photograph. He kept staring, waiting for someone to move or to make a sound. But there was no movement, no response to his presence, no reaction to this alien in a silver space suit and mask.
He turned away, crossed the open area, and tore open the curtain to the First Class compartment and walked quickly through, touching a few faces, even slapping a few people to see if he could get a response. There were absolutely no signs of life among these people, and a totally irrelevant thought popped into his head, which was that First Class round-trip tickets, Paris to New York, cost about ten thousand dollars. What difference did it make? They all breathed the same air, and now they were just as dead as the people in Economy Class.
McGill walked quickly out of the First Class compartment and back into the open space, which held the galley, the spiral staircase, and the two open doors. He went to the starboard side door and pulled his mask and headgear off.
Sorentino was standing on the running board of their RIV, and he called out to McGill, “What’s up?”
McGill took a deep breath and called down, “Bad. Real bad.”
Sorentino never saw his boss look like that, and he assumed that real bad meant the worst.
McGill said, “Call the Command Center ... tell them everyone on board Flight One-Seven-Five is dead. Suspect toxic fumes—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. Have a Tour Commander respond to your call. Also, get a company rep over to the security area.” He added, “In fact, get everyone over to the security area. Customs, Baggage, the whole nine yards.”
“Will do.” Sorentino disappeared inside the cab of the RIV.
McGill turned toward the Coach section. He was fairly certain he didn’t need his Scott pack, but he carried it with him, though he left his crash ax against a bulkhead. He didn’t smell anything that seemed caustic or dangerous, but he did smell a faint odor—it smelled familiar, then he placed it—almonds.
He parted the curtain, and trying not to look at the people facing him, he moved down the right aisle and popped open the two exit doors, then crossed the aircraft and opened the two left doors. He could feel a cross-breeze on his sweat-dampened face.
His radio crackled, and he heard a voice say, “Unit One, this is Lieutenant Pierce. Situation report.”
McGill unhooked his handheld radio and responded to his Tour Commander, “Unit One. I’m aboard the subject aircraft. All souls aboard are dead.”
There was a long silence, then Pierce replied, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Again, a long silence, then, “Fumes? Smoke? What?”
“Negative smoke. Toxic fumes. I don’t know the source. Aircraft is vented, and I’m not using oxygen.”
“Roger.”
Again, a long silence.
McGill felt queasy, but he thought it was more the result of shock than of any lingering fumes. He had no intention of volunteering anything and he waited. He could picture a bunch of people in the Command Center all speaking at once in hushed tones.
Finally, Lieutenant Pierce came on and said, “Okay ... you’ve called for a company tug.”
“Affirmative.”
“Do we need ... the mobile hospital?”
“Negative. And the mobile morgue won’t handle this.”
“Roger. Okay ... let’s move this whole operation to the security area. Let’s clear that runway and get that aircraft out of sight.”
“Roger. I’m waiting for the tug.”
“Yeah ... okay ... uh ... stay on board.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Do you want anyone else on board? Medical?”
McGill let out an exasperated breath. These idiots in the Command Center couldn’t seem to comprehend that everyone was dead. McGill said, “Negative.”
“Okay ... so I ... I guess the autopilot landed it.”
“I guess. The autopilot or God. It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t the pilot or the co-pilot.”
“Roger. I guess ... I mean, the autopilot was probably programmed—”
“No ‘probably’ about it, Lieutenant. The pilots
He turned away, crossed the open area, and tore open the curtain to the First Class compartment and walked quickly through, touching a few faces, even slapping a few people to see if he could get a response. There were absolutely no signs of life among these people, and a totally irrelevant thought popped into his head, which was that First Class round-trip tickets, Paris to New York, cost about ten thousand dollars. What difference did it make? They all breathed the same air, and now they were just as dead as the people in Economy Class.
McGill walked quickly out of the First Class compartment and back into the open space, which held the galley, the spiral staircase, and the two open doors. He went to the starboard side door and pulled his mask and headgear off.
Sorentino was standing on the running board of their RIV, and he called out to McGill, “What’s up?”
McGill took a deep breath and called down, “Bad. Real bad.”
Sorentino never saw his boss look like that, and he assumed that real bad meant the worst.
McGill said, “Call the Command Center ... tell them everyone on board Flight One-Seven-Five is dead. Suspect toxic fumes—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. Have a Tour Commander respond to your call. Also, get a company rep over to the security area.” He added, “In fact, get everyone over to the security area. Customs, Baggage, the whole nine yards.”
“Will do.” Sorentino disappeared inside the cab of the RIV.
McGill turned toward the Coach section. He was fairly certain he didn’t need his Scott pack, but he carried it with him, though he left his crash ax against a bulkhead. He didn’t smell anything that seemed caustic or dangerous, but he did smell a faint odor—it smelled familiar, then he placed it—almonds.
He parted the curtain, and trying not to look at the people facing him, he moved down the right aisle and popped open the two exit doors, then crossed the aircraft and opened the two left doors. He could feel a cross-breeze on his sweat-dampened face.
His radio crackled, and he heard a voice say, “Unit One, this is Lieutenant Pierce. Situation report.”
McGill unhooked his handheld radio and responded to his Tour Commander, “Unit One. I’m aboard the subject aircraft. All souls aboard are dead.”
There was a long silence, then Pierce replied, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Again, a long silence, then, “Fumes? Smoke? What?”
“Negative smoke. Toxic fumes. I don’t know the source. Aircraft is vented, and I’m not using oxygen.”
“Roger.”
Again, a long silence.
McGill felt queasy, but he thought it was more the result of shock than of any lingering fumes. He had no intention of volunteering anything and he waited. He could picture a bunch of people in the Command Center all speaking at once in hushed tones.
Finally, Lieutenant Pierce came on and said, “Okay ... you’ve called for a company tug.”
“Affirmative.”
“Do we need ... the mobile hospital?”
“Negative. And the mobile morgue won’t handle this.”
“Roger. Okay ... let’s move this whole operation to the security area. Let’s clear that runway and get that aircraft out of sight.”
“Roger. I’m waiting for the tug.”
“Yeah ... okay ... uh ... stay on board.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Do you want anyone else on board? Medical?”
McGill let out an exasperated breath. These idiots in the Command Center couldn’t seem to comprehend that everyone was dead. McGill said, “Negative.”
“Okay ... so I ... I guess the autopilot landed it.”
“I guess. The autopilot or God. It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t the pilot or the co-pilot.”
“Roger. I guess ... I mean, the autopilot was probably programmed—”
“No ‘probably’ about it, Lieutenant. The pilots
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