He was back in hell.
Edward Johnson and Wayne Metz stepped out of the rapid intervention vehicle a hundred yards from the massive Straton, which was surrounded by yellow fire trucks that looked small by comparison, and Johnson was reminded of carrion-eating beetles around a dead bird.
Johnson surveyed the evacuation site-the aluminum trestles and stretchers, the gurneys, empty wheel-chairs, ambulances pulling away. He found a woman with a clipboard who looked official, and he identified himself as the senior vice president of Trans-United, which he was, and which he wanted to continue being, which was why he was here; he had to control the situation to the extent possible, and with any luck, the man named Berry would be dead, and so would the flight attendant, and the data-link printouts would be sitting in the collecting tray in the cockpit. If none of that was true, Johnson knew he’d have to make some tough decisions and do some unpleasant things.
The woman with the clipboard identified herself as Dr. Emmett of the airport Emergency Medical Service.
Johnson asked her, “Doctor, how many people have you pulled out?”
Dr. Emmett replied, “We haven’t pulled any out. Some came down that chute. Twenty-two, to be exact.”
Johnson glanced at the yellow chute in the far distance.
Dr. Emmett continued, “The rescue workers will enter the aircraft shortly. Then we’ll have our hands full.” She thought a moment, then said, “Unless, of course, they’re all dead from smoke inhalation… which is possible since we’ve seen no one inside trying to get out, and no one has deployed any other emergency chute.”
Johnson nodded and asked her, “What’s the condition of the people you’ve got here?”
Dr. Emmett hesitated, then said, “Well, they all seem to have suffered some physical trauma… bleeding, contusions, and such, but no burns. All seem to have experienced smoke inhalation-”
“Their mental state, doctor,” Johnson interrupted. “Are they mentally well?”
Dr. Emmett considered a moment, then replied, “No. I thought at first it was just shock and smoke inhalation-”
Johnson interrupted again and said, “They experienced a period of oxygen deprivation when”-he pointed to the hole in the distant fuselage-“when that happened.”
She nodded. “I see.”
“Have you noticed any people who look mentally… normal?”
“I don’t think… Some of them are unconscious and I can’t-”
Johnson said, “We know there were at least three people who were not affected by the loss of oxygen-a man, a female flight attendant, and a young girl. There may also be another female flight attendant-Oriental-and another male passenger who is not… brain damaged.” He looked at Dr. Emmett and asked her, “Have you seen anyone like that?”
She shook her head. “No. No women in flight-attendant uniforms for sure, and no young girls. About ten men, but…” She glanced at her clipboard and said, “We’ve taken identification from those who had ID on them-”
“The men were named Berry and Stein.”
Dr. Emmett scanned her list, then shook her head. “No… but there was one man in a pilot’s uniform… name tag said McVary… He was not well.”
Johnson nodded to himself as his eyes scanned the people in the stretchers around him.
Dr. Emmett said, “Another gentleman was asking about those people.”
Johnson turned back to her and described Kevin Fitzgerald, right down to his tan.
Dr. Emmett nodded.
Johnson asked, “Where is that gentleman now?”
She shrugged and motioned around at the controlled chaos spread up and down the runway. “I’m sure I have other things to worry about.”
“Right-”
It was Dr. Emmett’s turn to interrupt, and she said, “We’re taking everyone who got out of that plane and who might get out of that plane to Hangar 14, where a field hospital is being set up.” She added, “The field morgue is in Hangar 13. Please excuse me.” She turned and walked quickly away.
Johnson took Metz’s arm and steered him toward the aircraft.
Metz asked, “Where are we going?”
“To the Straton, Wayne.”
“What if it explodes?”
“Then we don’t have to face charges of attempted murder. We’ll be dead.”
Metz broke free of Johnson and said, “Hold on. If it explodes, the evidence goes with it. I’m waiting here.”
“Wayne, don’t be reactive. Be proactive.”
“Don’t give me that management-seminar shit. I came this far with you, but no further. If you want to get closer to that… that fucking aluminum death tube filled with gasoline-”
“Kerosene.”
“-and brain-damaged people, go right ahead.” He added, “I’ll stay here near the ambulances and see if our friends get this far.”
Johnson looked at Metz and asked him, “And if you happen to see them, what will you do?”
Metz didn’t reply.
“Will you kill them?”
He shook his head.
Johnson reminded Metz, “Wayne, if that guy Berry lives, you and I will spend at least ten, probably twenty years in a state or federal prison. I have better ways to spend my golden years than walking around an exercise yard in blue denims.”
Metz seemed to stare off into space for a long time, then said, “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Johnson laughed unpleasantly. “I figured you’d say that.” He turned to Metz, then said, “Okay, partner, you can stay here and watch the store. But if I don’t get to Berry and Crandall, and if I don’t get my hands on those data-link printouts, then you can be certain that you’ll be in the cell next to mine.” Johnson turned and walked toward the Straton.
Wayne Metz watched him go, then turned suddenly and ran toward an ambulance. He shouted to the attendants, who were about to close the doors, “Wait! I need a ride!” He brushed past them and jumped into the back of the ambulance.
The attendants shrugged and closed the doors.
Wayne Metz found himself crammed among three stretchers on which were three people. The first thing he realized was that there was a smell of vomit, feces, and urine coming from them. “Oh… ah… ah…” He covered his face with his handkerchief.
The ambulance suddenly took off at high speed, and Wayne Metz stumbled into a stretcher that held a middle-aged man whose face was smeared and crusty with things Wayne Metz didn’t want to think about. Metz’s stomach heaved, and he made a retching sound. One of the patients let out a howl and another began to grunt.
Metz backed up to the doors and called out to the two men in front, “Stop! Let me out!”
The driver called back to him, “Next stop, Hangar 14. Pipe down.”
Metz would have opened the doors and jumped, but the ambulance was going very fast.
As the vehicle streaked toward Hangar 14, the three patients on board began screaming and babbling, then one of them howled again.
Metz felt a chill run down his spine, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. “Oh… God… get me out of here…”
“You jumped on board,” said the attendant in the passenger seat. “Now, keep quiet.”
“Oh…” Metz forced himself to look at the faces of the three people strapped into the stretchers. “Oh, my God…” The term “continuing liability” suddenly struck home.
He realized he was out of a job, but that didn’t seem so important anymore compared to spending a decade or two in the penitentiary.
Metz turned and looked out the rear window of the ambulance and focused on the retreating Straton. He said a quiet prayer. “God, let the Straton explode, killing everyone on board, especially Berry and Crandall, and anyone else who has the mental capacity to testify against me, and please, God, let the data-link printouts burn, and let Ed Johnson go up in smoke, too. Thank you, God.”
But as he watched the Straton, nothing happened. It smoked, but didn’t blow. “Please, God.”
The patients were babbling, the ambulance reeked, and Wayne Metz’s heart was racing. He had never in his life been so miserable. He began sobbing and choking.