Mayday (51 page)

Johnson saw the main guy with the gold trim and went up to him. “Chief, I’m Ed Johnson, VP of Trans-United. This is my plane.”

“Oh, hey, sorry.”

“Yeah.” He asked, “Anyone alive in there?”

The chief nodded. “Yeah. The rescue workers are reporting on their radios that they have dozens—maybe hundreds in there.”
He added, “We’re strapping them into scoop stretchers—immobilizing them—you know? Then we’ll begin to start taking them out.”

Johnson nodded. His mind was working on his own problem.

The chief thought a moment, then said, “These people . . . They don’t seem right, according to what I’m hearing on the radio.
. . . I mean, nobody tried to get out. . . .”

“They’re brain damaged.”

“Jeez.”

“Right. Hey, can you get me in there?”

“Well . . .”

“It’s my aircraft, Chief. I have to be on it.”

“It could still catch fire,” said the chief, though the possibility had greatly diminished. He added, “Toxic smoke and fumes.”

“I don’t care. I have to be in there with my passengers and crew.” Ed Johnson gave the chief a man-toman stare, not entirely
phony, but partly recalled from the old days before all the politics and compromises. He added, “This is my aircraft, Chief.”

The fire chief called out to one of his men and said, “Get this man a bunker coat, gloves, and an air pack, and get him up
into the craft.”

“Thanks,” said Johnson.

As he waited, he stared up at the hole in the side of the craft and said, “What the hell . . . ?”

The chief followed his gaze and said, “Yeah. It’s, like, blown
in
. One of the guys said he thought it could be a meteor strike. You know? Or a piece of satellite. But the two holes are in
the
sides
—horizontal. The other one is blown
out
—and a lot bigger—like something went in this side and out the other. Maybe a missile. What do you think?”

“Jesus Christ . . .” It suddenly hit him.
A missile.
A runaway missile. A fucking runaway military missile. Or a drone. Something that operated at 60,000 feet and didn’t explode
when it hit the Straton. Some military fuckup of the first order, like all those stories about TWA Flight 800. But this one
had actually happened. A missile. That
had
to be it. And he’d been worried about structural failure or a bomb smuggled aboard through lax Trans-United security. And
all the time it wasn’t their fault. “Jesus H. Christ. What a fuckup.”

“What’s that?”

Johnson glanced at the fire chief. “Wish me luck.”

“Right.”

Two firemen helped Ed Johnson into a bunker coat, showed him the fireproof gloves and flashlight hanging from Velcro straps
on the coat, and fitted him with a Scott Air-Pak. Johnson let the mask hang on his chest. He said, “Let me have one of those
axes.”

One of the firemen shrugged and handed Johnson a steel-cut ax. The fireman said, “Be careful with that. It’s sharp as a razor.”

Good.
“Thanks.”

A hydraulic lift raised Ed Johnson up to the rear catering-service door, that had been opened by the rescue workers.

Johnson stepped from the sunlight into the cavernous Straton 797, lit now by battery-powered lights. He waited for his eyes
to adjust to the dimness.

After half a minute he could see, but he could not comprehend. “Oh, my God . . .”

Slowly, he made his way up the left aisle, past rescue workers, past dead and injured passengers strapped in their seats or
lying on the floor.

He came to the holes in the fuselage and examined the swath of wreckage from left to right. He had no doubt that something
had passed through the Straton, something that could be called an Act of God, or an Act of Nature, or an Act of Man—but not
an act of Trans-United negligence. The irony of the situation struck him, and he would have laughed at himself or cursed his
take-charge personality, but he could philosophize later, when he was on vacation or in jail. Right now, he needed to get
into the cockpit and to the data-link printout tray.

He moved forward in his cumbersome bunker coat. The farther he got from the holes, the worse the smoke was. He strapped on
his oxygen mask and drove on.

It was darker toward the front of the aircraft, so he took his flashlight and turned the beam toward where the spiral staircase
should be.

The beam of light picked out the galley and toilet cubicles and also illuminated figures moving around toward the front of
the aircraft—but he couldn’t see the staircase.

