Departure

“They won’t come out,” she says when she sees me.

Before I can respond, she moves back to the wall, grabs the phone, listens for a second, then tosses it aside. “Dead.”

I think she’s in shock. What’s the priority at this point? I glance back at the sparks popping against the twisted metal. “Jillian, is there a danger of fire?”

“Fire?”

“Yes. Is there any fuel in this section?” It seems like a reasonable question, but who knows?

Jillian gazes past me, confused. “Shouldn’t be a fire. Captain dumped the fuel. Or I thought …”

A middle-aged man in first class lifts his head. “Fire?”

People around him begin repeating the word quietly.

“Where are we?” That seems like the next logical question.

Jillian just stares, but Harper says, “We were over England.” When my eyes meet hers, she adds, “I was … watching the flight display on the monitor.”

That’s the first bit of good news, but I don’t get to think about it long. The word fire has finally reached the wrong person.

“There’s a fire! We need to get off!” someone yells. Across the plane, people start scrambling out of their seats. A panicked mass of about twenty people coalesces in the cramped space. Several passengers break away and rush to the jagged opening at the rear but turn back, afraid to jump. “We’re trapped!” is added to the cries of “Fire!” and things start to get ugly. A white-haired woman in business class loses her footing and falls. People trample her on their way to the front, where Jillian and I stand speechless. The woman’s screams don’t slow the crowd.

They rush on, directly toward us.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_47ef4ab6-70b5-5a32-b7df-8db57330cde6)

Nick (#ulink_47ef4ab6-70b5-5a32-b7df-8db57330cde6)

THE SURGING CROWD FORCES JILLIAN TO FOCUS. SHE spreads her arms, but her voice fails her. I can barely hear it over the crowd. Her standing there, defenseless in front of the crowd, jolts me into action.

I move forward, push Jillian behind me, and plant my feet. I shout, my own voice ringing out louder and clearer than I expect. “Stop! People, stop moving, you’re hurting that woman! Listen: There. Is. No. Fire.” I say each word more slowly and quietly than the last, infusing the crowd with calm. “Okay? No fire. No danger. Relax.”

Save for a few shoves, the crowd settles. All eyes focus on me.

“Where are we?” a woman yells.

“England.”

The word ripples through the crowd in hushed tones, as if it were a secret.

Jillian moves from behind me and steadies herself on a chair.

All at once, the survivors begin hurling questions at me, like the press corps in the final seconds of a White House briefing.

“Help is on the way,” I find myself saying. “Right now, the key is to stay calm. If you panic, people will get hurt, and if you’re responsible for harming other passengers, you will face criminal charges.” I pause and then add for good measure, “The media’s going to find out who caused trouble after the crash, so you can also expect to be on the morning news.” The threat of public humiliation—most people’s greatest fear—seems to do the trick. The uproar subsides, replaced by suspicious sidelong glances, as people wonder if their neighbors will rat them out for bum-rushing the exit.

“If you’re in pain, stay where you are. If you have internal injuries, moving is the worst thing you can do. Emergency personnel will check you out when they arrive, and they’ll decide when and how to move you.” Sounds good, anyway.

“Where’s the captain?” an overweight middle-aged man asks.

Luckily (or unluckily), the lies keep coming: “He’s coordinating with emergency personnel right now.”

Jillian gives me a confused look. She seems to be trying to decide whether this is good news or a lie. I wonder how much help she’s going to be.

“Who are you?” another passenger yells.

“He’s just a passenger, same as the rest of us.” Looks like the drunken jerk in 2D survived, unfortunately. He stares at me with glassy eyes. “Ignore this clown.”

I shrug. “Of course I’m a passenger—what else would I be? Now listen up. Anyone who can walk, we’re going to leave the aircraft in an orderly fashion. Take the nearest seat, everyone, and wait to be called. This young lady”—I nod to Jillian—“is going to open the emergency exit, and when she calls your row, do what she says. If there’s a doctor on board, come see me immediately.”

Jillian opens the left exit door at the front of the plane, and I hear the evacuation slide inflating. I stand beside her and look out. The slide snags on the trees around us, but it will get people to the ground, six or seven feet below us. The plane’s nose is still a few feet off the ground. This entire section is being held up by trees, but it feels stable enough.

“What now?” Jillian asks, her voice low.

“Start taking people from the back off first.” I figure that will minimize the plane’s shifting.

Five minutes later a line’s forming at the slide, and the picture becomes clearer. It looks as if everyone in first class survived, but a lot of folks in business—perhaps half of the twenty or so—aren’t moving.

A woman with shoulder-length black hair, maybe in her early forties, pauses at the threshold next to me. “You asked for a doctor?” She has a slight accent—German, I think.

“Yes.”

“I … have an M.D., but I’m not a practicing physician.”

“Yeah, well, you are today.”

“All right,” she says, still hesitant.

“Jillian here is going to give you a first-aid kit. I want you to survey the remaining passengers and prioritize treatment. Anyone in immediate danger first, then children, then women, then men.”

Without a word, the doctor starts making her way through the cabin, Jillian at her side. I man the exit, making sure that people are spaced out enough to get down the slide without colliding. Finally I watch the last passenger make her way down: the elderly woman who was almost trampled. Her feet touch the ground, and an older man, possibly her husband, catches her hand and helps her up. He nods to me slowly, and I nod back.

From the galley between first and business classes, I hear the clink of glass bottles and an angry voice: 2D berating someone.

I step back there to find Harper standing across from 2D, her face pained. He’s got a dozen mini bottles lined up on the slanted table. Half are empty, and 2D’s unscrewing the cap on a Tanqueray.

I’d like to get into what he said or did to her, but there are more pressing matters—namely the remainder of the passengers, many of whom might need help and possibly medical treatment.

“Stop drinking those,” I snap. “We may need them for medical care.” We could run out of antiseptic before help arrives, and liquor would be better than nothing.

“Very true. They’re caring for my medical needs right now.”

“I’m serious. Leave those and get off the plane.”

He grabs the corded plane phone theatrically. “Let’s have a round of applause for Captain Crash, the mini bottle Nazi.” He fakes the roar of a crowd, slugs back the bottle he’s holding, and wipes his mouth. “Tell you what,” he says, slurring a little. “Let’s compromise. You can have these bottles as soon as I’m done with them.”

I step toward him. Harper moves between us. A firm hand on my shoulder stops me.