Departure (5 page)

HERE AT THE END, WHEN IT'S ALMOST OVER,
I begin to understand what might have happened to this section of the plane. After it broke away from the nose, it spun 180 degrees as it hurtled toward the ground. The treetops around the lake slowed it down before it hit the water. It crashed tail first, and that probably saved a lot of lives: the impact threw people back into their seats instead of forward where the seat backs would have snapped their necks. The bottom of the plane has been propped up by something. Trees would be my guess. Whatever it is has finally broken free, and so has all hell. The water in the fuselage, heavy as concrete, is finally pulling the center down. She'll be on the bottom in seconds.

“Everybody out! Now!” I yell.

The last of the survivors who helped us pass the bodies out climb up the aisle and into the waiting line that stretches to the bank, where bodies lie in uneven rows. All the way to the fire, it's a blur of yellow inflatables around bloodied, swollen faces, some bobbing in the
water, others standing waist-deep, all working with their last ounce of strength. The horde hardly looks human, but they've been saints tonight.

The guy in the green Celtics T-shirt—Mike, I think he's called—brushes past me, shivering, his head down. I grab his arm, searching the chaos around us. “Where's Harper?”

Mike coughs and glances behind him. “I thought she already bailed.” He nods. “Yeah. I think so.”

“All right. I'll make sure. Go.” I give him a push, and he walks to the edge of the plane and paddles into the frigid water.

I peer back into the abyss, but all I see are bodies, inflated yellow life vests around their necks, floating up toward me. I turn, walk back up the aisle, and scan the faces all the way to the fire, but I don't see a slender woman with blond hair, no life vest. She's not there. She didn't get out.

Something bursts below me—a life vest, I presume. The spray of water hits my face like a bucket of ice water. I shake my head and focus, staring into the dark aisle. Another body floats past, and then I glimpse a figure, slim arms reaching above a seat. Then they're gone, swallowed by the blackness.

My body reacts before I can even process what I've seen. I dive into the black water and swim through the flooded aisle, my hands gripping the backs of the seats that face me, pushing deeper, past bodies and floating objects I can't make out.

It's her. I can just discern her bruised face. Relief and fear war inside me. I reach for her outstretched hand, but the fingers don't close on mine. She feels lifeless, and that stops me cold. I float there for a moment, panic overtaking me for the first time since Flight 305 crashed.

Then her arms move slightly, as if waving for help. She's alive. Quickly, I move my grip to her forearms and pull, but she doesn't budge. I close the few feet between us, wrap my arms around her in a bear hug, plant my feet on the seat, and push off. Nothing. It's like she's tied down, trapped. My chest is pounding now, either from lack of oxygen or from fear.

I drop lower, grip her just above her waist, and thrust out with my
legs, giving it everything I've got, and we're free, floating in the aisle, but she's not moving. My chest feels like it's going to explode, but I keep an arm around her and kick at the seats, propelling us up. She feels unnatural, like a rag doll in my arms. The sensation is sickening, but I keep going, the sparkle of the moonlight through the water brightening slowly as my limbs grow numb and panic consumes me. We break the surface, and I gasp for air. For a moment I lose her. I grab her before she can go under again, then kick with my last ounce of strength, but I can't keep us above water. I'm spent. I try to suck in a breath, but I mostly get ice-cold water.

Voices around me, but I can't make them out. I hold on to Harper, kick toward the shore. My legs don't work. I'm limp in the water, something tugging at me. Water flows into my mouth, and I spit it up, choking. I shut my mouth and eyes and try to hang on.

I open my eyes again and see only yellow rubber, a life vest mashing into my face. I blink. Above me hangs a sliver of moon, stars brighter than I've ever seen them before. And then I'm on the shore, dragged by hands under my armpits. My head falls to the side, and I cough up water until I'm dry-heaving. I feel a blanket enfolding me, hands pushing, turning me toward the fire. The heat assaults me, scorching at first, the contrast to the cold nearly unbearable. Waves of heat wash over me, soaking through my skin to my shivering bones, each blast more bearable than the last. It's as if I'm coated in layers of warm mud; it burns, but I can't bring myself to turn away.

