Pandora's Clock

by Nance, John J. ;

  “I thought the airport was closed. Who landed?”

  “That’s the team from Dover, sir. The autopsy team.”

  Various lights were moving on the airfield now. An Air Force staff car raced up to the command truck as the lights of the taxiing C-141 could be seen in the distance. Another moving shape caught his eye to the right, but he had looked too late and it had already disappeared behind the right wing.

  “When are they going to want the body off?” Robb asked.

  “In maybe an hour, sir. They’ll need to set up. We’ll call you.”

  The appearance of the six-foot-three-inch captain on the main deck of Flight 66 created an instant stir. Several passengers leapt to their feet to come ask questions, others stood but hung back, forming small groups that ebbed and flowed around him like a human current as James Holland began working his way down the right-hand aisle toward the rear of the 747.

  “Captain, if New York won’t let us in, why not some other state?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “Captain, we had a flu shot before leaving on this trip. Doesn’t that exclude us?”

  “It’s possible, but the problem is, no one has yet told us whether this even resembles a flu, and you know how even the flu changes into new strains all the time.”

  “Captain, my daughter’s only eight, and she’s scared to death. Would you talk to her?”

  “Sure. Where is she?”

  “Captain, you’re not telling us the truth, are you?”

  Holland stopped moving and looked in the face of a woman in her seventies who was watching his reaction with an unflinchingly stern expression. She looked like an angry schoolteacher, he thought, or maybe the stereotype of an offended librarian, her half-glasses on a cord, a light sweater tied around her neck.

  He looked at her and shook his head. “Ma’am, I’m telling you what I know.”

  “This is a doomsday illness,” she shot back, “and if it’s really on board and that heart attack victim was a carrier, we’re dead, aren’t we? You’re just trying to keep us calm.”

  “That’s not true, ma’am, I …”

  “I can read it in your voice and I can see it in your eyes, young man. And you are young compared to me.”

  He smiled at that. “Thanks.”

  “Fact, not compliment, Captain. We’re in mortal danger of dying together, aren’t we?”

  Holland glanced around. Several passengers were pressing closer to listen to the exchange, and the woman was relentlessly boring into him with her eyes, waiting for a straightforward answer.

  “Ma’am, do I looked panicked to you?” Holland asked. “If what you’re implying is true, I’d be doomed as well, and I’m not exactly eager to … to …”

  “‘Die’ is the word you’re choking on, Captain,” she said, “and I’m not ready either. No, you’re not panicked, but I don’t trust you. You know why?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “No, ma’am. Why?”

  “Because you’re letting the so-called ‘authorities’ run this show.”

  “Ma’am, this isn’t my personal airplane. I represent a large company, and we’re all citizens of a very large country with laws and procedures …”

  “And coldhearted officials who don’t give a tinker’s damn when it comes to us. We’re a problem, Captain. Just a problem. I don’t trust you because you’re not thinking for yourself.”

  She turned and walked away down the aisle before he could say anything more.

  There were more children on board than he’d expected. To the right there was a family with three young boys, the oldest maybe eight. Behind them was a young mother breast-feeding an infant. Her husband sat next to her watching the process. He looked all of sixteen but was probably in his twenties. And there was a group in the center section. High school seniors or young college students, he figured, all wearing some sort of logo on their sweatshirts and pullovers, some wearing baseball caps, and all obviously traveling together on an organized trip. There would be a legion of panicked parents back home glued to their television screens, worrying about their sons and daughters. The thought caused a small stream of adrenaline to flow into his bloodstream.

  Holland looked around and tried to smile evenly at the anxious faces before him. Flying was what he did, not public relations. He felt silly and amateurish, as if forced to play the role of the sage captain when he was just a pilot.

  An elderly man approached, his back hunched over with the weight of years, but his eyes bright as he fastened them on Holland. He stuck out a surprisingly large hand and Holland took it.

