by Ahern, Jerry
"We'll be all right, Mama," Michael said, putting his arm around her neck. "I'll take care of you and Annie."
"I know you will, Michael," she whispered. "Now-give me a hand with the blanket and the mattress."
With Michael's help, Sarah pulled the blanket up over their heads, then awkwardly reached around and hauled the mattress over them. She turned on the flashlight and let it rest between her legs beside the radio. Sarah's left arm was around Ann, and she drew Michael toward her, then put her right arm around him. She circled them with her arms and put her hands over her own ears. All of them had their heads down. She could hear that the radio was still playing, but she could not make out what the announcer was saying.
Very suddenly, she felt the ground underneath them tremble. She held the children more tightly, looking into the dim light cast by her flashlight to make sure their ears were protected. She had to force Annie's hands up over her ears.
There was a rumbling, and even with her hands over her ears it seemed to grow steadily louder. She drew the children's heads down into her lap and bent her body over them. Michael began to squirm.
The sound grew louder, the trembling beneath them intensified and suddenly she felt warm-warmer than she should have felt under just the blanket and the mattress. After what seemed like a long time-though her watch showed that it had only been a minute or less-the noise started to die down and the trembling subsided.
She waited, realizing she'd been holding her breath. "Children, I think it's passed."
As she started to sit up, there was a whooshing noise and the sound of smashing glass from the house above them. She'd been on the fringe of a hurricane once, she recalled. And the sound she heard now was like that-a strong wind. The house began to shake, the sound of glass breaking from upstairs in the house grew louder. She could feel things failing on her back as she bent her body over the children. Ann was crying, and Michael was asking questions. Sarah Rourke wanted to scream, but she didn't. "It will be all right," she whispered. "Daddy will be here soon." But in her mind, she realized that if her husband had been anywhere outside and unprotected, he was probably dead. Her heart forced her to dismiss the idea as soon as it came to her. Until she knew otherwise, she told herself, she would believe her husband was coming for them-however long it took him.
Sarah Rourke whispered to the children, "Daddy will come."
Chapter Twenty
"My wife? The children?"
"They are fine, Mr. President. We'll be perfectly safe here," Thurston Potter said, walking over to the president and sitting down on the easy chair opposite the couch where the president sat.
"Is everyone here at Mt. Lincoln?"
"Your Chief of Staff, Paul Dorian is here, sir. Mr. Thorpe is here."
Lieutenant Brightston is playing with your youngest son, running movies for him. Rear Admiral Corbin and his intelligence people made it."
"What about Secretary Meeker?" the president said.
"As best as we can determine, he was going to get his wife-we don't think he made it. Washington is all but gone. The vice-president, Mr. Sneed, didn't make it either, sir. They couldn't get him out of the hospital at Bethesda in time. The operation he was having was at the critical stage."
"My God, Meeker, Sneed! How many millions, Potter? Any estimate yet?"
Before Potter could answer, there was a knock at the door.
"Yes-come in," the president said, his voice high-pitched.
Rear Admiral Corbin stepped through the doorway. "Mr. President, I've got a preliminary situation report."
"What about casualties?" the president said, lighting a cigarette.
"Well, too early to tell, Mr. President. It looks like they made a massive launch, but with the exception of a few strategically important cities, primary concentration was on our military targets-not on population centers. Some reports from the Midwest indicate that neutron devices might have been used-so the real estate up that way should at least be somewhat salvageable."
"What sort of damage are we inflicting on them?"
"Major cities, major industrial complexes-but they got way too much of our stuff while it was on the ground. I think we lost this one, sir," Corbin concluded.
"This one?" the president said, and he realized he was smiling absurdly. Then, quietly, he said, "Admiral Corbin, don't you realize there isn't going to be another one?"
***
Rourke shouted, "Everyone, look away from the windows and put your heads down-protect your faces, your eyes!" Staring out the window as the 747 had crossed beyond the Mississippi, Rourke had caught a glimpse of something in the air-pale white and crashing downward. As the 747 started rocking and bouncing, Rourke knew his guess hadn't been wrong-it had been a missile with a nuclear warhead. What had been, seconds earlier, the city of St. Louis, Missouri was now gone. After a few minutes, the turbulence eased, and Rourke looked up. The moans and cries he'd heard were quieting now as he looked around the first-class cabin. People in the window seats-at least a dozen that Rourke was able to count quickly-had their hands pressed to their faces and were screaming or sobbing.
