Pandora's Clock

by Nance, John J. ;

  “… Ah, Sixty-six, how many hours of fuel do you have on board, sir?”

  An odd question, Holland thought. He looked at the fuel gauges again and ran a routine calculation. Eighty-two thousand pounds against an average fuel burn of twelve thousand per hour meant just under seven hours. Holland relayed the figure and Robb transmitted it.

  The controller’s voice came back within a minute.

  “I am sorry, sir, but you will please turn left now to a heading of two-seven-zero degrees, and climb to flight level two-four-zero. Landing clearance for Schiphol Airport has been temporarily suspended, and we must put you in a holding pattern over water.”

  Holland and Robb looked at each other in alarm.

  Holland triggered the radio first.

  “Amsterdam Control, Sixty-six. We have a critically ill heart attack victim on board. We don’t have any more time to waste. We have to get medical help instantly.”

  The reply was slow, apologetic, and very reluctant.

  “I understand this, Sixty-six, but I am now directed to inform you that until we have permission to bring you in, you may not remain in Dutch airspace and you may not land at Schiphol. I am very sorry. We are working on it, I assure you.”

  Dick Robb came forward in his seat, his eyes flaring in alarm. He triggered the transmitter and fairly yelled into his headset microphone.

  “Amsterdam Control, WHY? Why are we being treated like this?” Robb was almost sputtering. “Don’t you understand the meaning of an emergency declaration? We’re declaring an … an … emergency right now, and you have no choice but to let us land!”

  Holland shook his head aggressively, but Robb continued.

  “Amsterdam Control, Quantum Sixty-six is landing at Schiphol whether you like it or not!”

  “Dick, good grief!” Holland said. “That won’t work. I already tried it with London.” He tried unsuccessfully to catch Robb’s eye, but Robb wouldn’t meet his gaze. He didn’t want to be told no. He was scared, and James Holland knew the feeling well.

  There was silence from Center for almost half a minute before the Dutch controller responded. It was a different voice this time, with no hint of sympathy. Obviously a supervisor or manager, his English impeccable but the Dutch accent pronounced.

  “Quantum Sixty-six, any attempt to land on Dutch soil, or to stay in Dutch airspace without approval, will subject you to severe penalties, and may even be met with armed intervention. Because of your statement just now, we are asking for Dutch military assistance. Unless your aircraft cannot remain aloft mechanically, you must honor our instructions. We will make necessary arrangements as soon as possible.”

  Robb slumped in his seat as Holland took over the radio, his voice calm and authoritative.

  “Amsterdam Control, Quantum Sixty-six is complying and turning left to a heading of two-seven-zero and beginning a climb to two-four-zero, awaiting holding instructions. The military will not be necessary. Would you please check to see if we could divert to either Brussels or Copenhagen, and if not, would Oslo or Stockholm take us?”

  “We will check, Sixty-six. Please … believe us, we understand your emergency, but we are told there is a … a possibility of sickness aboard your aircraft, and our authorities are not prepared to deal with that.”

  “Well, we need your help, Amsterdam Control, that’s all I can say.”

  Holland pushed the power up and reconnected the autoflight systems before turning to Robb, who was staring straight ahead.

  “Get the company on the satellite phone, Dick. Find out what they’ve got in mind. There’s got to be a plan. We have to bring this ship down somewhere! Even if our patient in the back recovers, we don’t have enough fuel now to make New York with legal reserves.”

  The interphone call chime rang at the same instant and Robb answered it. He mumbled a few words and disconnected, then stared out the windscreen again for a while. When he spoke at last, his eyes were straight ahead on the horizon.

  “That was the head mama downstairs,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “She says to tell you the emergency’s over. Your passenger is dead.”

