Flight into Darkness (Flight Trilogy, Book 2) (22 page)

Silence followed.

Chuck feared what was coming next.

“Angel five four heavy, as a precautionary, we’ve alerted Fresno Air National Guard.”

No
!

“SoCal, there is no need. We have control of the jet and will be landing at Oakland. I repeat: There is NO situation!”

A passenger must have made a call mentioning the chaos erupting on the plane. That’s all it would take to scramble the fighters. Since 9/11, knowledge of a disruptive passenger would be enough to warrant a fighter escort.

Chuck knew the 144th had F-16s sitting on alert, able to be airborne in five to ten minutes. Using their afterburners, they could be over the Pacific within fifteen minutes after liftoff. If the fighters had already launched, they could be on site in less than ten.

Chuck had friends at the airline that also pulled guard duty at the 144th Fighter Wing at Fresno. The 144th was the same unit that shot down Rex Dean’s flight on July 11th, 2002. The guy that pulled the trigger lived in Chuck’s neighborhood. The poor guy eventually cracked and went out on a medical. The guy hadn’t flown since.

“Center, call them back! We don’t need an escort! We’ll be on the ground in twenty minutes.”

“Angel five four heavy, the escort is airborne. ETA approximately seven minutes.”

Ding
.
Ding
.
Ding
.
Ding
.

Four chimes. Bev was panicked. Chuck ignored her.

Hammer-like bangs sounded against the cockpit door. Unrecognizable muffled screams followed. “DON’T DO THIS! MY WIFE AND BABY ARE BACK HERE! PLEASE!”

Chuck pressed the PA button on his audio panel and keyed the mike. “Listen! Nobody is going to die! Everybody sit down, buckle up, and shut up!”

He checked the nav display and the clock. In nine minutes—11:43—the jet would start it’s programmed descent from 10,000 feet, so as to cross POINT B at 500 feet. The fighters would be on him by the time he made the turn toward the bridge.

“Angel five four heavy, we’ve got the escort on radar. They should be joining up with you in less than five minutes. Request you continue flying your current heading. Do not, I repeat, do not turn toward the coast. Monitor GUARD frequency. The fighters will contact you.”

Chuck didn’t reply. If he maintained his present heading, Ryan’s family would die. If he made the turn toward the bridge, especially at 500 feet, he was a goner; the fighters would blast him out of the sky. He and his crew, plus 212 innocent passengers, would join Rex Dean in the abyss below.

At exactly 11:43, the throttles retarded to idle as the jet slowly nosed over; the altimeter started to unwind. Chuck had minutes to decide what to do—disconnect the autopilot and maintain his present heading to the north, hoping to avoid the same fate of Rex Dean, or make the turn toward the bridge and pray for mercy.

The muffled screams and cries from passengers in the cabin continued. Chuck ignored them.

The jet’s computer was handling the descent into the blackness perfectly. With the airspeed needle frozen on 250 knots, and a descent rate of 3,000 feet per minute, the jet would fly the remaining four miles to POINT B—FARRA—in exactly one minute, leveling at 500 feet as scheduled. Based on the speed of the jet and the upcoming sharp ninety degree change of course to the east, Chuck expected the jet’s computer to anticipate the turn at FARRA by initiating a bank approximately half a mile before reaching FARRA.

Just as the jet banked right toward the coast, a voice crackled in Chuck’s headset, a new voice he’d not heard before.

“Angel five four heavy, this is Shark Zero One on GUARD. How copy?”

The
fighters
.

He looked down to the audio panel on the consol. With his trembling, index finger, he selected the button connecting him to the GUARD frequency. “Shark Zero One, this is Angel five four heavy. Everything is cool here. We’re okay.”

The jet leveled at 500 feet, Chuck was pressed back into his seat as the throttles automatically moved forward to max power. The airspeed needle eased off 250, headed for the targeted 325 knots. The black ocean below offered no sense of how low he was, however, through the front windshield, less than twenty miles away, the bright lights of San Francisco glowed on the horizon.

“Angel five four heavy, turn left immediately to a northerly heading. I repeat, turn to a northerly heading, now!”

