swept the left and right instrument panels with a flashlight, confirming that all the switches and circuit breakers were in the proper position. “It all looks good,” she said. “What the hell happened, Nacho? What could have knocked out the generators and the batteries all at once?”
“The only thing I know is an electromagnetic pulse from a nuclear detonation,” Sanchez said. “If we got hit by one of those, this goose is cooked. Even the standby instruments are out. I’m going to activate the ELT.” The ELT, or Emergency Locator Transmitter, was a battery-powered radio that transmitted a coded location signal that could be picked up by rescue aircraft, ships, or satellites. The transmitter was completely separate from the other aircraft systems, and the location signal contained the aircraft’s call sign and GPS coordinates to make it easier to find in a search.
“I’ll get my survival radio,” Lister said. She quickly unstrapped, donned her survival vest, strapped back in, then pulled out a portable combination radio/GPS/satellite messenger unit, powered it up, and waited for it to lock on to satellites. “Heading is steady at south-southeast . . . no, wait, we’re in a slight left turn.”
“I’ll keep the turn coming around and head north,” Sanchez said. He used the ocean horizon to judge a standard-rate turn, counted sixty seconds to himself, then rolled out. “How’s that?”
“North-northeast.”
“Close enough,” Sanchez said. He raised the nose a bit, but he didn’t want to risk slowing down below best glide speed. “How’s our altitude?”
“Nine thousand five hundred.”
“Speed?”
“Two-twenty.”
He raised the nose a bit more, which slowed them down and extended their gliding range, then removed his oxygen mask because they were below ten thousand feet, where the air was denser. Lister did likewise. “Let’s go over the ‘Before Air Restart’ checklist again, slowly and carefully,” Sanchez said. They rechecked everything, then attempted to bring the battery back online . . . still nothing. “Read off the numbers again, Troy.”
“Ground speed one-sixty, altitude six thousand three hundred, still heading north-northeast.” She began tapping on the portable unit’s tiny keyboard. “I’ll text a message to headquarters advising them of our situation. The portable will append our position to the message.”
Sykes came back into the cockpit, noticed the pilots were off oxygen, then did likewise. “ ‘Before Ditching’ checklists complete, and classified circuit board and memory chip demolition is under way,” he said. “Nothing yet up here?”
“Nope,” Sanchez said. “We’re at six thousand. We’ll have time for maybe two more restart attempts before we hit the drink.”
“Message received at headquarters,” Lister said. “We should be getting a reply as soon as . . .” She looked at her portable unit in confusion. “Oh shit, it looks like it’s dead!”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“It was working fine a second ago.” She tried to turn it back on, but it didn’t respond. She tried switching batteries, but that didn’t help either. “It’s dead.”
“I’ll see if anyone else has a GPS,” Sykes said. A few moments later he returned with a similar unit and powered it up, but a few minutes later it too shut off and wouldn’t power back on.
“I don’t know what the hell is going on,” Sanchez said, “but something is frying all the electronics on this plane.” He looked at his watch—it was a mechanical Rolex, and it was still running. “You got a digital watch, Troy?”
“Yes.” She glanced at it. “It’s dead.”
“We got hit by something that toasted our electronics,” Sanchez said. “Let’s do the checklist again.” But the batteries still would not come online.
“Three thousand seven hundred, speed one-sixty,” Lister read off.
Sykes came back up to the cockpit. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,”
“The only thing I know is an electromagnetic pulse from a nuclear detonation,” Sanchez said. “If we got hit by one of those, this goose is cooked. Even the standby instruments are out. I’m going to activate the ELT.” The ELT, or Emergency Locator Transmitter, was a battery-powered radio that transmitted a coded location signal that could be picked up by rescue aircraft, ships, or satellites. The transmitter was completely separate from the other aircraft systems, and the location signal contained the aircraft’s call sign and GPS coordinates to make it easier to find in a search.
“I’ll get my survival radio,” Lister said. She quickly unstrapped, donned her survival vest, strapped back in, then pulled out a portable combination radio/GPS/satellite messenger unit, powered it up, and waited for it to lock on to satellites. “Heading is steady at south-southeast . . . no, wait, we’re in a slight left turn.”
“I’ll keep the turn coming around and head north,” Sanchez said. He used the ocean horizon to judge a standard-rate turn, counted sixty seconds to himself, then rolled out. “How’s that?”
“North-northeast.”
“Close enough,” Sanchez said. He raised the nose a bit, but he didn’t want to risk slowing down below best glide speed. “How’s our altitude?”
“Nine thousand five hundred.”
“Speed?”
“Two-twenty.”
He raised the nose a bit more, which slowed them down and extended their gliding range, then removed his oxygen mask because they were below ten thousand feet, where the air was denser. Lister did likewise. “Let’s go over the ‘Before Air Restart’ checklist again, slowly and carefully,” Sanchez said. They rechecked everything, then attempted to bring the battery back online . . . still nothing. “Read off the numbers again, Troy.”
“Ground speed one-sixty, altitude six thousand three hundred, still heading north-northeast.” She began tapping on the portable unit’s tiny keyboard. “I’ll text a message to headquarters advising them of our situation. The portable will append our position to the message.”
Sykes came back into the cockpit, noticed the pilots were off oxygen, then did likewise. “ ‘Before Ditching’ checklists complete, and classified circuit board and memory chip demolition is under way,” he said. “Nothing yet up here?”
“Nope,” Sanchez said. “We’re at six thousand. We’ll have time for maybe two more restart attempts before we hit the drink.”
“Message received at headquarters,” Lister said. “We should be getting a reply as soon as . . .” She looked at her portable unit in confusion. “Oh shit, it looks like it’s dead!”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“It was working fine a second ago.” She tried to turn it back on, but it didn’t respond. She tried switching batteries, but that didn’t help either. “It’s dead.”
“I’ll see if anyone else has a GPS,” Sykes said. A few moments later he returned with a similar unit and powered it up, but a few minutes later it too shut off and wouldn’t power back on.
“I don’t know what the hell is going on,” Sanchez said, “but something is frying all the electronics on this plane.” He looked at his watch—it was a mechanical Rolex, and it was still running. “You got a digital watch, Troy?”
“Yes.” She glanced at it. “It’s dead.”
“We got hit by something that toasted our electronics,” Sanchez said. “Let’s do the checklist again.” But the batteries still would not come online.
“Three thousand seven hundred, speed one-sixty,” Lister read off.
Sykes came back up to the cockpit. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,”
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