by Tim LaHaye
“I’d be grateful.”
“And can you protect me from other overly zealous flight attendants?”
Hattie managed a smile. “They might all want your help.”
“This is a long shot as it is. Just keep everybody away from me, and let me keep trying.”
“Deal,” she said, but she looked troubled.
“Hattie, you’re doing the right thing,” he said. “It’s OK in a situation like this to think of yourself a little. That’s what I’m doing.”
“But everybody’s in the same boat, sir. And I have responsibilities.”
“You have to admit, when people disappear, some rules go out the window.”
Rayford Steele sat ashen-faced in the cockpit. Half an hour from touchdown in Chicago, he had told the passengers everything he knew. The simultaneous disappearance of millions all over the globe had resulted in chaos far beyond imagination. He complimented everyone on remaining calm and avoiding hysterics, although he had received reports of doctors on board who handed out Valium like candy.
Rayford had been forthright, the only way he knew to be. He realized he had told the people more than he might have if he’d lost an engine or his hydraulics or even his landing gear. He had been frank with them that those who had not had loved ones disappear might get home to discover that they had been victims of the many tragedies that had ensued.
He thought, but didn’t say, how grateful he was to have been in the air when this event had taken place. What confusion must await them on the ground! Here, in a literal sense, they were above it all. They had been affected, of course. People were missing from everywhere. But except for the staff shortage caused by the disappearance of three crew members, the passengers didn’t suffer the way they might have had they been in traffic or if he and Christopher had been among those who had disappeared.
As he settled into a holding pattern miles from O’Hare, the full impact of the tragedy began to come into view. Flights from all over the country were being rerouted to Chicago. Planes were reorganized based on their fuel supplies. Rayford needed to stay in priority position after flying across the eastern seaboard and then over the Atlantic before turning back. It was not Rayford’s practice to communicate with ground control until after he landed, but now the air traffic control tower was recommending it. He was informed that visibility was excellent, despite intermittent smoke from wreckages on the ground, but that landing would be risky and precarious because the two open runways were crowded with jets. They lined either side, all the way down the runway. Every gate was full, and none were backing out. Every mode of human transport was in use, busing passengers from the ends of the runways back to the terminal.
But, Rayford was told, he would likely find that his people—at least most of them—would have to walk all the way. All remaining personnel had been called in to serve, but they were busy directing planes to safe areas. The few buses and vans were reserved for the handicapped, elderly, and flight crews. Rayford passed the word along that his crew would be walking.
Passengers reported that they had been unable to get through even on the in-flight satellite phones. Hattie Durham told Rayford that one enterprising passenger in first class had somehow hooked up the phone to his computer, and while he composed messages it was automatically dialing and redialing New York. If a line opened, this would be the guy who got through.
By the time the plane began its descent into Chicago, Buck had been able to squeeze onto only one briefly freed-up connection to his computer service, which prompted him to download his waiting mail. This came just as Hattie announced that all electronic devices must be turned off.
With an acumen he didn’t realize he possessed, Buck speed-tapped the keys that retrieved and filed all his messages, downloaded them, and backed him out of the linkup in seconds. Just when his machine might have interfered with flight communications, he was off-line and would have to wait to search his files for news from friends, coworkers, relatives, anyone.
Before her last-minute preparations for landing, Hattie hurried to Buck. “Anything?” He shook his head apologetically. “Thanks for trying,” she said. And she began to weep.
He reached for her wrist. “Hattie, we’re all going to go home and cry today. But hang in there. Get your passengers off the plane, and you can at least feel good about that.”
“Mr. Williams,” she sobbed, “you know we lost several old people, but not all of them. And we lost several middle-aged people, but not all of them. And we lost several people your age and my age, but not all of them. We even lost some teenagers.”
He stared at her. What was she driving at?
“Sir, we lost every child and baby on this plane.”
“How many were there?”
“More than a dozen. But all of them! Not one was left.”
The man next to Buck roused and squinted at the late-morning sun burning through the window. “What in blazes are you two talking about?” he said.
“We’re about to land in Chicago,” Hattie said. “I’ve got to run.”
“Chicago?”
“You don’t want to know,” Buck said.
The man nearly sat in Buck’s lap to get a look out the window, his boozy breath enveloping Buck. “What, are we at war? Riots? What?”
Having just cut through the cloud bank, the plane allowed passengers a view of the Chicago area. Smoke. Fire. Cars off the road and smashed into each other and guardrails. Planes in pieces on the ground. Emergency vehicles, lights flashing, picking their way around the debris.
As O’Hare came into view, it was clear no one was going anywhere soon. There were planes as far as the eye could see, some crashed and burning, the others gridlocked in line. People trudged through the grass and between vehicles toward the terminal. The expressways that led to the airport looked like they had during the great Chicago blizzards, only without the snow.
