Blackout

CHAPTER 10

In the business-class section of the main deck, Dr. Diane Chadwick glanced at her watch again, aware she was putting off the inevitable. The idea that a serious in-flight crisis was a perfect moment for observational research had felt like a cruel joke when it first ricocheted through her mind. She was too busy trying to control her own fear to worry about anyone else’s. There were limits to what a behavioral psychologist could be expected to do, weren’t there?

But this is my field! she reminded herself, slowly prying her fingers from around the armrests of her seat. She had written papers about the reactions of airline passengers and crews in a crisis, and here she was in the middle of an unscheduled laboratory experiment. How is this going to look back at NASA Ames if I survive this and have to admit I just sat here like a catatonic moron?

There was a steno pad in her large purse. She had to use every ounce of willpower to reach down and retrieve it, along with a pen.

Four rows of business class stretched in front of her, and then another eight rows of first class extended to the nose of the 747. She was trying to discern what was going on by looking at the backs of the heads ahead of her, and that would no longer do.

Okay. Up. Now! Diane unsnapped her seat belt and tried to smile at her seatmate, a quiet Asian gentleman who was gnawing his fingertip and paying no attention to her. She smoothed her cropped auburn hair and adjusted her glasses before walking all the way forward, then all the way to the rear, making mental notes that she would transfer to paper later.

Two of the flight attendants looked up as Diane passed, but they didn’t interfere. It was an advantage, she thought, knowing how to dress innocuously. She enjoyed those occasions when she could put on “girl clothes” outside the academic arena and really feel feminine, but for some reason, even on her own time — such as flying to and from the terrorist conference in Hong Kong—“academic mousy” was the style with which she felt most comfortable.

Diane reached the small forward closet in the first-class cabin and turned, forcing herself to remain calm as she strolled back. The first five rows were a mixture of men and women — a political delegation, she had heard. One woman was standing and talking to a wide-eyed man, but most were sitting with their seat belts on, hands clasped together, or talking quietly with a seatmate in a picture of tightly controlled fear. Eyes were cast in Diane’s direction only as long as it took to conclude that she wasn’t the bearer of news, good or bad.

In the galley behind first class, the two flight attendants she’d passed had been joined by a third. They were talking quietly to one another as they worked to keep the liquor flowing. There were a few brief smiles and a nervous joke they tried to keep her from hearing. An older, male flight attendant joined them as she passed, placing both hands on the shoulders of two of the three women and saying reassuring things.

A father figure, or so he’s trying to be, she concluded. Probably decades on the job. I’ll want to find out.

The calm atmosphere in coach class was a surprise. Everywhere she looked, people stood talking earnestly to one another, gesturing forward and to the ceiling, and engaging any flight attendant who happened by. The atmosphere wasn’t panicked, but it was serious and concerned, and she knew from her studies that passengers were capable of turning ugly if they felt they weren’t being told the truth.

On her left, in the twenty-third row, a young woman sat weeping. She was trying to hide it, and her male seatmate, with a look of disgust, tried to signal that he was wholly unaffected by the situation and not subject to the emotional instability of the “weaker” sex.

She’s reaching out to him and he’s rejecting her.

In the third coach cabin a gray-haired woman brushed past Diane officiously and leaned down to talk to first one row of passengers, then another. Diane moved closer to hear the woman’s message, a broad interpretation of the announcement the pilot had already made.

“He’s just being the usual conservative pilot, dear. These airplanes don’t really even need pilots except to program their fancy computers, so this shouldn’t be a problem, okay? Relax. We’ll get another night in Hong Kong out of this, free.”

Several rows to the rear a teenage boy sat in a window seat, wearing the first truly angry expression Diane had noticed. He had the candy-striped badge of an unaccompanied minor on his shirt, and was holding a small headset connected to an electronic device in his hand.

Diane reached the rear galley and took a deep breath. She’d start talking to selected passengers now, such as the young couple holding hands tightly enough to cut off circulation, and the obese man playing solitaire while maniacally munching potato chips. The range of human emotions being displayed was awesome.

