Authors: Fern Michaels
"And I in my kerchief..."
Two thousand, one thousand...
It happened quickly then. The p.a. system squawked with static, but the captain's voice was lost to the noise. The plane was in total darkness, the lighting extinguished at the moment of impact. The sound was a hundred jets taking off simultane-
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ously. They were down, and almost immediately Chesney felt herself being flung violently to her left, to the side of the plane. Hot, searing pain roared through her arm, shoulder, and neck. She felt not one break, but several. She screamed with pain and almost immediately felt one of the service centers bang into her good arm. If only she could see where she was. She knew her seat wasn't intact. She seemed to be dangling, supported only by her seat belt. "Mrs. Neibauer, Molly, are you all right? Answer me. Molly," she screamed, "answer me! Gus! Bark. Please, Gus, bark." She thought she heard a whimper, either from the dog or Molly, but there was so much screaming and confusion, she couldn't be sure.
She became aware instantly of a searing frigid burst of air circulating about her. "Patty!" she screamed. "Nancy! Martha!" The only thing she could hear that registered in her numb brain were the cries for help. She had to do something, get loose from her restraints. It dawned on her then that her feet weren't touching the floor. Where in the name of God was she?
If only she could free herself, find some flashlights. She drew a deep breath and released the buckle on her seat belt. She dropped, then toppled over a soft mound of flesh. A person, but who? She blacked out for the barest of seconds. The numbing cold woke her, along with flurries of snow that were swirling through the broken windows.
The galley had been to her left and behind her seat. Not sure of her bearings, she struggled backward, tripping and falling as she tried to head in what she thought was the direction of the galley. Over and over she called for Patty, the other attendants, Molly, Mrs. Neibauer.
Airline rule number one. See to yourself first in case of a disaster. That meant she had to find some warm clothes and a flashlight. She forced her mind to ignore the knifing pain in her arm and shoulder. What seemed like an eternity later, she was in the galley searching for a flashlight. When she had it in her hand, she felt better. The sliding closet doors were jammed, which meant she couldn't get at her fleece-lined coat, and her hands and fingers were too cold to try prying them open. She'd have to scavenge the overhead racks for coats or jackets.
The flashlight seemed feeble in the total darkness. Chesney reached up to the overhead storage bin to find emptiness. She waved the beam of light downward; the heavy-duty storage bins lay across the middle row of seats. She felt like a grave robber when she reached inside. Her hand touched wool. Trembling,
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she pulled out a man's bulky overcoat. She eased it carefully over her injured arm and shoulder. She must make a sling, something to support her arm. She felt sick with the pain. She had to decide what she was going to do next. Who had the warmest clothes? She tried to remember. The ski team, of course. They'd worn heavy fur-lined boots, thick ski sweaters, and down jackets. They probably had warm wool caps, too. There was so much to do, so many people to find. She seemed incapable of moving, but she had to move. Where was the ski team? The light arced and then settled at what Chesney thought was seat-high level. She moved gingerly over still bodies, bodies that were already half-frozen. Over and over she kept saying, "Can I help you? Can I help you?" There was never a response. They couldn't all be dead, could they? Where had the screams come from? Were they her own? Did she hear them before or after the crash? She tried screaming out names. Her voice came out as a soft croaking, little more than a whisper.
"Chesney, is that you?" Patty Mclntyre cried.
"God, yes. Patty, oh, Patty, I thought you ..."
"I'm pinned down under something. I can't budge it. I'm freezing, Chesney. I'm so sleepy."
"You aren't sleepy. Don't even think about closing your eyes, Patty. I need your help. Where in relation to you is the ski team?"
"Up ahead on my left. They're dead, Chesney. Everyone's dead," Patty sobbed.
"Not everyone. We're alive. Keep talking to me while I see if I can find some warm clothes for you. I'm going to need you, Patty."
Chesney scrambled over broken seats, bodies, and luggage to reach the right aisle. She tried to draw a deep breath and almost fainted with the pain shooting through her arm and shoulder. She was alive ... for now. Regardless of the pain. she had to get to the ski team.
