The Lion's Game

CHAPTER 8

Andy McGill heard the blast of his truck's horn and moved quickly back to his vehicle and jumped on the running board. Sorentino said to him, "Stavros called. He said to enter the aircraft. Some Federal types called him, and there's a fugitive on board, in the dome. The perp is cuffed and escorted. Take him and his two escorts out and turn him over to one of the patrol cars. They all have to go to Gate Twenty-three where some NYPD and PA vehicles will be waiting." Sorentino asked, 'Are we taking orders from this guy?"

For a brief second, McGill considered a connection between the fugitive and the problem, but there seemed to be no connection, not even a coincidence, really. There were a lot of flights that came in with escorted bad guys, VIPs, witnesses, and whatever-a lot more than people knew. In any case, there was something else in the back of his mind that kept nagging at him and he couldn't recall what it was, but it had something to do with this situation. He made a mental shrug and said to Sorentino, "No, we're not taking orders from Stavros or the Feds… but maybe it's time to board. Notify the Tour Commander."

"Will do." Sorentino got on the radio.

McGill considered calling the mobile staircase vehicle, but it was some distance away, and he really didn't need it to get into the aircraft. He said to Sorentino, "Okay, right front door. Move it."

Sorentino maneuvered the big truck toward the right front door of the towering aircraft. The radio crackled and a voice came over the speaker saying, "Hey, Andy. I just remembered the Saudi Scenario. Be careful."

Sorentino said, "Holy shit…"

Andy McGill stood frozen on the running board. It all came back to him now. A training film. About twenty years ago, a Saudi Arabian Lockheed LI Oil Tristar had taken off from Riyadh Airport, reported smoke in the cabin and cockpit, then returned to the airport and landed safely. There was apparently a fire in the cabin. The aircraft was surrounded by fire trucks, and the Saudi Emergency Service people just sat around and waited for the doors to pop open and the chutes to deploy. But as luck and stupidity would have it, the pilots had not depressurized the aircraft, and the doors were held closed by the inside air pressure. The flight attendants couldn't get them open, and no one thought to use a fire ax to smash a window. The end of the story was that all three hundred people on board died on the runway from smoke and fumes.

The infamous Saudi Scenario. They'd been trained to recognize it, this looked like it, and they'd blown it big-time. "Oh, shit…"

Sorentino steered with one hand and handed McGill his Scott pack, which consisted of a portable compressed air bottle and full face mask, then his crash ax.

As the RIV got under the door of the aircraft, McGill scrambled up the hand and foot rungs of his fire truck to the flat roof where the foaming cannon was mounted.

Rescue Four had joined his truck and one of the men stood on the second truck's roof behind that truck's foaming cannon. McGill also noticed that one of the men from a patrol car had suited up and was deploying a charged high-pressure water hose. The other four fire trucks and the ambulances had moved farther away in case of an explosion. McGill noted with some satisfaction that as soon as someone said Saudi Scenario, everyone knew what to do. Unfortunately, they'd all sat around too long, like the Saudi firefighters they had laughed at in the training film.

Mounted on the roof was a small collapsible ladder, and McGill extended it out to its six-foot length and swiveled it toward the door. It was just long enough to reach the door handle of the 747. McGill put on his mask, took a deep breath, and climbed the ladder.

Ed Stavros watched through his binoculars. He wondered why the Emergency Service team had gone into a fire-fighting mode. He had never heard of the Saudi Scenario, but he knew a fire-fighting scenario when he saw one. He picked up his radiophone and called McGill's vehicle. "This is Stavros. What's going on?"

Sorentino didn't respond.

Stavros called again.

Sorentino had no intention of broadcasting the fact that they'd belatedly figured out what the problem might be. There was still a 50-50 chance that it wasn't the Saudi Scenario, and they'd know in a few seconds.

Stavros called again, more insistent this time.

Sorentino knew he had to reply. He transmitted, "We're just taking necessary precautions."