Her own fright forgotten, she paused next to the rear galley to make notes.

In the cockpit, Robert MacCabe was watching Dan Wade carefully. The quick breathing, the sweating in the cold cockpit, and the clipped speech told a tale of incredible stress — not to mention pain. So far Dan was handling it, but how long he could hang on was a deep concern. Although the copilot appeared to be in his early forties and in good health generally, Robert found himself praying that Dan had a very strong heart.

There was movement suddenly at the cockpit door, and Rick Barnes stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He spotted Robert and nodded to him, then pointed to Geoffrey Sampson with a mouthed “who?” Robert introduced them and Barnes extended his hand to Geoffrey Sampson.

“Glad to meet you. I’m the CEO of the airline. Thanks for helping.”

“I assure you, Mr. Barnes, my efforts are pure, enlightened self-interest.”

Rick turned to look at the man in the right seat, the sight of the bandage around his eyes sending a chill up his back. “Ah, Dan? Rick Barnes.”

There was a long sigh from the copilot. “Yes, Mr. Barnes?”

Rick hesitated, feeling unsure what to say. “Ah, I just… wanted to—”

“Come up here and take over? Lord, I wish you could.”

Rick laughed nervously. “God no, I’m not trying to take over. Just… get us on the ground safely, Dan. I have no idea how bad this is with your eyes, but we’ll stop at nothing to get you the best doctors in the world.”

A crack about the recent reduction in pilot medical benefits crossed Dan’s mind, but he rejected it. This wasn’t the time. Barnes was as scared as everyone else.

“I appreciate the support, Mr. Barnes, but you need to go sit down now.”

Rick Barnes nodded. “You’re right. I’m just outside if you need — I don’t know, if you need the airline chief to yell at someone on the ground, I guess.”

He turned and left as Britta entered with a small bottle of water, which she placed in Dan’s hand. “How are you doing, Danny?”

“Okay, I guess. I just wish you had pilot experience, like Karen Black.”

“Who?” Britta shot back, a puzzled expression crossing her face.

“It was… a movie, Britta. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh! God! You mean that awful film. Airport Seventy-something.” Britta let a few seconds of silence pass before speaking again, her eyes ranging over the cockpit, her voice a shade softer. “Dan, I need to know our status, and precisely what you want me to do.”

The copilot moved his head to the left as if to look at her, then stopped. “We’re probably about ten minutes away from starting the approach, Britta. I want everyone strapped in. Put them in a brace position. Brief them all on the emergency exits. And there’s something else that’s really important.”

“Yes?”

“You, Britta, are going to have to make the determination of when and how to evacuate. If… things don’t go well, and you don’t hear from me, make sure we’ve stopped, then get them out of there. Okay?”

“You’re going to do fine, Dan. We’ll make it.”

The copilot took a deep, ragged breath. “I’ll do my best, but we’ve got to get on the ground while I’m still functioning.”

Britta began massaging his shoulder as she looked forward through the windscreen, trying to discern anything familiar. There were very few ground lights visible in the darkness. Just the hint of a town somewhere to one side and the glint of distant lightning on the ocean’s surface to the left; the staccato flashes illuminated huge clouds on both sides in a visual melange worthy of van Gogh.

Britta looked back down at Dan and leaned over to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “I mean it, Danny. You’ll do fine.” She straightened up. “Who do you want here in the cockpit?” she asked. “Mr. MacCabe is here. Should he stay?”

“I can’t believe you remembered my name,” Robert said.

“Britta,” Dan replied, “you need to be in the cabin. Stay upstairs, but sit in the cabin. Mr. Sampson sits where he is, in the left seat. Mr. MacCabe, if you don’t mind, sit where you are in the jump seat. Britta, if you should find another pilot hiding somewhere, get him up here.”

“You bet, Dan,” Britta replied.

“And please keep Rick Barnes out of my cockpit. He’s not much of an inspiration.” Dan paused and rubbed his head again, breathing rapidly, before continuing. “What I really need is Leslie Nielsen standing in the back, reminding me every few seconds that everyone’s depending on me.” He tried to smile, turning his head carefully to face forward again.