Seconds pass, or it could be hours; I've lost all sense of time. Hands grip me and lay me on my back, and I hear footsteps racing away, returning to the lake for someone else.

I roll over onto my side and search the camp. Harper is beyond the fire, on her back, Sabrina crouched over her, working feverishly on her still body. Sabrina's eyes meet mine. I've seen that look before, when the doctor told us about the dead in first class. My head falls back to the ground. The stars fill my eyes again, and then they fade away.

IT'S EARLY MORNING WHEN I WAKE. I'M STILL
by the fire, which has receded to half the size it was the night before. Bodies wrapped in blankets surround the fire in concentric rings, deflated yellow life vests scattered among them, as if it rained flattened rubber duckies last night.

I feel like I spent the last eight hours bouncing around a giant electric mixing bowl. There's no one point of pain, just radiating waves of ache. I take a breath but stop short, trying not to cough. The crisp air hurts, too. It all hurts.

After I'd warmed up by the fire last night, I moved farther out, leaving the warmest space for those who needed it most. We should have built two fires; it's far too cold out here, even for me.

Footsteps crunch toward me across the gravel bank, purposeful, quick strides, and then Sabrina is looming over me, scanning me with her intense eyes. “How do you feel?” Her accent is thicker this morning, her words more clipped. Or maybe that's just her Doctor Voice.

I let my head fall back to the ground. “Fantastic,” I say, and cough.

“That's unlikely. I need you to accurately report your symptoms. You might have internal injuries that I couldn't identify last night.”

“Good news, Doc: all my internal injuries are psychological.” I sit up, surveying the camp. “Where's Harper?”

“This way.”

I can't help holding my breath as Sabrina leads me across the camp to the circle closest to the fire. Harper's lying there on her side, her small body curled toward the fire, wrapped in two fuzzy blue blankets, her matted golden hair spilling over the top. She's not moving.

“She's alive,” Sabrina says finally. “But I don't know much more. She wasn't breathing when she was brought ashore. I revived her, but she was delirious. She may have permanent brain damage, or . . . As I said last night, any strenuous exercise was dangerous.”

“What do you think we should have done—nothing? Watched? Paddled out and told them we'd love to help but we can't, doctor's orders?”

“No. That is not what I meant to say. I only wanted to point out that her precarious physical state before the excess exertion and oxygen deprivation may have exacerbated any preexisting injuries, making a precise diagnosis more difficult.”

“Right. Well, since you put it that way . . .” I take a deep breath and rub my temples, trying to soothe my pounding head. Sabrina probably saved dozens of lives last night, and from the looks of it, she hasn't slept herself. “Look, I feel like hell, and I'm sort of second-guessing the decisions I made last night.”

“The fault is likely mine. I'm well outside my comfort zone here.”

“Right. You could . . . work on the bedside manner a bit.”

“I don't visit bedsides.”

“I gathered that. What kind of doctor are you, anyway?”

She turns and steps away from the fire. “I think you should get something to eat and rest.”

“Sandwich and a nap. Sounds good to me.” Searching the distance along the shore, I listen, but I don't see or hear anything. “So where's the cavalry?”

“Cavalry?”

“You know—helicopters, emergency personnel. They have to be here by now.”

“I haven't seen anyone.”

“You're kidding.”

“I assure you I'm not.”

Human interaction just isn't Sabrina's bag, which is probably why she's not a practicing physician, whatever that means. But that's not the biggest mystery at the moment.

Maybe the rescue teams are camped out at the nose section. The plane crashed almost twelve hours ago—they have to be here by now. In the confusion last night, I left my cell phone in my pocket. I verify what I already knew: it's dead and not coming back.

“I'm gonna check the other section, get some food. Want anything?”

“Yes, please. A half-liter bottle of water and a full meal, ideally a thousand calories—fifty percent carbohydrates, thirty percent protein, and the remaining twenty percent fat. Preferably unprocessed with minimal additives.”

