Departure (7 page)

I EXPECTED TO WAKE UP TO HELICOPTERS, FLASHING
lights, and waves of English first responders saying things like “Are you all right there?” and “Let's have a look at you now.”

No such luck. The muddy beach by the blue-green lake looks exactly as it did last night: rings of people around a dying fire, wrapped up in navy blankets. Only a few are stirring, mumbling groggily to each other.

I get to my knees and lean over Harper, who's curled toward the fire, sound asleep. I wouldn't wake her for all the tea in China.

As I survey the camp, watching the survivors of Flight 305 wake to another day, two simple facts strike me: It's been over thirty-six hours since we crashed. And someone should have been here by now.

AT THE NOSE SECTION, IT
feels like déjà vu. Again there's an angry mob, the second to mass here in as many days. Grayson Shaw is here, too, but at least he's not center stage this time. He's sitting at the back,
looking hungover and haggard. He must have finally run out of alcohol. But that could actually make him more dangerous.

The food in the nose section ran out last night, when I was too tired to notice. The crowd's muttering about people hoarding food, calling for searches of the camp and redistribution. “I'd kill a man for a Diet Coke right now,” I hear a skinny man in a rumpled suit say. I'll look up Coke stock if I live through this.

Jillian's taking the brunt of the crowd's ire. They're chewing her out like this is simply a disruption to normal in-flight service. The truth is, she's just another survivor now, but the uniform she's wearing pegs her as the person who hands out food. She looks relieved to see me.

“Help,” she says, lunging for me and clamping both hands around my arm, pulling me up to stand beside her at the bottom of the makeshift stairway as she faces the crowd.

Bob Ward and Sabrina are here, too. Their faces are solemn, but they nod, encouraging me.

The crowd quiets, people nudging each other and whispering.

That's him.

Yeah, the guy from the lake.

“All right,” I say. “We're going to get some food, but it'll take some time.”

“We need something now!” a woman in a mud-stained sweater shouts.

“There isn't anything right now, okay? Look, we have to work together here. If we work together, we'll all eat—otherwise, we could all starve.”

The word
starve
is a mistake. The crowd picks it up, and it echoes from person to person in panicky counterpoint until it sounds like the Starve Chorus. It takes me a few minutes to unsay it and get their focus again.

“So how we gonna get food?” asks an overweight man with a thick New York accent.

How indeed? I hadn't gotten that far. I can see where this is going. If I let groupthink take over and devil's advocates call the shots, we'll still be standing here at sundown, hungry and undecided. I need a plan, right now.

There are only two logical sources of food: the meals in the other half of the plane and fish from the lake. We might manage to kill something here
on land, but with a hundred mouths to feed, it likely won't go far. Unless . . . there's a farm nearby. It's a long shot, but I tuck the idea away for future use.

“Okay, first step,” I say as authoritatively as I can. “We're going to take an inventory.”

“Inventory?”

“Yes.” I point to Jillian—poor Jillian—and Bob Ward, who straightens up and puts on his ultraserious camp counselor face for the crowd. He, at least, is still loving this. “Jillian and Bob are going to come around and ask you what was in your carry-on and checked baggage and what your seat was—or, more importantly, what overhead bin your bag was in. Describe anything that might be of use out here, especially food. Come see me right now if you had any fishing or diving gear in your luggage—a wet suit, even snorkeling gear.”

A bloated guy in his forties laughs, turning to the crowd. “Hey, Jack, folks don't do much snorkeling in New York in November.” That gets a few laughs, and he grins at me, waiting.

I know this guy's type, and I'd love to stick it to him, but I can't afford to make another enemy. I opt for the high road.

“That's true. I'm thinking about people making a connection, passengers departing from the Caribbean, somebody diving on vacation, making their way home. JFK is a major hub for international destinations. Nassau to JFK to Heathrow isn't out of the question. Or maybe someone on their way to the Mediterranean via Heathrow. I thought maybe we could get lucky.”

Jillian starts the survey, but Bob hangs back. “You want to start diving for the food and any supplies in the lake.”

“Yeah, it seems like our only move.”

“I agree, but there's a problem.” Bob pauses dramatically. I get the impression he likes saying “There's a problem” and pausing.

“What's that?”

“All the checked baggage will be in LD3s.”

Oh, right. LD3s.

“What's an LD3?”