Good! Britta thought. If his sense of humor is still alive, we’ll make it.

“I just want you to know we are all depending on you, Danny!” she said, echoing Nielsen’s repeated line from Airplane!, the movie that had become an icon to airline crews.

The overhead speakers tuned to Hong Kong Approach came alive again. “Meridian Five, how many miles out from the airport would you like to start the ILS approach to Chek Lap Kok?”

Dan held up his right hand for silence.

“Hong Kong, I need a lot of room to make sure we’re… lined up. Can you… see me on radar… far enough out to give me a… fifty-mile turn on the localizer?”

“Our weather radar is painting a line of severe thunderstorms forty miles to the west, Sir, moving east at ten knots. We’d like to keep you clear of those.”

“Okay, Hong Kong. A thirty-mile turn to the inbound course, then, I guess.”

“We can do that, Meridian,” the controller replied. “Call me when you’re ready, Sir. Meanwhile, turn left now to a heading of one-eight-zero degrees.

Britta Franz descended the stairs to the main cabin deck and motioned Bill Jenkins, Claire Brown, Alice Naccarato, Nancy Costanza, and four other flight attendants to the middle galley for a quick briefing. She tried to sound as upbeat as possible.

“Okay, this is what we train for. The public thinks we’re glorified cocktail waitresses and waiters here just to serve drinks, but this is when we shine as professionals. I’m in command in the absence of Dan giving any orders. You know the protocol. If I say evacuate on the PA, do it. Under no circumstances do you pop those doors and slides until we are stopped, and do not make an independent decision unless you’re certain that I physically can’t order the evacuation. Understood?”

They all nodded.

“We’re going to make it, team. Dan’s hurt, but he’s a pro, and he’ll get us down safely.”

Britta returned rapidly to the upper deck to secure the galley, unaware that someone was following her up the stairs and calling her, the unfamiliar voice not registering.

“’Scuse me! I said, excuse me!”

Britta turned to find herself face to face with the owner of the voice.

“I was trying to catch you below,” the woman said. “You the head mama?”

“I beg your pardon?” Britta replied, her eyebrows rising slightly at the woman’s phraseology.

“Head mama, Darlin’, as in chief flight attendant and whip-cracker.”

“I am the head flight attendant, if that’s what you mean.” Britta instantly regretted her tone. She had puffed herself up in reaction to the woman and knew she sounded haughty.

“That’s exactly what I mean, Honey.” The woman smiled brightly, glancing around at Graham and Susan Tash. “Look, you’d probably forgive my linguistic vernacular if you knew I was black, which I was until just after takeoff, when I got the color scared out of me with people asking for replacement pilots and all.”

Britta closed her eyes and shook her head as if to restart the entire encounter. “I’m sorry. Who are you again?”

The woman stuck out her hand with a smile, and Britta shook it somewhat tenuously. “I’m Dallas Nielson, from seat Two-A downstairs. I’m one of your first-class passengers, okay? I’m really not some peon who crawled up out of the baggage compartment. Don’t let these dreadlocks fool you.” She tossed her head.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply…”

Dallas Nielson held a palm up in a stop gesture. “It’s okay, Honey, I’m just so damn nervous I’m chattering at Warp Seven. That’s a Star Trek term.”

“Yes, I know Star Trek, but—” Britta began.

The huge smile again as Dallas Nielson continued. “Good. Good! See, we’ve got something in common, other than being trapped in a giant pilotless airliner.”

Nancy Costanza had come up the stairs and moved in behind Dallas to motion for Britta’s attention. Britta looked at her with no intention to snap, but did so anyway. “What, Nancy?”

The young flight attendant stepped back as if she’d been slapped. “Britta, I’m sorry, but I need your help. There’s a tour director down there…”

Britta shook her head in self-disgust. “No, I’m sorry. There was no reason to bark at you, Nancy. Give me a couple of minutes, please.”

