Just before the Straton’s wheels hit the runway, Fitzgerald could see that the pilot had made one final, desperate control input. That, coupled with the aircraft’s low airspeed, was all that averted instant and total catastrophe. But the aircraft’s unspent downward energy was still far too great for its designed limits of strength. As Fitzgerald watched, the Straton sank down onto its undercarriage, then the huge sets of landing gear snapped off as if they were made of glass. Broken wheels and struts catapulted in all directions. The airliner fell onto its belly and skidded down the runway at over a hundred knots, a shower of sparks rising beneath and behind it. The aircraft yawed left and right, dangerously close to a complete spin. Fitzgerald could see the speed brakes extend above the wings. The rudder was still working back and forth; Fitzgerald knew the pilot had not given up.
The crowd on the grass began running as the uncontrolled airliner, as tall as a three-story building and as long and wide as a football field, began skidding toward them. Some of the crowd jumped on retreating vehicles; others hit the ground.
Fitzgerald knew that no place was safer than any other if the Straton went off the runway, and he stood his ground and watched. Around him, four news cameramen stood in the grass, recording the progress of the giant airliner plowing across the runway less than 3000 feet away. The sound of scraping and tearing metal rose above the screaming of the engines as the tortured Straton 797 came closer.
Wayne Metz said to Ed Johnson, in an awed, faraway voice, “Did he make it?”
“Sort of.”
“Will it explode?”
“Maybe.”
They both watched as the huge aircraft continued its crabbing skid down the runway, leaving a trail of sparks, coupled with an unbelievable sound of scraping, tearing, tortured metal.
Metz asked, “What should we do if it doesn’t explode?”
“We should go out to the aircraft and be among the first to meet the pilot.”
Metz glanced at Johnson, then back at the Straton. He said softly, “Explode and die.”
Berry felt the Straton settle hard on its landing gear, and heard the incredible sound of the gear ripping off. The airliner’s 820,000 pounds dropped jarringly onto the runway and the aircraft began to slide. Berry’s only emotion as the landing gear collapsed was anger. Anger at himself for getting it so far and losing it at the last moment.
But it wasn’t all lost yet. He was alive, and he intended to stay that way. He glanced toward Sharon. As his hands reached for the fuel shut-off switches, she was looking at him, and apparently had been since the impact, watching his face, trying to see by his expression if they were going to live or die. He nodded to her, as if to say, It’s okay. But it wasn’t.
Berry raised the spoilers on top of the wings to act as speed brakes in a last desperate attempt to slow the careening airliner. His feet worked the rudder pedals, but he could see it was having little effect on keeping the aircraft pointed straight down the runway, now that the fuselage was in contact with the pavement.
For a split second, right before touchdown, he had seen himself taxiing the crippled airliner up to the parking ramp, but now he knew he would be lucky if he could avert an explosion. For the first time since he had begun flying, he wanted to run out of fuel. But even if the tanks were dry, there was probably enough volatile fumes in them to blow the airplane to pieces.
He saw the crowd scattering to his left, and noticed the crash trucks moving away as well. He motioned for Sharon to get into a crash position, but she shook her head. He looked quickly over his shoulder and saw that Linda had her head between her legs. The passengers were stumbling and falling; the deceleration had thrown many of them back into the lounge.
The sickening sound of tearing, scraping metal filled the cockpit with a noise so great that he literally could no longer think clearly. He turned back to the front and waited out the final seconds. There was nothing left for him to do concerning the Straton, and that, at least, was a welcome relief.
The Straton skidded toward Fitzgerald. As it came within a hundred feet of him, it suddenly spun out of control, its seven-story-high tail coming around in a slow clockwise direction. Fitzgerald dropped to the ground. The massive Straton filled his whole field of vision and he could actually smell its engines and feel its heat as its wing passed above him. He looked up and saw the left wing dip down and plow into the grass. The outboard engine fell from its mounts and rolled end over end in the grass, leaving a trail of blazing earth behind it.
