Berry looked at the girl. She stood, trembling, with a bright red fire extinguisher in her hand, Halon still visible around its nozzle.
Crandall touched Berry’s cheek. “Can you stand?”
“Yes. Of course.” He stood slowly and looked at Linda Farley. “Good thinking. Very good.”
Linda dropped the fire extinguisher and ran to Berry. She buried her face in his chest.
Berry patted her head. “It’s all right. You didn’t hurt him. Just scared him a little.” He cradled her head in his hand and with the other hand reached out for Sharon. The three of them stood quietly for a few seconds, calming themselves.
Berry heard scratching on the door and stepped over to it. He could see faces through the small piece of one-way glass in the door. He took a deep breath, then hit the door with his shoulder, sending two men and a woman sprawling. He looked back into the lounge. A procession of people were coming, one at a time, out of the stairwell, filling the lounge from wall to wall, pressing closer to the cockpit bulkhead. Berry looked at their blood-red eyes set in those gray, ashen faces. His head swam. His hold on reality was beginning to weaken. An irrational thought flashed through his mind, the thought that he was already dead and this place was not the Straton but some sort of perpetual flight that would never end, never land…
He pulled the door shut tightly and turned, facing back into the cockpit. He felt sweat on his face and his breathing had become difficult.
Sharon Crandall looked from the door to his face, then back at the door. There was fear, thought Berry-no, terror-in her eyes. Berry controlled his voice and spoke to her. “We… we’ve lost a major advantage… with them in the lounge… but… as long as we keep them out of here… out of the cockpit…”
His world was shrinking, reduced to these square yards-this small room that contained their only link with the world they had left… that contained the instruments of their survival and the only mechanical and human intelligence left onboard.
Sharon Crandall held Linda Farley and nodded, but she did not see how they were going to keep the passengers of Flight 52 out of the cockpit.
Edward Johnson walked to a long shelf and took down a heavy spiral-bound book. Wayne Metz watched him carefully. The man was still walking a mental tightrope, and the slightest thing could upset his balance.
Johnson sat on a stool and placed the book on the counter. He picked up the telephone.
Metz spoke softly, choosing his words carefully. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Johnson didn’t answer. He placed the slip of paper that Evans had given him on the counter and began dialing. At the same time, he opened the big book in front of him.
Metz was becoming anxious. “Who are you calling? What’s in that book?”
Johnson looked at him as the phone began ringing on the other end. “I’m calling ATC.”
“Why?”
“Because, Wayne, from now on I have to handle it just like it’s supposed to be handled.”
“What’s in the book?”
Johnson spoke into the telephone. “Mr. Malone, please.” He looked up at Metz. “There’s a coffeepot in that cabinet. Make coffee.” He turned to the phone. “Mr. Malone, this is Ed Johnson. Vice-President of Operations at Trans-United.”
“Yes, sir. What’s the story with 52?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t look very good. They are no longer transmitting.”
“Do you have any idea what’s going on?”
“Before I fill you in, take down these coordinates of their last estimated position. Please take the necessary steps to begin a search-and-rescue operation.”
“Yes. Go ahead.”
Johnson read the coordinates. “They turned before we lost contact, so they are now on a heading of 120 degrees at a speed of approximately 340 knots. You can extrapolate from there.”
“Yes, sir. Hold the line while I get the ball rolling on this.”
Johnson flipped through the book in front of him.
Malone came back on the line. “The search-and-rescue operation will be rolling shortly. Is there any chance they could still be flying?”
“Always a chance. Incidentally, when was the last time you heard from them, Mr. Malone?”
There was a short pause. “At eleven o’clock they radioed their position.”
Johnson nodded. “Why didn’t you call us?”
“Well… we were trying to contact them. Actually, we didn’t try until they’d missed their next mandatory report. It should have occurred at 12:18, so it’s not that long. And all the airlines’ 797s have a little radio trouble because of the altitude and-”
“I understand. We’ve been a little lax here too, I’m afraid. My dispatcher didn’t have his regular one-o’clock update from them and he let it go for a while.” He would have to fill in the missed 12:00 update. “Then, when he tried to radio, he experienced the same trouble that you apparently did. But, of course, he wasn’t concerned.”
“That’s understandable, Mr. Johnson. But what exactly happened to the aircraft? How did you finally make contact with them?”
“Well, we’re not certain exactly what happened. A short while before I called you, we received a message on our company data-link. It was a distress message. It said only SOS.”
“SOS?”
“Yes. No identification of any sort. We thought, of course, that it was a hoax of some sort.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then, some time later, a dispatcher discovered another message sitting in the data-link. There is no way to determine how long either message sat in the data-link.”
“What did the message say?”
Johnson pulled the message toward him and read, “‘Emergency. Mayday. Aircraft damaged. Radios dead. Mid-Pacific. Need help. Do you read?’”
“That was it?”
“My dispatcher acknowledged immediately, then called me. Are you writing this all down?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. They did not immediately call you, I’m afraid, because there was some confusion over the way the message was received and because of the wording in our company emergency handbook.”
“Wording?”
“Yes. It says-let me read it.” Johnson placed the handbook over the big book in front of him. “It says, ‘When Air Traffic Control notifies you of a midair emergency, contact the following.’ So my dispatcher called the numbers on the list but never thought to call Air Traffic Control, since your number wasn’t listed in the FAA-approved handbook. He may also have believed that someone else was calling you already. You know how it is, when you see a fire, you think everyone’s called… Anyway, it was a damned stupid oversight and he will be properly reprimanded. In any case, there is nothing lost except some time in getting a search-and-rescue underway.”
“Yes, I see.” Malone’s voice sounded apologetic. “Do you know what the nature of the emergency was?”
“I suspect that the damage to the aircraft was too great to continue flying.”
“What damage is that?”
Johnson put a tone of sadness and anger in his voice. “A bomb-or structural failure… two holes in the hull. Decompression killed or incapacitated the crew and passengers.”
“Good God… Then… who…?”
“A private pilot was in a positive pressure area. The lavatory, probably. He made the transmissions and turned the aircraft at our suggestion. I suspect, too, that he may have touched something in the cockpit that led to the final… led to the possible… crash. I hope to God it’s only because of a malfunction of the data-link machine…” Johnson found something in the book that he needed.
“Yes. Let’s hope so. Do you have copies…?”
“Yes. I’ll send copies of the printouts to you right now. It shows everything we know and everything we’ve done.”
“As soon as possible, please.”