Rourke looked into the aisle as the stewardess who had helped him with the older women earlier came down the aisle. Her hands reached out to the seats to steady herself against the jet's motion. Her face was white, her eyes wide. Rourke reached out and took her hand, leaning across the man next to him as he did. "What is it? You just came from the captain."
"Nothing, Mr. Rourke. Nothing to worry-"
Rourke stood up, stepping past his seatmate and into the aisle. Reaching into his wallet, he fished out one of his identity cards and handed it to her. "You know what this is?"
"It says Central lntelligence-"
"Yeah," Rourke whispered. "Now, unless your passenger list shows somebody else, I'm the closest thing to a government official you've got on this plane. Now, what's up? Pilot and copilot were blinded, weren't they?"
"How did you-"
Rourke cut her off. "Only makes sense. They couldn't have looked away from the St. Louis blast in time, too much glass up there anyway. Did the cabin keep its integrity-none of the glass was broken or anything?"
"Yes, but you're right. Neither of them can see. It's on auto pilot now, but with this turbulence-"
"Exactly," Rourke said. He made a quick decision to calm the passengers before he checked on the pilots. "Give me the microphone for the speaker system," he said.
He followed her up the aisle toward the front of the cabin, and she handed him the microphone. He pushed the switch and began to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Rourke. I am a special employee of the government." Mutterings and exclamations mixed with the cries and sobs. Everyone began shouting out questions at once. He looked toward the window nearest him. "Now, I want everybody to be quiet a minute and listen. First, haul down the curtains on the windows, and don't look outside. Second, if you've got someone seated near you who appears to be having trouble with his eyes right now," he lied, "that should be just temporary. After I'm through talking, get a pillow from the compartment above your seat and try to make the person comfortable. I'm also a qualified physician, so I will be coming around to check on you all. Take a blanket from the compartment and try to keep the injured person warm. Soon, we will come to you and make available whatever medical assistance is required." He paused a moment, then added, "It looks like the United States is under a nuclear attack-"
Another burst of cries. Someone started to scream. Rourke shouted over the microphone. "Now, let's be quiet and let's keep calm! I wish I could say something encouraging about what's going on below us on the ground, but I can't. But for now, we are all reasonably safe," he lied again. "Now-I'd like anyone with flight training of any sort to report to the front of the forward cabin as soon as I'm through talking. Don't panic. The captain has the plane under control, but because of the turbulence from the heat on the ground, he can use some extra help on some of the instruments. Also, anyone with any sort of first-aid tra
ining or nursing experience, report up here, as well, as soon as I'm through. We'll need your help to get everyone comfortable and start tending to their medical needs. The stewardesses will come around now with complimentary drinks. I suggest you have one. It's going to be a long night." Rourke handed the microphone to the stewardess. Several passengers started filtering up toward the front of the first-class cabin. When no more seemed to be coming, Rourke addressed them all, saying, "Okay, let's crowd into the galley. Talk things over. You too," he said to the stewardess.
Rourke walked into the galley and leaned against the counter top, waiting until everyone was inside. When they had gathered, he told the stewardess, "Close the curtains and keep 'em closed," then turned to the six men and women. "Now, does anyone here have any kind of flight training?"
A woman of about thirty raised her hand.
"What kind of training?" Rourke asked.
"I started private pilot training three weeks ago-I've had four lessons in the air. That's all."
"Well," Rourke said, smiling, "that's better than nothing, isn't it?" He bit on his lower lip, searched his jacket for a cigar, found one, and lit it with his Zippo. "Anybody else?"
There were no responses. Rourke said, slowly, "Then I assume the rest of you have had some medical training. Now, the stewardess here will coordinate with you on anything you need that we can get hold of to help. Anybody a nurse?"
There were no responses. "All right," Rourke said, "the stewardess is going to get on the PA system and see who among the passengers has aspirin or any other kind of pain killers. Lay off the aspirin unless nothing else is available. We might find that some of these people have radiation sickness and the last thing they need is something else to irritate their stomachs. Flush the burned areas on their faces and eyes, use cold compresses, try to make everyone comfortable. Do what you can. I'm a doctor, so if you need any advice, have the stewardess check with me. Now, I don't have a bag or any instruments or drugs or anything, but I can help."
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 copilot. 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 copilot were still strapped into their seats. Both men were writhing, holding their faces. The copilot 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 copilot'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 troubleshooting."
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."