“It's a unit load device.”

A unit load device. Why didn't he just say so?

“I don't know what that is, Bob.”

“They're metal cases that hold the luggage. On smaller aircraft, they
simply load the bags in. On larger ones, like our fateful Boeing 777, they place the bags in the LD3s, then move them onto the plane. They can get more bags on that way and keep them straight. The 777 can carry up to thirty-two LD3s, and maybe a dozen pallets. I can't remember.”

“Pallets?”

“Yeah, with food, supplies, etcetera.”

“What does all this mean?” I ask.

“The LD3s will be stacked two wide all the way to the tail. Even if we can dive down to them, they'll be hard to get to. We might be able to get into the first two, but there's no way we can haul them out and get to the rows behind them. Bottom line: we can't count on getting to anything in the checked baggage.”

So much for that plan. “That's good to know.”

“I'll check with Jillian and the pilot, try to figure out where the pallets might be positioned. If they're near where the plane broke apart, or here in the nose, we could get lucky.”

“All right. Thanks, Bob.”

Bob Ward. Annoying? Yes. Helpful? Also yes.

The doctor is queued up next, that “Something is seriously wrong, Mr. Stone” look on her face. Then again, Sabrina has had that look on her face since we met, so maybe that's just how she always looks.

“Hi, Sabrina,” I say, bracing myself.

“We need to build a shelter.”

At least somebody around here gets right to it.

“Why?”

“Most of the passengers suffered mild hypothermia on the first night. Some, such as yourself and Ms. Lane, moderate cases. This morning, I've observed a trend: about half the passengers have a cold. If they remain out in the elements, that could progress. If it rains, they'll fare even worse. We could have cases of bacterial infection or pneumonia soon. At a minimum, I would like to move anyone with a compromised immune system, older passengers, and anyone on an immunosuppressant therapy—which are common for autoimmune diseases—to the nose section and enclose it.”

“Okay. Let me have someone check the trees supporting it. It moved some last night. If it collapses under the added weight, we'll be worse off. I'll be back this evening, and we'll reassess then.”

“Where are you going?”

“Someone has to scout the area around us, look for food, maybe even help—or a better shelter.”

Her eyes grow wide. “Fine. Anyone but you.”

“What?”

“You can't leave.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be chaos here without you.”

I just stare at her, unsure what to say. She's probably right. That worries me, but it also brings a sense of something I haven't felt in a long time: fulfillment. Right now I feel like I'm doing exactly what I need to be doing, that I'm making a difference in people's lives. I haven't felt that way in a very long time.

A BREAK. BOB FOUND A
pallet with some food in the nose section. It was tossed around, torn to pieces, but it's yielded enough for two meals. That's brought morale up and quelled most of the complaints for now.

Sabrina has added a request for medications, especially antibiotics, to the luggage survey, but so far the poll hasn't revealed much. There've been reports of fishing gear, and two passengers claimed snorkeling sets—but it's all in checked baggage at the bottom of the lake, locked inside those steel crates. I've felt out a few of the guys who swam out to the rear section with me, and none of them are keen to go diving into the wreckage. I can't say I blame them. Instead, I've sent them out with some of the other passengers who're still in decent shape to scout the surrounding areas. They left a few hours ago in four teams of three, one for each cardinal direction. They'll hike until they find something or someone, or until midday, whichever comes first, then head back, hopefully arriving before sunset. We'll know a lot more then.

I hope.

HARPER'S SICK.

She awoke with a ragged cough, a headache, and a low-grade fever. She swears she's okay, but Sabrina is concerned enough to move her, against her protests, to the nose section.

I've checked the trees supporting the back of this section. They still make me nervous, but I don't see a better option at the moment.

We've hung blue blankets over the open end, but every few minutes an icy draft makes it past them. During the day, it's colder than by the fire at the lake, but I figure it will be much better at night, especially after Sabrina packs it full of patients.

The mysterious Asian, Yul Tan, has come up with a better solution: build a wall. He and Sabrina have stacked the first- and business-class carry-on luggage from floor to ceiling, plugging any holes with deflated life vests. It looks kind of weird, but it works.

Harper takes her old seat in first class, 1D, and stretches out.

“I feel useless,” she says, and coughs.

“We all are, right now. Nothing to do but wait. We'll be out of here soon.”

“You really believe that?”

