“Why?”
“Well, they don’t send anything important on it. They just want it so they can leave a message in the communications room—for the record.”
“Have you seen the communications room in San Francisco?”
“Once. I used to date a pilot. He brought me in there and showed me the data-link, weather printouts, and all that.”
“Sounds like fun. Where’s the communications room? Physically, I mean.”
“The room’s off the main dispatcher’s office.”
“Anyone on duty there?”
She thought for a moment. “No. I don’t think so . . . just machines. But people go in and out, though.”
Berry nodded. “Okay. We’ll have to wait for someone to go in there and spot the message. Where’s the machine located?”
“It’s in the middle of the room. The room’s small. They’ll see it.”
“Okay. I hope so.”
Crandall felt defensive, but didn’t know why she should. She tried to concentrate on the panel. Maybe she could come up with something else. The markings above the controls and gauges seemed so cryptic. RMI. LOM. Alternate Static. Gyro Transfer. “Here. This is something I remember. The ADF. I think it’s some kind of radio.”
Berry forced a weak smile. “Yes. The automatic direction finder. It’s to home in on an airport’s signal. Maybe we can use it later.”
“Oh.” She sat back. “I’m worried about Barbara. It’s been a while since we’ve heard from her.”
Berry had found the cockpit clock, but it seemed to be malfunctioning. “What time is it?”
She looked at her watch. “It’s six minutes past twelve, San Francisco time.”
Berry glanced at the clock again. 8:06. Eight hours beyond San Francisco time. He realized it was set to Greenwich Mean Time and remembered that airlines always measured time from that internationally recognized starting point. Berry shook his head in disgust. Everything in this cockpit seemed to provide him with useless information. The radios were filled with frequencies that wouldn’t transmit. The course indicators sat blindly in the center of their scales. The clock told him that at that moment, halfway around the world, neon lights shined on Piccadilly and the London theater had raised the curtain on their first acts. All that useless information was unnerving. He had, he realized, become increasingly morose. He needed to pull himself out of it. He coughed dryly into his hand to clear his parched throat. “At least the weather’s good and we have some daylight left. If this happened at night . . .”
“Right.” Crandall answered with little enthusiasm.
They both lapsed into silence. Each knew the other was nervous, yet they couldn’t bridge the gap to comfort each other. Berry felt himself wishing that Stein were free to come to the cockpit. Crandall wished Yoshiro would hurry back. Neither of them bothered to wish that the accident had never happened; neither of them was thankful for being alive. Their whole existence was reduced to worrying about the next course of action, the next few minutes.
Berry half rose in his seat and looked back into the lounge. “How is it going, Mr. Stein?” he shouted.
Harold Stein called back. “They seem quiet down there. Up here, too. No change in the copilot.”
“Call out for Barbara Yoshiro.”
Stein called loudly down the stairwell and listened closely. He turned toward the cockpit. “Nothing.”
Sharon picked up the interphone and looked at the console. “I don’t know which station to call.”
“Try any one.”
Crandall selected Station Six in the rear of the aircraft and pressed the call button. She waited. No one answered. “Should I call another station, or wait on this line?”
Berry was impatient. “How would I know?”
“I’m frightened for her.”
Berry was becoming angry. “I didn’t want her to go back in the first place. She’s become part of the problem now and no help with the solution.” He took a deep breath.
Sharon Crandall rose in her seat. “I’m going down there.”
Berry reached out and grabbed her wrist. “No. You’re not going anywhere. I need you here.” Berry looked intently at her. An unspoken message passed between them: Berry was now in command.
Crandall sank slowly into her seat. Finally, she nodded. “Okay.” She looked at John Berry, and he returned her stare. She felt strangely calm and confident in this man’s presence.
“Try the rest of the flight-attendant stations,” Berry said in a low, calm voice. “I’m going to start changing channels on the data-link. Maybe if we work on it, we can get our luck to change.” Berry let his fingers slip gently off Crandall’s wrist, and he reached across the console toward the data-link.
