Medusa's Child

TWENTY-SEVEN

The whine of the cargo door motors started the moment Jerry Christian toggled the switch to the open position, but for a few seconds—as the internal cams rotated to the unlocked position—nothing visible happened.

Suddenly the seal around the outward-opening door cracked open. Jerry felt his heart jump to his throat as the big top-hinged cargo door gave a small lurch and began to move.

There was no explosive force, no sudden blowout, just a growing strip of gray light between the bottom of the door and the cargo floor as the door moved out nearly two inches into the slipstream.

But he hadn't expected the noise. The deafening roar of the passing air frightened Jerry and he found himself fighting a primal desire to release the switch and stop the process before the slipstream took hold.

The side-opening 727 cargo door wasn't designed to withstand a two-hundred-mile-per-hour airstream. Jerry knew what was coming, but not knowing the exact moment it was going to happen—not knowing the exact angle the door could reach before blowing away—was terrifying.

The visible crack between the cargo floor and the lower edge of the door widened to six inches and kept growing.

Jerry could feel the shudder of the airplane as the lower lip of the door entered the high-speed airstream a few inches from the fuselage. He saw the door stiffen against its restraints, bucking slightly as the hurricane of air began to enter the opening. He could feel it tugging sideways at the fuselage as the airstream clawed at it.

But still it held.

The big door continued to move outward slowly in a mesmerizing, almost sedate motion, as if airborne deployment were nothing out of the ordinary. The steady movement left him wholly unprepared for the soul-shattering impact of sudden motion and sound as the airstream grabbed the door at last and ripped it away from its supports. It slammed against the top of the fuselage in a sequence so violent and immediate that as soon as it was over he realized he hadn't even seen it.

In a heartbeat the big Boeing rolled violently to the right and pitched up with sickening urgency as the sound of an explosion of some sort reached his stunned ears. He peered through the gaping hole where the cargo door had been and found himself looking at angry clouds and the left wing. He felt the bank angle steepen and the G-forces increase and the nose drop.

Jerry tightened his grip on the cargo strap and willed himself to move, thrusting his body forward a few inches against the G-forces for a better vantage point. Scott and Doc were obviously fighting for their collective lives, but they were still flying. He could see the spoilers fluttering up on the left wing as they fought for control.

There!

He could barely make out the top edge of the opening without getting too close. He expected to see the clean outlines of the door sill.

Instead, he saw the door itself, or at least a large part of it, fluttering violently against the airstream as it sat at a weird angle, still firmly attached to the aft two hinges. It had been stripped clean by the slipstream of its insulation and plastic molding and partially fragmented.

Oh jeez! It didn't tear completely off!

There was something else wrong.

Fire! Out of the corner of his eye he saw the orange flicker of flames somewhere outside to the rear of the aircraft, and he knew instinctively one of the aft-mounted engines must have swallowed some of the fragmenting cargo door.

Jerry looked at the fluttering remains of the door, which was now acting like a new control surface, dangerously influencing the flight path of the instantly crippled 727. He looked out the door at the darkening clouds as they streamed by. They had all the opening they needed now to dump the weapon, but first they had to get the airplane— and the fire—under control.

The 727 continued to roll to the right as Jerry tried to hang on. He tightened his grip beyond the point of pain and closed his eyes as he felt his feet lift slightly off the floor—and realized they were upside-down.

He remembered the same feeling as a little boy on a carnival ride that had been far too violent for his age, a wheel of connected cars which started in a horizontal position, then rose to vertical. With each pass over the top, he'd been convinced he was going to fall and die, a feeling of terror he'd never forgotten.

And that same feeling was knotting his stomach now. The cargo hatch was a yawning black hole waiting to swallow him if he let go.

Doc, too, had felt the shudder of the initial opening, the first few inches of cargo door moving into slipstream. There had been a small fluctuation of the cabin pressure, then a slight rolling movement to the left before all hell had broken loose.

In an instant the attitude indicator was telling him they were rolling to the right, pitching up, and almost out of control. He thought they'd stalled when the door came open, but now the nose slid below the horizon and was pointing down as they rolled even farther to the right, the airspeed climbing above two hundred and fifty knots. He knew something was terribly wrong with the aircraft and had jammed on full power and was battling to stop the roll, but the ship had ignored him and continued rolling over on its back, accelerating nose-down in a steep right bank.

