Departure (4 page)

“These folks know CPR,” he tells Sabrina. “They're going to help you with the people we bring out of the plane.” He turns to Jillian. “You know CPR?”

“I've . . . had training but never, you know . . .”

“First time for everything. You'll do fine.”

“I don't like this.” Sabrina frowns as she looks at the bloodied survivors from our section. “The exertion—any of these people could have severe head trauma.”

“No choice. This is what we're doing.” Nick's voice is firm, but not condescending or harsh.

I like that about him.

Nick runs to the water's edge again and yells for Bill. He has to call again before the paunchy man finally appears, looking haggard and nervous. The bottom edge of the plane hovers just three feet above the water now, and the sight of how close the water is rattles him further. He peers out at us, frightened.

“There are too many. We can't get them all.”

“It's okay. We're going to help you, Bill. We need you to get the life vests from under the seats and put them on the people you've moved to the opening. Understand?”

Bill looks around. “Then what?”

“Then we're going to lower them out of the plane to the rescue teams. It's imperative that you and anyone who can help with that stay there. Do you understand?”

Bill nods.

“We're going to make a line to you. We're coming out soon, okay? Get ready.”

Nick turns his attention to the group on the bank. He organizes the lines, placing the very strongest at the front, closest to the plane, the weakest in the middle, and the next strongest closest to shore. I can follow his logic, but I couldn't have come up with it, not here in the cold, under the gun, knowing we're about to watch dozens of people die.

He puts life vests on everyone in the line, in case they have to switch places—a good change to the original plan.

The mood's starting to change. People are pitching in. The fire is having its effect, both physically and psychologically. The nonswimmers are stockpiling firewood, moving in and out of the woods quickly. One of them, a gargantuan guy in his twenties wearing a worn peacoat, reaches for a life vest. “I can join the line if I stay close to the bank.”

Two more people step forward, echoing his words as they pull yellow life vests around their necks.

Despite the bustle, I feel my nerves winding tighter. The guys near me, the other strong swimmers, introduce themselves. My hand is clammy as I shake theirs. I can barely take my eyes off the sinking plane as we count down the seconds.
I'm a strong swimmer,
I tell myself.
I have to be, tonight.
But I can't help wondering how quickly the plane will sink when the water breaches the lower opening. And what will happen to the bodies and debris when the plane fills. Will I be strong enough to fight my way out and up to the surface? I bet that water is cold enough to numb my limbs. If the plane fills and I'm still inside, I won't stand a chance. But I can't think about that, for one simple reason: I have to help those people. I can't face the idea of
not
helping them.

Nick's eyes meet mine. “Go time.”

FOR WHAT FEELS LIKE AN ETERNITY, EVERYTHING IS
silent and still. We're all staring at the dark form of the plane, suspended above the placid lake. It abruptly drops toward the water, breaking the spell, and all eyes turn to Nick and to us, the swimmers who volunteered. I'm no longer aware of the aches in my abdomen and shoulders, or the pulsing pain from the side of my face. I only feel the eyes upon me, the frightened eyes of the almost forty people who face us on the bank, backlit by the crackling fire. Their breath hangs in white clouds in front of them, obscuring their noses and mouths. The beady lights on their yellow life vests glow in the thickening fog like streetlamps on a winter night in London.

And then I'm running, following Nick into the water toward the plane, which is dropping steadily now toward the lake's surface. Three men and a woman stand in the aisles there, staring out, watching, waiting for us.

The cold water is a shock at first, like a wave of electricity flowing
across me. I inhale sharply and will myself to press on. I lose a little more feeling with each step, though. Ten feet in, I'm up to my chest. I grit my teeth and plow deeper, pumping my arms, icy water splashing on my face and hair. From here the plane looks miles away, though it can only be another forty feet. Nick and the men are pulling away from me, and I fight to keep up.

One of the younger guys reaches the plane first. Carefully, avoiding the twisted metal tendrils that reach into the water, he climbs into the lower half of the fuselage, where the checked baggage is stored. He turns to help the next swimmer and the next, until all four guys are crouched there in the dark mouth of the plane, almost level with the water now.