Jack Miller was trying to decide if he should give Flight 52 more time. He looked up at Brewster. “How’s the data-link today?”
Brewster looked up from the weather chart. “What?”
“The link? Is it behaving?”
“Oh.” He hesitated. “No. Just got a garbled message, as a matter of fact.”
“Okay.” He swiveled his chair and looked at Evans. “Okay, Dennis. In ten minutes, call them on the radio. Be gentle.”
“Always gentle, Chief.”
“Right.”
Jerry Brewster abruptly laid his pencil down and walked quickly to the communications room. “Damn waste of time,” he mumbled. He opened the door, ignoring the stench of color-enhancement chemicals, walked to the center of the room, and slid into the chair in front of the data-link keyboard. He saw that there were no messages on the screen, then set the machine to automatically choose and transmit on whatever channel the last incoming message had used. The SOS. He knew this procedure would work only if the aircraft had not changed the code settings on its own machine. Brewster placed his hands over the keyboard and typed a message almost as short as the one he had received.
WHO ARE YOU?
A copy of his message displayed on his own screen.
Berry thought he felt a barely perceptible pulsation in the machine, and had actually seen one of the unit’s lights blink for an instant. He jerked his hand away from the code selector as though it were red hot.
The bell that signaled an incoming message rang twice. Its tone filled the 797’s cockpit like the bells of Notre Dame on Christmas Eve.
Sharon Crandall let out a startled cry.
John Berry felt his chest heave and his throat constrict.
Letters began to print on the data–link’s video screen.
Sharon Crandall reached out and grabbed Berry’s arm.
WHO ARE YOU?
Berry almost rose out of his seat. “Who are we?” he shouted. He let out an involuntary laugh. “I’ll tell them who the hell we are!” He put his fingers on the keyboard. “What the hell is our flight number?”
“Fifty-two. Flight 52! Hurry! For God’s sake don’t let them get away!” For the first time since it had all begun, tears came to Sharon Crandall’s eyes and she sobbed quietly. She watched John Berry’s trembling hand type out a message.
“Jesus Christ!” Jerry Brewster bent over the data-link screen as he watched its message display.
FROM FLIGHT 52. EMERGENCY. MAYDAY. AIRCRAFT DAMAGED. RADIOS DEAD. MID-PACIFIC. NEED HELP. DO YOU READ?
Brewster hit the print button, then ripped the copy off the machine and stared at it. His heart pounded and his mind raced in a thousand different directions. He took a hurried step toward the door but stopped abruptly and returned to the data-link. He knew they would want an immediate acknowledgment. Anyone in that situation would. With fingers that seemed reluctant to do what they were told, he banged out a short reply.
TO FLIGHT 52. MAYDAY CALL RECEIVED. STAND BY ON THIS CHANNEL.
Brewster pushed the transmit button and prayed that the damned machine wasn’t having a bad day. He saw his message displayed before he ran toward the door.
Brewster burst into the large dispatch office and shouted, “Quiet! Listen! Flight 52 i
s in trouble!” His excited voice cut through the droning noises in the crowded office. The room quickly fell silent except for the ringing of an unanswered telephone.
Jack Miller jumped out of his chair and sent it rolling into the desk behind him. “What happened?” He moved quickly toward Brewster.
Brewster waved the message excitedly. “Here! From the data-link.”
Miller grabbed the message and scanned it quickly. He cleared his throat and read from it in loud, halting tones. “Mayday . . . Aircraft damaged . . . radios dead.” Miller was not completely surprised. In the back of his mind that empty data on his computer screen had grown more ominous with each passing minute. Yet he had put off making the call that would have resolved the open question. It was natural to want to assume that everything was perfectly all right.
A murmur of excitement arose from the dispatchers in the room and grew into loud, disjointed questions and exclamations of disbelief.
Miller turned to Brewster. “Did you respond?”
“Yes. Yes, I acknowledged. I told them to stand by.”