Fear had gripped Doc. Why isn't she responding? What the hell's going on back there?

Doc's left hand had reached out and yanked the three throttles back to the idle detent as he made the decision to let the aircraft do a complete roll—a three-hundred-sixty-degree aileron roll—and come all the way back around to a wings-level attitude before renewing his fight to get control.

The decision had taken less than a second.

Now he reversed aileron pressure from left to right, increasing the roll rate as he focused on timing his moves. He was aware of Scott in the left seat and Vivian and Linda strapped in behind him, but there was no time to focus on anything but trying to control the airplane.

The nose of the 727 was pitched down now to thirty-five degrees, the accelerating airstream making a tremendous racket from behind the cockpit as the big jet dove toward the dark waters of the Atlantic upside-down. If he pulled back pressure at that point, Doc knew, they'd hurtle straight down and probably break up before impact.

But if he could minimize the nose-down angle…

As the 727 rolled through the upside-down position and continued to roll upright, Doc shoved forward on the yoke, sending all four of them in the cockpit up sharply against their shoulder harnesses.

The pitch angle stopped increasing but the roll continued until the Boeing finally came through ninety degrees and rolled back closer toward level flight.

Doc began pulling back pressure as he watched for the exact moment to reverse the controls. His eyes fixated on the blue half of the attitude indicator—the half that indicated sky and up and life—and watched for it to come through fifteen degrees of bank. Time dilation had taken over. The pace seemed almost leisurely. His mind accelerated ahead of the airplane.

Now!

He rolled the yoke back to the left, into the stops, stomping hard on the left rudder at the same time.

The aircraft yawed smartly to the left, angling the right wing more into the airflow, shuddered, and stopped rolling.

They were in level flight once again.

Thank God! Doc thought. With left rudder and left wheel, I can hold her level. But what went wrong back there? He pulled on the yoke, bringing the nose back to level flight.

The altimeter read four thousand five hundred feet.

The noise of the roar from behind the cockpit door was deafening, but not loud enough to mask a thunderous metallic impact that shuddered through the airframe as the 727 began what felt like a snap roll back to the left! He could hear Linda and Vivian both gasp as Scott shot a wide-eyed look at the right seat.

An engine fire warning bell was ringing somewhere in the back of Doc's mind, and he thought he saw Scott's hand reach out and cancel the warning. There was no time to look for a fire warning light or call for checklists. The airplane now wanted to corkscrew left, and Doc banged the control wheel back to the right.

"What the hell?" Scott managed to say at last.

By rolling the wheel to the right, Doc stopped the left roll at nearly sixty degrees of left bank. Slowly she was rolling right, back to level, but fighting him in a pronounced, uncomfortable slip to the right. It was like flying sideways through the air.

They were back to wings level and neutral rudder, holding altitude at four thousand three hundred feet and airspeed at two hundred sixty when the whole thing began again, starting with the same shuddering bang.

This time Doc was ready.

With full left wheel and full left rudder, he stopped the right rolling tendency and began hauling the wings back to a level attitude, degree by degree.

The 727 yawed to the left at his command.

Again the huge slamming noise rattled through the airplane, and once again she wanted to roll left.

"Of course," he said out loud.

"What?" Scott yelped.

"The damn door… is still attached and flopping around… in the slipstream!" Doc's words came through gritted teeth as he manipulated the controls, trying for level flight without releasing too much left rudder.

"Can you control it?" Scott asked. "Want some help?"

Doc nodded. "That sudden left roll was me. When the door's open, it rolls us to the right. I apply left controls and yaw us left, the slipstream changes, closes the door, and suddenly I'm causing us to snap to the left because the door's closed and there's no longer any right roll moment. But when I neutralize the rudder, the airflow goes back to normal, opens the door, and we're back to a right roll."

Doc looked at the center console.

"Scott, crank in left rudder trim. Try fifteen degrees. That may do it. Then we need to check on Jerry."

Scott raced to position the rudder trim wheel at the back end of the center console. As they worked to find the right combination of control pressures, the flashing red light on number one engine finally exceeded Linda's efforts to keep silent.

"Scott, is that red light important?"

He followed her finger. "My God, I forgot the engine fire," Scott said.

"Which one?" Doc asked.

"Number one. Ready on the procedure?"

Doc nodded and Scott called out the steps as he positioned the levers and switches and discharged the fire bottle, just as Jerry burst through the door.

