Departure

CHAPTER FOUR
Harper

THE DENSE ENGLISH FOREST IS DARK, LIT ONLY by the dim crescent moon hanging above and the smattering of cell phone lights through the trees ahead. The beady white lights thrash back and forth in the hands of runners, their twinkling loosely synchronized with the snap of branches underfoot.

My legs are burning, and my lower abdomen and pelvis send waves of pain through my body every time my feet hit the ground. The words stroke and hemorrhage run through my mind, along with the doctor’s warning: Any excess exertion could be fatal.

I have to stop. I’m holding Nick back, I know it. Without a word I let up and put my hands on my knees, trying desperately to catch my breath.

Nick halts abruptly beside me, sliding on the forest floor. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I say between pants. “Just winded. Go on. I’ll catch up.”

“The doctor said—”

“I know. I’m fine.”

“Feel light-headed?”

“No. I’m okay.” I glance up at him. “If I live through this, I’m going to get a gym membership, go every day. And no drinking until I can run a five-K without stopping.”

“That’s one option. I was thinking that if we live through this, a stiff drink will be my first order of business.”

“Excellent point. Post-drink, it’s straight to the gym for me.”

Nick’s staring at the stream of glowing lights, which have begun to converge like a swarm of fireflies on something beyond the trees, something I can’t yet see. His face is a mask of concentration. I wonder what he does for a living. Is it something like this? Crisis management? He’s good at it, comfortable telling people what to do, for sure. I’m not. I wonder how else we’re different, whether we’re anything alike at all. And I wonder why I’m curious at all, especially in the middle of all this.

“I’m ready,” I say, and we resume our jog, a bit more slowly than before. A few minutes later the forest gives way to open air.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I see.

About twenty people stand close together just beyond the tree line, on the shore of a lake that strikes me as odd. Its shoreline is too round and well-formed, as though it were man-made. But it’s the thing that rises from the lake about fifty feet out that terrifies me: a jagged dark hole like the mouth of a massive fish—the open front end of the main section of the plane, broken off roughly where the wings begin. One row of chairs faces us at the front of the passenger compartment, but they’re all empty.

The plane’s tail must be resting on the bottom of the lake. What’s holding up the middle, propping the ripped end up out of the water? The landing gear? The engines? Trees? Whatever it is, it’s giving way. The lower edge of the torn fuselage is about fifteen feet above the water, but it’s sinking a little lower every few seconds.

It’s chilly for mid-November. My breath is a white plume against the night. That water has to be frigid.

Movement inside the plane. A balding man runs up the aisle but stops at the precipice. He grips the seat back as he peers out, his face white with fear, trying to work up the nerve to jump. His decision is made for him. A burly younger man slams into him from behind and they tumble over the edge together, the second man’s leg catching briefly on a piece of twisted metal. He spins, hitting the water at an awkward angle but missing the first man. The movement pulls my eyes down to the water, and I realize that two other people are already thrashing there, swimming toward the shore. More who’ve made it are huddled together on the bank, shivering, drenched. I step closer, trying to discern what happened from brief snatches of shaky speech.

We hit the water going backward …

The force—I thought I was going to go through my seat …

I crawled across three people. All dead, I think. I don’t know. They weren’t moving. What was I supposed to do?

I wonder just how cold that water is, how long it will take to die of hypothermia out there.

A man in a navy sport coat appears in the mangled opening. He’s crouching at the edge, steeling himself to jump, when Nick’s booming voice echoes across the lake.

“Stop! You jump, and you kill everyone left on that plane.”

It’s bloody dramatic, but it’s got the man’s attention—not to mention mine and everyone else’s on the bank.

Nick steps to the water’s edge. “Listen,” he calls to the man, “we’re going to help you, but you’ve got to get everyone left alive to the opening.”

The man on the plane—around fifty, I would guess, a little paunchy—just stands there, looking confused. “What?”

