'It's Mrs.-Mandy Richards.'
'Well, Mrs. Richards, you and I are going to go forward and see about helping the captain and the copilot. Okay?'
'I don't know how much help I can be, Mr. Rourke.'
'Call me John. Simpler. We'll help however we can.'
The stewardess was already starting back down the aisle with large containers of water and towels. The five who'd claimed some medical experience followed her.
Rourke knocked on the door of the pilot's cabin and tried the handle, then walked through, saying to the woman beside him, 'Forgive me for going ahead of you, Mrs. Richards.'
Rourke stopped inside the doorway. Both the captain and copilot were still strapped into their seats. Both men were writhing, holding their faces. The copilot was moaning.
'Shut the door, Mrs. Richards,' Rourke said softly.
Leaning down, he walked forward and looked at the captain. The woman behind him said, 'My God, both of these men are blinded like-'
'That's why we're here, Mrs. Richards. But if we tell all the passengers, they might panic, and that wouldn't do anyone any good, right?'
'Who-who are you?' It was the captain, his voice strained and hoarse.
Rourke leaned down beside the man. 'My name is John Rourke, Captain. I'm one of the passengers. The stewardess told me you might need some help.'
'You're the doc, aren't you?'
'Yeah, well in a manner of speaking,' Rourke said. 'But I'm here to help you. I've tested out on military jet fighters, flown a helicopter. There's a woman here with me-Mrs. Richards-whose had flying experience, too. Thought maybe we could give you a hand. If you can stay conscious, maybe you can tell us what to do to keep this thing airborne and help us land it when it's time.'
'That's impossible, Doc. The controls on these babies are just too much unless you know them-I can't talk you through it.'
'Well,' Rourke said softly, 'you'd better hope we can figure this out. By the looks of that fuel gauge, I don't figure we've got more than a couple of hours flying time before we hit empty. And auto pilot isn't going to do much next time we hit a shock wave from a missile going off under us.'
'What's the use? We're all dead anyway,' the captain said.
'Maybe, maybe not. I don't know. But we can't just commit suicide up here, can we?'
Rourke watched the captain. The man's eyes were closed tight. His face was beet-red like someone with a bad sunburn. 'It's no good,' the captain said, 'but go ahead and try if you want.'
'I will,' Rourke said, then started unbuckling the pilot and getting him down on the floor at the back of the cabin as comfortably as possible. 'Get some pillows, blankets, water, and towels, Mrs. Richards,' Rourke said. As the woman left, Rourke moved forward and helped the copilot-unconscious now-into a reclining position near the doors.
In a moment, the woman was back and Rourke said, 'Work on the captain first. The copilot's pretty far gone.'
Rourke sat in the pilot's seat and started studying the controls. He hit the switch for the intercom and spoke into the microphone. 'This is John Rourke. Could the stewardess, Miss-' and he remembered he'd never asked her name-'the stewardess who helped me a few moments ago report to the cockpit for a moment?'
Rourke looked at the controls, the myriad dials and gauges. He began to believe that the captain had been right. He entertained little hope of getting the plane down. Shrugging his shoulders as he heard the knock on the door, he knew that little hope of success would not keep him from trying. At the back of his mind, as he called out, 'Come in,' he wondered if Sarah and Michael and Ann were still alive. He chewed down on his cigar.
'What is it, Mr. Rourke?' the stewardess asked. 'Are there any manuals,' he began, 'instruction booklets- anything that can help me with this thing?'
'The pilots have manuals,' she began, then leaned over and reached into a drawer under the instrument panel, 'but they're designed as troubleshooting references. I don't know if they'd be of any help.'
Rourke glanced at the thick, vinyl-bound manuals the stewardess gave him and weighed them in his hands. 'Just the thing,' he said quietly, 'for troubleshooting.'
Chapter Twenty-one
Slowly, Sarah Rourke pushed away the blanket and mattress covering herself and the children. She smelled something-smoke? But no, she thought. It was plaster dust. 'All right, children,' she said. 'I think we can see what's going on now.'
Chunks of debris fell from the mattress as she pushed herself up onto her knees. Standing, surveying the littered cellar, she picked up her small transistor radio and shook it-nothing but static. She switched bands. There was nothing on FM. She turned the dial from side to side-still, only static.
'What's wrong with the radio, Mama?' Michael asked. His question was something she could have done without at the moment.
'Oh, I think the ground shaking must have loosened a wire inside it. You know,' she continued lying, 'these radios are made up of thousands of wires. Your father can tell you about it better than I can.'
'Where is Daddy, Mommy,' Ann asked, her voice little as the three Rourkes stood there in the partially collapsed cellar.