  SIX

  ABOARD FLIGHT 66—FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22—7:10 P.M. (1810Z)

  By the time James Holland reached Dallas Operations on the satellite phone, Quantum 66 had stabilized at thirty-one thousand feet in a holding pattern over the blackness of the nighttime North Sea. With a confused cadre of executives and dispatchers on the other end, Holland begged for assistance and instructions as the 747 bored circular holes in the sky, flying fifteen miles to the north, turning left a hundred eighty degrees, then flying fifteen miles to the south before turning left again to fly north along the same track. The holding pattern path was programmed in the flight management computer, and the computer, in turn, could keep the big Boeing on the same racetrack until the fuel tanks ran dry. At least, Holland thought, it was a safe place in the sky to park the seven-hundred-thousand-pound aircraft until the Dutch made up their minds to let them land in Amsterdam.

  Dick Robb was fuming at the delay, and fuming at Holland’s low-key negotiations with the company, but he refused to take control. His eyes darted minute by minute from the instruments to the captain to the fading, post-sunset visage of stratus clouds over the North Sea ahead of them, but he said nothing.

  Back in Texas, Quantum’s vice president of Operations had been snatched from his ranch in a helicopter, but he sounded as confused as the dispatchers at Dallas-Fort Worth airport, who had been unwilling to make any decisions without him.

  “Captain, you say the Dutch controllers have you in holding?” the Operations chief asked.

  Holland recited the facts for the third time. Yes, they were in holding. Yes, the Dutch had held out hope they might be allowed to land. Yes, their heart attack victim was dead, and was supposed to be carrying a terrible strain of the flu. And yes, they were in need of a place to land. With a few more hours at low altitude, Holland told him, that need could become critical.

  “Well,” began the highly paid decision maker from the left seat of a Jet Ranger hurtling toward the airline’s Dallas headquarters, “have we contacted our State Department?”

  There was another confused burble of voices from Dallas as the director of Flight Control confessed he didn’t know whom to call.

  “We’ve called the FAA. We’ve reported this to their headquarters,” the DFC offered.

  “What’d they say?” the Operations VP asked.

  “They said to stand by. I got the impression they were assembling a team in their command post in Washington.”

  “Did they say that? Are they calling the Dutch authorities?” the VP asked.

  There was a telling hesitation from the director of Flight Control as Holland listened, the voices crisp on the satellite connection.

  The director sighed. “Sir, I don’t think they have any better idea than we do who to dial. There are no procedures for this. We have telephone numbers for our Operations at Schiphol Airport and we’ve called the Dutch Aviation Authority—that’s their version of the FAA—but they told us to stand by, and that the order not to let Sixty-six land came from somewhere in the Dutch government.”

  The Operations VP knew everyone was waiting for his pronouncement. He’d built an organization that knew better than to function without his instant involvement and approval. Now they were all waiting for him to be brilliant. He cleared his throat and tried to sound confident. “Okay, get the FAA command post up on the telephone net here, maintain an open line, and have them contact the State Department duty officer.”

  “What,” Holland interrupted, “do you want us to do in the meantime?”

  “Who’s that?” the VP asked.

  “This is Flight Sixty-six.”

  “Oh. Sorry, Captain. Stay in holding and keep the line open for a callback. We’ll have an answer shortly. You have enough fuel?”

  “Enough for five hours at altitude and perhaps three down low, but we’re already too low on fuel
to make New York with legal reserves.”

  “Okay … okay. Hang in there. We’ll call you back.”

  “Sir,” Holland continued, “we have no information on exactly what kind of flu our passenger, and we, have been exposed to. It’s a strange coincidence, to say the least. I mean, the very passenger who brings aboard a bad strain of the flu drops dead from a heart attack? That’s hard to buy. Whatever type of flu this is we supposedly have aboard, it’s obviously scaring the Germans, and I need to know why. What are we facing up here?”

  He heard the vice president sigh. “As I say, Captain, just stand by. We’ll work on getting you some answers, and we’ll call you back.”