“Focus. The plane is sinking. When the water starts pouring into the cargo hold below, it will pull the plane down fast. You—and anyone else still conscious—have got to work together. Wake up as many people as you can, then find anyone who’s alive but can’t move and get them to the opening. You do that, and we’ll do the rest. Understand?”

The man nods slowly, but I can tell he’s in shock. He can’t process it all. Nick seems to realize that, too. He continues, his voice calmer and slower this time.

“What’s your name?”

“Bill Murphy.”

“Okay, Bill. You’re going to get everybody alive to the opening, and then you’re going to wait. Everybody to the opening and wait. Understand?” Nick pauses, lets his words sink in. “Bill, is there anybody else conscious in there?”

“I think so … yeah.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. Five. Ten. I don’t know. It’s dark.”

“That’s okay. Go and talk to them now. Tell them to help you get everybody to the opening and wait. Everybody to the opening and wait.”

Bill turns and vanishes into the darkness of the cabin. I move to Nick’s side. “What’s the plan?”

“Still working on it,” he says under his breath, glancing over at the crowd. There are about thirty people on the shore by now, bloodied people from the front of the plane and the shivering, wet survivors who’ve made the swim. He turns toward them, raising his voice. “Do any of you know CPR?”

Two hands go up, one reluctantly.

“Good. I want you to stand over here. Some of the people coming out may not be breathing. You’re going to do the best you can with them. If they don’t respond after the first attempt, move to the next person.” He looks back at the group. “Now, if any of you cannot swim, step over here.”

Another smart move. He’s making volunteering the default—if you want out, you have to step out. Six people shuffle over. I wonder how many of them really can’t swim.

A woman shivering on the bank speaks with equal parts fear and force. “I can’t go back into that water. I’ll die.”

“Me neither,” says a redheaded man beside her.

“You have to—please, my husband’s still on there,” an older woman wearing a yellow sweater pleads, her voice cracking.

“This is suicide,” says a long-haired teen wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt.

Nick steps between the group from the front of the plane and the wet survivors, separating them. “You all don’t have to go back in the water,” he says to the swimmers. “You’ll work with the folks that can’t swim, drying people on the bank.” He goes on quickly, cutting a few protests off. “But first, right now, you need to run back to the front section of the plane and gather all the blankets and the life vests. We need them both to save the people coming out.”

It’s a good idea. The blanket-to-person ratio in first and business class was unbelievable. There’ll be plenty. But I still don’t understand what his plan is.

“Besides, the exercise will warm you up and keep your blood pumping.” Nick claps his hands. “Let’s go. Right now. And bring back a dark-haired woman named Sabrina and the flight attendant, Jillian. Find Sabrina and Jillian, and tell them to bring the first-aid kit. Remember, blankets and life vests—all of them.”

Reluctantly the nonswimmers lead the soggy survivors into the woods. The rest of us—twenty-three souls, counting Nick and me—stand and watch them go. To our right, I can hear banging in the plane. Its bottom edge is now only ten feet above the water. I swear it’s sinking faster.

On the bank, an overweight man with a nasty gash down his face says, “We’ll never make it there and back, dragging someone else. It’s too cold. They barely made it across one way, alone.”

“That’s true,” Nick says. “But we’re not going to be in the water that long. And none of you are swimming to the plane and back.”

A chorus of muttered protests builds, gaining strength by the second as voices join in.

We’ll drown …

Wait for professionals …

I didn’t sign up for this …

“You have to!” Nick shouts, silencing the crowd. “You have to, okay? We all have to. We don’t have a choice. Listen to me. Somebody loves each and every person on that plane. They’re somebody’s son. Someone’s daughter. They’re mothers and fathers, just like some of you. That could be your son or daughter on there. Your husband or wife, waiting, unconscious, helpless. Right now someone’s mother is checking her phone at home, wondering when she’ll hear from her son. In another hour, she’ll start to worry, and if we don’t go get those people, she’ll never see or talk to her son again, and it will be because we were too scared to wade into that water and save him. I can’t live with that on my conscience, and I know you can’t either. It could just as easily be any one of us on that plane, sitting there, alive but unconscious, waiting to drown. And they will drown, without us. If we don’t help, right now, they die. No one else is coming for them. It’s us, here and now, or they die. That’s it. We didn’t sign up for this, but nobody else is here. No one will save those people if we don’t. Every second we waste, another person dies. There are probably two hundred people in that section of the plane, and their lives are in our hands. I have a plan, and I need your help. If you want to sit here on the bank and watch them drown, step out of the group.”