“Sure,” I say automatically. It's the only response I can make right now. I try my best to keep any doubt out of my voice.

A minute passes, both of us crammed in her pod, watching other passengers file by, coughing as they search for a place to bed down.

“So tell me, what does the mysterious, multitalented Nick Stone do for a living? When he's not rescuing helpless passengers.”

“Me?” I hesitate for a moment, debating what to tell her. “Nothing . . . as interesting as rescuing airline passengers. How about you?”

“I'm a writer.”

“Really? Anything I might have read?”

She looks down and half laughs, half coughs. “Possibly. I've written six books. None of which had my name on them, though, and none of which I'm legally permitted to discuss.”

I wonder what that means. It seems to be a sore spot. But before I can ask, out of the corner of my eye I see someone waving: Mike, standing at the bottom of the stairway. The other two guys who went east with him are at his side. They look tired. They're panting, hunched over, their hands on their knees. Whatever happened to them out there sent them back in a hurry.

I'm up and out four seconds later. “You found something?”

“Yeah,” Mike swallows. He's excited, but there's something else: nervousness. “We found . . . something.”

I BARELY SLEPT LAST NIGHT. I COULDN'T GET
the picture Mike took out of my mind: an octagonal structure, all glass and shining metal, glistening in the middle of a field. There's no road or path leading to it, no vehicles, no indication of what could be inside. It's a mystery, a mirage rising out of an expanse of tall green grass.

Mike snapped the picture from a ridge miles away, and then he and his team rushed back as quickly as they could. We don't have any other clues about what might be inside. For the sake of the freezing, starving survivors of Flight 305, I hope the glass structure's filled with food. A satellite phone to get us out of this fix would also be nice. Things are getting desperate.

We'll serve the last of the food this morning, and we have no viable way to get more, at least not enough to feed 104 mouths. I've asked Jillian to organize nut-and-berry-gathering expeditions today, and to assign groups to tend the fire, but that's mostly to keep folks busy and away from each other's throats—to be honest, there's really no one
here who knows enough about plants to confirm if anything we find is edible, and Sabrina has warned me that we could be adding to our problems by experimenting.

Again, though: it's something for them to do. I don't remember where I heard it, but lack of purpose often kills more people in situations like this than lack of food.

We have plenty of water thanks to the lake, but that's the extent of the good news. We can last a few days without food, a little longer with some consequences, but this place will start to get ugly after that.

At sunrise the four scouting teams will take the final scraps of food, enough to hike for two days and camp for a night if we need to. That will double our range.

Mike was smart, taking his phone. Today, I'll make sure each team member carries two cell phones—their own, provided it still has battery life, plus another from the other passengers. With four teams of three, that's twenty-four phones total. Phones from a diverse group of manufacturers and on different networks will maximize possible reception. Every hour they'll stop, turn the phones on, and check for a signal. They'll also be taking pictures of anything noteworthy, any potential landmark. The landscape the teams described yesterday—rolling, forested hills and a few meadows—could have been anywhere in Northern Europe, Scandinavia, or the British Isles. But maybe something in a photo will ring a bell with one of the passengers. That might give us an idea of which way to go, or how far we are from help.

Across the lake, the first rays of sunlight break over the tree line. I sit for a moment, watching my breath turn white in the crisp morning air, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire to my right. Finally, I climb to my feet and head back into the forest.

Bob Ward is waiting for me at the makeshift staircase that leads to the nose section. “I'm going with you,” he announces.

“You're not, Bob.” I pick up my pace, try to step past him, but he shuffles over, blocking my way.

“I've seen the picture Mike took. Could be anything in there. You'll need me, Nick.”

Time for tough love. I hate to do it, but 104 souls are on the line, and we're running out of time to help them. “There's plenty to do
around here, Bob. We're looking at a grueling hike. We can't stop for anybody who can't keep up.”

“I can keep up.”

Unfortunately, I doubt it. Bob has to be sixty, and I'm not even sure if
I
can keep up with Mike, who must be ten years younger than I am and in considerably better shape.

I exhale and try for the logical approach. “Look, if you fall behind after noon, you won't be able to make it back to camp before nightfall. You'll be out in the cold for the night. With no food—”

“I understand, Nick. If I can't keep up, I'll make you leave me. I know what's at stake. When do we leave?”