  Holland terminated the connection and briefed Robb on the call, shaking his head. “Their instructions were to keep holding, and don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

  Robb’s jaw clenched even tighter as Holland unstrapped and moved out of the seat.

  “You’ve got her,” Holland told him. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  It was interesting, Holland thought, that Robb hadn’t even questioned where he was going. He was obviously on the verge of exploding.

  Holland left the cockpit and entered the small restroom just outside the cockpit, locking the door behind him. The mirror framed the image of an unhappy man, and he looked at himself in resignation. He looked tired. Hell, he was tired. The lines and creases in what passed for a face were becoming alarming, and the past six months as a bachelor had done nothing to help.

  Thoughts of the present interceded. Getting away from Robb for even a few seconds had seemed even more important than dealing with this curious crisis, which hadn’t begun to frighten him until now. Barb, of course, was already panicked, as was Brenda, whose heroic efforts to save Helms had directly exposed her to whatever he was carrying. Could it be bad enough and dangerous enough to justify treating them as pariahs, or was a thundering herd of cowardly bureaucrats simply overreacting to something they didn’t understand?

  Holland shuddered at both thoughts. What flu could be so bad that Great Britain wouldn’t even admit a heart patient who’d allegedly been exposed?

  But the passenger was already sick! Holland reminded himself. We are exposed!

  The idea of quarantining an entire 747 full of passengers was unheard of. The fact that the German authorities were frightened by whatever Helms had been exposed to was beginning to frighten Holland. That and the simple fact that they still weren’t sure where to land—or who was going to make that decision.

  He finished in the restroom and walked back through the sixty-foot length of the upper-deck section, then descended the stairway to the main cabin below, feeling disgusted. The satellite conversation had done nothing to calm the gnawing worry that the crew of Flight 66 was all but on its own in solving this crisis.

  Holland stopped at the foot of the stairway and chided himself. That attitude was unacceptable. It was Quantum’s aircraft, Quantum’s crew, and Quantum’s liability, and the same Operations chief he had just talked to had crushed the careers of pilots who had tried to get innovative without company direction. There was only one way to handle it, Holland concluded as he stepped off the last step.

  Wait for instructions.

  The stairway descended into the side of the business class cabin. With several dozen eyes tracking him, Captain Holland turned toward the rear of the aircraft. Helms’s body had been moved forward from coach into the rear of business class, and a blanket now covered the deceased man. Brenda Hopkins stood nearby, exhausted. He’d been briefed on her heroics, and she moved toward him now. He put his arm around her and held her for a few minutes, walking her forward of the dividing curtain for a bit of privacy as she lowered her head and sobbed quietly on his shoulder, the emotional dam breaking at last. He was aware of her exposure, but she needed the support.

  “I tried my best,” she began, but he shushed her.

  “I know. I know you did. I’m proud of you. He might have made it, too, if London had let us land.”

  Barb Rollins, the lead flight attendant, materialized beside them, waiting until Brenda had raised her head before asking for an update.

  He motioned them forward into the first class galley and pulled the curtains, filling them in on the situation and the holding pattern and the reluctance of three separate nations to let them land.

  Barb’s eyes were suddenly huge. “What are you saying? You mean someone’s exposed us to some superflu? A swine flu type of thing?” Her New York accent had sharpened to a cutting edge, and Holland raised his hand to calm her.

  “It’s probably precautionary and everyone’s overreacting,” he said. “We’ll get it sorted out. In the meantime, I … can’t tell the passengers what I don’t know.”

  “They’re all asking for explanations!” Barb said, pushing. “All you’ve said on the PA is that we’re awaiting clearance to land. Most everyone aboard knows it doesn’t take this long. They know Frankfurt isn’t surrounded by water. They know something’s wrong, and they know the heart attack patient didn’t make it. And many of them, James, know he came on ill.”

  Holland rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes before replying. “Barb, if I even suggest what’s really going on, at least a dozen people will get sick out of fear alone.”

  “You want to lie to them?” she asked, much too loudly.