I reach the jagged opening last, and Nick's outstretched hand is waiting for me. His fingers clamp onto my forearm. “Grab my arm with your other arm.”

Two seconds later I'm crouching beside them in the lower half of the plane, drenched head to toe and colder than I've ever been in my life, my body shaking uncontrollably, every shiver sending waves of pain from my midsection and shoulders. The cold feels like it's eating me from the inside out.

I feel hands around me, running up and down. Mike, the twentysomething guy assigned to my aisle, is rubbing my shoulders and back, trying to dry and warm me. I can't look at him. I just stare at his green Boston Celtics T-shirt. How is he not freezing to death?

I can't help myself, though—I lean in toward his warmth.

Nick's eyes linger on us for a quick moment before he turns and yells for the people on the bank to extend the lines. They surge forward into the water, holding hands. The white points of light from their life vests stretch apart as they go deeper into the lake. As the line of people flows away from the fire, their faces disappear in the dark, the tiny lights the only indication they're there. The two lines of light remind me of a runway at night, pointing this wrecked hull of a plane to the fire, to salvation.
We can do this,
I tell myself.

The men in the passenger compartment above reach their arms down, and I feel hands grasping me, boosting me up. I watch wide-eyed as I pass a little too close to the razor-sharp shreds of metal that protrude from the end of the floor.

The shock and ache of the water is gone now, and I wonder if that's a good thing. But I can still feel my body. I still have control.

I stand for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. It's dark here, even darker than I expected. I don't know if it's all the people, but it feels cramped, airless, like a mine shaft. Faint beams of moonlight filter through the oval windows like lanterns guiding us down to the watery abyss at the end of the aisles. The tail's already filled with water, as Nick speculated.

Those people are already dead. We can't help them, but we can save the others.

Through the lingering pain of the crash and the numbing cold of the lake, I feel my nerves rising. I can do this. I have to. I try to remember Nick's speech, to focus on the key phrases, running through them in my mind, pumping myself up.

If we don't go get those people, they will never see or talk to their loved ones again.

No one else is coming for them. It's us, here and now, or they die.

The floor below us is sinking faster, leveling off, but it still slopes a little, a ramp straight back into the darkness.

At our feet, bodies lie two and three deep in the aisles. Women, children, and a few men, most of them slim. Maybe half have life vests on. Not good. There must be thirty people here. My eyes have adapted to the darkness, and I can make out more of the plane now. There's one row of business, all seats empty, then a dividing wall, and two sections of economy with three blocks of seats—two on each side, five in the middle. I scan the rows that face us. My God. People everywhere. Over a hundred. There's no way. How long do we have? A minute? Two? Once the water starts pouring into the lower half of the fuselage, it will fill fast, reaching a tipping point past which the water will pull it to the bottom. We can't save them all. Maybe—

Nick's voice once again cuts off my panic before it can build. His face is expressionless—no sign of concern, no hint of panic. He sounds like a dad on a holiday camping trip, calm, to the point. He quickly assigns responsibilities to Bill and the seven other people helping inside the plane. Two men will stay at the end of each aisle, passing people with life vests out to the lines in the water. The other four
conscious survivors will gather and place life vests on people before they go out.

“Under no circumstances are you to leave this plane. We need your help.” Nick points to the unconscious people in the aisles. “They need you. They'll die without you. Got it?”

Nods all around. “Go. Work quickly.”

Mike takes off ahead of me, bounding over bodies, stepping on them, crushing them. I take a tentative step and lose my footing, catching myself on the nearest seat.

“Go, Harper! You can't worry about stepping on them,” Nick shouts, and with that I'm running, every step a cringing mental effort. Finally my feet hit the carpeted aisle, and I race forward. Mike's got the three seats on the interior, I have the window seats. He's passing me, a body thrown over his shoulder, before I even reach my first aisle.