No one moves a muscle. Save for the faint commotion in the plane, it’s dead quiet. I take a breath, realizing I’ve been holding it while Nick spoke.

“Good. The first thing we’re going to do is make a fire. Who has a lighter?”

“Right here.” A middle-aged man wearing a New York Giants sweatshirt steps forward, holding it out.

“Thank you.” Nick takes it with a nod. “Okay, everyone run into the woods and bring back as much wood as you can carry. Thirty seconds. Don’t bother with anything that isn’t already on the ground. Go. Hurry.”

He turns to me. “Gather some small branches and twigs and break them up.”

We follow the others into the woods, returning with armfuls of kindling. Setting his down, Nick hunches over the pile. A few seconds later, the first tentative flame is flickering. I add my take to it, and as the rest return from the woods with their own twigs and branches, it grows quickly into a small bonfire. God, the heat feels good. And that’s not all. Rescue teams have got to be looking for us by now, and the fire can only speed up their search.

“All right. Good work,” Nick says, standing up from the fire to focus on the group huddled around the flames. “Here’s the plan. We’ve got enough people to make two lines. We’re going to stretch out, spacing ourselves at about arm’s length all the way to the plane. When the plane gets to just above water level, we’ll wade in quickly, swim to our positions, and start passing the survivors down the lines to the bank. Speed is the key. The people who come off will have life vests on, so those of you in the deeper water should be able to push them to the next person in line. Everybody in the water above their waist gets a life vest, so you don’t have to tread water. This is important: don’t stay in the water longer than you can stand it. If you get too cold, if you feel your limbs going numb, tap out and come to the fire. Warm up, and if you’re able, get back as soon as you can. Once the people coming out get dry and warm, they can go back and join the line. Okay?

“One last thing. If you’re a strong swimmer—if you’ve ever been a lifeguard, or you swim regularly, or even if you’re just in really good shape and can hold your breath for a while—come see me right now.”

Three people step forward, all younger guys, twenties and early thirties.

Nick turns to me. “How about you?”

“Yeah.” I nod, my mouth dry. “I’m good. I’m a good swimmer.” Might be a stretch. I was on a team before going to uni, but that was over a decade ago.

He leads the four of us away from the group and speaks quietly. “We’ll go out first. Don’t put on a life vest, it will slow you down. There are two aisles. We’ll split up, two and three.” He points to the youngest guy and me. “You’re with me. The back of the plane near the tail is probably already filled with water—I doubt it’s completely sealed. When we get there, if that’s true, the water line becomes our starting point. We can’t save anyone below it; they’ve already drowned. We’ll race down the aisle and start checking the people in the first dry row for a pulse.”

He puts his hand to his throat. “Press hard and wait. No pulse, move on. Get a pulse, slap them hard with the other hand, try to wake them. No response, unbuckle them, put them over your shoulder, and carry them to the next person in line—we’ll try to get the folks still on the plane to help. Check children first—for the obvious reason, and because they’ll be lighter, and it’s more likely the life vest will keep their heads above water. If you go five rows without seeing a kid, go back and check the adults.” He gives each of us our assignments, splitting the seats roughly evenly.

People are coming back with blankets now, dropping their loot near the fire and warming themselves. Nick makes a beeline for Jillian and the doctor, waving the two CPR volunteers over.

“These folks know CPR,” he tells Sabrina. “They’re going to help you with the people we bring out of the plane.” He turns to Jillian. “You know CPR?”

“I’ve … had training but never, you know …”

“First time for everything. You’ll do fine.”