Stavros considered this reply, then said, "No indication of a fire on board?"

"No… no smoke."

Stavros took a deep breath and said, "Okay… keep me posted. Answer my calls."

Sorentino snapped back, "We're in a possible rescue situation. Stay off the frequency. Out!"

Stavros looked at Hernandez to see if his subordinate had heard the Guns and Hoses idiot get nasty with him. Hernandez pretended he had not, and Stavros made a mental note to give Roberto a high efficiency report.

Stavros next considered if he should call anyone concerning this fire-fighting deployment. He said to Hernandez, "Tell Air Traffic Control that Runways Four-Left and -Right will be down for at least fifteen more minutes."

Stavros focused his binoculars and stared at the scene at the end of the runway. He couldn't actually see the right front door, which was facing away from him, but he could see the deployment of the vehicles. If the aircraft blew and there was still a lot of fuel on board, the vehicles that had moved off a hundred yards would need new paint jobs. The two fire trucks near the aircraft would be scrap metal.

He had to admit that there were times when the Emergency Service people earned their pay. But still, his job was stressful every minute of his seven-hour shift. Those guys got stressed maybe once a month.

Stavros remembered what the nasty Emergency Service guy had said-We're in a possible rescue situation. This in turn reminded him that his part in this drama had officially ended as soon as the 747 had come to a halt. All he had to do was keep advising Air Traffic Control of the status of the runways. Later, he'd have to write a report consistent with his taped radio transmissions, and consistent with the fate of the aircraft. He knew that his telephone conversation with the Justice Department guy was also taped, and this, too, made him feel a little better.

Stavros turned away from the big window and went to the coffee bar. If the aircraft blew, he knew he'd hear it and feel it, even up here in his tower. But he didn't want to see it.

Andy McGill shouldered his fire ax in his left hand and put the back of his gloved right hand against the aircraft's door. The back of the fire glove was thin and theoretically you could feel heat through it. He waited a few seconds, but felt nothing.

He moved his hand to the emergency external door handle and yanked on it. The handle moved out away from its recess, and McGill pushed up on the handle to disarm the automatic escape chute.

He glanced behind and below and saw the fire-suited guy from the patrol car on the ground to his right. He had the charged hand-line aimed directly at the airliner's closed door. The other fire truck, Rescue Four, was fifty feet behind his own, and the guy on the roof was aiming the foaming cannon at him. Everyone had full bunker gear and Scott packs on and he couldn't tell who was who, but he trusted all of them, so it didn't matter. The guy at the foaming cannon gave him a thumbs-up. McGill acknowledged the gesture.

Andy McGill held the handle tight and pushed. If the aircraft was still pressurized, the door wouldn't budge, and he'd have to smash through the small door window with his crash ax to depressurize the aircraft and vent any fumes that might be inside.

He kept pushing and all of a sudden the door began to open inward. He let go of the handle and the door automatically continued to pull itself in, then retracted up into the ceiling.

McGill ducked below the threshold of the door to escape any outpouring of smoke, heat, or fumes. But there was nothing.

Without losing another second, McGill pulled himself up into the airliner. He looked around quickly and saw he was in the forward galley area, which was where he belonged according to the floor plans on file. He checked his face mask and air flow, checked his gauge to make sure his tank was full, then propped his fire ax against the bulkhead.

He stood there in the galley and peered across the wide-bodied fuselage to the other exit door. There was definitely no smoke, but he couldn't be sure about fumes. He turned back to the open door and signaled to the men with the fire hose and cannon that he was okay.

McGill turned back into the aircraft and proceeded out of the galley into an open area. To his right was the First Class cabin in the nose, to his left was the huge Coach section. In front of him was the spiral staircase that led into the dome where the cockpit and Business Class section were.

He stood there a moment and felt the vibrations of the engines through the airframe. Everything seemed normal except for two things: it was too quiet, and the curtains across the Coach and First Class areas were drawn closed. FAA regulations called for them to be open during takeoff and landing. And if he thought further about this situation, he would have wondered why none of the flight attendants had appeared. But that was the least of his problems, and he put it out of his mind.