Water on my feet. I'm splashing forward, and I swear the water's colder here. I had thought the angle would be different, the pool of water would only be at the back, but it's like wading into a zero entry pool; with each step the icy water creeps up my legs another few inches. Where to start? I'm in water up to my waist now. Only the heads of the passengers rise above water here. Can they still be alive? Nick's words echo in my head again: anyone underwater has already drowned. But their heads are above water. I push forward, to the last row where the water is still just below their chins.

I reach first for a teenager, his eyes puffy, black and blue, his face swollen and caked with dark blood. I extend my shaking hand, recoiling when I touch cold, hard flesh. I stand there for a moment, shock overtaking me, my breath flowing out in white streams.

“They're dead, Harper!” Mike yells as he wades up the incline past me, another body over his shoulder. “The water's too cold. Move up three rows.”

At the plane's opening, the light seems dazzling now. Nick is yelling and pointing. Bodies go over the edge one by one, splashing. It's working. I have to focus. They're counting on me.

Focus.

Warmth. Warmth equals life. I press my hand to the nearest passenger's throat quickly. Cold.

Then the next aisle. I can't skip them. I won't.

Four rows up, where the water's just below my knees, my fingers wrap around a throat that's warm, far warmer than the others. I press, feeling a faint pulse, and take a second to look at a white-faced boy wearing a Manchester United shirt. I shake his shoulders, yell at him, and finally force myself to slap him. Nothing. I unbuckle him, pull his arm to me, and lift him out. The incline and added weight is murder on my already racked frame, but I press forward, fighting for every step. Finally I reach the queue and lower him to a woman and an older man. They slip a yellow life vest around his neck and pull the cord, inflating it.

I saved that kid's life. He's going to live.

That's one.

The people are going out fast now, one every few seconds. Nick looks back at me and nods. I turn and rush back down the aisle, stopping only to duck into an empty seat as Mike passes.

When I step back into the aisle, I feel something new: running water, pulling at my sneakers and splashing on my ankles. The passenger deck has dropped to the lake's surface. How long do we have?

I race to the next aisle, but they're dead. The cold flesh, the necks, go by in a flash now. I move rhythmically, automatically, reaching, touching, moving on. A few seconds later I pull the handle on the seat belt of an Indian girl wearing a Disney World T-shirt. Next, a blond boy in a black sweater, whose hand I have to peel from the hand of a woman beside him, perhaps his mother. I carry three more kids out, my arms and legs burning with every step. I'm spent. I worry I can't go on much longer.

I push that aside. There's no other option. I
have
to.

Mike grabs my forearm. “That's all the kids. Adults now. You spot them, I'll carry them. Okay?”

One, two, three people go up the aisle over Mike's shoulder.

Every time I glance at the back of the plane, the faces jutting just above the water line are different—a new row of passengers being swallowed by the surging pool. We're sinking, fast.

Mike wades toward me. “It's going under. Unbuckle anybody alive and put a life vest on them. It's their only shot.”

I rush from row to row, feeling, reaching, unbuckling. I have to go under to reach the life vests beneath the seats, and the water at the first seat is more of a shock than it was when I waded in the first time. At the fourth seat, I feel the plane under me shudder and roll. The sound of ripping metal vibrates through the cabin, and frigid water rushes over me. The wings. Something's happening. Focus. I stretch, trying to unbuckle someone's seat belt, but I can't reach it. I duck under, and yes, I've got it. When I push up, my head doesn't break the surface.

Panic. I reach up, around, desperately trying to feel for the surface, but it's not there.

Through the dark water, I see a faint light: the opening. I work my arms and kick, trying to swim up to the light, but my foot catches on something. I'm stuck. I reach back, grabbing, but my fingers are lifeless, useless, as though I had slept on them. I try to yank my foot free, but it won't come. I turn back to the opening, waving my numb arms, hoping someone will see me. A body with a yellow life vest drifts past me, blotting me out. I watch it float up toward the dim light of the opening, which grows smaller and fainter by the second.