When she found them, they were like rag dolls, their arms and legs twisted crazily, all of them still wearing their seat belts. She felt for a pulse on each young boy. On the last boy she felt a pulse, thin and skittery. He was alive. "Wake up! Oh, please wake up!" Chesney swung the flashlight beam from head to toe. An ugly gash across the boy's temple was deep and dangerous-looking. She worked feverishly to cover him with everything she could find. She called back to Patty, demanding that she answer her. She strained to hear Patty's
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faint response. She ripped at sweaters and jackets, carried as many as she could back to where Patty sat, tossed the garments to her, and went back for the boys' fur-lined boots. She retched when she pulled heavy wool socks off a dead boy's feet to pull on over her own feet.
Chesney climbed her way back to where Patty sat. She tried to help with the sweater and jacket but had to sit down and take deep breaths. Her exertions were causing her constant pain now, pain so fierce she had to clench her teeth and bite her tongue to keep from screaming.
"Ooohhh, this feels so good," Patty said in a singsong voice. "Now I can go to sleep."
Chesney cursed then, long and loud, saying words she'd only blushed at in the past. She cursed the weather, the plane, London Air, and the manufacturer of the L1011. Something teased at her then, something she'd noticed or heard. ... It would come to her; she was sure of it. Whatever it was, it was important.
"Damn you, Patty! I told you to stay awake. You can't go to sleep. Come on now, sit up; we have to get these boots on your feet," Chesney said forcefully.
"What feet? I don't know where they are; I can't find my feet." Patty giggled.
Chesney swung the flashlight. Patty was wedged between Marsha Manning and a heavy flight box made of lead. One of the overhead units was upended between the seat in front of the young stewardess and her legs. "Patty, if I pull the woman in front of you out of her seat, I want you to try to push the storage box forward. Even if you move it a little bit, I might be able to tug at it from the front, and maybe you can slide out. I only have the use of one arm, so you're going to have to use all your strength."
Chesney remembered the woman passenger because her reason for going to Geneva had seemed so silly. She was going to buy a Rolex watch for herself because they cost too much in England. It was all Chesney could do to pry the dead woman from her crouched position, but she did it by sheer willpower.
"Now! Push, Patty!" It took them twenty minutes to inch the locker forward; the storage container had no hand grips. Patty finally swung her legs free.
"Quick, massage your feet and legs and then pull these boots on. I need you, Patty."
"Is ... is everyone dead?"
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"Most of them. I couldn't get to the front of the plane. I think there's a tree across the midsection. I couldn't get that close, and my light was too faint. I called and called, but no one answered me. We have to get to the back. I heard voices before. Go ahead of me, Patty. I'm afraid I'll bump into something. My arm is broken in a couple of places. When we get to the back galley, you'll have to fix me a sling. From a dishcloth or something."
This couldn't be happening, but it was. It was more real than any nightmare she'd ever suffered through. In her pain-filled state, her thoughts were chaotic; she was alive, but injured severely. She rubbed warily at her neck and was instantly sorry; the slightest touch to her neck and shoulders set fresh waves of pain roaring down her side.
Molly and Mrs. Neibauer: she had to find them. Surely God had spared them. She tried calling again, and Patty echoed her cries. The muffled yap of the Yorkie brought tears to Chesney's eyes. "Here we are; we're coming! Patty, can you climb over those seats?"
They both shouted then, till they were hoarse, for any survivors to call out their positions. If only they had more light, heat, strength.
"Here, we're pinned down," Mrs. Neibauer called feebly.
"Molly?"
"She's alive, and so is the dog. I think my knitting bag saved him."
When they finally reached the old lady, Chesney cried, sobs breaking from her throat. Edith's knitting bag hadn't saved the little dog and Molly; Edith had saved them—by throwing herself across them. She had unbuckled her seat belt at the last second so as to throw her weight across the little girl and the dog.
"I've been blacking out. I can't move, and I'm afraid I'll smother Molly; you have to pull her out..."
They worked feverishly to get the little girl free. "Don't worry about hurting me; I can't feel anything," Edith said wanly. "My body has kept her warm, but she needs to be bundled up, and quickly. The dog, too."
Time lost all meaning as Chesney and Patty did what they were trained to do. From somewhere Patty came up with a prescription bottle of Percodan. She gave Chesney two of them. "There's three left, Chesney. Marsha Manning put them in the storage container. She was taking them for her bursitis. When they're gone, I'll turn you into a drunk. Whiskey will help."
