The Ark: A Novel (6 page)

"I want you to help me find Noah's Ark."

For an hour, Captain Hammer Hamilton had been trying to raise someone on the radio of the private jet, but it was useless. All he got was static. Not that he expected anyone to answer. The only radio was in the cockpit, which he'd been staring at since he rendezvoused with the 737. The plane simply cruised along on its course with Hammer and Fuzzy shadowing it, passing over LA without incident. A mile away, the KC-10 tanker that had already refueled them once stood by in case they needed a refill, which would depend on how far the 737 made it.

Hammer had never seen anything like it. The closest thing he could recall was the private jet of Payne Stewart, the golfer. It was a Lear 35 that had leaked its cabin air soon after takeoff from Florida. Everyone on board had died of hypoxia, but the jet kept going on autopilot. It didn't stop until it ran out of fuel over South Dakota and crashed into a field.

Fighters had been sent to intercept Stewart's jet, but the windows had frosted over, so they couldn't see the plane's interior. Frosted windows suggested a loss of pressure. The poor bastards on board probably never knew what happened, and the NTSB never got to hear the pilot's last words. The cockpit voice recorder only tapes the last 30 minutes of flight, which in the case of Stewart's plane was long after they had succumbed.

The difference today was that the pilots had vanished. The windows weren't frosted, which made an oxygen leak unlikely. Hammer could clearly see that no one was in the cockpit. He didn't care what kind of emergency happened on the plane, no way would both pilots leave their seats.

Of course, it could all be an elaborate ruse. Another possibility was that there were hijackers on board, and they had done something with the crew and passengers. But what? Herded everybody into the back of the plane where there were no windows? The hijackers would still need to fly the plane, and Hammer had seen no one in the cockpit.

He supposed the passengers could be dead. Shot, or maybe gassed. But still, most of the passengers would be visible slumped over in their seats, maybe even some blood on the windows. Hammer had seen the plane from both sides. All the window shades were wide open. Nothing. Not one person.

If hijackers
had
taken over, what was all that business from the pilot? They were melting? He was blind? Why would hijackers make him say something like that?

If there was anybody on the plane, even hijackers, Hammer was sure he would have heard from them or seen them by now. Something else was happening, but he couldn't guess what it was. And with no one on board, the airliner would simply do what Stewart's private jet did: fly in a straight line until it ran out of gas.

"LA Control," he said, "what's the latest on that fuel estimate for N-348 Zulu?

"CALIF 32, it got about 1500 miles out when the pilot decided to head back. Flights were reporting a pretty strong easterly headwind, so they probably burned more fuel going out than coming back. They also sat on the runway for forty minutes, so we're guessing they should be on fumes in about ten minutes."

Hammer checked his flight map. The airliner would be over northwestern Arizona when it went dry.

"CALIF 32, you're sure no one is on board?"

"As sure as I can get without going over there myself. It's a derelict."

He knew why they were asking. His standing orders, revised after 9/11, were to use his judgment on whether the aircraft posed a risk to populated areas. If it did, he was authorized to shoot it down. He just thought he'd never be in that situation.

"CALIF 32, let us know if N-348 Zulu makes any course corrections or altitude changes."

"Copy."

All Hammer could do now was follow the airliner and keep trying the radio. Fifteen minutes passed and then he saw what he feared. Seventy miles southeast of Las Vegas, when they were just passing over Lake Mohave into Arizona, the exhaust from the port engine abruptly stopped.

"LA Control, I've got out a flameout on the target's port engine," he radioed. "How about you, Fuzz?"

"Starboard engine is still running," Fuzzy replied. "Starboard tank must have a few extra gallons in it."

By increasing power to the starboard engine, the autopilot would be able to maintain airspeed and altitude, but it would gulp the remaining fuel quickly. Two minutes later, Fuzzy radioed.

"Hammer, the starboard engine just cut out."

With the thrust gone, the 737 lost speed rapidly. It had become a 150,000-pound glider. A moment later, LA Control came on the line.

"CALIF 32, we're showing a decrease in speed for N-348 Zulu. Can you confirm?"