People began to yell, “Fire!”
Fitzgerald looked up at the aircraft spinning and sliding away from him. He could see that the wing section around the lost engine was a maze of severed wires, tubes, and cables. Long plumes of orange flame and black smoke trailed off the damaged wing. Within seconds the entire left wing was ablaze, flames shooting up to the full height of the fuselage.
Fitzgerald stood quickly and began running after the moving airliner. Incredibly, on his right, he saw Edward Johnson and Metz running too. Johnson he could understand. There was nothing cowardly about the man, no matter what one thought of him. But Metz . . . What the hell was going on here?
The Straton had slowed considerably as soon as its wing and engine ripped into the ground, and the spinning action further slowed its forward momentum. The aircraft came to rest a hundred yards from Fitzgerald.
Rescue units began rushing toward the Straton, and fire vehicles converged on it with nozzles spewing foam over its length, trying to smother the fire before the fumes and fuel in the tanks exploded.
From the captain’s seat, Berry could see the wall of flame that engulfed the left wing.
Before the airliner came to a complete stop, Berry ripped off his seat belt, stood, and reached across to Sharon Crandall. He grabbed her arm and shook her. “Sharon! Sharon!” She was dazed, and he could tell from the gray pallor of her face that she was in shock. He opened her belt and pulled her out of the chair.
She clung to him for a second, then picked her head up. “I’m all right. We have to get out of here.”
Berry looked around. The cockpit was jammed with twisted, moving bodies. The first whiffs of acrid smoke had already floated up the circular stairs into the lounge, and drifted into the cockpit. Passengers from the lounge were beginning to respond to the smoke, and began heading toward the cockpit.
Berry shouted above the noises of the injured and the sounds of the emergency units outside. “Open the emergency door. I’ll get Linda.”
She nodded quickly and pushed her way through the stumbling forms around her.
Berry pulled away a lifeless body draped over the observer’s seat and unbuckled Linda’s belt. The girl was barely conscious, and he lifted her over his shoulder.
He pushed his way to the door, which was still closed. “Sharon! Open the door. Open the door.”
She knelt beside the small emergency door, tears running down her face. “It’s stuck! Stuck!”
He thrust the girl into Sharon’s arms and pulled at the emergency handle. It held fast, and he pulled again, but it wouldn’t open. Damn it. The airframe is probably bent. He looked around wildly. Through the cockpit door poured a stream of passengers, crawling, clawing, staggering, and with them came clouds of black stinging smoke, darkening the cockpit. The passengers pressed against him; they were thrashing, howling, terrified. Foam splattered against the windshields, and the cockpit became almost black. He looked up and saw that Sharon and Linda had disappeared. He reached for them, but other bodies were forcing him back against the sidewall. Berry dropped to one knee and rammed forward until he found the emergency door again. He grabbed blindly for the handle, and finally located it. The smoke was overcoming him, and he couldn’t find the strength to pull. “Sharon! Linda! Where are you?”
“John, here.” Her voice sounded weak. “We’re over here. In the front.”
“Hold on. Hold on.” Berry looked up, but he couldn’t see more than a few feet through the smoke and the frightened, mill
ing passengers. He turned back to the emergency door. He grabbed the door handle and pulled on it with every bit of strength he could summon. He kept pulling until he thought he would black out.
The door suddenly flew open, followed by a loud explosion as the nitrogen bottle fired into the inflatable emergency chute. Berry drew in a long breath. He grabbed at the figure standing in front of him, but his eyes were burning and he couldn’t see through the clouds of black smoke that billowed out the door.
The passengers began tumbling past him, their residual intelligence directing them toward the sunlight and air. Berry shouted as the stream of passengers fell over him. “Sharon! Linda!”
“John. Here. We’re here. Against the copilot’s chair. Please, we can’t move.”