His instinct was to check out one or both of the curtained compartments, but his training said to proceed to the cockpit. He retrieved his crash ax and moved toward the spiral stairs. He could hear his breathing through the oxygen mask.

He took the steps slowly, but two at a time. He stopped when he was chest-level to the upper deck and peered into the big dome of the 747. There were sets of seats paired along both sides of the dome, eight rows in all, for a total of thirty-two seats. He couldn't see any heads above the big, plush seats, but he could see arms draped over the rests of the aisle seats. Motionless arms. "What the hell…?"

He continued up the staircase and stood at the rear bulkhead of the dome. In the center of the dome was a console on which lay magazines, newspapers, and baskets of snacks. Late afternoon sunlight filled the dome through the portholes, and dust motes floated in the sunbeams. It was a pleasant scene, he thought, but instinctively he knew he was in the presence of death.

He moved up the center aisle and glanced left and right at the passengers in their seats. Only about half the seats were occupied, and they were mostly middle-aged men and women, the type you'd find in Business Class. Some were reclined backwards with reading material on their laps, some had their service trays open and drinks sat on the trays, although McGill noticed that a few glasses had tipped and spilled during the landing.

A few passengers had headphones on and appeared to be watching the small individual television screens that came out of the armrests. The TVs were still on, and the one closest to him showed a promo film of happy people in Manhattan.

McGill moved forward and turned to face the passengers. There was no doubt in his mind that all of them were dead. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind, tried to be professional. He pulled the fire glove off his right hand and reached out to touch the face of a woman in the closest aisle seat. Her skin was not stone cold, but neither was it body temperature. He guessed she had been dead for a few hours, and the state of the cabin confirmed that whatever had happened, had happened long before preparations to land.

McGill bent over and examined the face of a man in the next row. The face was peaceful-no saliva, no mucus, no vomit, no tears, no tortured expressions… McGill had never seen anything quite like this. Toxic fumes and smoke caused panic, horrible suffocation, a very unpleasant death that could be seen on the faces and in the body contortions of the victims. What he was seeing here, he concluded, was a peaceful, sleep-like unconsciousness, followed by death.

He looked for the cuffed fugitive and the two escorts and found the handcuffed man in the second from last row of the starboard side seats, sitting in the window seat. The man was dressed in a dark gray suit and though his face was partly hidden by a sleeping mask, he looked to McGill to be Hispanic or maybe Mideastern or Indian. McGill never could tell ethnic types apart. But the guy sitting next to the cuffed man was most probably a cop. McGill could usually pick out one of his own. He patted down the man and felt his holster on his left hip. He then looked at the man sitting by himself in the last row behind these two and concluded that this was the other escort. In any case, it didn't matter any longer, except that he didn't have to lead them off the aircraft and put them in a car; they were not going to Gate 23. In fact, no one was going anywhere except to the mobile morgue.

McGill considered the situation. Everyone up here in the dome was dead, and since the entire aircraft shared the same internal atmosphere and air pressure, then he knew that everyone in First Class and Coach was also dead. This explained what he'd seen and not seen below. It explained the silence. He considered using his radio to call for medical assistance, but he was fairly certain no one needed assistance. Still, he took the radio off its hook and was going to transmit, but he realized he didn't know quite what to say, and he didn't know how he would sound yelling through his oxygen mask. Instead, he keyed the radio button in a series of long and short squelch breaks to signal that he was okay.

Sorentino's voice came over the radio and said, "Roger, Andy."

McGill walked to the rear lavatory behind the spiral staircase. The door sign said VACANT, and McGill opened the door, assuring himself that no one was in there.

Across from the lavatory was the galley, and as he turned away from the lavatory, he saw someone lying on the floor in the galley. He moved toward the body and knelt. It was a female flight attendant, lying on her side as though she were taking a nap. He felt her ankle for a pulse, but there was none.