"Affirmative. She's flying silent. Fuel must be gone."

"Be advised, the trajectory will take N-348 Zulu over uninhabited land."

Hammer breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn't have to make the decision between shooting down the airliner and letting it hit a residential area. "Acknowledged."

All he could do now was watch the plane's final few minutes.

Modern airliners were built with huge wing spans that allowed them to glide for long distances, even without power. Using the hydraulic flight systems, a human pilot could keep the plane on an optimum glide path.

Hammer remembered a 747 that lost power after it flew through the ash from a volcanic eruption over Indonesia. All four engines were snuffed out by the dense ash cloud, and it took the pilot 15 minutes to get them restarted. When they finally did, the airliner was at an altitude of less than 2000 feet, but with a wing area the size of a football field, they were able to glide during their frantic efforts.

Without a human pilot to take over, the powerless 737 wouldn't glide for long. The autopilot did what it was designed to do: maintain altitude and heading, sacrificing speed to stay at 35,000 feet. Hammer could see the elevators in the tail lower as the autopilot compensated for the loss of velocity. He had to throttle back to keep pace with the slowing airliner. When he neared 200 knots, he was close to the F-16's stall speed.

"Fuzz, we can't fly alongside any more. Stay on me."

Hammer increased his speed and went into a wide circle around the 737, Fuzzy on his wing.

A minute later, with the autopilot no longer able to compensate for the loss of speed, the 737 began to porpoise up and down. The nose would pitch down to gain speed, then pitch back up in an attempt to regain altitude. The third time the nose pitched up, the airliner reached its stall speed of 160 knots.

"This is it," Fuzzy said.

Hammer and Fuzzy banked away to give the airliner more room. Abruptly, the 737 flipped over as if it were starting a Split S maneuver and then began to spin wildly, its nose pointed straight at the ground.

Hammer tried to keep his voice professional, but he had never seen the death of an airplane before. He felt frustrated that all he could do was be a witness.

"LA Control," he said, "the target just went into a dive. It's in a severe descending spiral and will soon impact the ground. Fuzzy and I will follow the target in emergency descent."

"Copy, CALIF 32. Keep us advised."

"Keep your distance, Fuzz," Hammer said. He was afraid the plane would break apart.

"Roger that."

Hammer narrated for LA Control as they descended. When the 737 plunged below five thousand feet, the ground seemed close enough to touch. Hammer struggled to keep his voice calm, but the adrenaline was making it impossible.

"The target is still spinning...still intact," he said. "Below three thousand feet now...Two thousand. Damn, they build strong planes. Approaching the ground...My God!"

Hammer pulled up on the stick, but he kept looking at the stricken airliner as it finally met its doom.

One second, it was a 737 just like any other he had flown in on countless trips, then it plowed into the desert floor and became a churning mass of metal and dust. The 737 was torn apart by the impact, flinging pieces high into the air, its two massive engines tumbling away from the rest of the wreckage. No fuel was left to ignite any fires or explosions. The debris simply ran out of momentum and came to a stop, obscured by the cloud of desert sand thrown into the air by the impact.

There were no structures of any kind in sight, but in the distance, Hammer could see a lone ribbon of concrete plied by a few vehicles. According to his map, it was US 93, northwest of Chloride, Arizona.

Hammer circled the crash site with Fuzzy on his wing.

"That was a hell of a thing to watch," Fuzzy said.

Hammer didn't reply. What could he say? He'd just watched a plane with 27 souls on board auger into the ground.

He relayed the exact coordinates to LA Control.

"Copy that," LA Control replied. "We've already got emergency vehicles en route."

Not that it would do any good. No one could have survived that crash.

"CALIF 32 returning to base," Hammer said. He dreaded the debriefing. It would be a long and dismal one.

As he turned his F-16 back home, Hammer took one last look at the wreckage of flight N-348 Zulu, soon to be pored over by accident investigators. He didn't envy them because this investigation would be like nothing they'd seen before. For once, the question wouldn't be why the plane crashed. That was obvious. The question would be, what could make a planeload of people disappear?