“I don’t like this.” Sabrina frowns as she looks at the bloodied survivors from our section. “The exertion—any of these people could have severe head trauma.”

“No choice. This is what we’re doing.” Nick’s voice is firm, but not condescending or harsh.

I like that about him.

Nick runs to the water’s edge again and yells for Bill. He has to call again before the paunchy man finally appears, looking haggard and nervous. The bottom edge of the plane hovers just three feet above the water now, and the sight of how close the water is rattles him further. He peers out at us, frightened.

“There are too many. We can’t get them all.”

“It’s okay. We’re going to help you, Bill. We need you to get the life vests from under the seats and put them on the people you’ve moved to the opening. Understand?”

Bill looks around. “Then what?”

“Then we’re going to lower them out of the plane to the rescue teams. It’s imperative that you and anyone who can help with that stay there. Do you understand?”

Bill nods.

“We’re going to make a line to you. We’re coming out soon, okay? Get ready.”

Nick turns his attention to the group on the bank. He organizes the lines, placing the very strongest at the front, closest to the plane, the weakest in the middle, and the next strongest closest to shore. I can follow his logic, but I couldn’t have come up with it, not here in the cold, under the gun, knowing we’re about to watch dozens of people die.

He puts life vests on everyone in the line, in case they have to switch places—a good change to the original plan.

The mood’s starting to change. People are pitching in. The fire is having its effect, both physically and psychologically. The non-swimmers are stockpiling firewood, moving in and out of the woods quickly. One of them, a gargantuan guy in his twenties wearing a worn peacoat, reaches for a life vest. “I can join the line if I stay close to the bank.”

Two more people step forward, echoing his words as they pull yellow life vests around their necks.

Despite the bustle, I feel my nerves winding tighter. The guys near me, the other strong swimmers, introduce themselves. My hand is clammy as I shake theirs. I can barely take my eyes off the sinking plane as we count down the seconds. I’m a strong swimmer, I tell myself. I have to be, tonight. But I can’t help wondering how quickly the plane will sink when the water breaches the lower opening. And what will happen to the bodies and debris when the plane fills. Will I be strong enough to fight my way out and up to the surface? I bet that water is cold enough to numb my limbs. If the plane fills and I’m still inside, I won’t stand a chance. But I can’t think about that, for one simple reason: I have to help those people. I can’t face the idea of not helping them.

Nick’s eyes meet mine. “Go time.”

CHAPTER FIVE
Harper

FOR WHAT FEELS LIKE AN ETERNITY, EVERYTHING IS silent and still. We’re all staring at the dark form of the plane, suspended above the placid lake. It abruptly drops toward the water, breaking the spell, and all eyes turn to Nick and to us, the swimmers who volunteered. I’m no longer aware of the aches in my abdomen and shoulders, or the pulsing pain from the side of my face. I only feel the eyes upon me, the frightened eyes of the almost forty people who face us on the bank, backlit by the crackling fire. Their breath hangs in white clouds in front of them, obscuring their noses and mouths. The beady lights on their yellow life vests glow in the thickening fog like streetlamps on a winter night in London.

And then I’m running, following Nick into the water toward the plane, which is dropping steadily now toward the lake’s surface. Three men and a woman stand in the aisles there, staring out, watching, waiting for us.

The cold water is a shock at first, like a wave of electricity flowing across me. I inhale sharply and will myself to press on. I lose a little more feeling with each step, though. Ten feet in, I’m up to my chest. I grit my teeth and plow deeper, pumping my arms, icy water splashing on my face and hair. From here the plane looks miles away, though it can only be another forty feet. Nick and the men are pulling away from me, and I fight to keep up.

One of the younger guys reaches the plane first. Carefully, avoiding the twisted metal tendrils that reach into the water, he climbs into the lower half of the fuselage, where the checked baggage is stored. He turns to help the next swimmer and the next, until all four guys are crouched there in the dark mouth of the plane, almost level with the water now.