Now that he was certain that no passengers needed aid, McGill went quickly to the cockpit door and pulled on it, but it was locked, as per regulations. He banged on the door with his hand, and shouted through his oxygen mask, "Open up! Emergency Service! Open up!" There was no response. Nor did he expect any.

McGill took his crash ax and swung at the cockpit door where the lock was. The door sprang in and hung half open on its hinges. McGill hesitated, then stepped into the cockpit.

The pilot and co-pilot sat in their seats, and he could see their heads tilted forward as if they'd nodded off.

McGill stood there a few seconds, not wanting to touch the pilots. Then he said, "Hey. Hey, Can you hear me?" He felt slightly stupid talking to dead men.

Andy McGill was sweating now, and he felt his knees trembling. He was not a queasy man, and over the years he had carried his share of burned and dead bodies out of various places, but he had never been alone in the presence of so much silent death.

He touched the pilot's face with his bare hand. Dead a few hours. So, who had landed the aircraft?

His eyes went to the instrument panels. He'd sat through a one-hour class on Boeing cockpits, and he focused on a small display window that read AUTOLANDS. He had been told that a computer-programmed autopilot could land these new-generation jets without the input of a human hand and brain. He didn't believe it when he'd heard it, but he believed it now.

There was no other explanation for how this airship of death had gotten here. An autopilot landing would also explain the near-miss with the US Airways jet, and would probably explain the lack of reverse thrust. For sure, McGill thought, it explained the hours of NO-RAD, not to mention the fact that this aircraft was sitting at the end of the runway, engines still running, with two long-dead pilots. Mary, mother of God… He felt sick and wanted to scream or vomit or run, but he stood his ground and took another deep breath. Calm down, McGill.

What next?

Ventilate.

He reached above his head for the escape hatch, activated the lever, and the hatch popped open, exposing a square of blue sky.

He stood a moment, listening to the now louder sound of the jet engines. He knew he should shut them down, but there seemed to be no risk of explosion, so he let them run so that the air exchange system on board could completely purge itself of whatever invisible toxin had caused this nightmare. The only thing he felt good about was the knowledge that even if he'd acted sooner, it wouldn't have changed anything. This was sort of like the Saudi Scenario, but it had happened while the aircraft was still aloft, far from here. There had been no fire, so the 747 hadn't crashed like the Swissair jet near the coast of Nova Scotia. In fact, whatever the problem was had affected only human life, not mechanical systems or electronics. The autopilot did what it was programmed to do, though McGill found himself wishing it hadn't.

McGill looked out the windshields into the sunlight. He wanted to be out there with the living, not in here. But he waited for the air conditioning systems to do their job and tried to remember how long it took to completely vent a 747. He was supposed to know these things, but he had trouble keeping his mind focused.

Calm down.

After what seemed like a long time, but was probably less than two minutes, McGill reached down to the pedestal between the flight seats and shut off the four fuel switches. Nearly all the lights on the console went off, except those powered by the aircraft's batteries, and the whine of the jet engines stopped immediately, replaced by an eerie silence.

McGill knew that outside the aircraft, everyone was breathing easier now that the engines had shut down. They also knew that Andy McGill was okay, but they didn't know that it was he, not the pilots, who had shut down the engines.

McGill heard a noise in the dome cabin, and he turned toward the cockpit door and listened again. He called out through his oxygen mask, "Anybody there?" Silence. Spooky silence. Dead silence. But he had heard something. Maybe the ticking of the cooling engines. Or a piece of hand luggage had shifted in the overhead compartment.

He took a deep breath and steadied his nerves. He recalled what a medical examiner once told him in a morgue. "The dead can't hurt you. No one's ever been killed by a dead man."

He looked into the dome cabin and saw the dead staring back at him. The coroner was wrong. The dead can hurt you and kill your soul. Andy McGill said a Hail Mary and crossed himself.