"We're on fire, guys!"

"We know," Doc said. "Number one."

Seconds ticked by.

The red light, which stated simply "Fire," remained on.

"Thirty seconds have elapsed, Doc. It's still burning. I'll hit the other bottle," Scott said.

"Do it," Doc replied. Scott pushed the button.

Jerry gripped the back of Vivian's seat, breathing hard, working to keep his balance as the 727 bucked in the storm's turbulence. "We've got a major problem with the door. That's what you're fighting."

Doc was nodding vigorously. "It was flopping back and forth with the yaw, right?"

"Yeah. It's fragmented and hanging on the aft hinges— the forward hinges are gone. We can try to hack it off with the ax, but… wait a minute, guys, that 'fire' light is still on."

"Damn!" Scott said. He looked at the number one engine instruments and stopped. "Wait a minute!"

"What?" Doc asked.

"We've got zero indications on number one. No rotation, no temperature."

"It may have destroyed all the probes," Jerry said. "I saw an orange reflection. I figured it was fire."

Scott turned to Jerry, who was still standing behind the center console.

"Can you go take a look?"

Jerry nodded. "But we've got a hell of an open door back there. Can you keep her level?"

"We almost lost her," Doc said.

"You almost lost me!" Jerry replied. "Be right back… I hope. Doc, please try to keep her steady—I mean, as steady as you can." He disappeared into the cargo cabin.

He was back in less than a minute.

"Okay, I leaned out enough to see it. The fire's out, but there's no engine out there. Number one is… is… it's just gone. It's literally off the airplane."

Scott took a deep breath as Doc nodded and Linda leaned forward.

"Can we make it with two engines?" she asked.

Doc looked over his shoulder at her and tried to smile as he nodded. The effect was not reassuring.

Jerry was studying the instruments. His eyes fixated on the altimeter, which was below five thousand feet.

"My God," he said as much to himself as Doc and Scott. "We're at forty-five hundred feet! If we'd started all this at five thousand instead of ten thousand, we'd have hit the water."

Scott glanced over at Doc. "Thanks to the wisdom of Captain Hazzard over there in wanting the extra altitude, we're still alive."

Doc looked up and shrugged. "You get paranoid in your old age. More altitude and airspeed for mama and the kids."

Scott looked back at Vivian and Linda. "How're you two doing?"

"Scared out of my mind," Linda replied, "but alive. You, Vivian?"

Vivian seemed to have swallowed her fear. "That was quite a ride."

"There's more to come, I'm afraid," Scott said with a grim expression, as the plane bucked again in Hurricane Sigrid's outer grasp.

"How much time left, Jerry?"

Jerry looked at his watch, or where his watch had been.

"Jeez, I must have lost it back there." There was a haunted look on Jerry's face. "We've got to get the rest of that door off and get the pallets ready to push out. Scott, Doc, there's a good chance one or all of those pallets are going to hit us as they fall away."

Scott was already out of the left seat, motioning toward the rear. "Let's get moving. Doc, you've got her."

"Just tell me when you're about to do something back there," Doc replied as he adjusted the throttles and began a shallow climb. "By the way, Scott, my clock indicates we've got less than twenty-four minutes before detonation."

"I'm coming with you," Linda announced as she unsnapped her seat belt and got to her feet. "You'll need all the hands you can get."

Vivian began searching for her seat belt release as well, but Linda stopped her.

"There's a good reason to force you to stay here, Vivian."

"And what might that be?" Vivian asked in a strained voice.

"You've just undergone an operation without anesthesia and you're still adrenalized, traumatized, and weak. Stay here."

Vivian nodded. "Very well, Doctor. Unless you need me."

There had been no time to think about what to expect, but the sight that greeted Scott's eyes as he opened his cockpit door was somewhere beyond a nightmare.

Fifteen lateral feet of the left side of the 727 was wide open, except for the ragged remains of the cargo door, now twisted and shredded and held in place by the off-center airflow Doc was creating over the top of the jet by yawing left. Scott held his hand out to stop Linda and Jerry. He spotted the heavy cargo strap Jerry had used. It snaked off into the gaping abyss and was fluttering frantically in the airstream, slapping the edge of the door and the floor at intervals.

"I'VE GOT THE CRASH AX RIGHT HERE, SCOTT!" Jerry yelled. The noise was unbelievable.

"WHAT?" Scott yelled back.