He moved up the aisle, past the rescue workers who were clearing the aisles of the dead and putting them in seats. Johnson
noticed that the rescue people were also strapping the injured onto stretchers and backboards, as much to protect them from
internal injuries as to keep them from wandering around like the living dead. “Jesus Christ, what a mess, what a mess . .
.”
Total decompression at 60,000 feet. Let the Straton Aircraft Corporation bright boys explain that to the news media.

Ed Johnson got to the place where the spiral staircase should have been, but it wasn’t there. It was, in fact, lying on its
side in the aisle ahead, looking like some giant corkscrew. “Damn. . . .” But then it occurred to him that this was better.

Johnson stopped a passing rescue worker and spoke loudly through his oxygen mask, identifying himself as a National Transportation
Safety Board investigator and asked, “Are any of your people in the dome?” He pointed the flashlight up at the circular opening
in the ceiling.

The rescue worker looked up at the opening. He said,

“No, sir . . . I don’t think so.” He called out to the people around him, “Hey, do we have anyone up in the dome yet?”

A woman called back, “No. There was that chute deployed there. Everyone up there either got out or is probably dead.” She
added, “If we have unconscious people up there, they’ll have to wait. We have our hands full here.”

The rescue worker near Johnson said, “We’ve got about two or three
hundred
dead and injured here, but I’ll get some people up to the dome—”

“No. You’ve really got your hands full here. Just give me a boost up there, and I’ll look around.”

“Okay.” The man called out for help, and two men appeared who made a cradle by joining hands with the third. “Step up.”

Ed Johnson shouldered the fire ax and stepped onto the three men’s hands and arms, steadying himself on one of their shoulders
with his free hand.

One of the men said, “Check first for bleeding, then breathing, then—”

“I’m trained in CPR. Lift!”

The men lifted in unison, and Johnson felt himself lifted—propelled, actually—up and into the opening. He grabbed at the upright
newel post that still stood on the floor, and swung himself up into the first-class lounge.

He remained on the floor and looked and listened, the sounds of his own breathing into the oxygen mask filling his ears. The
lounge was completely dark, its windows thick with foam. He heard someone moaning nearby and smelled the same evil odors he’d
smelled below.
God. . . .
He breathed deeply and stayed motionless awhile and listened.

He oriented himself without turning on the flashlight and began crawling toward the cockpit, dragging the ax with him.

The carpet—which Johnson knew was royal blue and cost too much—was wet with different liquids, all of which felt disgusting.
He stopped, wiped his hands on his coat, and pulled on the fireproof gloves. He renewed his resolve and crawled on.

Johnson knew the layout of the lounge, and with only one detour to get around a body, he came to the cockpit door, which he
discovered was open.

Johnson shouldered the steel-cut ax and made his way in a crouch through the opening and into the cockpit.

He stopped, kneeling on one knee, and looked around. The windshields were covered with foam, but light came through the small
emergency door. The smoke here was very light, and what little remained was being suctioned out the open escape hatch. Johnson
rose up a bit and peered out the door, spotting the sloping yellow chute. He turned back to the cockpit, but his eyes took
a minute to readjust to the darkness. When they did, he spotted a man lying on the floor at the base of the copilot’s seat.
The man was dead or unconscious. Johnson glanced all around the cockpit, but there was no one else there, dead or alive.

Still in a slight crouch to stay beneath the curls of smoke on the ceiling, he made his way toward the observer’s station,
then snapped on the flashlight and scanned the beam until he saw what he was looking for—the data-link printer. The beam rested
on the tray and illuminated a page of white paper.
Thank God.

Johnson stood, pulled off his gloves and his oxygen mask, and went to the printer, where he retrieved six sheets of paper
from the collecting tray.
Mission accomplished.
He scanned the papers with his flashlight, then turned them over. “What the hell?”

A voice from behind him answered, “Blank printer paper from the machine.”

Johnson swung around and pointed his flashlight toward the voice. The dead man was sitting up now, his back to the copilot’s
seat. Johnson’s heart literally skipped a beat, then he got himself under control.

Neither man spoke for a few seconds, then Johnson said, “Berry?”

“That’s right. And who are you?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“I’d like to know the name of the man who tried to kill me.”

Johnson held the ax out in front of the flashlight so Berry could see it. Johnson said, “And may still kill you.”

Berry’s eyes focused on the big ax. He hadn’t considered facing a weapon.