Cranes and wreckers were trying to clear a path through the front of the terminal so cars could get in and out, but that would take hours, if not days. A snake of humanity wended its way slowly out of the great terminal buildings, between the motionless cars, and onto the ramps. People walking, walking, walking, looking for a cab or a limo. Buck began plotting how he would beat the new system. Somehow, he had to get moving and get out of such a congested area. The problem was, his goal was to get to a worse one: New York.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rayford announced, “I want to thank you again for your cooperation today. We’ve been asked to put down on the only runway that will take this size plane and then to taxi to an open area about two miles from the terminal. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to use our inflatable emergency chutes, because we will not be able to hook up to any gateways. If you are unable to walk to the terminal, please stay with the plane, and we will send someone back for you.”
There was no thanking them for choosing Pan-Continental, no “We hope you’ll make us your choice next time you need air service.” He did remind them to stay seated with their belts fastened until he turned off the seat belt sign, because privately he knew this would be his most difficult landing in years. He knew he could do it, but it had been a long time since he had had to land a plane among other aircraft.
Rayford envied whoever it was in first class who had the inside track on communicating by modem. He was desperate to call Irene, Chloe, and Ray Jr. On the other hand, he feared he might never talk to them again.
CHAPTER 3
Hattie Durham and what was left of her cabin crew encouraged passengers to study the safety cards in their seat pockets. Many feared they would be unable to jump and slide down the chutes, especially with their carry-on luggage. They were instructed to remove their shoes and to jump seatfirst onto the chute. Then crew members would toss them their shoes and bags. They were advised not to wait in the terminal for their checked baggage. That, they were promised, would eventually be delivered to their homes. No guarantees when.
Buck Williams gave Hattie his car
d and got her phone number, “just in case I get through to your people before you do.”
“You’re with Global Weekly?” she said. “I had no idea.”
“And you were going to send me to my room for tampering with the phone.”
She appeared to be trying to smile. “Sorry,” Buck said, “not funny. I’ll let you go.”
Always a light traveler, Buck was grateful he had checked no baggage. Never did, not even on international flights. When he opened the bin to pull down his leather bag, he found the old man’s hat and jacket still perched atop it. Harold’s wife sat staring at Buck, her eyes full, jaw set. “Ma’am,” he said quietly, “would you want these?”
The grieving woman gratefully gathered in the hat and coat, and crushed them against her chest as if she would never let them go. She said something Buck couldn’t hear. He asked her to repeat it. “I can’t jump out of any airplane,” she said.
“Stay right here,” he said. “They’ll send someone for you.”
“But will I still have to jump and slide down that thing?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sure they’ll have a lift of some sort.”
Buck carefully laid his laptop and case in among his clothes. With his bag zipped, he hurried to the front of the line, eager to show others how easy it was. He tossed his shoes down first, watching them bounce and skitter onto the runway. Then he clutched his bag across his chest, took a quick step, and threw his feet out in front of him.
A bit enthusiastic, he landed not on his seat but on his shoulders, which threw his feet over the top of his head. He picked up speed and hit the bottom with his weight shifting forward. The buggy-whip centripetal force slammed his stockinged feet to the ground and brought his torso up and over in a somersault that barely missed planting his face on the concrete. At the last instant, still hanging on to his bag for dear life, he tucked his head under and took the abrasion on the back of his head rather than on his nose. He fought the urge to say, “No problem,” but he couldn’t keep from rubbing the back of his head, already matted with blood. It wasn’t a serious problem, only a nuisance. He quickly retrieved his shoes and began jogging toward the terminal, as much from embarrassment as need. He knew there would be no more hurrying once he hit the terminal.
Rayford, Christopher, and Hattie were the last three off the 747. Before disembarking, they had made sure all able-bodied people got down the chutes and that the elderly and infirm were transported by bus. The bus driver insisted that the crew ride with him and the last passengers, but Rayford refused. “I can’t see passing my own passengers as they walk to the terminal,” he said. “How would that look?”
Christopher said, “Suit yourself, Cap. You mind if I take him up on his offer?”
Rayford glared at him. “You’re serious?”
“I don’t get paid enough for this.”
“Like this was the airline’s fault. Chris, you don’t mean it.”
“The heck I don’t. By the time you get up there, you’ll wish you’d ridden, too.”
“I should write you up for this.”
“Millions of people disappear into thin air and I should worry about getting written up for riding instead of walking? Later, Steele.”
Rayford shook his head and turned to Hattie. “Maybe I’ll see you up there. If you can get out of the terminal, don’t wait for me.”
“Are you kidding? If you’re walking, I’m walking.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“After that dressing-down you just gave Smith? I’m walking.”
“He’s first officer. He ought to be helping the last passenger off the ship and first to volunteer for emergency duty.”
“Well, do me a favor and consider me part of your crew, too. Just because I can’t fly the thing doesn’t mean I don’t feel some ownership. And don’t treat me like a little woman.”
“I would never do that. Got your stuff?”
