Four Past Midnight (14 page)

“I don't—”

Brian's voice came over the speakers. “This is ordinary light turbulence, folks,” he said. “Please be calm. We're apt to hit some heavier bumps when we go into the clouds. Most of you have been through this before, so just settle down.”

Don Gaffney looked toward the man in the crew-neck jersey again and felt a sudden, almost overmastering urge to rip the flight magazine out of the weird son of a bitch's hands and begin whacking him with it.

The clouds were very close now. Robert Jenkins could see the 767's black shape rushing across their white surfaces just below the plane. Shortly the plane would kiss its own shadow and disappear. He had never had a premonition in his life, but one came to him now, one which was sure and complete.
When we break through those clouds, we are going to see something no human being has ever seen before. It will be something which is utterly beyond belief... yet we will be forced to believe it. We will have no choice.

His hands curled into tight knobs on the arms of his seat. A drop of sweat ran.into one eye. Instead of raising a hand to wipe the eye clear, Jenkins tried to blink the sting away. His hands felt nailed to the arms of the seat.

“Is it going to be all right?” Dinah asked frantically. Her hands were locked over Laurel's. They were small, but they squeezed with almost painful force. “Is it really going to be all right?”

Laurel looked out the window. Now the 767 was skimming the tops of the clouds, and the first cotton-candy wisps drifted past her window. The plane ran through another series of jolts and she had to close her throat against a moan. For the first time in her life she felt physically ill with terror.

“I hope so, honey,” she said. “I hope so, but I really don't know.”

“What's on your radar, Brian?” Nick asked. “Anything unusual? Anything at all?”

“No,” Brian said. “It says the world is down there, and that's all it says. We're—”

“Wait,” Nick said. His voice had a tight, strangled sound, as if his throat had closed down to a bare pinhole. “Climb back up. Let's think this over. Wait for the clouds to break—”

“Not enough time and not enough fuel.” Brian's eyes were locked on his instruments. The plane began to bounce again. He made the corrections automatically. “Hang on. We're going in.”

He pushed the wheel forward. The altimeter needle began to move more swiftly beneath its glass circle. And Flight 29 slid into the clouds. For a moment its tail protruded, cutting through the fluffy surface like the fin of a shark. A moment later that was also gone and the sky was empty ... as if no plane had ever been there at all.

The main cabin went from bright sunlight to the gloom of late twilight and the plane began to buck harder. After one particularly hard washboard bump, Albert felt a pressure against his right shoulder. He looked around and saw Bethany's head lying there, as heavy as a ripe October pumpkin. The girl had fainted.

The plane leaped again and there was a heavy thud in first class. This time it was Dinah who shrieked, and Gaffney let out a yell: “What was that?
For God's sake what was that?”

“The drinks trolley,” Bob Jenkins said in a low, dry voice. He tried to speak louder so they would all hear him and found himself unable. “The drinks trolley was left out, remember? I think it must have rolled across—”

The plane took a dizzying rollercoaster leap, came down with a jarring smack, and the drinks trolley fell over with a bang. Glass shattered. Dinah screamed again.

“It's all right,” Laurel said frantically. “Don't hold me so tight, Dinah, honey, it's okay—”

“Please, I don't want to die! I just don't want to
die
!”

“Normal turbulence, folks.” Brian's voice, coming through the speakers, sounded calm... but Bob Jenkins thought he heard barely controlled terror in that voice. “Just be—”

Another rocketing, twisting bump. Another crash as more glasses and mini-bottles fell out of the overturned drinks trolley.

“—calm,” Brian finished.

From across the aisle on Don Gaffney's left:
rii-ip.

Gaffney turned in that direction. “Quit it right now, motherfucker, or I'll stuff what's left of that magazine right down your throat.”

Craig looked at him blandly. “Try it, you old jackass.”

The plane bumped up and down again. Albert leaned over Bethany toward the window. Her breasts pressed softly against his arm as he did, and for the first time in the last five years that sensation did not immediately drive everything else out of his mind. He stared out the window, desperately looking for a break in the clouds, trying to
will
a break in the clouds.