“Okay. Okay. Good, good.” Miller’s eyes darted around the dispatch office. Everyone was looking at him. He was the senior dispatcher, and 52 was his flight. Either way, it was his responsibility. That’s what the handbook said. But things never happened the way they were supposed to. For some reason, this emergency message had come directly to him on the data-link, and not through the normal channels. He was unsure of his next step.
Assistant dispatcher Dennis Evans spoke in a flat monotone that reached him over the noises in the room. “We’d better call someone. Quick.”
Miller frowned. Evans was a pain in the ass, but this time he was right. “All right, Dennis,” Miller said in a sharp tone. “You make the notifications. Use the emergency handbook. Call everyone on the list. Tell them . . .” Miller looked at the message fluttering in his unsteady hand. He knew that from here on they must be very careful. A thousand people, from their bosses at Trans-United to government officials and media people, would second-guess every move they made, every breath they took. Jack Miller and his dispatch office was suddenly onstage. He looked at Evans. “Tell everyone you call that the nature of 52’s emergency is still unknown. Give them only the barest details. Fifty-two sent a blind message on the link. Aircraft damaged. Need help. But they’re still transmitting, so it might not be too bad.” He paused and looked around the room. “Captain Stuart is the best there is.”
Evans reached for his telephone and began speed-dialing.
“Let’s move.” Miller motioned toward the communications room and led the way through the door.
Miller sat at the data-link console and Brewster stood beside him. A dozen dispatchers squeezed into the small stuffy room and jockeyed for positions around the console.
Miller loosened his tie. “Is the code still set?”
Brewster nodded. “Yes, sir.” He wondered at what point he would confess his negligence.
Jack Miller began to type.
TO FLIGHT 52. EXPLAIN NATURE OF EMERGENCY. NATURE OF ASSISTANCE REQUESTED. AMOUNT OF FUEL REMAINING. PRESENT POSITION.
Miller pushed the transmit button and sat back.
The room grew very still. Someone coughed. Some brief remarks were passed in low tones.
The data-link’s bell sounded and everyone crowded closer.
Miller motioned to Brewster. “Turn on the overhead monitor. I’ll work the console and display. Everyone else step back and read the monitor. I need room to work the keys.”
The video screen on the rear wall of the communications room lit up. White letters began to appear on the green repeater screen at the same time they printed on the smaller data-link unit.
FROM FLIGHT 52. TWO PILOTS UNCONSCIOUS. ONE DEAD. I AM A PRIVATE PILOT. AIRCRAFT HAS TWO HOLES IN CABIN. SUSPECT BOMB. NO FIRE. COMPLETE DECOMPRESSION. DEAD AND INJURED. ALL INCOHERENT EXCEPT TWO FLIGHT ATTENDANTS, TWO PASSENGERS AND MYSELF. SEARCHING CABIN FOR OTHERS. NEED INSTRUCTIONS TO FLY AIRCRAFT. AUTOPILOT ON. ALTITUDE 11,000. AIRSPEED 340. MAGNETIC HEADING 325. FUEL APPROX. HALF. POSITION UNKNOWN.
The dispatchers remained motionless staring up at the screen, reading the message through a second, a third time. Each man had been automatically formulating responses to the emergency, but as the words Two pilots unconscious, one dead appeared, all the conventional emergency procedures became invalid. Subconsciously, almost everyone was writing off
Flight 52.
Miller stared blankly at the printout. “A bomb. Holes in cabin. Complete decompression. Jesus Christ.” Miller knew that had he called earlier for 52’s fuel and status report, he would have realized much sooner that something was wrong. He wondered if that would make a difference in the outcome. He looked at the printout again. “Decompression. At that altitude. Good God . . . most of them must be dead or . . .”
Evans came through the door. “Everyone’s notified. Johnson is on the way. I only told them what you said. Unknown emergency. Might not be too bad.”
“I was wrong,” said Miller quietly. He pointed up at the video screen.
Evans stared at the illuminated words. “Oh, shit. How in the name of God could . . .?”
“All right,” said Miller abruptly. “The problem now is to get them down. The floor’s open for suggestions. Anyone?”
No one spoke.