“Great.”

“I can add further parameters if it would be helpful.”

“Nope, nope, I've got what I need. Be back.”

I trudge through the woods, following the path Harper and I ran last night. She was already winded then. I should have known better—and I should have never asked her to join me and the guys in the plane. I think back to last night and realize I looked directly at her when I called for volunteers, practically without thinking. I shamed the people complaining with that speech I gave, and I can't help but think I did the same with her. I twisted her arm, put her on the spot in front of everyone.

If she dies or is permanently disabled from the rescue, that's all on me.

Guilt presses on my shoulders like the weight of the world, dragging me down.

Ahead, I hear shouts. Two dozen people are crowded around the gray emergency chute that leads up to the door just right of the cockpit.

“It's our food!”

I know that voice—the drunken jerk in 2D. He's standing at the bottom of the chute, shouting and pushing people.

“
We
paid for it.” He jabs his finger toward the face of the man
in front of him. “
Our
tickets bought the food in first and business classes. Eat the food you paid for in economy. I hear it's back at the lake.”

I don't give much thought to what I do next. It's nice to have an easy decision.

I push through the crowd without a word.

“You—” 2D says, snorting . . . before I punch him in the face as hard as I can.

He falls straight back into the chute, bounces up halfway, and lands again awkwardly. Then he's pushing up, lunging at me, throwing a fist at least two feet short. I catch him with another shot to the face, and he flies back, at an angle this time, rolling off the edge of the chute onto the ground.

Every movement hurts, but God, it feels so good. That's the first time I've hit someone since I was ten. I hope it'll be the last punch I ever throw—but it's worth it. Easily.

From the ground, 2D's eyes are daggers. “I'll have you arrested for assault when this is over!”

“Really? How?”

“I've got two dozen witnesses.”

“Do you?” I glance back at the crowd, who are all smiles, some shaking their heads.

“And I've got proof,” 2D says, pointing to his bloody face.

“Of what? Being in an airplane crash?”

I turn to Jillian, whose eyes are wide. “How much food is left?”

“Some. I'm not sure.”

“Start bringing it out. Take two people to help you.”

The mob swells forward, but I hold up my hands. “Wait. We need to stay down here. The plane could be unstable. Let Jillian bring the food out, and we'll divide it evenly, okay?”

There's some grumbling but no real pushback. After all, I just punched some random guy in the face, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Behind me, Jillian is struggling up the chute with the help of two guys. It seems a waste to build a stairway when we'll be rescued soon, but someone's likely to get hurt if we don't. I walk over and talk with the three of them about what we might use, everything from luggage
to the serving carts. We agree that that will be the next priority, after breakfast is served.

What next? The mob is still here, massed like concertgoers waiting for the show to start. We need real help. Rescue.

“Does anyone here have a working cell phone?” I ask.

Voices around the crowd call out.

No, no service.

Battery's dead.

Been trying all night, nothing.

Nobody has, I've been asking.

That's odd. No, it's unbelievable. Out of two hundred passengers who crash-land in England, no one has a cell signal? Something's wrong.

The crowd seems to be thinking the same thing. A man wearing a tweed blazer over a
Doctor Who
T-shirt and jeans steps out of the crowd. “It's obvious what's happened, isn't it?” He pauses, waiting for the group's attention. “It's started—the Third World War. They've taken out our communications, all electronics. The invasion's begun, that's why they're not bothering with us lot. They've got bigger problems than rescuing us at the moment.”

Groans erupt, as well as murmurs of concern. A short, bald man wearing a black sweater and tiny round glasses takes up the dissenting position, speaking with that Down East Maine accent, slowly, deliberately, like a professor dressing down his least-favorite student. “That, sir, is far-fetched to the point of absurdity.”

“Is it now?” the
Doctor Who
fan retorts. “What do you know about it?”

“A great deal, actually. I used to work for Northrop Grumman.”

“Oh yeah? Big whoop.”

“If this
were
World War Three, we'd be hearing explosions. Planes would be flying overhead. We'd probably hear tanks and troop carriers in the distance. Anyway, I doubt World War Three would start in England.”