  He motioned for her to quiet down and looked around, making certain no feet could be seen beneath the curtains on either side of the galley.

  “No, I don’t want to lie to them. But I can hardly tell them that at the moment we have no place to go and our company’s too confused to figure out what we should do, and that … that they may have been exposed to some dreadful flu for which no one’s been vaccinated—a badass flu scary enough to force three governments into turning away a civil aircraft in distress.”

  “You’re going to have to tell them something, Captain. And quickly.”

  The curtain to their right parted and a tall, distinguished-looking black man with silver hair stuck his face inside, his eyes locking on Holland.

  “Captain, excuse me for interrupting. I’m Lee Lancaster. My aide said you wanted to speak with me.”

  Barb quietly gathered Brenda and left the galley as Holland motioned him in and extended his hand.

  “Yes, Ambassador, I do.”

  “Rachael explained what’s happening. Any change?”

  They leaned against the serving counter as Holland described the confusion back in Texas.

  “Bottom line, Ambassador? They don’t know who to call.”

  “Well”—Lancaster looked Holland squarely in the eye—“so happens, I do.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “You have a satellite phone in your cockpit I could use?”

  Holland nodded.

  “Then let’s go. There are civilized ways to handle these things.”

  AMSTERDAM

  The director of airports for the Netherlands replaced the receiver gently and stared at the wall for a few seconds, hoping no one would ask why his face had turned ashen. He could imagine the cross section of humanity aboard Flight 66: businessmen, children, husbands, wives, lovers, saints, and sinners. All together in an aluminum tube.

  An aluminum tube no one wanted.

  He looked down at the telephone again as if a better answer might appear on the liquid crystal readout. It was shameful! The Dutch were a caring people. He was a caring person. How could they refuse safe haven to two hundred fifty or more people in need of a little medical observation?

  “What is the verdict?” The chief of Amsterdam Approach had walked up quietly. Flight 66 was becoming a fixture in the holding pattern over the water fifty miles west, and every controller in the building ached to bring them in.

  The director of airports shook his head sadly without looking up.

  “Our government says no. Until we know how dangerous this influenza strain is to which they’ve been exposed, we cannot allow them in.”


  “What, then?”

  The director looked the chief in the eye. “We’ve tried Belgium, Denmark, Sweden”—he lofted a frustrated gesture of dismissal at the ceiling—“all of our dear EC members … everyone. They’re all pressing the Germans for answers and getting only dark cautions. No one wants a major flu outbreak.”

  “These people have to go somewhere!”

  He nodded. “I know it, Hans. My God, I know it, but apparently not on this continent.” He looked at the distant window, roughly facing west. The sun had long since disappeared, and only a galaxy of twinkling lights was visible, punctuated by an occasional jetliner on final approach. “The American government will have to find them a destination.”

  “Can’t we at least refuel them?”

  The director shook his head again. “Political decision. The orders are clear and certain. This aircraft is not allowed in Dutch airspace. They’re so afraid of this particular flu virus, they’re even worried it could contaminate the area through the cabin air expelled out of the airplane’s pressurization outflow valves. That is completely odd! I’m told”—he shook his head again disgustedly—“I’m told we’ve even launched a couple of fighters to make sure they don’t come back. So much for humanitarian concern, eh?”

  The chief nodded slowly as he furiously scratched his head in a nervous gesture the director understood.

  “Don’t worry, Hans, I’ll tell them. That’s my job.”

  “No, I was calculating their flying range. I suppose they could still reach Canada with their remaining fuel, and certainly Iceland or Greenland. Those are the only airports within range to the west, I think.”

  “They’d better do it secretly, then,” the director said.

  The chief looked alarmed as he examined the director’s eyes and realized he was dead serious.

  “Why?”

  “Because Canada, Greenland, and Iceland have also said no.”

  SEVEN

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA—FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22—2:30 P.M. (1930Z)