Berry crawled toward the voice, trying to stay below the smoke. Through his watering eyes he saw a bare leg and grabbed at it. But the people around him were moving like a tidal wave now, like the escaping air that had started this nightmare so many hours before. They pressed against his kneeling figure, and before he realized what had happened he was on the bright yellow escape chute. He grabbed wildly at the sides of the chute, but he could not stop himself from sliding down, headfirst, toward the runway below. Before he hit, he heard himself screaming, “Sharon!”
20
John Berry’s head throbbed and waves of nausea passed over him. In the distance he could hear sirens, brakes screeching, the shouts of rescue workers, bullhorns, radios squawking, and the cries of injured people around him.
He got himself into a sitting position and tried to look around, but his right eye was blurry and he rubbed it; his hand came away with blood. “Damn . . .”
He glanced at the Straton towering over him. The huge jetliner sat on its belly, but the aircraft was tilted to the right and its nose was pointing back toward the direction from which he’d landed. Incredible, he thought, looking at the size of this thing that he’d brought in. The cockpit had been so small. . . . He suddenly felt a sense of overwhelming awe and pride.
“My God . . .”
Berry thought he’d been unconscious for only a short time since hitting the concrete, because the scene around the Straton was still chaotic with trucks and am-426 bulances rushing toward the aircraft. He looked up at the left wing. Small wisps of smoke were still rising from the areas around the fuel lines, but the flames were out. Several fire trucks were positioned on both sides of the airliner, spraying foam across the wreckage from a safe distance.
Berry took a deep breath. It was strange, he thought, that his body still felt as if it were in the Straton; he still felt the vibrations of the airframe, the pulse and sound of the engines—like a sailor who steps off a ship and walks with a swaying gait. He ran the palms of his hands across the warm concrete, as if to assure himself he had returned to earth.
He took another deep breath to try to clear his head, but there was an acrid smell in the air and his stomach heaved again.
Berry stood unsteadily and looked around the runway. About twenty people were sprawled on the concrete, some unconscious, some moaning, a few crawling. Berry looked for Sharon and Linda—looked for the orange life vests among the injured passengers. But neither Sharon nor Linda was on the ground.
He looked up and saw that the yellow escape chute was still attached to the cockpit emergency door. Berry shouted up at the open door, “Sharon! Linda!”
A figure appeared at the door, and Berry saw that it was the copilot, Dan McVary.
McVary stood at the threshold for a second, then took a step forward, as if he were walking down a flight of stairs. He fell backward and careened quickly down the chute, howling as he accelerated. His feet hit the runway and the sudden deceleration pitched him forward, and he tumbled right into the arms of John Berry.
Both men stared at each other for a few long seconds, and as Berry looked into the eyes of this man who had caused him so much trouble, he realized that anger and hate were totally inappropriate emotions. He said to McVary, “I brought your plane home, buddy. You’re home.”
McVary kept staring at Berry, showing neither comprehension nor aggression. Then he seemed to slacken in Berry’s arms, and a tear rolled down his cheek.
A medic pushing a gurney was racing toward the people at the foot of the chute, and Berry called out to him, “Hey! Take this guy. He’s the copilot. He needs help.”
The medic detoured to Berry, and together they forced McVary onto the gurney. Berry said, “You’d better strap him in.”
The medic nodded, and as he fastened the straps, he asked Berry, “Hey, what’s with these people?”
Berry replied, “Brain. . . . Lack of oxygen. They’re all . . . They’re not well. Unpredictable.”
The medic nodded. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not supposed to be moving around. Just lie down here and wait for a stretcher.”
“Okay.”
The medic pushed the gurney down the runway toward a dozen parked ambulances and a few dozen trucks that had been pressed into service to transport dead and injured.