Johnson said, “You’re a brave man, Mr. Berry.”

“You’re a heartless son-of-a-bitch.”

“Not really. You of all people understand why I had to do what I did. And after what I saw down there, I wouldn’t change a
thing I did.”

Berry said, “You shouldn’t try to play God.”

“Why not? Someone has to do it.”

“Who
are
you?”

“It really is best if you don’t know.” “If you intend to kill me with that ax, what difference does it make if I know who
you are?”

Johnson said, “The reason you’re still alive and may stay alive is that you don’t know who I am.”

“The only reason you’re still alive is that ax.”

Johnson ignored him and said, “If you can produce those data-link printouts, we can make a deal for your life.”

Berry stood, and Johnson yelled, “Don’t move!”

Berry stared at the man in the dim light for a few seconds, then said, “The printouts were hidden on the person of the girl
who survived.”

“Where is she?”

“I put her and your flight attendant Sharon Crandall down that chute into the arms of medics. They were both breathing but
unconscious. If either of them dies, I’ll see that you’re executed or I’ll kill you myself.”

Johnson stood motionless for a second, then said, “Brave talk for a weaponless man facing an ax.”

“Look, pal, I don’t know who you are, but the game is up. Drop the ax.”

“I’m not so sure the game is up. I have the option of bashing in your skull—it’ll look like contact trauma— then I’ll slide
down that chute and go to Hangar 14, where the survivors are, and find Linda Farley and Sharon Crandall.”

Berry tensed, and his eyes darted toward the emergency opening.

Johnson moved a few feet and blocked Berry’s path. Johnson said, “If you have those data-link sheets with you, I give you
my word I won’t harm you. Or them.”

“Of course you will.”

“I don’t want to kill you. I’d rather we just called one another liars during an investigation. Even if I wind up in court,
I’d trust a California jury to find me not guilty. Hell, they find
everyone
not guilty. Then I’ll write a book and make a lot of money. I’ll even make you a hero in my book.” Johnson laughed and continued,
“Come on, Berry. Give me the sheets. Save your life. You’ve come too far to die now.”

Berry took a deep breath and replied, “I told you, the evidence is gone. Down the chute with the girl.” He shrugged. “You’re
finished.”

“No.
You’re
finished.” Johnson hesitated, then raised the ax.

From the lounge came the opening notes of “Jingle Bells” on the piano. A few seconds later, a voice called out, “I never got
much beyond this. In fact, it’s the only piano piece I know.”

Johnson swung around and peered into the dark lounge. “Oh . . . my God. . . .”

The piano music stopped and a man approached through the murkiness. The man’s big form filled the cockpit door. Kevin Fitzgerald
said, “Hello, Ed.”

Ed Johnson stood frozen.

Fitzgerald said, “Can you massacre both of us with that ax? I doubt it. I doubt you even want to. So drop it.”

“You . . . what?” He looked over his shoulder at Berry, then back at Fitzgerald. Suddenly he realized he’d put his foot in
a trap and his neck in a noose.

Fitzgerald addressed John Berry and said, “Thank you, Mr. Berry, for agreeing to act as bait.”

Johnson’s eyes widened, and he said, “You mean . . . you’ve met . . . ?”

“Just before you arrived,” Fitzgerald replied. Fitzgerald said to Berry, “The gentleman with the ax is Mr. Edward Johnson,
senior vice president of Trans-United Airlines. A good company man who has the best interests of the airline at heart. Not
to mention the best interests of Ed Johnson.” Fitzgerald said to Johnson, “I sort of figured it was you.”

Johnson snarled, “Bullshit!”

“No, really, Ed. You have the right combination of balls, brains, selfishness, and total lack of conscience.”

“Oh, fuck you, Kevin. I don’t need a fucking lecture from you. I tried to save this airline. You and your fucking pampered
pilots wouldn’t do that.”

Fitzgerald lost his patience and snapped, “My pilots save this airline every damn day they’re up there, you desk-bound son-of-a—”

“Enough!” yelled Berry. He had a feeling this was an old argument. “Enough.” He said to Johnson, “Drop the damned ax, or so
help me God, I’m coming right at you, and I’m going for your eyes. Drop it!”