I reach the jagged opening last, and Nick’s outstretched hand is waiting for me. His fingers clamp onto my forearm. “Grab my arm with your other arm.”

Two seconds later I’m crouching beside them in the lower half of the plane, drenched head to toe and colder than I’ve ever been in my life, my body shaking uncontrollably, every shiver sending waves of pain from my midsection and shoulders. The cold feels like it’s eating me from the inside out.

I feel hands around me, running up and down. Mike, the twentysomething guy assigned to my aisle, is rubbing my shoulders and back, trying to dry and warm me. I can’t look at him. I just stare at his green Boston Celtics T-shirt. How is he not freezing to death?

I can’t help myself, though—I lean in toward his warmth.

Nick’s eyes linger on us for a quick moment before he turns and yells for the people on the bank to extend the lines. They surge forward into the water, holding hands. The white points of light from their life vests stretch apart as they go deeper into the lake. As the line of people flows away from the fire, their faces disappear in the dark, the tiny lights the only indication they’re there. The two lines of light remind me of a runway at night, pointing this wrecked hull of a plane to the fire, to salvation. We can do this, I tell myself.

The men in the passenger compartment above reach their arms down, and I feel hands grasping me, boosting me up. I watch wide-eyed as I pass a little too close to the razor-sharp shreds of metal that protrude from the end of the floor.

The shock and ache of the water is gone now, and I wonder if that’s a good thing. But I can still feel my body. I still have control.

I stand for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. It’s dark here, even darker than I expected. I don’t know if it’s all the people, but it feels cramped, airless, like a mine shaft. Faint beams of moonlight filter through the oval windows like lanterns guiding us down to the watery abyss at the end of the aisles. The tail’s already filled with water, as Nick speculated.

Those people are already dead. We can’t help them, but we can save the others.

Through the lingering pain of the crash and the numbing cold of the lake, I feel my nerves rising. I can do this. I have to. I try to remember Nick’s speech, to focus on the key phrases, running through them in my mind, pumping myself up.

If we don’t go get those people, they will never see or talk to their loved ones again.

No one else is coming for them. It’s us, here and now, or they die.

The floor below us is sinking faster, leveling off, but it still slopes a little, a ramp straight back into the darkness.

At our feet, bodies lie two and three deep in the aisles. Women, children, and a few men, most of them slim. Maybe half have life vests on. Not good. There must be thirty people here. My eyes have adapted to the darkness, and I can make out more of the plane now. There’s one row of business, all seats empty, then a dividing wall, and two sections of economy with three blocks of seats—two on each side, five in the middle. I scan the rows that face us. My God. People everywhere. Over a hundred. There’s no way. How long do we have? A minute? Two? Once the water starts pouring into the lower half of the fuselage, it will fill fast, reaching a tipping point past which the water will pull it to the bottom. We can’t save them all. Maybe—

Nick’s voice once again cuts off my panic before it can build. His face is expressionless—no sign of concern, no hint of panic. He sounds like a dad on a holiday camping trip, calm, to the point. He quickly assigns responsibilities to Bill and the seven other people helping inside the plane. Two men will stay at the end of each aisle, passing people with life vests out to the lines in the water. The other four conscious survivors will gather and place life vests on people before they go out.

“Under no circumstances are you to leave this plane. We need your help.” Nick points to the unconscious people in the aisles. “They need you. They’ll die without you. Got it?”

Nods all around. “Go. Work quickly.”

Mike takes off ahead of me, bounding over bodies, stepping on them, crushing them. I take a tentative step and lose my footing, catching myself on the nearest seat.

“Go, Harper! You can’t worry about stepping on them,” Nick shouts, and with that I’m running, every step a cringing mental effort. Finally my feet hit the carpeted aisle, and I race forward. Mike’s got the three seats on the interior, I have the window seats. He’s passing me, a body thrown over his shoulder, before I even reach my first aisle.

