“Yes, sir. Give me a moment. I’m going to have to recalculate with the flight planning system,” he said flustered. Glancing over his shoulder nervously at Creed, the copilot punched furiously at the keyboard in front of him.
“Things are going to be different from the original plan because of the unexpected weather that caused us to change our altitude,” yammered Mr. Trainer anxiously. “I’m using our current longitude and latitude as the starting point for the system and asking it to work its way backward to the flight’s origin. Using that geographic waypoint, the system is calculating all the variables that would effect the fuel measurement. Payload, operating weight empty, zero fuel weight, ramp weight,…”
“Mr. Trainer!” Creed couldn’t stand the man’s babbling. “Sir, I appreciate that you know all about flying this plane, but I really don’t have time for a class on the subject now.”
The copilot turned pale. “Of course not, sir.”
“Don’t mind him,” Captain Jacobe chuckled nervously. “He’s a computer geek at heart.”
“Okay, Mr. Young. The short answer is, yes, probably. We have enough fuel, but we will be using all our reserves.” He glanced over at Jacobe worriedly.
“I’m afraid to ask what that means,” Creed ran his fingers through his hair in his typical anxious gesture.
“He means if everything goes perfectly on our return trip, no turbulence, crosswinds, bad weather at the airport that would delay our landing—if everything goes perfectly, we’ll be okay to make it back.” It was Jacobe’s turn to look pale.
“How many tons of fuel do we have to play with, Trainer?” Jacobe asked.
“Um…the system says we would have an extra seven minutes of flight beyond the calculated plan.”
“So, basically, none. We will be landing on fumes, literally.” He looked sick to his stomach.
“You two are the pilots. You tell me. The girl back there is dying and they think they have created the antidote back on the island. Can we get her there safely?”
Mr. Jacobe looked at the small photograph he always taped to his control panel when he went on long flights. It showed a plump-faced little boy smiling with his arms stretched out beside him, like the wings of a plane—pretending to fly.
“Yes, sir. We’ll get her back. Right, Trainer?” Jacobe’s face looked determined.
“If you say so, sir. I’m going to keep working with the system planner to see if there’s any way I can reduce our fuel consumption.”
“Great, you put your geek hat on; I’m going to turn this big-ass bird around.” He flipped a switch and spoke in his usual cocky-captain voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated immediately as we’re about to make an illegal U-turn. Jacobe, out!”
Creed grinned widely as he held on to the frame of the doorway. The plane banked hard left. Watching the skyline tip was awesome. He felt a wave of happiness at the thought of heading back to that sweet house on the beach and those kindhearted people.
Then reality kicked in when he remembered what else was waiting for him back on that island: One very pissed-off meta named Farrow.
45 A Significant Chunk of Sanity Just Crashed to the Floor
Things were looking up, and Dr. Williams was anxious to go share the good news with his beloved. In his boney hands he held a large bouquet of sunflowers already trimmed and on display in an equally large, some would say gaudy, pink vase. His little girl’s two favorite colors: pink and yellow. He adjusted the greenery slightly while waiting for the elevator.
Once it opened and he entered, he slipped his small silver key into the control panel, typed a code and pressed “B.” The only way that button would work was with the key and the code. Otherwise, someone could stand there and push that “B” button until they were blue in the face and nothing would happen. He smiled to himself at his clever security. Nothing but the best for his June, he chanted to himself with every step down the corridor toward her room.
With a quick tap, Dr. Williams opened the door to his daughter’s hospital room as he had hundreds of times before. But this time, he knew immediately something was wrong.
“Esther?” he called.
Only silence came in response.
“Esther?” he called again, looking toward the door leading to the private bathroom.
The lights were out.
He reached out to the wall switch right inside the doorway with one hand and balanced the heavy vase of flowers with the other.
Then the old man realized why he felt things were wrong the moment he opened the door. It was the silence. There was always the sound of her monitors beeping softly in the background. There was always a light on by her bedside, and Esther was always sitting right beside his daughter in that chair. None of these things were in place.
As the light burst on, the gruesome scene was exposed. There was his precious little girl lying motionless on the bed. Her chest did not rise and fall. Her face was a sickening bluish-gray.