The truth is, I can't stop Bob, and we need to get going. I shake my head, finally relenting. “Now. Grab Mike, and we'll head out.”

Inside the plane, I kneel beside Harper's pod. She's asleep, or unconscious. I shake her, but she doesn't come to. Her hair's drenched. So's her shirt. I wipe the sweat off her forehead, brushing her damp hair back. Feeling how hot her skin is scares me. She's dangerously sick.

In that moment, I feel the same way I did that morning by the lake, when Sabrina led me to Harper's limp body lying helpless by the fire. The rest of the passengers were in trouble the second we crashed. Harper was also banged up, but she was fine.

Until I asked her to swim out there and risk her life.

This is my fault. She's going to die because of me.

Finally I force myself to stand up and turn away.

Sabrina is at the back, talking quietly with Yul. “Have you seen Harper?” I ask her.

“Yes.” She just stares at me.

“Well, what's the prognosis? What're you doing for her?”

“I'm currently monitoring her.”

“That's it?”

“She has an infection. I'm waiting to see if her body can fight it off.”

“It can't.” I struggle to keep my voice level. “Her forehead's as hot as a firecracker.”

“A positive sign. Her body's immune system is mounting a robust response.”

“That
robust response
isn't enough. She's getting sicker every day. She didn't even wake when I shook her. She needs antibiotics.”

Sabrina steps closer and lowers her voice. “We're almost out of antibiotics. I'm rationing them, saving them for critical cases.”

“Harper
is
a critical case.”

“Critical as in life-threatening.”

I shake my head, trying to compose myself. I'm boiling over. The exhaustion, the crappy, shallow sleep, and the stress of the last forty-eight hours are finally getting the best of me. I'm losing control—I can feel it. I fight to keep my voice level, and I'm not sure I succeed.

“Her life wouldn't be in danger—she wouldn't even be sick—if she hadn't gone into that plane and saved those people. We owe it to her to save her life.”

Nothing. No response. My rage simmers.

“Okay, Sabrina, think about what message we're sending all these people if she dies. Huh? You stick your neck out for someone around here, and when we're done with you, we'll leave you for dead. That's what you're talking about, and that's dangerous.”

“If I administer antibiotics to her today, when she doesn't absolutely need them, it might be a death sentence for someone else. That's dangerous, too. I'm taking a logical risk to save the most lives. I believe you're familiar with this concept—you demonstrated it at the lake.”

“You're a real piece of work, Sabrina. You know that?”

“You're unable to see this situation objectively. You're irrational because you've formed an emotional bond with Ms. Lane—”

“You know anything about that—forming emotional bonds with people? Or did you read about it in a journal?”

“Your bias is easily demonstrated. William Boyd, in seat 4D, has symptoms worse than Ms. Lane's. You have yet to ask about Mr. Boyd.”

“William Boyd wasn't in that plane, drowning. Harper was. Hell, she might have been the one who saved William Boyd in the first place! I asked her to risk her life, and she did. And
we,
” I almost shout, pointing my finger between Sabrina and myself, “are going to do everything we can to keep her alive.”

“Harper did not save Mr. Boyd. He was in the water, in the line that passed the people from the plane to the shore. But this isn't about
his role in the rescue operation. You haven't asked about Mr. Boyd because you don't have an emotional connection to him. You're not objective, Nick. I am. In fact, for reasons you've already alluded to, I'm almost uniquely qualified to make unemotional, logical decisions about the care of these people, maximizing the number of lives saved.”

Hopeless. I'm arguing with a robot. My jaws are clenched so tight it feels like my rear molars might shatter at any second.

“Give me the antibiotics.”

Sabrina stares at me, unflinching.

“You heard me, Sabrina. Hand them over.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You're damn right I am. You're threatening the life of someone I . . . someone we all owe a huge debt to, and I'm not going to let you. You can play your bizarre medical chess game on somebody else.”

“I knew this moment would come, but I didn't anticipate it would be from you.”

“What moment?” I look at her, suspicion creeping into me. “What did you do?”

“I've hidden the antibiotics, along with all the medicine.”

Of course she has. The rage that has been building inside of me settles into a focused, ruthless calm. I'm almost scared of what I'll do next.

I turn and march down the aisle, past Bob Ward, who's got Mike at his side.

“We're ready, Nick,” he says, but I don't even look at him.