  “Captain? I’m Homer Knutsen, former captain with Pan Am for thirty-four years, flying boats through seven-forty-sevens.” Knutsen squeezed his hand, and Holland could feel a slight palsy in the older man’s hand. “I’m aware of what you’re doing down here. I just wanted to tell you to hang in there. I’ve been in some real tough situations myself, and somehow things all seem to work out. You’ve done good by coming downstairs.”

  “Thanks, Captain.” Holland patted Knutsen’s hand with his left palm and moved on, the old woman’s words still stinging in his mind:

  “… because you’re not thinking for yourself”!

  The comments and questions began again in earnest.

  “Captain, we’ve got a real problem if we can’t get home by Christmas.”

  “Captain, your flight attendant was rude as hell to me when I asked her, but I need to know exactly what this virus is. I’m a microbiologist and might be able to help explain things.”

  “Captain, we’re starving to death and your crew is refusing to serve anything.”

  “Captain, do you realize how bad those toilets stink?”

  “Captain, my husband’s medicine is in our bag which is checked. He’ll run out in several hours. What do we do?”

  Holland passed the woman with the checked medication to one of the crew and found Barb in the back. He asked about the food situation.

  “We’re ready to go with the breakfast service, but I was going to wait until at least six A.M. If you want, we can go ahead with it now, or I could serve all the crackers and peanuts we have with a drink service, then turn down the lights and try to get them to sleep,” she told him.

  He nodded. “Hold the breakfast and do the snacks now. What can I do to help?”

  “Heat up the cabin a bit when we’re ready. That’ll help put ’em to sleep.”

  She gestured to the crew rest loft in the back of the plane. “How long before we put the professor’s body outside?”

  He shook his head and shrugged. “They’ll let us know. Why?”

  Barb looked forward, checking something, then back at Holland.

  “We’ve got a young man in coach, in a bulkhead seat, with a cast on a broken leg. The leg is swelling and that Swiss doctor says he needs it elevated. We thought we’d put him in one of the other beds up in the loft when … you know. But I don’t want to expose him to … you know, Mr. Helms.”

  “Make sure Helms’s body is curtained off in one of the bunks, and—I hate to say this, but maybe Brenda and the doctor, since they’ve already been exposed, could use some of the large plastic sacks from the galley to seal him up. As long as no one touches the body, I wouldn’t worry about the other beds up there.”

  “Okay. And James …” Barb reached up and took his chin in her hand, rotating his head to one side and then the other as she inspected his face.

  “Yes?”

  “If this goes on much longer, we’re going to have to start sleeping the crew in shifts, and that includes you. You’re exhausted. Can I get you anything?”

  She dropped her hand and Holland patted her on the shoulder.

  “About a quart of adrenaline,” he said, “and a hundred fifty thousand pounds of jet fuel.”

  “You settle for two Excedrin and a Diet Coke?”

  He chuckled and nodded. “I’ll need it. I’ve got to run the gauntlet back to the cockpit.”

 
Barb promptly supplied him with both. He tossed the pills in his mouth and washed them down with the Coke, polishing off the contents of the can in several quick gulps.

  The flight attendant call chime rang and Barb answered it, handing the handset immediately to Holland.

  “It’s your costar, calling from the bridge,” she said.

  “Oh yeah?” He took the handset. “Yeah, Dick?”

  Barb could see his features change, first to puzzlement, then to a broad smile. He replaced the phone and turned to her, saying nothing at first.

  “What is it? What?” she asked in her nasal Brooklyn twang.

  “They’re fueling us,” he said. “They haven’t said why. That probably means they’re going to change their minds and release us.”

  He turned to leave.

  Barb’s hands shot out and caught him by the shoulders, turning him back toward her as her eyes sought his. Her expression was deadly serious. “What do you mean, ‘release,’ James? I thought sitting here was optional. You’re telling me we were being forced to stay?”

  “Well …”

  “James, please don’t fib to your crew.”

