Brewster realized that the joke was aimed at him, and that made him angry. He pressed the print button, then yanked a copy of the message out of the machine and held it in his hand.
SOS
Idiots. It would serve them right if he reported them. He didn’t know if they could trace which of their flights had sent the anonymous message. It was a stupid, irresponsible thing to do, and the pilot who sent it would be in trouble if they could trace it. Then again, it might only be a malfunction. Why get involved? If he reported it, he’d get a bad reputation with the flight crews. That, somehow, might affect his promotion. Miller had always told him to cover for the flight crews. It would pay off. He was glad Evans hadn’t seen the message. He crumpled the data-link’s message and threw it in the trash can and left the room.
Jack Miller saw Brewster walk out of the communications room. “Jerry, can you get that mid-altitude stuff to me soon?”
Brewster looked across the room. “Sure, Mr. Miller. Just a few minutes.” He glanced at the wall clock. Three minutes to twelve. They would both be late for lunch. He unrolled the chart on his desk, weighted it down at the corners, then picked up a pencil and began transcribing pertinent temperatures onto a blank sheet of paper.
John Berry stared at the rotary code selector on the data-link. The thing to do, he decided, was to change codes and send again. A longer message this time. That impulsive SOS had been too brief, enigmatic, he realized. He looked around the cockpit for code books but realized that, even if there had been any, they had probably been sucked out. He would have to try each channel, transmit a complete message, wait for a reply, and if there was none, go on to the next channel. Somewhere, the counterpart to this machine would print. He’d begin monitoring each channel again after he’d transmitted on all of them. It was a shotgun approach, but it was far better than waiting. The urge to hit the key was getting the better of him. “I think I’m going to try another channel. What do you think?”
Sharon Crandall looked at the blank video screen. “Wait a minute or two. I remember that the pilots sometimes waited ten minutes or more for a reply.”
“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.