“Maybe they're saving England for last. It's the perfect launching place for an invasion of Continental Europe—history's proved that.”

“It is,” Northrop Grumman guy counters. “And that's precisely why nobody's conquered it in almost a thousand years.”

“Well, maybe it isn't that kind of war. Your lot always assumes the next war will be just like the last, tanks and planes right up to the end, but it's the technology that's the real key. They've taken us back to the Stone Age. They'll wait us out, let us start starving before they invade. They probably got us with a series of EMPs. That explains the crash—the phones, too.”

“It does not, sir,” Northrop Grumman drawls condescendingly. “An EMP wouldn't have fried our cell phones, but it would have knocked out larger electronics. I just saw a man on the plane with a working laptop.”

A middle-aged woman in an NYU sweatshirt speaks up. “The Internet went out during the flight. I was reading e-mail. That was at least an hour before we crashed.”

“True,” says a tall man beside her.

“Maybe it's just a problem with the satellites.”

Northrop Grumman turns to the NYU woman. “A satellite failure could have contributed to the crash, true, but it doesn't explain the cell phones. They connect to land-based towers—well, except for sat phones. The one thing we can conclude is that all land-based towers in the area must be down.”

“Or there aren't any,”
Doctor Who
says. “Maybe we're not in England at all.”

That, I find interesting.

NYU speaks up again. “The little readout showed the plane over England—I saw it.”

“It's possible,” Northrop Grumman says, considering, “that if the plane had a malfunction, and all external communication was lost, the readouts would have shown us on the original flight path. The plane's position could have been calculated based only on our flight time.”

“Then we could be anywhere!” a frightened voice shouts.

“Greenland, for all we know. It's bloody cold enough.”

“Or Iceland, or another island off the coast of England. No-man's-land.”

“They'll never find us.”

An elderly woman steps toward me. “What do you think, sir?”

Every eye turns to me.

“I think . . .”
What do I think?
I take a minute, finally settling on something I'd been chewing on for the last few minutes. “I think that we're going to know a lot more once we get into the cockpit. The computers, or hopefully the pilots, can tell us where we are. And the communications equipment could help us contact help.”

It amounts to kicking the can down the road, the proverbial answer we've been waiting for locked just feet away, but it does the trick. The crowd mellows. As food slides down the inflated chute, the group breaks up. People get their half meals and start trooping back to the warmth of the blankets and fire by the lake.

“You won't get into that cockpit.”

I turn to find Northrop Grumman standing bizarrely close to me.

“Why do you say that?”

“It's reinforced. All airplane doors were, after 9/11, especially on long-haul flights. You'd have a better chance of getting into Fort Knox.”

“What about the windows?”

“Same. They can withstand about any impact, even at high speed.”

The guy's still staring at me, almost expectantly. He's got more to say. Heck, I'll bite. “What do you suggest?”

He moves even closer, almost whispering. “You can't get in, but if someone is alive inside, they can get out—that's our only hope. It's only been twelve hours. Maybe one of the pilots was just knocked unconscious. If we could wake them up, they could unlock the door.”

“Makes sense. So we'll make some noise.”

“Exactly. Now, this is important, Mr. . . .”

“Stone. Nick Stone.” I extend my hand, and he shakes quickly.

“Bob Ward. Now we need to make sure we—or someone we trust—are the ones who get into that cockpit first.”

Someone we trust.
My mind flashes to the three guys that followed me onto the plane last night—and to Harper. I can't help wondering how she's doing. Dread fills the pit of my stomach.

“Why?” I ask, trying to focus on the issue at hand.

“Because there's a box inside the cockpit, filled with guns. If the wrong people get to them, this camp will become a very dangerous place.” He glances back at the chute, to where I laid out 2D.

“I agree.”

“Are we ready to begin, then?” Bob's already shuffling toward the chute. This guy is having the time of his life.

With the help of a few passengers, we make our way into the plane, where Jillian's sorting food in the little galley just behind the cockpit.