"On what grounds? He hasn't actually tried to do anything dangerous. He could claim he was just blowing off steam."
"But—"
"No buts." The Skyport captain was firm. "We can't justify it—and besides, how do you think he'd react to an order like that?"
Greenburg clamped his lips together, and Betsy thought she saw some of the color go out of his face. "That's a little unfair," she said. "We don't know that he'd react irrationally." It felt strange to be defending Rayburn; quickly, she changed the subject. "Anyway, we're getting off the point. The immediate issue here is whether or not we head west in the next fifteen minutes. Carl, I guess this is your basic command decision."
Young's sigh was clearly audible. "I'm afraid I don't see any real alternative. We're just going to have to gamble with Mr. Meredith's life. All of the ski lift track and auxiliary equipment we're using only exists at fields that handle Skyport shuttles. If the crew putting the escape system together runs short of anything halfway to L.A. they'll have no way to get extra material quickly. We have to stay here at least until all of that's completed."
Betsy nodded; she'd more or less expected that would be the way the decision would break. The airline was clearly going to keep up the pressure, and the ski lift track system was the only way to get that many passengers off with anything like the speed and safety United would be demanding.
"And after they're off?" Greenburg asked quietly.
"We'll head toward L.A. and hope we've either secured the shuttle by then or that the last two collar supports are stronger than they look."
"Yeah." Shaking his head, Greenburg got to his feet. "I hope to hell we're doing the right thing, Carl. I'm not convinced, myself."
"Me, neither," Young acknowledged frankly. "But I don't see what else we can do. If we should somehow lose the shuttle with the passengers still aboard... it's not something I want to think about."
Greenburg nodded, shifting his gaze to Betsy. "I'm going back down and lend a hand, unless you need me here."
"No, go ahead. And Aaron—sorry I snapped at you earlier."
"Forget it. We're all tense." His hand touched her shoulder briefly and then he was gone.
"Betsy?" a tentative voice asked from behind her as she switched the intercom back to normal and the buzz of low-level conversation abruptly came back.
"Yes, Peter, what is it?" she asked, turning her head.
"I've got the first results of my program now, if you're interested."
She'd almost forgotten about Whitney; he'd been so quiet back there. "Sure. Let's hear the bad news."
"Well... it could be off ten percent or so either way, understand; but the number I get is seven point eight kilometers."
She did a rough conversion in her head, nodded heavily. "About twenty-five thousand four hundred feet."
"Close enough," he agreed. "I can probably get a more refined version to run before the shuttle passengers are off."
She shook her head. "Not worth it. The longest runway at Dallas is twenty thousand feet, and even if your numbers are fifteen percent high we still would never make it."
"Yeah." Whitney hesitated, a half-dozen expressions flickering across his face. "You know, Betsy, this really isn't any of my business... but I get the impression you're upset with yourself for not being—oh, as cool and calm as maybe you think you should be. Is that true?"
Betsy's first and immediate reaction was one of annoyance that he should bring up such a personal subject. Her second was that he was absolutely right, which annoyed her all the more. "How I feel about myself is irrelevant," she said, a bit tartly. "I'm in command here; that requires me to be competent at what I do. Pressure like this isn't new to me, you know—I've been in crisis situations before."
"But they haven't been like this one, I'll bet, because you're not really in command here—not entirely, anyway. That's where the trouble is." There was an odd earnestness in his face, as if it were very important for some reason that he get his point across to her. "You see, if you were flying a normal airplane, you would be in complete control—I mean as far as human control ever goes—because all the buttons and switches would be under your hands alone. But here—" he gestured aft, toward the shuttle—"here, even though you're still claiming all the responsibility for what happens, half of the control is back there, with Captain Rayburn. He's got a mind and will of his own; you can't force him to do what you want, like you can your engines or ailerons. Of course you're going to be under extra pressure—you're never had to persuade part of your plane to cooperate with you before! It's normal, Betsy—you can't let it throw you." He stopped abruptly, as if suddenly embarrassed by the vehemence of his unsolicited counsel. "I'll shut up now," he muttered. "But think about it, okay?" Without another word he slipped back to the computer console.
Betsy leaned back in her seat, her thoughts doing a sort of slow-motion tumble. The last thing in the world she had time for right now was introspection... but the more she thought about Whitney's words, the more sense they made. Certainly Rayburn was only nominally under her control—his threats had made that abundantly clear—while it was equally certain that diplomacy and persuasive powers had never been among her major talents. Was that really the underlying source of her tension, the fact that she wasn't properly equipped for that aspect of the crisis?
Oddly enough, the idea made her feel better. She wasn't, in fact, getting old or losing her nerve. She was simply facing a brand-new problem—and new problems were supposed to be stressful.
For the first time since the shuttle crash, Betsy felt the tightness in her stomach vanish completely as all her unnamed fears, now robbed of their anonymity, scurried back into the darkness. If controlling Rayburn was what was required, then that was what she would do, pure and simple. All it took was strength and self-confidence—and both were already returning to her. She would have to thank Whitney later for his well-timed brashness. Right now, however, she had work to do. "Greenburg?" she called into the intercom grille. "I've got a couple of suggestions on how you might fix that clamp."
—
Seen through the distorted view of a fisheye camera, the escape system apparatus resembled nothing more dignified than a jury-rigged carnival ride—but it worked, and it worked well, and that was what counted. Even as Betsy returned her attention to the monitor, a pair of legs poked out the cockpit window and, above them, a line and hook were handed up to the man leaning vertically along the windshield. Eye-level to him was the newly built ski lift track; into it he dropped the end of the hook. The hook immediately moved toward the passenger tunnel, and as the line tightened, the dangling legs bounced forward and out and become a business-suited man seated securely in a breeches-buoy type of sling. Even as he traveled toward the tunnel, an empty sling passed him going the other direction, and another set of legs poked tentatively out the cockpit window. Total elapsed time per passenger: about fifteen seconds. For all one hundred sixty of them... Betsy glanced at the clock and did the calculation. Maybe three or four left aboard now. And once they were off, a new confrontation with Rayburn was practically inevitable. Her throat ached with new tension as she tried to plan what she would say to him.
All too soon, the familiar voice crackled in her ear. "This is Rayburn. Everyone's off now except John and the two doctors. What's next?"
His harsh, clipped tone made the words a challenge, and Betsy felt the self-confidence of ninety minutes ago drain completely away. "We're leaving for L. A. in a few more minutes," she told him. "With the cable on your tow bar and the extra support of the escape system framework, the docking collar should hang on even after you run out of fuel."