Turning to the woman who’d said she’d taken flying lessons, Rourke said, “What’s your name, Miss?”
“It’s Mrs.-Mandy Richards.”
“Well, Mrs. Richards, you and I are going to go forward and see about helping the captain and the co-pilot. Okay?”
“I don’t know how much help I can be, Mr. Rourke.”
“Call me John. Simpler. We’ll help however we can.”
The stewardess was already starting back down the aisle with large containers of water and towels. The five who’d claimed some medical experience followed her.
Rourke knocked on the door of the pilot’s cabin and tried the handle, then walked through, saying to the woman beside him, “Forgive me for going ahead of you, Mrs. Richards.”
Rourke stopped inside the doorway. Both the captain and co-pilot were still strapped into their seats. Both men were writhing, holding their faces. The co-pilot was moaning.
“Shut the door, Mrs. Richards,” Rourke said softly.
Leaning down, he walked forward and looked at the captain. The woman behind him said, “My God, both of these men are blinded like-”
“That’s why we’re here, Mrs. Richards. But if we tell all the passengers, they might panic, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good, right?”
“Who-who are you?” It was the captain, his voice strained and hoarse.
Rourke leaned down beside the man. “My name is John Rourke, Captain. I’m one of the passengers. The stewardess told me you might need some help.”
“You’re the doc, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, well in a manner of speaking,” Rourke said. “But I’m here to help you. I’ve tested out on military jet fighters, flown a helicopter. There’s a woman here with me-Mrs. Richards-whose had flying experience, too. Thought maybe we could give you a hand. If you can stay conscious, maybe you can tell us what to do to keep this thing airborne and help us land it when it’s time.”
“That’s impossible, Doc. The controls on these babies are just too much unless you know them-I can’t talk you through it.”
“Well,” Rourke said softly, “you’d better hope we can figure this out. By the looks of that fuel gauge, I don’t figure we’ve got more than a couple of hours flying time before we hit empty. And auto pilot isn’t going to do much next time we hit a shock wave from a missile going off under us.”
“What’s the use? We’re all dead anyway,” the captain said.
“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know. But we can’t just commit suicide up here, can we?”
Rourke watched the captain. The man’s eyes were closed tight. His face was beet-red like someone with a bad sunburn. “It’s no good,” the captain said, “but go ahead and try if you want.”
“I will,” Rourke said, then started unbuckling the pilot and getting him down on the floor at the back of the cabin as comfortably as possible. “Get some pillows, blankets, water, and towels, Mrs. Richards,” Rourke said. As the woman left, Rourke moved forward and helped the copilot-unconscious now-into a reclining position near the doors.
In a moment, the woman was back and Rourke said, “Work on the captain first. The co-pilot’s pretty far gone.”
Rourke sat in the pilot’s seat and started studying the controls. He hit the switch for the intercom and spoke into the microphone. “This is John Rourke. Could the stewardess, Miss-” and he remembered he’d never asked her name-“the stewardess who helped me a few moments ago report to the cockpit for a moment?”
Rourke looked at the controls, the myriad dials and gauges. He began to believe that the captain had been right. He entertained little hope of getting the plane down. Shrugging his shoulders as he heard the knock on the door, he knew that little hope of success would not keep him from trying. At the back of his mind, as he called out, “Come in,” he wondered if Sarah and Michael and Ann were still alive. He chewed down on his cigar.
“What is it, Mr. Rourke?” the stewardess asked. “Are there any manuals,” he began, “instruction booklets-anything that can help me with this thing?”
“The pilots have manuals,” she began, then leaned over and reached into a drawer under the instrument panel, “but they’re designed as troubleshooting references. I don’t know if they’d be of any help.”
Rourke glanced at the thick, vinyl-bound manuals the stewardess gave him and weighed them in his hands. “Just the thing,” he said quietly, “for trouble-shooting.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Slowly, Sarah Rourke pushed away the blanket and mattress covering herself and the children. She smelled something-smoke? But no, she thought. It was plaster dust. “All right, children,” she said. “I think we can see what’s going on now.”
