“The radios don’t work.”
“The navigation radios might. They’re separate from the transmitters and receivers.” Berry continued to fish around beneath the captain’s seat, but he came up empty-handed. “Damn it. They were probably blown out. We could really use them. Damn.” The possibility of finding San Francisco Airport without a good navigational signal was very remote, even if they had fuel enough to wander up and down the coastline, which they didn’t.
“How important are they?”
“We’ll get by without them.” Berry slid back into the captain’s seat. “We can search through all the frequencies on the radio dial when we get closer. We’ll find the right one.” But Berry knew there were too many channels and they had too little time.
Crandall unbuckled her seat belt. “I’ll look over here.”
“Okay.”
She leaned forward and ran her hand beneath the copilot’s seat. “Nothing. Wait…” She leaned as far to the right as the side console would allow. “I think I’ve got something. Yes.” Sharon pulled out a stack of crumpled papers. “Here.”
Berry took them quickly. “Charts,” he said. “They must be the copilot’s.” He thought for an instant about McVary back in the lounge. These were his charts and this was his cockpit. Now it was Berry’s, for whatever that was worth. Berry carefully opened the charts one at a time.
“Are they the right ones?” Sharon asked anxiously.
Berry smiled. “Yes.” He pointed to one. “Here’s San Francisco. This is the frequency I wanted.”
“Will the radios work?” Sharon had her doubts.
“Not yet.” Berry folded the charts so that the San Francisco area was faceup. “When we get within range, we’ll see if we can pick up a signal.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then wherever we see land is where we go. Could you recognize features on the coast?”
“I think so. I’ve seen it enough times.”
“Would you know if we were north or south of San Francisco? Or if we were near any other city? Any airport?”
She didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “When we get there, I’ll have a better idea.”
“All right. Think about it.”
“I will.” She stretched her bare legs out and leaned back in the seat. “Let’s talk. Let’s not think about what has to come later.”
“Might as well. I’ve run out of things to do already.”
Sharon closed her eyes. “Tell me about… your home.”
Berry would have preferred to talk about something else. He settled back and tried to think of what to say. As he did, the autopilot disengage light flickered again, and the autopilot switch popped to OFF. Berry grabbed the flight controls. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Autopilot?”
“Yes.” Now he knew that he couldn’t trust it anymore. The autopilot had undoubtedly been damaged during their wild descent. He had no choice but to hand-fly the Straton for the rest of the flight. As Berry concentrated on retrimming the manual flight controls, he could hear from behind him the persistent scraping against the door and the dissonant pounding on the piano. It was beginning to get on his nerves. Then he heard the data-link alerting bell.
“John. They’re sending another message.”
Berry looked at the screen. It was a repeat of the message they had sent a few minutes before. The bastards were still sending out bait, on the chance that Berry had somehow managed to keep the Straton from falling into the Pacific. “Screw them,” he said. He was, without a doubt, taking it personally.
15
Jack Miller walked alone through the long empty corridor outside the dispatch office. Edward Johnson had taken his detailed report and told him to go home, again denying him entry to the communications room. Jack Miller knew that his days at Trans-United were nearly over.
He heard footsteps coming quickly up the stairs at the end of the corridor. He stopped.
The figure of Chief Pilot Kevin Fitzgerald-tall, muscular, tanned, wearing faded jeans and T-shirt-appeared suddenly from the stairwell. He came quickly toward Miller, who stepped aside and exchanged nods with the man. Miller cleared his throat. “Captain Fitzgerald…”
The chief pilot moved quickly past him and turned his head back as he kept walking toward the door at the end of the corridor. “What is it, Jack?”
“Everyone is in the administration building. Executive conference room, sir.”
“Damn!” He turned and headed back. “Nothing happening here?”
“No, sir. Communications with 52 has been lost.”
Fitzgerald kept walking, retracing his steps to the stairs. “Screwed up, Jack. It’s all been screwed up. No one knows what the hell is going on.”
“Yes, sir,” he called to the retreating figure.
Fitzgerald disappeared down the stairs.
Jack Miller stood alone in the corridor for a few seconds. He considered for a moment, hesitated, then broke into a run down the corridor and took the steps down, three and four at a time.
In the parking lot, he saw Fitzgerald get into a foreign sports car. He ran to it.
Fitzgerald started the engine and looked at him. “What is it, Jack?”
Miller found he couldn’t speak.
“I’m in a hurry. Is it important?” Fitzgerald looked up at him. He put a softer tone in his voice. “What’s up?” He turned off his engine.
Miller stepped up closer to the window. “Captain, I have to speak to you.”
Fitzgerald had handled men long enough, and he knew Jack Miller well enough to know that he was about to hear something important and disturbing. “Get in the car. We can talk while I drive.”
“No, sir. I think you’d better stay here.”
Fitzgerald swung the door open and climbed out of the car. “Shoot.”
“Well…”
“Forget all the modifiers, Jack. Give it to me straight and quickly.”
“I think… I’m sure something here smells.”
Fitzgerald nodded. “Go on.”
Jack Miller began his story.
With the door closed, the Trans-United communications room had become hotter. Fumes from the color- reproduction machine lay heavily in the stagnant air. Edward Johnson sat with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loose.
Wayne Metz kept mopping the perspiration from his face with a damp handkerchief. He nodded in satisfaction. “I think that’s it, Ed.”
Johnson nodded slowly. He felt badly-there was no doubt about it-but he also felt that the weight of the world-the weight of the Straton-was lifted from his shoulders. He was annoyed that Metz was having trouble concealing his glee. The man didn’t understand flying, didn’t understand airlines or the people who worked for them. He only understood liabilities and how to eliminate them. Johnson reached out and pressed the data-link’s repeat button and held it down.
The message printed.
TO FLIGHT 52: DO YOU READ? ACKNOWLEDGE. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.
The message printed again and again as he held his finger on the repeat button. A long stream of printouts began to collect in the link’s receiving basket. Johnson looked at his watch. “That should be enough to show one every three minutes for the last hour.” He released the repeat button, then typed a final message.