Jerry stepped up to him and yelled, practically in his ear, "THE CRASH AX! I'LL STRAP IN AND SEE IF I CAN HACK IT OFF."

"HOW'RE WE GOING TO GET PAST THAT HOLE WITHOUT FALLING OUT?" Linda yelled at both of them.

"WE'RE GOING TO TIE CARGO STRAPS AROUND US AND BE VERY DAMN CAREFUL!" Jerry replied.

He moved past Scott and Linda and hauled in the loose cargo strap, forcing himself to be calm as he looped it through a buckle and ran it under his armpits, tightening it around his chest.

The constant bouncing and unpredictable lurching of the aircraft gave way to a more severe series of jolts as sheets of rain passed the open door in a surrealistic display. Scott had never seen rain from the open door of a flying aircraft before. Jerry could see the water break into spray as it impacted the leading edge of the left wing, which was visible just beyond the door. He put the thoughts and the images out of his mind as best he could and turned back to Scott. "WILL YOU HOLD ON TO THIS END OF THE STRAP? IF YOU SEE ME START TO TEETER OR LOSE MY BALANCE NEAR THAT DOOR, YANK ME BACK INSTANTLY!"

Scott nodded as he grabbed the strap several feet from the anchored end and wrapped several turns around his hand for leverage, adjusting his feet against the periodic lurches of the aircraft as it plowed through the hurricane's turbulent air currents. Linda moved in beside him and took the length of strap just behind, wrapping it around her hands as well. He could feel her push in tighter against him, and it was a comfortable, reassuring feeling. Both of them anchored their feet against the forward lip of the first cargo pallet as Scott held the tension on the strap while Jerry moved gingerly toward the back edge of the cargo door opening, carrying the large crash ax.

The exposed metal cargo floor was slippery with rain and spray and Jerry slipped several times as he moved aft, each time feeling a precautionary tug as Linda and Scott prepared to yank him back.

Jerry anchored his left hand on part of the overhead structure at the lip of the door and began swinging the ax at the door hinge. Each impact was a muffled crunch of metal against metal with sparks flying, but slowly he made headway.

Another rain shower passed the door, some of it spraying Jerry as he worked. The 727 bucked upward momentarily, causing him to swing wildly and impact the wrong point. He steadied himself and started again. Scott could see he was getting tired, the job of keeping his footing against the constant turbulent movements of the aircraft a trial. The swings were getting wilder and less effective.

It was time to switch places with Jerry, Scott decided, as he glanced at his watch.

No, on second thought, there was no time left. He gave a few light tugs on the strap and Jerry stopped and looked in their direction with a questioning expression.

Scott waved him forward and Jerry pointed to the ceiling, as if to say he was getting close. Scott gestured to his watch, and Jerry, understanding, let go of the overhead door lip and tried to take a step toward him, just as the aircraft lurched to the left.

The ax slipped from Jerry's hand and hung almost suspended in midair as he grabbed for it, but the sudden movement of his body shifted his center of gravity and his hand failed to close around it as he lost his balance.

In a split second he was toppling toward the abyss of the open door, powerless to stop.

Twenty-five feet away, Linda and Scott saw Jerry's lanky torso falling dangerously toward the door. Simultaneously, they gave a mighty pull on the strap, unceremoniously yanking Jerry off his feet and propelling him forward to crash face-first on the slick floor in front of them, safe but shaken.

Jerry got to his feet with Linda's help and brushed himself off. He looked at Linda and then at Scott and managed a little grin. Linda could see his hands shaking.

"THANKS!" he yelled over the noise outside. "THAT WAS TOO CLOSE."

Scott motioned them all back into the cockpit and closed the door against the worst of the noise.

"Doc, let's neutralize the rudder trim and see if you can maneuver us back and forth and make that door come off."

"Wait," Jerry cautioned. "Doc, pull both engines to idle before you do, just in case anything heads for the engine opening."

"Understood. You'd better strap in," Doc told them.

Scott was shaking his head as he reached for the top of the engineer's panel to steady himself. "There's no time, Doc. Go ahead and start the maneuver. We'll watch the cargo door from here."

"Hang on, then."

Jerry cracked open the cockpit door and partially wedged his tall frame between the last observer's seat and the bulkhead. Scott turned and held on to the flight engineer's panel with his left hand and encircled Linda's waist with his right arm as she held on to him and one of the seats. She glanced at Vivian, who appeared calm, though very pale. Her eyes were fastened on Doc.

