the fuel gauges into flight time.
By six-thirty,
he said to himself,
we’ll be out of fuel.

H
ot lights always annoyed Edward Johnson, and today they seemed more annoying than usual. The long, walnut-paneled press conference
room on the second level of the main terminal building was filled to overflow capacity with newspeople, camera crews, company
officials. Everyone loved a disaster, reflected Johnson, except the people who were physically or financially involved. “Goddamn
vultures,” he said.

“Lower your voice,” said Wayne Metz. Metz stood next to Johnson, trying to look inconspicuous, as though he had no direct
connection with Johnson. “There are microphones in front of you.”

Johnson was feeling reckless. “Goddamn vultures.” There was such a din in the room, he didn’t think anyone could hear him
if he shouted out a full confession. He mopped his brow and noticed with annoyance that half the lights had not yet been turned
on. “It’ll be over soon.” He glanced up at the clock. 6:08. “These goddamned things never start on time.”

Hank Abbot, the Straton Aircraft Corporation representative, pushed his way through the crowd. “Hello, Ed. Bad break.”

Johnson glanced at him. “Yeah.”

Abbot turned to Metz. “Wayne Metz, right? Beneficial?”

“Right.”

“Bad break for you, too.”

Johnson broke in. “Have you notified your insurance carrier yet?”

Abbot looked at him for several seconds until he understood. “Hold on, Ed. One of those data-link messages mentioned a bomb.”

“Did you see the damage, Hank?”

“No, of course not, but . . .”

“Neither did an engineer. Do you think some half-hysterical, possibly brain-damaged passenger could tell the difference between
a bomb blast and a structural failure?”

“Wait a damned minute—”

“If a wall or window blew out because the hull couldn’t handle the air pressure, that would be your problem, wouldn’t it?”

“Look, Ed, we’ve done business with Trans-United since before the war. On those rare occasions when an accident was caused
by structural failure or faulty design, we’ve owned up and made good, but . . .”

“Sorry, Hank. No aircraft, no survivors, no one knows anything. I don’t think we should be speaking to each other at this
time without counsel present.”

“You bastard.” Abbot stood in front of Johnson for several seconds, then turned abruptly and pushed his way to the back of
the room.

Metz turned to Johnson. “God, you almost convinced
me
that it was his fault.”

“It was.” He looked closely at Metz. “It
was.”

Metz nodded. “How will the government investigations be?”

“Not too bad.” Johnson didn’t think there was any way an investigating agency could unwrap the package in which he had sealed
the Straton’s fate. As he had basically reminded Abbot, there was a saying they used in these things:
No aircraft, no survivors, no one to hang—or everyone.
“I spoke to the president,” Johnson said. He nodded toward a pleasant-looking man near the back wall. “He says your boss
is pissed off at you.”

Metz nodded. “Yes. I just spoke to him. He was all right this afternoon, but he turned nasty when he got an idea of what the
bill might be from Trans-United.”

“Does he have a check in the mail?”

“If he only knew how bad it
could
have been. Damn it, if he only
knew
what I did . . .” He looked around him. “I have to go to New York tonight. See him first thing in the morning. Christ. I
hope we can stick the Straton people with this.”

“We have a good shot at it. And, Wayne,” he lowered his voice, “don’t even hint to Mr. Wilford Parke that his fair-haired
boy helped deep-six the Straton for the good of the company—because if you do . . .”

Metz nodded. It had occurred to him, as he spoke to Parke, that he had committed mass murder for nothing. His days at Beneficial
were definitely numbered. Johnson, on the other hand, seemed to be coming through this intact. “Life can really suck—you know?”

“Tell me about it.” Johnson wanted nothing more out of life at that moment than a drink and a good night’s sleep. He wanted
to get into his car, drive out to the beach, check into a motel, and get far away from this airport.

A voice yelled out, “Two minutes!” Evidently, they were going with live TV coverage rather than videotapes.

For Metz, the television and press coverage was a foreign and overwhelming event and a further addition to his problem. He
hoped Johnson could handle it. He had a sudden desire to disappear into the shadowy corners of the room. “Should I move farther
away?”

“How about Brazil?”

“I mean—”

“Stay here. Just step back out of camera shot, but don’t get too far.”

Metz had a sudden inspiration. “I wouldn’t mind answering questions. I could say something.”