Departure(18)

Harper takes her old seat in first class, 1D, and stretches out.

“I feel useless,” she says, and coughs.

“We all are, right now. Nothing to do but wait. We’ll be out of here soon.”

“You really believe that?”

“Sure,” I say automatically. It’s the only response I can make right now. I try my best to keep any doubt out of my voice.

A minute passes, both of us crammed in her pod, watching other passengers file by, coughing as they search for a place to bed down.

“So tell me, what does the mysterious, multitalented Nick Stone do for a living? When he’s not rescuing helpless passengers.”

“Me?” I hesitate for a moment, debating what to tell her. “Nothing . . . as interesting as rescuing airline passengers. How about you?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Really? Anything I might have read?”

She looks down and half laughs, half coughs. “Possibly. I’ve written six books, none of which had my name on them, none of which I’m legally permitted to discuss.”

I wonder what that means. It seems to be a sore spot. But before I can ask, out of the corner of my eye I see someone waving: Mike, standing at the bottom of the stairway. The other two guys who went east with him are at his side. They look tired. They’re panting, hunched over, their hands on their knees. Whatever happened to them out there sent them back in a hurry.

I’m up and out four seconds later. “You found something?”

“Yeah,” Mike swallows. He’s excited, but there’s something else: nervousness. “We found . . . something.”





11





I barely slept last night. I couldn’t get the picture Mike took out of my mind: an octagonal structure, all glass and shining metal, glistening in the middle of a field. There’s no road or path leading to it, no vehicles, no indication of what could be inside. It’s a mystery, a mirage rising out of an expanse of tall green grass.

Mike snapped the picture from a ridge miles away, and then he and his team rushed back as quickly as they could. We don’t have any other clues about what might be inside. For the sake of the freezing, starving survivors of Flight 305, I hope the glass structure’s filled with food. A satellite phone to get us out of this fix would also be nice. Things are getting desperate.

We’ll serve the last of the food this morning, and we have no viable way to get more, at least not enough to feed a hundred and four mouths. I’ve asked Jillian to organize nut-and-berry-gathering expeditions today, and to assign groups to tend the fire, but that’s mostly to keep folks busy and away from each other’s throats.

We have plenty of water, but that’s the extent of the good news. We can last a few days without food, a little longer with some consequences, but this place will start to get ugly after that.

At sunrise the four scouting teams will take the final scraps of food, enough to hike for two days and camp for a night if we need to. That will double our range.

Mike was smart, taking his phone. Today, I’ll make sure each team member carries two cell phones—their own, provided it still has battery life, plus another from the other passengers. With four teams of three, that’s twenty-four phones total. Phones from a diverse group of manufacturers and on different networks will maximize possible reception. Every hour they’ll stop, turn the phones on, and check for a signal. They’ll also be taking pictures of anything noteworthy, any potential landmark. The landscape the teams described yesterday—rolling, forested hills and a few meadows—could have been anywhere in Northern Europe, Scandinavia, or the British Isles. But maybe something in a photo will ring a bell with one of the passengers. That might give us an idea of which way to go, or how far we are from help.

Across the lake, the first rays of sunlight break over the tree line. I sit for a moment, watching my breath turn white in the crisp morning air, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire to my right. Finally, I climb to my feet and head back into the forest.

Bob Ward is waiting for me at the makeshift staircase that leads to the nose section. “I’m going with you,” he announces.

“You’re not, Bob.” I pick up my pace, try to step past him, but he shuffles over, blocking my way.

“I’ve seen the picture Mike took. Could be anything in there. You’ll need me, Nick.”

Time for tough love. I hate to do it, but a hundred and four souls are on the line, and we’re running out of time to help them. “There’s plenty to do around here, Bob. We’re looking at a grueling hike. We can’t stop for anybody who can’t keep up.”

“I can keep up.”

Unfortunately, I doubt it. Bob has to be sixty, and I’m not even sure if I can keep up with Mike, who must be ten years younger than I am and in considerably better shape.

I exhale and try for the logical approach. “Look, if you fall behind after noon, you won’t be able to make it back to camp before nightfall. You’ll be out in the cold for the night. With no food—”

“I understand, Nick. If I can’t keep up, I’ll make you leave me. I know what’s at stake. When do we leave?”

The truth is, I can’t stop Bob, and we need to get going. I shake my head, finally relenting. “Now. Grab Mike, and we’ll head out.”