Water on my feet. I’m splashing forward, and I swear the water’s colder here. I had thought the angle would be different, the pool of water would only be at the back, but it’s like wading into a zero entry pool; with each step the icy water creeps up my legs another few inches. Where to start? I’m in water up to my waist now. Only the heads of the passengers rise above water here. Can they still be alive? Nick’s words echo in my head again: anyone underwater has already drowned. But their heads are above water. I push forward, to the last row where the water is still just below their chins.

I reach first for a teenager, his eyes puffy, black and blue, his face swollen and caked with dark blood. I extend my shaking hand, recoiling when I touch cold, hard flesh. I stand there for a moment, shock overtaking me, my breath flowing out in white streams.

“They’re dead, Harper!” Mike yells as he wades up the incline past me, another body over his shoulder. “The water’s too cold. Move up three rows.”

At the plane’s opening, the light seems dazzling now. Nick is yelling and pointing. Bodies go over the edge one by one, splashing. It’s working. I have to focus. They’re counting on me.

Focus.

Warmth. Warmth equals life. I press my hand to the nearest passenger’s throat quickly. Cold.

Then the next aisle. I can’t skip them. I won’t.

Four rows up, where the water’s just below my knees, my fingers wrap around a throat that’s warm, far warmer than the others. I press, feeling a faint pulse, and take a second to look at a white-faced boy wearing a Manchester United shirt. I shake his shoulders, yell at him, and finally force myself to slap him. Nothing. I unbuckle him, pull his arm to me, and lift him out. The incline and added weight is murder on my already racked frame, but I press forward, fighting for every step. Finally I reach the queue and lower him to a woman and an older man. They slip a yellow life vest around his neck and pull the cord, inflating it.

I saved that kid’s life. He’s going to live.

That’s one.

The people are going out fast now, one every few seconds. Nick looks back at me and nods. I turn and rush back down the aisle, stopping only to duck into an empty seat as Mike passes.

When I step back into the aisle, I feel something new: running water, pulling at my sneakers and splashing on my ankles. The passenger deck has dropped to the lake’s surface. How long do we have?

I race to the next aisle, but they’re dead. The cold flesh, the necks, go by in a flash now. I move rhythmically, automatically, reaching, touching, moving on. A few seconds later I pull the handle on the seat belt of an Indian girl wearing a Disney World T-shirt. Next, a blond boy in a black sweater, whose hand I have to peel from the hand of a woman beside him, perhaps his mother. I carry three more kids out, my arms and legs burning with every step. I’m spent. I worry I can’t go on much longer.

I push that aside. There’s no other option. I have to.

Mike grabs my forearm. “That’s all the kids. Adults now. You spot them, I’ll carry them. Okay?”

One, two, three people go up the aisle over Mike’s shoulder.

Every time I glance at the back of the plane, the faces jutting just above the water line are different—a new row of passengers being swallowed by the surging pool. We’re sinking, fast.

Mike wades toward me. “It’s going under. Unbuckle anybody alive and put a life vest on them. It’s their only shot.”

I rush from row to row, feeling, reaching, unbuckling. I have to go under to reach the life vests beneath the seats, and the water at the first seat is more of a shock than it was when I waded in the first time. At the fourth seat, I feel the plane under me shudder and roll. The sound of ripping metal vibrates through the cabin, and frigid water rushes over me. The wings. Something’s happening. Focus. I stretch, trying to unbuckle someone’s seat belt, but I can’t reach it. I duck under, and yes, I’ve got it. When I push up, my head doesn’t break the surface.

Panic. I reach up, around, desperately trying to feel for the surface, but it’s not there.

Through the dark water, I see a faint light: the opening. I work my arms and kick, trying to swim up to the light, but my foot catches on something. I’m stuck. I reach back, grabbing, but my fingers are lifeless, useless, as though I had slept on them. I try to yank my foot free, but it won’t come. I turn back to the opening, waving my numb arms, hoping someone will see me. A body with a yellow life vest drifts past me, blotting me out. I watch it float up toward the dim light of the opening, which grows smaller and fainter by the second.