  “I’m not, Barb. It’s just that they weren’t going to refuel us until they received new orders, which was going to happen when the company decided where in the U.S. to send us. Obviously that’s now been decided.”

  “Okay,” she said, unconvinced, as Holland twisted free and headed forward at an energetic clip.

  Robb looked off-balance when Holland reentered the cockpit.

  “I was looking at the damned fuel gauges, James, and they just started rising without warning. The sergeant down there says they just received orders to fill the tanks. No other explanation.”

  Holland slipped into the left seat. “You try Dallas on the satellite line?”

  “Not yet,” Robb replied.

  Holland reestablished contact with the Operations vice president, who wasn’t surprised.

  “There’s been a decision, James, to get you out of there to a safer place.”

  “Safer? I don’t understand. Safer for whom? We’re perfectly safe here.”

  There was a telling pause. “Ah, James, remember I told you everyone was overreacting to this threat? Well, the Icelandic government found out you were there, and they want you the hell out of there, preferably yesterday.”

  “Afraid we’ll contaminate them, huh?”

  “Yeah, you know, based on the doomsday assessment.”

  That word again! Holland thought. Where had he heard it in the last thirty minutes? Oh, yeah. The angry lady downstairs. A “doomsday illness,” she’d called it.

  “What, exactly, is the ‘doomsday assessment’?” Holland asked him.

  Another pause. Much too long this time.

  “Okay, ah, probably the wrong word,” the vice president began, “but the German government has spooked everyone now by telling the media that this bug they’re convinced you’re carrying around on our airplane could kill off half the human population of Earth. That’s asinine, of course! They’re trying to justify their actions in refusing to take you back in Frankfurt. But I warned you that if Europe panicked, North America would too—and now Iceland.”

  “So who’s panicked in the U.S., and where are we going?”

  “We’re … not going to be able to get you back where we’d like to just yet. The White House and the Defense Department have worked out an airfield you can fly to safely, though. It’s one that’s away from any protesting civilian populations or politicians, okay? Over an hour ago they launched a pretty good-sized fleet of Air Force cargo planes loaded with doctors, tents, food, and everything else you’d need if the worst possible case occurred—which it won’t.”

  “And they’re all wearing moon suits, right?”

  “I … would imagine they are, James, until they’re sure this is a false alarm.”

  “So where are we going for Christmas? Arizona? Nevada? New Mexico?” He knew his voice had taken on an unfriendly edge, but he really didn’t care. This was getting stupid.

  “Africa,” the veep replied. “There’s an airfield there with a perfectly adequate runway built originally by the Soviets.”

  “WHAT!” Holland vaguely realized he had yelled into the receiver.

  Robb, an alarmed look on his face, reached down and punched on the satellite phone monitor button so he could hear both sides of the call on his headset.

  “What do you mean, Africa?” Holland asked. “That’s the opposite direction!”

  “I know this sounds crazy, James, but it’s for the best. Dispatch will transmit the flight plan on the satellite link to your ACARS printer in a few minutes, but you’re going to fly to twenty degrees north latitude, eight degrees west longitude, in the western Sahara. You might want to write that down.”

  Robb’s eyes were growing large as Holland lowered his voice and tried to reply evenly.

  “Sir, I don’t think that’s wise. These passengers are upset enough. If we go the wrong way, they’re going think we’re being written off. They won’t believe a thing I say from now on. Why don’t you just tell whoever’s coming up with this idea that the captain refused? After all, we don’t know how long it might be before we get sick.”

  Robb was nodding vigorously and giving Holland a sweeping thumbs-up sign.

  The Operations vice president was talking again.

  “James, listen up. This is not optional, okay? There’s a major diplomatic problem here. I’m told the Icelandic government is threatening to abrogate the treaty and close that base if you don’t leave. I need you to cooperate. Unless you’ve got a valid safety problem that they can independently verify, you have to do it. And by the way, they assure me there’s no way you could get sick inside the next forty hours, okay? But we don’t have time to keep arguing.”