By the time the lifeboat got back to Scotia One, night had fallen and fog shrouded the rig. Because seas in the north Atlantic are so dangerous, the rig's lowest level was 70 feet above the water to minimize the chance that waves would damage the platform. In the reduced visibility and rough seas, it was difficult to keep the lifeboat directly under the personnel basket, and it took more than 30 minutes to lift everyone up safely.

Locke was looking forward to stripping out of the wet survival suit, but he couldn't let anyone else be the last one out of the lifeboat. It was partly his military training and partly his innate sense of responsibility again. It just wouldn't sit well with him to ride up to safety while others were still on the boat. Before he climbed into the basket, he closed the hatch so that the lifeboat could be salvaged at a later time. There was no way to tie it up to the rig, so it floated out into the open ocean.

The pilot had regained consciousness and was carried to the platform's infirmary accompanied by the copilot. After an examination, the rig's doctor found that the pilot had suffered only a concussion that could wait for treatment on the mainland, so the Coast Guard chopper, which had been cruising in the vicinity on standby, returned to St. John's instead of attempting a risky landing in the fog. The doctor also treated the copilot's broken arm, and the rest of the passengers suffered only mild hypothermia. Locke was amazed that no one was seriously injured. He'd only been in the water for a minute, but he was still shaking off the chill.

Dilara Kenner declined to see the doctor and seemed to regard everyone warily. Other than insisting on talking with Locke, she had been tight-lipped since mentioning Noah's Ark. He offered to meet her for breakfast the next morning, but she said she had to talk to him right away. All she wanted was a shower and some fresh clothes.

Locke and Grant escorted her to a guest cabin where Locke supplied her with a jumpsuit and boots. While she refreshed herself, Locke retrieved his bomber jacket, then went back to his own room and got into a dry shirt and jeans. He met Grant outside Dilara's cabin and told him what Dilara had said on the lifeboat.

"Noah's Ark, huh?" Grant said. "Now that's out of left field. Is there something you haven't told me about your past? Doing a little archaeology on the side?"

"Not unless you count that time I was looking for something to eat in your refrigerator."

"That moo shu pork
was
disgusting. Or was it General Tso's chicken?"

"I think it was an entirely new life form. I was scarred for life. Some of that stuff was old enough for your fridge to be considered an historic landmark."

"So if she isn't here to pick your brain about archaeology, what's her angle?"

"Hell if I know," Locke said. "She doesn't seem like a nut to me, and her credentials check out."

"She's nervous about something. Wouldn't say squat to me."

"You better let me talk to her alone. I'll fill you in later."

Grant and Locke had been friends since they served in the Army together, Locke as a captain, and Grant as his first sergeant before leaving to join the Rangers. A few years after Locke was honorably discharged and had started his engineering consulting firm, he convinced Grant to leave as well and become a partner in the firm, which had since been merged with another company. They been working together for two years now, and Locke trusted him with his life, but he sensed Dilara was on edge for some reason beyond the helicopter crash itself. She might not be as open with both of them listening to her.

"No problem," Grant said. "I've still got work on that ballast problem. Should be able to solve it by tomorrow. That'll give you two time to get acquainted."

Dilara stepped out of the guest room, and despite the dark circles under her eyes, she wasn't the bedraggled form Locke had rescued. Her hair was tied in a ponytail, and although her cheeks were still ruddy from the cold and wind, she had a golden tan that suggested long periods of time spent in the sun or a Mediterranean background, possibly both.

Locke could tell she was hiding her weariness just below the surface and wouldn't be surprised to see her collapse right in front of them. Treading water while holding up a man twice her weight must have been exhausting.

He had picked out her clothes and had guessed her height well--about 510--but the jumpsuit was baggy. Her survival suit had been so bulky, he hadn't realized how slender she was. The belt was cinched to its limit.

"If you want," Locke said, "I can find you something that fits a little better." Grant, who was standing behind Dilara, raised his eyebrows and nodded as if he'd like to see her in something tighter. Locke tilted his head, and Grant got the hint.