Britta turned back to Dallas Nielson, still trying to discern the thrust of the conversation. “Ms. Nielson, are you by any chance a licensed pilot?”

“Me? Good grief, no! I’m dangerous enough driving.”

“Then I’m really not sure why we’re having this discussion, or what I can do for you, and I don’t have much time. I’ve got to get the cabin prepared for landing.”

“Britta, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Britta, I’ve just got one question, but it’s a doozy. How in hell is a blind pilot going to land this monster? I’ve been sitting down there trying to stay quiet like a good girl, but I’ve gotta know.”

“Oh.” Britta glanced over her shoulder at the cockpit, then looked back. “We have an automatic flight system that can literally fly the aircraft to the runway and even stop it. Now, would you please take your seat?”

Dallas was already nodding. “I didn’t ask that right. I know this airplane is automated. I heard the pilot. Autopilot, autothrottles, auto-brakes. But how’s he going to set them up if he can’t see them? Anyone up there helping? Come on, girl. You don’t have to give me the usual airline crap. I’m not licensed to fly airplanes like this, but I know a lot about them, so maybe I should go up there and volunteer to help. Whaddaya think? Good idea?”

Britta shook her head no. “This would not be a good time, Ms. Nielson. Not unless you can fly.”

“The name’s Dallas. So when would be a better time? After we’ve crashed? After we let that poor guy on the PA fly us into the ground because no one was up there to read the instruments for him? Or do they have readouts in braille as well?”

“Brai… what? Certainly not,” Britta replied. “But unless you’re a pilot, you have no business on the flight deck at this critical moment, and we already have someone up there with pilot experience helping the copilot read the instruments.” An image of the reporter sitting just behind the unlicensed pilot who occupied the captain’s seat popped into her head. She tried to push the image away.

“I want to at least stick my head in,” Dallas said, “and offer to help be his eyes and double-check whatever the other guy is doing. I know what I’m doing.”

“How? How do you know what you’re doing, if you’re not a pilot?”

“Because I have hundreds of hours reading Boeing seven-forty-seven flight instruments during my years as an engineer, okay?”

Britta felt her mouth fall open. “A flight engineer? Well, good heavens, why didn’t you tell me that before?”

No, Honey, Dallas thought, as a bored broadcast engineer playing video games like Microsoft’s flight simulator, but you don’t need to know that!

“Okay,” Britta said. “Follow me, quickly!” She began to turn, then looked back at Dallas. “But if he asks you to leave for any reason, you must promise right now that you’ll return to your seat instantly.”

Dallas Nielson reached out gently and put her hand on Britta’s shoulder, her voice warm and friendly and low. “Honey, I’m about as subtle as a pig at a tea party, but I’m not the idiot who’s going to distract a blind pilot trying to land a giant airplane that happens to be carrying my ass.”

Britta motioned her to follow as she made her way through the cockpit door. She pointed Dallas to the lefthand jump seat behind the captain’s position and quickly explained to the copilot why Dallas was there, then turned to leave.

“You can read the instruments?” Dan asked Dallas.

“You mean like the Attitude Deviation Indicator, the HSI, the altimeter, VVI, airspeed, and whiskey compass?”

“That’s an A-plus answer, Ms.…”

“Dallas.”

“Okay. Dallas. Mr. MacCabe, would you let her sit in that seat, please?”

Robert was already ushering Dallas to the jump seat behind the captain’s seat.

“There’s a second jump seat there in the middle, Mr. MacCabe. You have to fold it out from the wall.”

“I see it.”

“Okay, Dallas,” Dan said. “Have a seat and back us up. The fellow in front of you is…” Dan took a long, deep breath before continuing. “… ah… Geoffrey Sampson. Listen to what I ask him, and speak up instantly if we don’t get it right.”

“You got it, Chief.”

Britta had paused in the cockpit door behind Dallas, pleased that the woman had fallen silent and was studying the instrument panels with what appeared to be practiced familiarity. The realization sent a small jolt of hope through Britta’s knotted stomach.