Doc held his left foot hard against the left rudder pedal.

"Here goes!" he bellowed over his shoulder.

In a rapid stroke he let up on the left rudder and pressed the right rudder. The 727 moved in a sickening sideways motion from a right skid to a left, and the sound of the cargo door section flopping open again was immediate.

This time, however, there was no right roll.

"It's off! It's gone!" Jerry yelled.

"Yes!" Linda echoed as Scott nodded and grinned. He looked at his watch again and felt his heart skip a beat.

"We've got to move fast." Scott let go of Linda and leaned forward toward Doc.

"Keep her steady, Doc, with just a little bit of a right slip with right wing down. We almost dumped Jerry overboard back there before."

"I'll do my best, but for God's sake be careful."

"I'll relay word to you when we're ready to release the pallets."

Doc nodded as he readjusted the throttles, and Scott turned to Jerry and Linda.

"Okay, here's the plan. We all put on cargo straps.

We've got very little time left. The first pallet can just be shoved straight out sideways. Jerry, you unlock it while we hold your strap. Then all three of us will start pushing it out. It's almost unloaded, so it's likely to flip off its rollers before it gets to the opening. Linda, just help us get it started, then hold back. We'll push it the rest of the way."

"Okay."

"We should have Doc bank left about fifteen degrees when we're ready. It should go out on its own then," Jerry said.

Scott agreed. "Excellent." He returned forward and briefed Doc on the additional procedure.

"Just let me know when. I'll need positive communication, Scott, not just a vague voice in the wind."

Scott nodded, his eyes falling on Vivian, who had been following every word with wide eyes.

She saw his look and nodded immediately. "I'll stand in the door, Scott, and relay information to Doc."

"That'll work."

Vivian unstrapped and took her position in the cockpit door after the three others had moved out and begun tying themselves into the cargo straps Jerry had prepared. Each strap was tethered to a cleat in the forward cargo floor.

Unlocking the first pallet was simple. Choreographing how to get it moving sideways to the left and out the side-opening cargo door was more complicated. Jerry directed Scott and Linda from the forward end, and together they moved it sideways on the dual-direction floor rollers until the pallet was partially out the door.

"READY?" Scott yelled.

Linda and Jerry positioned themselves on the right side of the pallet with Scott. They all crouched, preparing to shove it sideways. Scott looked forward at Vivian and nodded.

"NOW, VIVIAN! BANK LEFT!"

She nodded and disappeared into the cockpit, returning almost immediately.

They felt the floor cant to the left and the engines go to idle as Doc banked the 727, and then, while holding the left bank, he kicked in right rudder to slip the aircraft through the air slightly and cause gravity to pull the pallet through the open door.

"NOW!" Jerry bellowed, and they all three heaved at the pallet with such combined force it seemed to shoot out of their hands and completely clear of the door.

Linda fell forward on the floor as both Scott and Jerry stumbled and caught themselves.

For a second it had seemed to hang outside the door like a separate aircraft now given its own wings, and then the forward edge canted up slightly and it rose and was gone.

Scott braced for an impact with the tail or the engines, but there was nothing. He looked back to the doorway and flashed a thumbs-up sign at Vivian, which she immediately relayed to Doc.

The engines rose in pitch again and the aircraft steadied.

Scott helped Linda to her feet and the two of them moved to keep up with Jerry, who was already unlatching the second pallet.

With some difficulty, they wedged themselves behind the second pallet from Antarctica—still piled high with boxes and canisters and restrained with a plastic-covered cargo net—and began pushing it forward into jettison position.

It barely moved.

They tried again, all three of them straining as hard as possible.

Again it crept forward barely an inch.

Scott shook his head. "We've got to get the airplane into a nose-down deck angle. Hang on."

He moved out of the small space between the pallets and made his way along the right sidewall of the aircraft— opposite the open cargo door—to the cockpit to relate the problem to Doc.

Doc looked over his shoulder at Scott. "We'll have to get the flaps out, and I'll have to lose some altitude if we want a nose-down angle."

"Then let's do it," Scott told him.

"But, Scott, if the flaps are extended while we dump the pallets, they could slam into the flaps on the left side and make it impossible to get them retracted again. You know the results of that: We'd be unable to fly fast, we'd be using far more fuel, and we wouldn't have the range to make it back to the mainland. We'd have to ditch in the Atlantic in a hurricane with no life rafts."