There was nothing but shades of dark gray.

“How low is the ceiling, mate?” Nick asked. Now that they were actually in the clouds, he seemed calmer.

“I don't know,” Brian said. “Lower than I'd hoped, I can tell you that.”

“What happens if you run out of room?”

“If my instruments are off even a little, we'll go into the drink,” he said flatly. “I doubt if they are, though. If I get down to five hundred feet and there's still no joy, I'll take us up again and fly down to Portland.”

“Maybe you ought to just head that way now.”

Brian shook his head. “The weather there is almost always worse than the weather here.”

“What about Presque Isle? Isn't there a long-range SAC base there?”

Brian had just a moment to think that this guy really did know much more than he should. “It's out of our reach. We'd crash in the woods.”

“Then Boston is out of reach, too.”

“You bet.”

“This is starting to look like being a bad decision, matey.”

The plane struck another invisible current of turbulence, and the 767 shivered like a dog with a bad chill. Brian heard faint screams from the main cabin even as he made the necessary corrections and wished he could tell them all that this was nothing, that the 767 could ride out turbulence twenty times this bad. The real problem was the ceiling.

“We're not struck out yet,” he said. The altimeter stood at 2,200 feet.

“But we are running out of room.”

“We—” Brian broke off. A wave of relief rushed over him like a cooling hand. “Here we are,” he said. “Coming through.”

Ahead of the 767's black nose, the clouds were rapidly thinning. For the first time since they had overflown Vermont, Brian saw a gauzy rip in the whitish-gray blanket. Through it he saw the leaden color of the Atlantic Ocean.

Into the cabin microphone, Brian said: “We've reached the ceiling, ladies and gentlemen. I expect this minor turbulence to ease off once we pass through. In a few minutes, you're going to hear a thump from below. That will be the landing gear descending and locking into place. I am continuing our descent into the Bangor area.”

He clicked off and turned briefly to the man in the navigator's seat.

“Wish me luck, Nick.”

“Oh, I do, matey—I do.”

Laurel looked out the window with her breath caught in her throat. The clouds were unravelling fast now. She saw the ocean in a series of brief winks: waves, whitecaps, then a large chunk of rock poking out of the water like the fang of a dead monster. She caught a glimpse of bright orange that might have been a buoy.

They passed over a small, tree-shrouded island, and by leaning and craning her neck, she could see the coast dead ahead. Thin wisps of smoky cloud obscured the view for an endless forty-five seconds. When they cleared, the 767 was over land again. They passed above a field; a patch of forest; what looked like a pond.

Then a cry burst from her throat.

“What is it?” Dinah nearly screamed. “What is it, Laurel? What's wrong?”

“Nothing!” she shouted triumphantly. Down below she could see a narrow road leading into a small seaside village. From up here, it looked like a toy town with tiny toy cars parked along the main street. She saw a church steeple, a town gravel pit, a Little League baseball field. “Nothing's wrong!
It's all there! It's all still there!
”

From behind her, Robert Jenkins spoke. His voice was calm, level, and deeply dismayed. “Madam,” he said, “I'm afraid you are quite wrong.”

A long white passenger jet cruised slowly above the ground thirty-five miles east of Bangor International Airport. 767 was printed on its tail in large, proud numerals. Along the fuselage, the words AMERICAN PRIDE were written in letters which had been raked backward to indicate speed. On both sides of the nose was the airline's trademark: a large red eagle. Its spread wings were spangled with blue stars; its talons were flexed and its head was slightly bent. Like the airliner it decorated, the eagle appeared to be coming in for a landing.

The plane printed no shadow on the ground below it as it flew toward the cluster of city ahead; there was no rain, but the morning was gray and sunless. Its belly slid open. The undercarriage dropped down and spread out. The wheels locked into place below the body of the plane and the cockpit area.

American Pride Flight 29 slipped down the chute toward Bangor. It banked slightly left as it went; Captain Engle was now able to correct his course visually, and he did so.