Chuck reached for the control yoke, one side of him fighting the urge to follow the warnings from the fighter pilot, the other side screaming to click the autopilot off and turn north. Surely if he turned north now, the last few minutes would not make a difference. He’d given Ryan plenty of time.

Before he could act, the jet jolted from a riveting blast against the cockpit equivalent to ten to twenty bowling balls. His heart rocketed into his throat, blocking his sudden gasp for breath.

They
fired
!
We’ve
been
hit
!
We’re
gonna
die
!

A short silence followed before a second hammering of twenty or thirty blows on the windshield. The captain’s windshield shattered. The blast of glass, propelled by the 300 mile per hour wind, shredded the fabric back of the captain’s chair.

Chuck saw blood everywhere, but, thank God, it wasn’t his.

I’m
still
alive
!

The plane was still flying.

Birds
!
We’ve
been
hit
by
birds
!

Bird feathers swirled through the cockpit. Dead birds everywhere—big birds.

The deafening shrill of wind muted the constant commands in his ear. Chuck reached blindly to the audio panel and swiped his hand across the volume controls, pushing them all to their maximum levels.

“Angel five four heavy, turn north now, or we’ll be forced to shoot!”

Caught in a conundrum of indecision, the California coast less than ten miles away, he reached for the controls. If he continued, the fighters were certain to fire their guns, or worse, launch a missile, sealing Chuck and his screaming passengers in a watery grave.

Chuck gripped the control yoke with both hands just as another volley of birds—five to ten—hammered the cockpit and windshield. The windshield held, but simultaneous to the pops against the glass, the nose of the jet yawed abruptly to the right, the right wing dipped, fire bells and flashing, red, warning lights followed, sending Chuck into a frenzy.

Instinctively, he called out, “ENGINE FIRE!”—his voice muted by the deafening hurricane of wind rushing through the captain’s windshield.

Wrestling with the controls, he had not noticed his death grip on the control wheel which encompassed the transmit button. His words: “Engine Fire” had been transmitted to the world.

“Angel five four, Shark Zero One! We copy and confirm! Your right engine is on fire! I repeat, your right engine is on fire!”

Chuck clicked off the autopilot, shoved hard against the rudder pedal with his left foot, bringing the jet’s nose back to center. While holding pressure against the pedal, he rolled the wings level, slapped the fire warning light on the glareshield—silencing the annoying fire bells—identified the right engine fuel control lever by the glowing red light in the handle, pulled and twisted the lever—sending fire extinguishing agent into the right engine nacelle.

He looked ahead. Through the blood-smeared windshield, he could make out the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge less than a mile away. He gently pulled back on the control wheel. The jet climbed…1,000…2,000 feet. He leveled at 2,000 feet.

“Shark Zero One, I’m landing at Oakland on Runway eleven.”

“Roger, Angel five four.”

Based in San Francisco for his first five years with Freedom Airlines, Chuck knew the Bay area airports. He could land at San Francisco, but it was a few miles further south than Oakland. He had Runway 11 at Oakland in sight. Even with a slight tailwind, the 10,000-foot runway would give him plenty of room to stop the jet.

“Angel five four heavy, this is Oakland Tower on GUARD. We have you in sight and you are cleared to land on Runway 11. The rescue teams have been alerted.”

“Roger Oakland. We should be on the ground in two to three minutes.”

“Angel five four, this is Shark Zero One…Good luck, Chuck.”

Even with one engine out, wind whistling through the captain’s windshield, and his window smeared with blood and guts, Chuck made a perfect touchdown and brought the jet to a smooth stop. A thunderous round of cheers and applause broke out in the cabin.

The first thought that popped into Chuck’s head was…

I
hope
Ryan
made
it
.

CHAPTER 32

11:48 p.m.

When Ryan exited the freeway, the fuel needle was resting at the bottom of the fuel gauge. It was a miracle the car hadn’t run out of gas. Only three stoplights and five miles separated him from the house and his family. Each mile was a gift.

Passing under a street light, he checked his watch—11:48. If Chuck had done his part, there still might be a chance. The neighborhood streets were quiet, the first two traffic lights were green, but it didn’t matter. There was no way he was stopping for a traffic light, and he would welcome any cop that was unlucky enough to be stuck on duty at this time of night.