  Holland was rubbing his temple with his right hand.

  “I really don’t believe this.”

  “James, look, I’m sorry. The pressure on us from Washington is enormous. The President himself is involved in these decisions.”

  James Holland sighed deeply and sat back in the seat with his eyes closed and the phone pressed tightly to his ear. He heard his voice, or a subdued version of his voice, say what neither his heart nor his copilot wanted to hear.

  “Okay, sir, okay. If that’s what you want us to do, we’ll take the bird to Africa.”

  There was a rising rumble of sound and fury from the right seat.

  “LIKE HELL YOU WILL!” Robb roared.

  Holland’s head snapped to the right. Dick Robb’s jaw was set, his eyes flaring.

  “Tell him we’re not moving this friggin’ airplane!” Robb snarled.

  Holland shook his head and raised the palm of his free hand.

  “Dick, that’s …”

  “TELL HIM, dammit!”

  Holland could hear the Operations vice president’s voice on the other end.

  “What’s going on there, James? Who’s that?”

  “Just a momentary command disagreement, sir. Disregard. Go ahead and send the flight plan. I’m going to disconnect now.”

  Holland replaced the receiver, aware that Robb had panicked, and that the panic was triggering extreme anger.

  “You gave in to him, just like that! Who the hell’s in charge, anyway? Jesus Christ, James! There’s no way—NO WAY—we should leave here until this thing is over.”

  Both Holland’s large hands were engaged in furiously rubbing his temples, his eyes closed tight. He almost mumbled the reply.

  “Why?”

  “What?” Robb seemed stunned. “Did you ask why? Why what?”

  Holland dropped his hands and turned to him, his voice low and steady.

  “Why shouldn’t we leave? They’re giving us no help here at all, and it’s freezing out there. Maybe the desert will be more comfortable, and we can get out of the airplane.”

  “You’d do any damn thing they tell you, wouldn’t you?”

  Robb was car
eening dangerously into personal abuse, his voice shaking at times. Rage was masking panic.

  Holland sighed. “That doesn’t deserve an answer, Dick.”

  “Goddammit, Holland! I give you complete latitude to exercise a captain’s authority, and when the crunch comes, the best you can do is follow orders? We expect to see command authority in our captains, not Caspar Milquetoast and his amazing toady act. I’ve never seen such a pussy!”

  “I asked for your advice, Dick, not your personal abuse. I’m asking again. Since you obviously think I’m failing command one-oh-one, please tell me what you’d do?”

  There was a short silence as the explosion built.

  “Show some fucking backbone for starters!”

  Holland nodded slowly, deliberately.

  “Do you want to assume command?”

  Robb shook his head. “Hell no, I want you to!”

  “In other words, you want me to tell them no?”

  “Hell yes, tell them no! We’re not going to fly this tub anywhere but back home! If you’d just say no, that vice president of stupidity back in Dallas would call the White House and say, sorry, the captain’s exercised his emergency authority and you’re overruled.”

  Holland looked down at the floor between his feet and shook his head.

  “Dick, I’m a lot older than you …”

  Robb sneered out loud. “Yeah! Not that it shows in your fucking attitude, or anything!”

  Holland chose to ignore that. “… and I think I’ve got a little more experience in trying to fight the system than you. Since leaving Frankfurt, we’ve tried to push the emergency authority button at least twice. Hasn’t worked, has it?”

  “You’re … talking about governments. I’m talking about our fucking airline.”

  “And our government.” Holland replied. “But since you mention our airline, has it occurred to you that the man I was just talking to could fire us both in an instant?”

  “That’s all you’re fucking concerned with, isn’t it? Keeping your job!”

  Holland straightened up in the seat and glowered over at Robb, leveling a finger at his face.

  “Stop using that word to me! Do you understand? I expect a little professionalism out of you, Check Captain Robb, and I’m not going to put up with you spouting the f word in my cockpit.”