Crandall sat and turned to him. “John, what about Barbara… and Harold Stein? Can’t we…?”
Berry shook his head impatiently. “Forget them.” His hands were still shaking. “Stein… Stein went below to be with his family, and I don’t think he’s coming back… ever. Barbara… well, she must have run into something too big to handle.”
Crandall nodded.
Daniel McVary focused on the door to the cockpit. Several half-thoughts ran through his mind. The predominant one concerned water. He wanted water, and he remembered that he had drunk water in the place behind the door. He’d sat in a chair surrounded by big windows and drunk from cups. He was beginning to remember a lot more. He remembered that he belonged in the chair. His mind’s eye flashed pictures, clear and vivid, but their exact meaning wasn’t fully understood.
Daniel McVary’s brain still functioned on many levels, but there were huge dead areas, black places, where nothing lived, no synapses connected, no memory was stored. Yet the brain was finding open circuits around these dead areas and thoughts were forming, wants and needs were recognized, action was contemplated.
First Officer McVary’s mind focused on the image behind the door that he had seen before it closed. Someone stood near his chair. A woman. He wanted to go back to his chair. The man who had pushed him was in there also. His arm still hurt. He stepped toward the door.
Linda Farley shouted. “Mr. Berry!”
Berry spun around and jumped out of his seat, but it was too late. The copilot crossed the threshold and walked into the cockpit. Berry lunged at him, but McVary lurched out of the way and stumbled against the side wall of the cockpit.
Berry stood still, holding his breath. He watched as the copilot brushed across a board jammed with circuit breakers and several switches, afraid to move toward him again, knowing that if those switches were inadvertently moved, he might never be able to set them right again.
Very slowly, Berry began moving toward McVary and reached out his hand toward the copilot as the man kept groping at the console and electronics board to regain his footing.
McVary got his balance and turned. He came to meet John Berry. Berry proceeded more cautiously, aware that the man had a fair amount of agility and even some cunning. They moved toward, then around, each other, circling cautiously in the confined area of the cockpit.
A group of passengers stood at the door, craning their heads, watching.
Linda Farley moved back and climbed into the pilot’s chair. Sharon Crandall edged out of the copilot’s chair and tried to get in a position to help.
It occurred to Berry that anyone with as much mental ability as McVary seemed to have might be capable of understanding reason. He spoke softly. “McVary. McVary. Do you understand me? Can you speak?”
McVary seemed to listen to the words, but he kept circling. He opened his mouth. “I… I… I…”
Berry nodded. “Yes. Please go. Go. Out to the lounge. Lounge. Lounge…”
McVary picked his head up and looked into the lounge, then suddenly bolted toward his flight chair.
Sharon Crandall screamed and tried to get out of his way. McVary grabbed her and threw her to the side.
Berry caught McVary from behind, and both men fell to the floor. Berry struck his head on the seat track and a black, searing pain shot through his skull.
He was aware that he was on the floor and that McVary wasn’t. He knew that the copilot could not be restrained by Linda or Sharon, but he couldn’t get to his feet. He felt blood running over his forehead and face. He saw McVary’s legs near his face. He looked up. McVary was struggling with Sharon. Everything became blurry, then he heard a noise, a noise that filled the cockpit and sounded like the rushing of steam through a burst pipe. McVary screamed.
Berry was aware that Sharon was helping him sit up. He looked around. McVary was gone. The door was closed again. “What happened?”
Sharon Crandall dabbed at his bleeding wound with a handkerchief. She motioned toward Linda Farley.
Berry looked at the girl. She stood, trembling, with a bright red fire extinguisher in her hand, Halon still visible around its nozzle.
Crandall touched Berry’s cheek. “Can you stand?”
“Yes. Of course.” He stood slowly and looked at Linda Farley. “Good thinking. Very good.”
Linda dropped the fire extinguisher and ran to Berry. She buried her face in his chest.
Berry patted her head. “It’s all right. You didn’t hurt him. Just scared him a little.” He cradled her head in his hand and with the other hand reached out for Sharon. The three of them stood quietly for a few seconds, calming themselves.
Berry heard scratching on the door and stepped over to it. He could see faces through the small piece of one-way glass in the door. He took a deep breath, then hit the door with his shoulder, sending two men and a woman sprawling. He looked back into the lounge. A procession of people were coming, one at a time, out of the stairwell, filling the lounge from wall to wall, pressing closer to the cockpit bulkhead. Berry looked at their blood-red eyes set in those gray, ashen faces. His head swam. His hold on reality was beginning to weaken. An irrational thought flashed through his mind, the thought that he was already dead and this place was not the Straton but some sort of perpetual flight that would never end, never land…
He pulled the door shut tightly and turned, facing back into the cockpit. He felt sweat on his face and his breathing had become difficult.
Sharon Crandall looked from the door to his face, then back at the door. There was fear, thought Berry-no, terror-in her eyes. Berry controlled his voice and spoke to her. “We… we’ve lost a major advantage… with them in the lounge… but… as long as we keep them out of here… out of the cockpit…”
His world was shrinking, reduced to these square yards-this small room that contained their only link with the world they had left… that contained the instruments of their survival and the only mechanical and human intelligence left onboard.
Sharon Crandall held Linda Farley and nodded, but she did not see how they were going to keep the passengers of Flight 52 out of the cockpit.
Edward Johnson walked to a long shelf and took down a heavy spiral-bound book. Wayne Metz watched him carefully. The man was still walking a mental tightrope, and the slightest thing could upset his balance.
Johnson sat on a stool and placed the book on the counter. He picked up the telephone.
Metz spoke softly, choosing his words carefully. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Johnson didn’t answer. He placed the slip of paper that Evans had given him on the counter and began dialing. At the same time, he opened the big book in front of him.
Metz was becoming anxious. “Who are you calling? What’s in that book?”
Johnson looked at him as the phone began ringing on the other end. “I’m calling ATC.”
“Why?”
“Because, Wayne, from now on I have to handle it just like it’s supposed to be handled.”
“What’s in the book?”
Johnson spoke into the telephone. “Mr. Malone, please.” He looked up at Metz. “There’s a coffeepot in that cabinet. Make coffee.” He turned to the phone. “Mr. Malone, this is Ed Johnson. Vice-President of Operations at Trans-United.”
“Yes, sir. What’s the story with 52?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t look very good. They are no longer transmitting.”
“Do you have any idea what’s going on?”
“Before I fill you in, take down these coordinates of their last estimated position. Please take the necessary steps to begin a search-and-rescue operation.”
“Yes. Go ahead.”
Johnson read the coordinates. “They turned before we lost contact, so they are now on a heading of 120 degrees at a speed of approximately 340 knots. You can extrapolate from there.”
“Yes, sir. Hold the line while I get the ball rolling on this.”