“They’re trapped inside!” Dietz cried.
“Come on,” Locke said to himself, picturing Dilara Kenner’s smiling face. His jaw were clenched so tightly, he thought his teeth might crack. “Come on! Get out of there!”
As if in reply, the door of the rapidly sinking helicopter slid open. Four people in bright yellow survival suits jumped out into the water. Only four.
Dietz pointed his flashlights at the floundering chopper and asked, “Where are the rest of them?”
Locke was shouting now. “Get out of there!”
The nose of the Sikorsky dipped below the water level, where it was bashed by the waves. Water flooded through the open door. The tail pointed straight up unto the air and then disappeared beneath the waves.
Locke kept staring at the place where the chopper went under. Each passing second without seeing the other passengers stretched for an eternity.
Then when it seemed like they couldn’t possibly make it to the surface alive, three more survival suits popped up and bobbed on the waves. Seven survivors. With five passengers and two pilots, that meant seven for seven. They all made it.
Locke clapped his hands together, and yelled, “Yes!” He slapped palms with Dietz, who was grinning from ear to ear.
“Those lucky sons of bitches!” Al yelled, staring at the people floating in the water.
Locke shook his head at their good fortune. He’d seen the results of a couple of helicopter crashes in Iraq. No survivors in either of them. But for the Sikorsky passengers, it wasn’t over yet.
“That water must be freezing,” he said. “They won’t last long, even with the survival suits.”
Dietz’s grin disappeared. “I’m sure Finn’s on the phone with the Coast Guard by now…”
Locke cut him off. He could feel the time pressure already. “They’re too far away. Remember the fog?”
“Then how do we get them out?” he asked. “You mean they lived through the crash, but they’re going to die in the water?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Locke knew he was the only one on board Scotia One with expertise in aviation disasters. He had to convince the rig manager, Roger Finn, that they couldn’t wait for the Coast Guard to send a rescue chopper. That might be tough since Locke had been hired by the platform’s parent company and Finn barely tolerated his presence on the rig.
“Keep an eye on them,” Locke said to Dietz and sprinted back across the landing pad in the direction of the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Dietz yelled after him.
“To the control room!” Locke yelled back.
Hurtling down the stairs, Locke had just the slightest moment when he thought maybe he shouldn’t get involved. It was his instinct to swoop in and insert himself into the situation, but no one was depending on him for help. It wasn’t his responsibility. The oil rig crew and the Coast Guard would handle it. They would save the passengers.
But Locke thought about what would happen if he was wrong. There were seven people struggling to stay alive out there, including Dilara Kenner, who he had personally invited to the rig. If those passengers died and he hadn’t done everything he could, their deaths would be on his head even if nobody else knew it. Then he would be plunged back into more months without sleep for days at a time, his mind needling him with all of the things he should have done. The thought of those sleepless nights was what kept his feet moving.
FOUR
Captain Mike “Hammer” Hamilton leveled his F-16 at 35,000 feet, and his wingman Lt. Fred “Fuzzy” Newman matched his course. After scrambling from March Air Force Base just east of LA, they had both lit their afterburners to get out over the ocean before the airplane they were intercepting crossed the coast. Now the private 737 designated N-348Z was clearly visible on Hammer’s radar. They were closing at a relative speed of 2000 miles per hour.
“Two minutes to intercept,” Fuzzy said.
“Copy that,” Hammer said. “LA Control, this is CALIF 32. Any more comm traffic from the target?”
“Negative, CALIF 32. Still nothing.” During the briefing on route, Hammer was told that all communication had been lost with an airplane that had turned back on a course to Honolulu. When it had turned around, it was to get medical attention for some passengers who had gotten sick. Then the pilot’s communications had become increasingly distressed. Apparently, everyone on board, including the flight crew, had come down with the mysterious illness.
The communications became increasingly erratic and strange, as if the pilot was succumbing to some kind of madness. His last communication had been so odd that LA control had played it back for Hammer. It was the eeriest radio call he had ever heard.
“Flight N-348 Zulu, this is LA Control. Your last message was garbled. Say again.”
“I can’t see!” the panicking pilot said. “I’m blind! I can’t see! Oh, Jesus!” Hammer had never heard a pilot lose it like that.
“Are you on autopilot?”
“Yes, on autopilot. Oh God! I can feel it!”
“Feel what? N-348 Zulu? Feel what? What is happening?”
“I’m melting! We’re all melting! Make it stop!” The pilot screamed in obvious pain, and then the communication abruptly terminated. That was an hour and 20 minutes ago.
“Have they made any move to descend?” Hammer asked. Since 9/11, the primary mission of his Air National Guard wing was homeland defense. Standard operating procedure was to intercept all aircraft that had lost communication. If there was any indication that the aircraft was in the control of terrorists and suspected of being used as a weapon, there would be no choice but to take it out. But from what he’d heard, Hammer didn’t think that’s what they were dealing with. No way a terrorist could make a pilot act like that.
“Negative,” the controller said. “They haven’t deviated course or altitude.”
“Copy that. Intercept in one minute. You heard him, Fuzz. When we get there, we’ll circle around and pull alongside, see what we can see.”
Hammer spotted the bright blue 737 in the distance, and it quickly filled his windscreen. He and Fuzzy shot by and banked around, reducing their throttles to half what they were. They nudged forward until they were flying even with the 737, Hammer on the port wingtip and Fuzzy on the starboard wing.
“LA control,” Hammer said, “We have intercepted the target. It is flying straight and level at flight level 350. Air speed 550 knots on course 075.” If it stayed on that course, it would fly directly over Los Angeles.
“Copy that, CALIF 32. Describe what you’re seeing.”
“The plane seems to be in good shape. No damage on my side.”
“None on mine, either,” said Fuzzy.
“I can’t see any movement inside. I’ll move a little a closer to get a better look.”
Hammer nudged the F-16 forward and starboard until his wingtip was in front of the 737’s. Anybody on board would surely see him. Those still conscious would be pressing their faces against the windows, but none did.
“Any signs of life, CALIF 32?”
“Negative.” The bright sunlight streaming through the starboard windows was visible through the port windows, allowing Hammer a clear view of the seatbacks. According to the briefing, the plane had the movie star Rex Hayden and his entourage on board. He expected to see heads lolling backward in some of the seats, but he couldn’t see a single person. Strange.
“Fuzzy, you see anything from your side?”
“Negative, Hammer. It’s as quiet as a…” The next intended word must have been “cemetery” because Fuzzy stopped himself abruptly. “Nobody on the starboard side as far as I can see.”
“LA Control,” Hammer said, “You got your info wrong. This is an empty flight. Must be a ferry.”
After a pause, the controller came back. “Uh, that’s a negative, CALIF 32. Manifest shows 21 passengers