I pause at Harper's side, slip my hand into the pocket of her sweat-soaked jeans, and fish out the key I gave her yesterday. In the cockpit, I unlock the box and flip the lid back. Four handguns lie there, stacked at haphazard angles.

I learned how to use a handgun as a kid. Kidnapping is a constant risk for every child who grows up the way I did.

I take the top gun out and weigh it in my hand for a moment, telling myself I'm acclimating to the feel of it, telling myself I can do what I'm contemplating. But as I crouch in the cockpit, holding the handgun, I know I can't. It's funny: you can imagine committing a vile act, something completely against your moral code, but only when you physically hold the means to take that action does the decision become real.
Only then do you learn what you're capable of—and I'm not capable of this. I'm not sure if that makes me a bad guy or a good guy.

I hope help is out there. I really do.

Slipping the other three guns into my jacket, I slam the lid shut and stand there for a moment, the key in my hand but no resolve in my heart. My bluff is called. Defeated by my own morals. So be it.

Sabrina stiffens as I approach her, but I just hand her the key. “There's a lockbox in the cockpit,” I mutter, turning away from her. “Could be a good place for the meds—it's close by, sheltered from the elements. That's the only key.”

She tucks the key in her pocket wordlessly, her intense dark eyes locked on me, not betraying a shred of emotion.

I can only imagine how I must look to Sabrina and the others around us right now. They're thinking
maniac
and
madman,
but they haven't made the calls I have in the last forty-eight hours. I wonder what I would do if I were in my right mind, if I were well rested and well fed, if the lives of a hundred people weren't in my hands at this very moment.

One in particular.

But force won't work on Sabrina. I'm ashamed that I thought it and more so that I almost tried it. However, there is something she's vulnerable to: logic. And she has another weakness: reading people. A solution forms in my mind, as clear as the plan I devised by the lake. It could work.

“In case it affects the calculus on your end, I need to say this. As you pointed out, I have an emotional connection to Harper. I stared into her eyes and asked her to put her life on the line. I feel responsible for what happened to her. If she dies, I'll be depressed. That's a psychological disorder. I assume your training includes psychological conditions.”

I wait, forcing her to answer.

“It does.”

“In my depressed state, I'll be unable to take on any leadership duties. No more quick life-and-death decisions from me. As you noted previously, this camp would be in chaos without me. That could lead to a loss of life.”

Sabrina's eyes move to Harper and back to me, and I can almost
see the wheels turning in that biological computer she calls a brain. “Noted,” she says.

I search her face for any clue about whether she's bought it, but there's nothing there to read.

I feel every eye in the cabin upon me as I walk past Harper's seat. I did everything I could. I'll see if I can get
myself
to believe that.

Outside, I try to put the encounter behind me and focus on the very important task at hand. I pass guns to the other three team leaders. They'll alter their vectors forty-five degrees today, heading northeast, southeast, and southwest, respectively. Mike, Bob, and I will follow Mike's eastward path back to the glass-and-steel structure, our pace quicker today. Our goal is to reach it before noon.

“Use the guns only if you're threatened by hostile animals—save your ammunition for absolute emergencies. If you don't find help, on your way back tomorrow look out for big game to shoot—deer, moose, cows, whatever you come across. Run back to the camp and get people to help you lug back anything you kill. You all know the situation. I'm not going to give you a speech. The truth is, if we don't come back with help or food tomorrow, we're looking at casualties in the following days. The elderly and weaker passengers are going to starve, and there are people in desperate need of medical supplies. Either we succeed, or people die. That's it. Good luck.”

The group breaks up, and Mike, Bob, and I set out through the dense green forest and frosted fields. The tall grass thaws with the rising sun, soaking my pants below the knee as we go. It's cold, but the pace keeps me warm. I try not to think about Harper.

We stop every hour to activate our cell phones and snap photos, but we never get any service or see anything significant. It's like Mike said: hills, fields, and forest as far as we can see, both with the naked eye and with the binoculars Bob found in a carry-on bag yesterday.

Finally we get to the ridge from where Mike took the photograph and spot the octagonal glass structure. It looks about ten miles away, and the hike to it confirms that. We don't even stop for lunch. To Bob's credit, he keeps up, though he's panting a lot harder than Mike or me and looking drained. I could swear he's aging by the hour, but I don't think he'd miss this for anything.