Chesney was functional again, her wits sharp, her confi-
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dence at an all-time high. "We can survive, Patty; I know we can. Thanks for the sling; it helps."
What seemed like a long time later, they had a body count. There were nineteen survivors, including themselves, twenty counting Gus, all injured except Patty, Molly, Gus, and Seymour Polkowitz, a sixty-five-year-old disc jockey from New Zealand who suffered from epileptic seizures.
They worked tirelessly, trying to comfort the injured. Molly didn't cry, nor did she ask questions. She clutched Gus and her teddy and kept her thumb in her mouth. Chesney's eyes filled each time she checked on the child.
What seemed like hours later, Chesney took over Mrs. Neibauer's care, and Patty sat watch over the badly injured skier. "I can't wake him up, Chesney," she reported. "He's alive, his pulse is weak, and... and... both his legs are broken, his left one at the knee and his right leg in three places. He won't ski again. Perhaps for pleasure but never for competition." Her eyes brimmed with tears for the young man.
"He's alive, Patty. All we can do is keep him warm and hope for the best. Keep talking to him. Don't worry about what the future holds for him. We can only deal with the present."
The hours until dawn were the longest of Chesney's life. She prayed with some of the injured, cuddled Molly and the little dog, and stroked Edith's sparse white hair. She listened to the old lady as she spoke of her life and her two children, of her happy times and her sorrows. "I know I'm going to die here. It's not the dying I mind. I'm ready to go to my Maker, but I thought, I hoped . . . my children would be near me so I could at least say good-bye. I hoped they would want. .. they would want to say good-bye. ..." A spasm of pain passed over Edith's face.
"You're in pain! You said you couldn't feel anything!" Chesney cried.
"One can endure physical pain. This pain," she said, patting her chest, "is . .. a.. . killer."
"Here." Chesney held out one of the Percodan pills. "Swallow this. It will ease the pain."
"No, you keep it. I can see the pain you're in, young lady. You need to function and take care of the others."
Chesney handed the pill to the old lady. "I'm in charge, and I'm ordering you to take this pill. Now!" she said, not unkindly. "You did a very brave thing. You could have been killed, unbuckling your seat belt the way you did. Your chil-
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dren will be very proud of you. I'm proud of you, Mrs. Nei-bauer, and I'm sure that London Air will give you a commendation, not that that's important."
The old lady smiled wanly. "The little one has her whole life ahead of her. I've lived mine. What I did wasn't heroic, it was just a mother's instinct to protect her child. At that moment I felt as though Molly was my little Stevie. I'm just a foolish old woman; don't pay any attention to me. See to the others, young lady."
"I wish I had more covers for you; I know you must be freezing, but I'm afraid to move you," Chesney cried.
"My dear, it simply doesn't matter. I've been lying here staring at this nameplate on the plane. I wonder who Coleman is. Do you suppose it's the name of the aircraft company or the name of the people who make the windows? Not that that matters either."
Chesney gasped at the name. "Where did you see a name-plate?"
"There," Edith said, pointing to a plate near the floor. Chesney aimed the flashlight to where she pointed. COLEMAN AVIATION. She smiled down at the woman under her mound of jackets and coats. "I think we're all going to be all right. Rescue teams are probably searching for us right now. I want you to hang on, Mrs. Neibauer. I don't care what it takes; I want you to focus on one thing—seeing your children again. Promise me." Edith nodded her head wearily.
"Now what?" Patty asked when Chesney joined her.
"We wait." She was silent a long time before she added a comment. "This is a Coleman plane. They'll be looking for us."
"Sure, sure, and I'm the pope's niece," Patty said bitterly.
"No, no, Patty, you don't understand. My father's family built this plane. They'll come looking for.. ." She was going to say "me," but changed it to "us."
Later, when the first sounds of the rescue team reached the survivors, Chesney Brighton was holding Edith Neibauer against her chest. It was her first experience with death, and she prayed for the ability to comfort the old lady during her last minutes. "Shhh, don't try to talk, conserve your strength. The rescue team is here; I can hear the planes overhead. Try to hang on, Mrs. Neibauer." Pain screeched through Chesney with the weight of the old lady. She clenched her teeth.