Brewster cleared his throat. “Can we figure out their position?”
“That’s a good idea,” said Miller. “It would help. Do you have their last position?”
Brewster nodded. “Yes, sir. From the last fuel and status report.” He walked over to another computer and punched up some data. “It’s an hour and a half old, but I can plot a probable course and distance from that based on this new information.” He motioned toward the video screen. “It won’t be an exact position, but it’s better than what we have now.”
“Do it,” said Miller.
Brewster nodded and jotted down the information from Flight 52’s emergency message. “One thing’s for certain,” he said as he finished. “They’re headed the wrong way.” He turned and left the room.
“That’s a good point,” said Evans.
“Yes,” Miller agreed coldly. He could see the need for a decision pressing against him.
“Maybe you should tell them to turn around,” said Evans.
Miller kept his eyes focused on the screen. There was no textbook solution here. And even with all his years of experience, he had never had to deal with anything like this. All he could think of were the consequences for him as well as for the Straton, her crew and passengers. “He’s only a private pilot. He could lose control during the turn.” He drummed his fingers on the console. “There’s no need for a decision right now. We can let them fly on autopilot until we get their position. Maybe the pilots will regain consciousness. I wonder which one is dead?” he added.
Evans slapped his hand on the console. “Damn it, Jack. We have no real idea how much fuel is left on-board and they’re headed the wrong way. They’re headed for the Arctic Ocean. Siberia maybe. No matter what happens we’ve got to turn them around before they reach the point of no return.”
Miller shook his head. “The pilot reported half full. That’s enough fuel to get him to this airport or an airfield in Canada or Alaska. We don’t have enough information right now to make a rational decision.”
“We may never have enough information for that. Look, Jack—” Evans abruptly stopped speaking. Badgering old Jack Miller had always been pure sport. Evans enjoyed taking easy shots at the man in charge. But suddenly he realized that this was life or death; he’d never made a decision like that, and he didn’t want to be responsible for making one now. He realized how awesome the responsibility was and realized, too, that Jack Miller, as senior dispatcher, had had to live with the knowledge that one day he would be called on to help decide the fate of an aircraft in distress. “Do what you want, Jack,” he said softly. “You’re the boss.”
Miller nodded. “
Need more input.” He knew that his superiors would be there soon. They might say, “Jack, why the hell didn’t you turn them around?” Christ. He didn’t want to look like a procrastinator. That would be the end of him. But he didn’t want to look compulsive either. He needed more facts. How good was the pilot? How badly damaged was the aircraft? How much fuel actually remained? What was their position? He looked at the clock. The bosses would start arriving soon.
Brewster rushed into the room. Everyone turned toward him. He began without preamble. “The Straton’s estimated position is latitude 47 degrees 10 minutes north, longitude 168 degrees 27 minutes west. They are about 2,500 miles out. A conservative estimate of flying time left is 6 hours and 15 minutes, based on last known fuel report and flying time since then. In about 45 minutes they will pass the point of no return regarding this airport. They may have more or less time, depending on the winds. Luckily, they’re already at the best fuel-consumption speed for a low altitude. They’d get better range at a higher altitude, but I guess they can’t go up with those holes in the fuselage. I just hope none of the fuel tanks are damaged. If so,” Brewster said, waving the paper in his hand, “then all this is out the window.”
Miller looked up at the video screen. Flight 52’s last message was still written there in white letters etched across the dark green screen. The words appeared to pulsate with a sense of urgency as he stared at them. He turned to the console and typed out a short message.
CAN YOU IDENTIFY AND USE THE AUTOPILOT HEADING KNOB?
A few seconds later, the message bell sounded.
YES.
There was a murmur of excitement in the room. Miller typed again.
CAN YOU RECOVER IF YOU LOSE CONTROL OR AUTOPILOT FAILS?
The bell sounded almost immediately.
DOUBTFUL.
Miller swiveled in his chair and faced his fellow dispatchers. “Well?”
Brewster spoke. “I’d trust the autopilot to get through the turns.”