Berry tried to make sense of what was going on around him. It appeared that most of the rescue workers and vehicles were staying a respectable hundred yards or so from the Straton until the firefighters gave assurances that the airliner wasn’t going to blow. There were no ladders or hydraulic platforms at any of the doors or at the holes in the sides of the aircraft. All Berry could see were hoses shooting chemicals at the huge aircraft, nose to tail, top to bottom, wingtip to wingtip. The giant airliner was dripping, glistening, as pools of chemicals collected around the craft. Berry noticed that a fire truck was shooting white foam at the tail, obliterating the Trans-United logo. This, he knew, had less to do with fire fighting than with public relations.
He noticed, too, that a number of medics had braved the risk of explosion and were removing the passengers who had slid down the only deployed chute, which was the one from the cockpit.
Berry looked up at the cockpit emergency door and shouted again, “Sharon! Linda!”
He grabbed the arm of a passing fireman and shouted, “My wife and daughter are in the cockpit! I have to get up there!”
The fireman looked up at the towering dome of the Straton 797, the place where the first-class lounge and cockpit were. The man shook his head. “We don’t have anything on the scene that can reach that high.”
“Then get a goddamned truck and ladder here! Now!”
“Steady, fella. We’re going in through the passenger doors in a minute. We’ll get into the dome and get your family.” He added, “I have to ask you to clear this area. Back where the ambulances are. Go on.”
Berry turned and hurried toward the tail of the aircraft.
He felt dizzy, and guessed he had a slight concussion. He surveyed the area around him, and in the far distance he saw the main terminal and more vehicles headed his way. He spotted a number of vans with antennas and dishes on their roofs, and he knew they were television vans. A line of police cars with rotating lights kept them at bay and kept the growing crowd from getting closer.
It occurred to John Berry that somewhere around here was the person or the people who had access to the data-link and who had tried to put him and everyone aboard the Straton into the ocean. Undoubtedly, he thought, someone from the airline. Someone high up who could commandeer the company data-link and clear everyone else out of the area. But that was not his main concern at the moment. His main concern was the two people he’d left behind.
Trans-United’s chief pilot, Captain Kevin Fitzgerald, moved around the ambulances, between the wheeled gurneys, and among the aluminum trestles on which lay stretchers. He spoke quickly to medics and doctors and looked at each of the twenty or so passengers who had slid down the chute and were being taken here, far from the aircraft that could potentially explode.
Based on what Jack Miller had told him, and on the passenger manifest, Fitzgerald was looking for passengers John Berry, Harold Stein, an
d Linda Farley, and flight attendants Sharon Crandall and Barbara Yoshiro. But so far, no one answered to those names. In fact, he realized, no one was answering to any name. Within a few minutes, the enormity of what had happened struck him.
Fitzgerald came to a gurney about to be loaded on an ambulance. On it lay a man wearing a bloodstained white shirt with epaulettes, and a black and white name tag that said “McVary.”
Fitzgerald motioned the attendants to hold up a moment, and he leaned over McVary, seeing that he was conscious and strapped down. Fitzgerald recalled meeting Dan McVary once briefly at a training seminar. Fitzgerald said, “Dan. Dan. Can you hear me?”
McVary looked at the chief pilot, a man who yesterday was his boss, a man with whom he’d always wanted to have a few words. But today, First Officer Daniel McVary wouldn’t have even recognized himself in the mirror and certainly did not recognize Chief Pilot Kevin Fitzgerald. “Aarghh!”
“Dan? It’s Kevin Fitzgerald. Dan? Dan, can you . . . ?” No, Fitzgerald realized, no, you can’t, and no, you never will . “Damn it! Oh, my God, my God, my God . . .” Suddenly, he realized what Edward Johnson and Wayne Metz were about.
A fire truck came by, and Berry jumped on the running board beside the driver. He said, “Drive under the wing.”
The driver did a double take, but rather than argue a small point with someone who looked like he meant it, the driver turned slightly and drove toward the tilted wing.
Berry climbed up a small ladder fixed to the side of the cab and balanced himself on the roof. As the fire truck passed beneath the wing, Berry jumped forward and landed on all fours on top of the wing.