Johnson scowled but didn’t speak. Metz was making sense-too much sense.
“How many people earn their livelihood here?” Metz asked. He took a deep breath. “God, I almost wish that thing would go down by itself. I mean, dead is dead. Final. A few weeks of splashy media happenings. Then no one will even remember the name of the airline. Hell, I don’t remember the name of the airline involved in the last big crash. All airline names sound the same to the average guy. Like insurance company names. You see, if the thing goes into the drink, then all the facts go down with it. Nothing to photograph. No one to interview. The media gets bored with that. The National Transportation Safety Board can’t poke through the debris and sift it all and reconstruct the events. At those depths in the mid-Pacific, and with the Straton’s position unknown, the flight recorder with all that information is gone. John Berry and crew are gone. No one knows anything for sure. It would take years of legal hassling to determine who was liable, and to what extent. The airline itself could even be a sympathetic victim, what with the likelihood of a bomb.”
“Right,” said Johnson. Bombs were out of his jurisdiction, even if the airline’s security department could be faulted. And with no physical evidence in hand, there was no way any lawyer could prove that the maintenance cutbacks somehow lessened the aircraft’s survivability.
Metz was speaking faster now. “We can implicate the Straton Aircraft people, too. We could drag our feet in court for ages and retire with our distinguished careers intact before it gets untangled. But if John Berry sails into San Francisco International Airport… well, there’s no room for legal maneuvering when conclusive evidence of the airliner’s negligence is parked on the ramp, and the local mental institutions are packed to the rafters with living, breathing, drooling proof of the outcome of Trans-United Flight 52.”
Metz had not yet mentioned the idea that those people would be better off dead. It was a touchy argument, so he left it in reserve. “Okay, Ed. That’s all the cards, all face up on the table. Think about it. Good luck to you. Good luck to us.” He unbolted the door and opened it.
“Shut the goddamned door. Get in here.”
Metz shut and bolted the door. He looked at Edward Johnson and asked him, “The question is, can you give Berry flying instructions that will put that aircraft in the ocean?”
Johnson nodded. He’d already given it some thought. “I think so. The poor bastard will never know what happened.”
11
John Berry turned his head and looked over his shoulder into the lounge. He was about to call to Stein, but Stein wasn’t there. Terri O’Neil stood at the door, looking in like a departed spirit who had returned home and who could not cross the threshold without an invitation. Berry looked past her. His eyes darted around the lounge. “What the hell…?”
Sharon Crandall looked over at Berry. “What’s the matter?” She turned her head and followed his gaze. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Berry jumped down from the pilot’s chair and stood in the doorway. Harold Stein was gone. But worse than that, six passengers from the lower cabin had found their way up to the lounge. As he watched, Berry saw another appear out of the stairwell. He looked back at Sharon Crandall. “Stay here and keep them out of the cockpit.”
Crandall stood and placed herself in the doorway. Terri reached out toward her. Crandall took her friend’s hands in hers and held them, but would not let her pass.
Berry stepped quickly into the lounge, taking Terri by the arm and pulling her along.
He saw Linda Farley sprawled out near the piano. He walked to the middle of the lounge, ignoring the people milling around him. “Linda!”
She didn’t answer.
Berry felt an unexpected fear seize him. He released the flight attendant’s arm and ran across the carpeted lounge. John knelt beside the girl, took her shoulder, and shook her. “Linda!”
Linda Farley opened her eyes slowly.
First Officer Daniel McVary, lying a few feet away, opened his eyes also. But his eyes opened quickly, in a flash, wide and staring, like a night creature’s when the sun goes down. He lifted his head.
Berry helped the girl to a sitting position. He could see that her lips were dry and cracked, and dried tears streaked her face. “Almost home, honey.”
Linda Farley’s head turned, out of habit, toward the man she had been told to look after. She screamed. “He’s awake!”
Berry looked down into the bloodshot eyes of the copilot.
Daniel McVary sat up, his head hitting the leg of the piano. He let out a grunt and rolled over, then crawled toward Berry, his tongue hanging out like a dog’s.
Berry pulled the girl toward him and lifted her to her feet.
McVary continued to crawl toward them.
Berry pushed the girl behind him, then slowly, cautiously, bent over and helped the copilot stand. He looked into the man’s eyes. This was the man on whom Berry, a few hours before, had placed all his hopes. But that was before he had fully understood the scope of what had happened to the men, women, and children of Flight 52. Before he had made contact with San Francisco, before he had gained some confidence in himself. He saw now that this man standing in front of him, red eyes blinking and face twitching, could be of no more help to him than the others. Reluctantly, with some sense of guilt, he turned the man around and gently pushed him away. McVary stumbled a few feet, collided with the piano, and lay sprawled across it.
Berry looked up at the cockpit door. Terri O’Neil was again trying to enter the cockpit. Sharon was standing in the doorway with her arms thrust in front of her, pushing her friend away, too gently, Berry thought. A man who had come up from the cabin was also heading toward the cockpit. Berry looked quickly around the lounge. The other passengers were aimlessly stumbling into the lounge furniture and into each other. Berry wondered what force, what residual human intelligence it was that possessed and propelled them in so persistent a fashion. What were they seeking? What were they thinking?
Berry took Linda’s arm and pulled her to the staircase. He knelt and yelled down. “Stein! Harold! Can you hear me!”
There was no answer from Stein, only the howling wind and the coarse, vulgar sounds of the others. “Stein! Barbara! Barbara Yoshiro! Can you hear me?”
A group of passengers were on the stairs, climbing toward him. Berry waited a second until the first one, a young woman with long blonde hair, came within reach. He put his hand on her face and pushed. She stumbled back, lost her footing, and fell into the man behind her.
Berry rose quickly and wiped his wet hand over his trouser leg. “Oh, Jesus!” he mumbled.
Linda Farley cried out.
Berry turned in time to see the copilot lunge at him. McVary’s outstretched hands hit him in the face and Berry stumbled back, almost falling into the stairwell. He recovered quickly and grabbed McVary’s arm and pushed him toward the stairwell. He took the girl’s arm and walked quickly toward the cockpit door, pushing people aside. At the door, he pulled away Terri O’Neil and two men near her. He pushed Linda into the cockpit past Sharon. “Get back.”
He pulled the door by its broken latch and drew it shut as far as its sprung hinges allowed. “Damn it! We can’t lock this.” He turned and faced Crandall.
Sharon Crandall had her arms around Linda. The girl was sobbing quietly, pressed against her body. Crandall was stroking the girl’s hair.
It was several seconds before anyone spoke, then Crandall said, “What could have happened to Stein… to Barbara?”
Berry ignored the question. He glanced back at the door. It was open about three inches. Someone pressed on it and it closed a bit more. He was satisfied that the closed door presented enough of an obstacle for the moment. He sat in the pilot’s seat and turned back to the girl. “Linda, keep watching the door. Sharon, sit in the copilot’s seat.”