“I see it!” Nick cried. “I see the airport! My God, what a beautiful sight!”

“If you see it, you're out of your seat,” Brian said. He spoke without turning around. There was no time to turn around now. “Buckle up and shut up.”

But that single long runway was a beautiful sight.

Brian centered the plane's nose on it and continued down the slide, passing through 1,000 to 800. Below him, a seemingly endless pine forest passed beneath Flight 29's wings. This finally gave way to a sprawl of buildings—Brian's restless eyes automatically recorded the usual litter of motels, gas stations, and fast-food restaurants—and then they were passing over the Penobscot River and into Bangor airspace. Brian checked the board again, noted he had green lights on his flaps, and then tried the airport again ... although he knew it was hopeless.

“Bangor tower, this is Flight 29,” he said. “I am declaring an emergency. Repeat,
I am declaring an emergency.
If you have runway traffic, get it out of my way. I'm coming in.”

He glanced at the airspeed indicator just in time to see it drop below 140, the speed which theoretically committed him to landing. Below him, thinning trees gave way to a golf-course. He caught a quick glimpse of a green Holiday Inn sign and then the lights which marked the end of the runway—33 painted on it in big white numerals—were rushing toward him.

The lights were not red, not green.

They were simply dead.

No time to think about it. No time to think about what would happen to them if a Learjet or a fat little Doyka puddle-jumper suddenly trundled onto the runway ahead of them. No time to do anything now but land the bird.

They passed over a short strip of weeds and gravel and then concrete runway was unrolling thirty feet below the plane. They passed over the first set of white stripes and then the skidmarks—probably made by Air National Guard jets this far out—began just below them.

Brian babied the 767 down toward the runway. The second set of stripes flashed just below them... and a moment later there was a light bump as the main landing gear touched down. Now Flight 29 streaked along Runway 33 at a hundred and twenty miles an hour with its nose slightly up and its wings tilted at a mild angle. Brian applied full flaps and reversed the thrusters. There was another bump, even lighter than the first, as the nose came down.

Then the plane was slowing, from a hundred and twenty to a hundred, from a hundred to eighty, from eighty to forty, from forty to the speed at which a man might run.

It was done. They were down.

“Routine landing,” Brian said. “Nothing to it.” Then he let out a long, shuddery breath and brought the plane to a full stop still four hundred yards from the nearest taxiway. His slim body was suddenly twisted by a flock of shivers. When he raised his hand to his face, it wiped away a great warm handful of sweat. He looked at it and uttered a weak laugh.

A hand fell on his shoulder. “You all right, Brian?”

“Yes,” he said, and picked up the intercom mike again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “welcome to Bangor.”

From behind him Brian heard a chorus of cheers and he laughed.

Nick Hopewell was not laughing. He was leaning over Brian's seat and peering out through the cockpit window. Nothing moved on the gridwork of runways; nothing moved on the taxiways. No trucks or security vehicles buzzed back and forth on the tarmac. He could see a few vehicles, he could see an Army transport plane—a C-12—parked on an outer taxiway and a Delta 727 parked at one of the jetways, but they were as still as statues.

“Thank you for the welcome, my friend,” Nick said softly. “My deep appreciation stems from the fact that it appears you are the only one who is going to extend one. This place is utterly deserted.”

In spite of the continued radio silence, Brian was reluctant to accept Nick's judgment ... but by the time he had taxied to a point between two of the passenger terminal's jetways, he found it impossible to believe anything else. It was not just the absence of people; not just the lack of a single security car rushing out to see what was up with this unexpected 767; it was an air of utter lifelessness, as if Bangor International Airport had been deserted for a thousand years, or a hundred thousand. A Jeep-driven baggage train with a few scattered pieces of luggage on its flatties was parked beneath one wing of the Delta jet. It was to this that Brian's eyes kept returning as he brought Flight 29 as close to the terminal as he dared and parked it. The dozen or so bags looked as ancient as artifacts exhumed from the site of some fabulous ancient city.
I wonder if the guy who discovered King Tut's tomb felt the way I do now,
he thought.