Scott clenched his jaw and thought for a second.

"Okay, instead of using the flaps and slowing down, how about pitching the aircraft forward, nose-down, just for a short duration? When I relay the signal, push the nose over and hold us nose-down until you hear a big thud and Vivian tells you the pallet has hit the forward stops and we've blocked it from rolling backward."

Doc was nodding. "That'll do it. I'll hold it just long enough for you to get the thing moving forward, then I'll climb back to ten thousand before we do the next one."

Scott briefed Vivian on what to do and then returned to the back, trailing his safety strap.

With all three in place again, safety straps secure, Scott leaned into view of Vivian and gave her the prearranged sign.

Within seconds the engines had been pulled to idle and the 727 was nosing down, giving the cargo floor a downward tilt. One small shove from all three of them and the pallet rolled forward smartly until it banged to a halt against the forward stops.

As with the first, they prepared to shove the pallet sideways out the door. With a steady shove, it began rolling in the direction of the opening with very little effort.

All three watched the heavy pallet slide sideways into the darkening clouds and watched as the pallet seemed to hover for a heartbeat. Then, like the first one, the cargo pallet tipped up and rose out of sight, clearing the leading edge of the wing.

Another successful jettison! Scott thought with relief.

He looked at his watch as a shuddering impact threw all three of them forward, facedown on the floor.

Oh God, Scott thought. The pallet hit the tail!

The 727 pitched up at a frightening rate until the sound of yet another loud metallic bang echoed through the cargo cabin. Suddenly they were weightless as the jet pitched nose-down. Then, just as suddenly, they were thrown to the floor as the jet pitched back up, each oscillation preceded by a bang.

Scott's heart sank. The pallet had hit the T-tail and had possibly taken it out.

No, he thought, if it was gone, we'd already be screaming toward the water. There's some control left!

The G-forces increased on the next up-cycle. Scott crawled on hands and knees toward Vivian, who was hanging onto the door frame for dear life with huge, wide eyes. Scott looked back at Jerry and Linda, both of whom were trying to make their way in the same direction. He reached the door and grabbed their safety straps and began hauling on both of them as the next nose-down excursion began.

Both Jerry and Linda this time rose weightless from the floor and began floating toward the ceiling. Scott hauled even harder on the lines, knowing what would happen when Doc once again pulled the 727 nose-up, leaving Jerry and Linda to smash to the floor. Like a scene from some orbiting spacecraft, the two came swimming through the air toward him with terror-filled eyes and outstretched hands. He caught both of them just before the next up excursion began, and they all scrambled into the cockpit.

Scott pulled himself up to Doc's shoulder, aware the senior pilot was pushing hard on the control yoke.

"WHAT HAPPENED?"

Doc rapidly glanced left before returning his eyes to the panel. The horizontal control surface on the aft end of the T-tail called the elevator, which controlled the nose-up, nose-down pitch of the 727, was giving him fits.

"Something's binding the elevator!" Doc said.

Linda, Jerry, and Vivian strapped themselves into their seats as Scott pulled himself into the left seat, fumbling for the seat belt as another thud and a sudden weightlessness floated them upward.

"It's either nose-up or nose-down. I can't get anything in between!" Doc cried out.

"Let me feel it." Scott pulled on the yoke and felt the same resistance. As the elevator suddenly reversed with the now-familiar bang, he reached up and pointed to the switches controlling the multiple hydraulic systems that powered the elevator surface up or down.

"Doc, should we try to isolate? This could be a hydraulic problem."

Doc shrugged. "I thought it was mechanical, but… maybe…"

"I'll turn off one of the hydraulic systems, the A system."

Scott flipped the switches—and suddenly everything returned to normal.

"Saints preserve us," Doc exclaimed in an aped Irish accent. "I've got full control again!" He glanced admiringly at Scott. "Brilliant move, Captain Kirk." He grinned.

"Procedural shot in the dark."

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Teamwork, remember?" Scott grabbed for the seat belt release. "If you'll run the emergency checklist for hydraulic failure and see if we've forgotten anything, I'm going to go back there and jettison the bomb before it vaporizes us."

Doc swallowed hard. "Scott, please. No more impacts between cargo and airplane. The airplane may survive it, but my heart won't."