Hattie pulled her bag on wheels and Rayford carried his pilot’s bag. It was a long walk, and several times they waved off offers of rides from units speeding out to pick up the nonambulatory. Along the way they passed other passengers from their flight. Many thanked Rayford; he wasn’t sure for what. For not panicking, he guessed. But they looked as terrified and shell-shocked as he felt.
They shielded their ears from flights screaming in to land. Rayford tried to calculate how long it would be before this runway was shut down, too. He couldn’t imagine the other open strip holding many more planes, either. Would some have to try to put down on highways or open fields? And how far away from the big cities would they have to look for open stretches of highway unencumbered by bridges? He shuddered at the thought.
All around were ambulances and other emergency vehicles trying to get to ugly wreckage scenes.
Finally in the terminal, Rayford found crowds standing in lines behind banks of phones, their cell networks apparently overloaded. Most had angry people waiting, yelling at callers who shrugged and redialed. Airport restaurants were already sold out of or low on food, and all newspapers and magazines were gone. In shops where staffers had disappeared, looters walked off with merchandise.
Rayford wanted more than anything to sit and talk with someone about what to make of this. But everybody he saw—friend, acquaintance, or stranger—was busy trying to make arrangements. O’Hare was like a massive prison with resources dwindling and gridlock growing. No one slept. Everyone scurried about, trying to find some link to the outside world, to contact their families, and to get out of the airport.
At the flight center in the bowels of the place, Rayford found much the same thing. Hattie said she would try making her calls from the lounge and would meet him later to see if they could share a ride to the suburbs. He knew they were unlikely to find any rides going anywhere, and he didn’t relish walking twenty miles. But all hotels in the area were already full.
Finally a supervisor asked for the attention of the fliers in the underground center. “We have some secure lines, about five,” he said. “Whether you can get through, we don’t know, but it’s your best chance. They do bypass the normal trunk lines out of here, so you won’t be competing with all the pay phones in the terminal. Streamline your calls. Also, there are a limited number of helicopter rides available to suburban hospitals and police departments, but naturally you’re secondary to medical emergencies. Get in line over here for phones and rides to the suburbs. As of right now we have no word of the cancellation of any flights except for the remainder of today. It’s your responsibility to be back here for your next flight or to call in and find out its status.”
Rayford got in line, beginning to feel the tension of having flown too long and known too little. Worse was the knowledge that he had a better idea than most of what had happened. If he was right, if it were true, he would not be getting an answer when he dialed home. As he stood there, a TV monitor above him broadcast images of the chaos. From around the globe came wailing mothers, stoic families, reports of death and destruction. Dozens of stories included eyewitnesses who had seen loved ones and friends disappear before their eyes.
Most shocking to Rayford was a woman in labor, about to go into the delivery room, who was suddenly barren. Doctors delivered the placenta. Her husband had caught the disappearance of the fetus on his camcorder. As he shot her great belly and sweaty face, he asked how she felt. “How do you think I feel, Earl? Turn that thing off.” What was she hoping for? “That you’ll get close enough for me to slug you.” Did she realize that in a few moments they’d be parents? “In about a minute, you’re going to be divorced.”
Then came the scream and the dropping of the camera, terrified voices, running nurses, and the doctor. CNN reran the footage in super-slow motion, showing the woman going from very pregnant to nearly flat stomached, as if she had instantaneously delivered. “Now, watch with us again,” the newsman intoned, “and keep your eyes on the left edge of your screen, where a nurse appears to be reading a printout from the fetal he
art monitor. There, see?” The action stopped as the pregnant woman’s stomach deflated. “The nurse’s uniform seems to still be standing as if an invisible person is wearing it. She’s gone. Half a second later, watch.” The image moved ahead and stopped. “The uniform, stockings and all, are in a pile atop her shoes.”
Local television stations from around the world reported bizarre occurrences, especially in time zones where the event had happened during the day or early evening. CNN showed via satellite the video of a groom disappearing while slipping the ring onto his bride’s finger. A funeral home in Australia reported that nearly every mourner disappeared from one memorial service, including the corpse, while at another service at the same time, only a few disappeared and the corpse remained. Morgues also reported corpse disappearances. At a burial, three of six pallbearers stumbled and dropped a casket when the other three disappeared. When they picked up the casket, it too was empty.
Rayford was second in line for the phone, but what he saw next on the screen convinced him he would never see his wife again. At a Christian high school soccer game at a missionary headquarters in Indonesia, most of the spectators and all but one of the players disappeared in the middle of play, leaving their shoes and uniforms on the ground. The CNN reporter announced that, in his remorse, the surviving player took his own life.
But it was more than remorse, Rayford knew. Of all people, that player, a student at a Christian school, would have known the truth immediately. The Rapture had taken place. Jesus Christ had returned for his people, and that boy was not one of them. When Rayford sat at the phone, tears streamed down his face. Someone said, “You have four minutes,” and he knew that would be more than he needed. His answering machine at home picked up immediately, and he was pierced to hear the cheerful voice of his wife. “Your call is important to us,” she said. “Please leave a message after the beep.”