He didn’t know if the lunatic was alone. There could be others. He couldn’t think about it now. The last traffic light came into view, 100 yards ahead. When he reached it, he would turn left. From there it was only a mile to his house.

A car approached the intersection from his left, paused, turned right and drove past. It looked like a high school kid, probably dropping off a date. In response to the kid’s car rolling over the sensors in the pavement, the traffic light turned red. Ryan didn’t slow. He took the turn hard and fast, tires screeching.

The slight incline in the road caused the Omni to slow. He jammed the accelerator against the floorboard. Then it happened, without warning, one cough, and it died. “NO!”

The dead engine, combined with the slight incline, quickly slowed the Omni to a crawl. He slammed on the brakes and shifted into PARK.

Maybe he could restart it.

He turned the key, pumping the accelerator. “Please, God, please!”

Nothing.

He was approximately one mile from his house. He checked his watch—11:54.

A
six
-
minute
mile
.
Can
I
do
it
?

With the right shoes and clothes, yes, but with street shoes and long pants it was iffy.

He jumped out of the car, breaking into a sprint, stretching his legs with each stride, muscular arms pumping close to his side. One minute…two minutes, sweat poured from his face, soaking his shirt, his heart knocking so fiercely that his vision blurred with each surge of blood. The thoughts of his family—Keri, David, and little Martha—drove him beyond his human abilities.

He turned the corner leading into his subdivision, sprinting frantically up a slight incline, one foot after the other, forcing his muscles to perform against building lactic acids, acting like concrete, hardening the fibers in his thighs. Like a bad dream, he feared he would be too late, finding his family slaughtered, or discovering that the lunatic was not alone, all with guns—lots of guns.

“My gun!”

He’d left it in the passenger’s seat of the car. He staggered and slowed, but only for a few steps, realizing there was no time. He charged on. He’d kill the freak with his bare hands or possibly one of Keri’s garden tools—a spade, a claw, anything.

As he approached the house, he slowed to a jog, panting heavily. The house was dark, as were all the houses on his block. He remembered Keri asking him yesterday to replace the porchlight, but he hadn’t. Normally, at this time of night, he expected his neighborhood to be sealed in darkness, but “normal” was far from what he expected to find within his own house.

He stopped, bending at the waist, sucking in several, large breaths of air, his legs rubbery, threatening to collapse beneath him. He checked his watch—12:00. Hopefully it was fast.

He worked to control his breathing and regain composure. No time to look for a tool in the garage, he’d have to find something in the house to bludgeon the lunatic’s head.

Sheathed in cold sweat, his breathing now under control, he eased around the side of the house to the back patio. The curtains on the sliding glass door were partially drawn, but he found a small break. He cupped his hands on the glass and peered in. Two computer screens illuminated the den, revealing the horrid scene. Keri and the children were strapped to gurneys, lying still, possibly dead. Anger and fear collided within, opening the stopcock on his adrenal glands, charging his veins with a fresh supply of fluid. The shadowy figure of a man leaned over Keri, his back to the glass door.

That’s
him
.

The man appeared to be alone. Ryan quickly scanned the patio for a garden tool. There was none. He grabbed the handle of the sliding door. If it was locked, attempting to jerk it open would do nothing more than alert the man. He tested the lock with a gentle pull. It moved enough to tell him it was not locked. His heart pounded against his sternum. He breathed deep, yanked the door hard, burst into the house, and headed for the lunatic.

CHAPTER 33

11:49 p.m.

With the windows down, the night air swirled through the car, washing away the strain of the night and replacing it with a peaceful sense of satisfaction. Although Samael ultimately longed for the day that death would free his soul to be joined with the spirit of his beloved mother, Keroessa, he found his present state a blissful compromise. He whistled a relaxing tune.

Minutes from the freeway, his attention was drawn to the increasing sound of a strained engine approaching in the opposite direction. A small, green car zoomed past traveling well above the speed limit. At such a late hour, he assumed it to be a teen driver hopped-up on drugs or buzzed from too much alcohol; a worthless soul destined for an early departure from his empty life. In some ways Samael was jealous.