negatively.
Neilsen leaned forward and whispered in her ear. "We're in trouble. You be ready. You've trained for this, remember that. You can do it.”
"All right."
Neilsen didn't stop at Alvin or Tony's seat. They both looked at him and waved their hands indicating they were okay. When he reached the door to the cockpit, a vicious gust hit the plane like a fist and he was thrown head first into the metal door. He felt his nose crunch and a sharp pain over his right eye. Neilsen landed flat on his back in the aisle. He struggled to his feet using the arms of the nearest seat. His eyes watered and his face felt wet. When he examined his face with his hands they came away covered with blood.
"Damn...that hurts."
He pulled out a handkerchief and tried to staunch the flow. In the cockpit it was difficult to get into his seat without being thrown onto the Captain.
"Good Lord, what happened to you?"
"Got tossed into the door. It hurts."
"You gonna be alright?"
"...Sure...could be a lot worse."
"Okay, get on the controls with me." Captain Duckhorn's face was set in a determined grimace.
"Any idea where we are, Captain?"
"Not really." He grunted with effort as the plane skidded sideways then roared forward as though released from a sling-shot. "North...a long way north. I wouldn't be surprised if we're over the Canadian border."
"West too?"
It wasn't a question either one wanted to ask.
"Probably."
Prolonged danger can sap the strength of the strongest man or woman and the three passengers and flight attendant, Miss Willis, had the added burden of doing nothing, of being at the mercy of others. It didn't matter that none of them knew how to fly, in circumstances like this any activity would have been better than waiting.
Except for the rare individual, danger, raw and violent, will turn a man or woman inward and what they find there will either sustain them or haunt them the rest of their lives. Most people live their lives without ever being put to the test. Others spend their whole lives seeking opportunities to discover what circumstance had forced the people of Flight 402 to endure.
Prince McChesney was not a cowardly man. He was trapped by a situation that amplified the one thing he feared most. That fear had taken him beyond the ability to resist, to fight back. Emotionally he was numb. If he could have gotten sick it would have been better than the state of terror that held him beyond the ability to act.
The lightning strikes were continuous around the airplane and the night sky alternately displayed scenes of incredible beauty and pictures like something from an old testament hell.
Forward on the flight deck, Duckhorn and First Officer Neilsen were too busy for the kind of fear that occupied their passengers.
"Something's not right, Neil, do you feel it?" The control column was jerking so hard it took the two of them to hold it.
"Yesss...rudder? No...I don't know...feels like the rudder."
"Oh, Lord, here we go again!" Captain Duckhorn had to shout to be heard over the thunder and the roar of engines strained to the limit.
Captain Duckhorn tried to make a joke. "We're on an elevator to hell."
Even though they were holding the plane level, the backup altimeter was unwinding too fast to read. They were being driven toward the ground by an inexorable pressure.
Together the two men eased the yoke forward putting the plane into a dive. After a few minutes they pulled back on the yoke hoping to use their momentum to pull them out of the down-draft. Both men were watching the altimeter when a dark mass became visible through the windshield. The altimeter had slowed enough so that each man saw it pass nine thousand feet.
They broke through the bottom of the clouds five hundred feet from a rising wall of trees. There was no time to pull away.
"We're going in, Neil! Hang on, sorry...I should have list..."
Chapter 2
FLT 402 to Seattle almost escaped with nothing more than the loss of its wings and engines, but the forest was dense and their luck ran out against the base of a massive Douglas fir. The trees which ripped the wings from the plane saved the lives of the passengers but could not save the lives of Captain Peter Duckhorn and First officer Neilsen.
The flight cabin was crushed halfway back to the door into the passenger area. In the air a plane will bend and flex, withstand enormous stress, but on the ground, at speed, they are flimsier than the average Detroit automobile. They will not withstand impact with trees.
Had the trees which ripped the wings off failed to slow the plane, none of the passengers would have survived.
The last sound of a piece of baggage falling from the overhead competed only with the sound of the wind and the rain. The passengers were for the moment beyond screams or groans or verbal protest.
Alvin opened his eyes and looked around, surprised and very much alive. His seat had broken loose and he was hanging a foot from the floor held by the seat belt. He was unharmed, not a scratch. The seat holding his back pack had held. It was the first thing he looked for.
He unbuckled the belt and tumbled to the deck of the plane on his knees. He pushed the seat aside and stood in the aisle looking toward the rear of the plane. It was a jumbled mess. Seats were askew, all the luggage compartments had been emptied, and panels hung every which way. Many of the port hole-like windows had popped out from the twisting of the airframe. The rain was loud against the fuselage.
Tony Genoa sat bent over in his seat his head resting against the back of the seat in front of his. He took deep, desperate breaths. Were they to be his last? He didn't know.
"Mr. Genoa...Tony, are you all right?" Alvin shook his shoulder gently, then rougher.
Tony looked up at Alvin. "Are we alive, boy?"
"Yes, sir, we are. You don't look good sir, are you injured?"
"No...no, I don't think so. I have a heart condition. Where's my jacket...my pills." He tried to get up.
"You just sit tight, Mr. Genoa, I'll look."
Alvin found his jacket under the seats and felt around for Tony's medicine.
"Here it is, sir. How many should you take?"
"Just one."
"Do you need water?" Alvin asked.
"No." He took the pill from Alvin and swallowed it. "I'll be all right, son. Just give me a few minutes."
"Okay, but look, you better get ready to leave as soon as you can. I smell gas. I'm going back and see what happened to Miss Willis and the other guy." Alvin wouldn't call him Mr. America.
He had to climb over seats and push broken pieces of the interior aside. He found McChesney sitting in the aisle, looking at his hands in disbelief. He didn't notice Alvin.
"I'm alive! I made it." He thought he was still in his seat and turned to tell Sherry. She was gone and her seat with her. He frowned, unable to understand.
"Where's Miss Willis?" Alvin had to shout to get McChesney's attention. He finally answered.
"I don't know, she was right here. I don't get it. She was holding my hand, I remember."
Shock, Alvin thought. He heard a groan further aft. Sherry Willis, still strapped to her chair had been thrown to the rear of the plane near the food service area. The seat was over on its side and Miss Willis was semi-conscious, blood coming from a bruise on her forehead.
Alvin pushed seats and trash out of the way, unhooked her from the seat and stretched her out with a blanket under her head. Always at the back of his mind was the danger of fire.
He