Chunks of debris fell from the mattress as she pushed herself up onto her knees. Standing, surveying the littered cellar, she picked up her small transistor radio and shook it-nothing but static. She switched bands. There was nothing on FM. She turned the dial from side to side-still, only static.
“What’s wrong with the radio, Mama?” Michael asked. His question was something she could have done without at the moment.
“Oh, I think the ground shaking must have loosened a wire inside it. You know,” she continued lying, “these radios are made up of thousands of wires. Your father can tell you about it better than I can.”
“Where is Daddy, Mommy,” Ann asked, her voice little as the three Rourkes stood there in the partially collapsed cellar.
“Oh, he’s coming, honey,” Sarah Rourke reassured her. “It’ll be all right,” Michael said, putting his arm around his sister.
“Michael,” Sarah began, “you stay here with Ann for a minute. I’m going upstairs to look around.”
“Can we come? We don’t want to stay here.”
She looked at Michael, nodded. “All right, but stay behind me. Just in case anything is wrong upstairs.” The flashlight-one of John’s Safariland Kel-Lites-was still working as if nothing had happened. For a moment, as she focused the beam toward the stairs, the thought amused her. She could imagine her husband, in one of his magazine articles or books, saying, “This Kel-Lite flashlight survived World War III and kept right on working.” The thought almost started her crying. She sniffed and started toward the staircase, then stopped. She smelled gas. “Michael, go back and very gently pick up the water jugs. Hurry, but be careful.”
“But can’t we get the water later, mom?”
“No, son, I don’t know if we’ll come back down here again. I smell gas, and we might be risking a fire. Don’t touch anything metal, don’t scrape against anything at all if you can help it. Then come back and hold your sister’s hand.”
Michael returned in a moment and handed Sarah two of the three water jugs he’d brought, then took his sister’s hand. “Now, Michael, don’t let go of her-no matter what you do. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he started, “but why-”
“Never mind,” Sarah said. She looked at Annie, who looked as though she would burst into tears at any minute.
Sarah stooped down to her. The little girl-her hair different from Sarah’s, John’s or Michael’s, a dark honey blond-raised her arms into the air. “Will you pick me up, Mommy?”
“I can’t now, Annie. But I will later.”
“I want somebody to carry me.”
“You’re going to have to walk, Annie,” Sarah said firmly, then turned back toward the stairs.
Plaster in large chunks and small pieces of wood littered the stairs. She started to push them aside, but thought better of it; they could be nails or some small metal among the debris which could make a spark. Slowly, she picked her way up the stairs.
“Michael!” she screamed, turning and glaring at the boy.
“What did I do?”
“Don’t kick that stuff off the stairs. It could make a spark. Just take my word for it and don’t. Now, come onhold Annie’s hand.”
Annie dutifully grasped her brother’s larger hand and walked beside him. As Sarah looked at the little girl’s face, she could still see that the girl was on the verge of tears.
Sarah stopped at the closed basement door. The gas smelled stronger. She reached down to the doorknob, then stopped. “What if it makes a spark?” she asked herself, half aloud.
“What is it, Mama,” Michael said. Then, “Here-I can open the door for you.”
Suddenly, Michael was standing beside her, his hands already on the doorknob, pushing the door open.
“Michael!” Sarah screamed, grabbing the boy and his sister and drawing them against her. The door, the hinges creaking and sounding as though they needed oil, swung open. Nothing happened.
Cautiously, the boy and girl beside her, Sarah stepped into the house. The smell of gas was completely gone. As she looked up and down the hallway, she could see that, apparently, every window in the house had smashed inward. The rooms were littered with glass from broken dishes and vases, the overhead lights-everything was destroyed.
“What happened?” Michael said.