“So how we gonna get food?” asks an overweight man with a thick New York accent.
How indeed? I hadn’t gotten that far. I can see where this is going. If I let groupthink take over and devil’s advocates call the shots, we’ll still be standing here at sundown, hungry and undecided. I need a plan, right now.
There are only two logical sources of food: the meals in the other half of the plane and fish from the lake. We might manage to kill something here on land, but with a hundred mouths to feed, it likely won’t go far. Unless … there’s a farm nearby. It’s a long shot, but I tuck the idea away for future use.
“Okay, first step,” I say as authoritatively as I can. “We’re going to take an inventory.”
“Inventory?”
“Yes.” I point to Jillian—poor Jillian—and Bob Ward, who straightens up and puts on his ultraserious camp counselor face for the crowd. He, at least, is still loving this. “Jillian and Bob are going to come around and ask you what was in your carry-on and checked baggage and what your seat was—or, more importantly, what overhead bin your bag was in. Describe anything that might be of use out here, especially food. Come see me right now if you had any fishing or diving gear in your luggage—a wet suit, even snorkeling gear.”
A bloated guy in his forties laughs, turning to the crowd. “Hey, Jack, folks don’t do much snorkeling in New York in November.” That gets a few laughs, and he grins at me, waiting.
I know this guy’s type, and I’d love to stick it to him, but I can’t afford to make another enemy. I opt for the high road.
“That’s true. I’m thinking about people making a connection, passengers departing from the Caribbean, somebody diving on vacation, making their way home. JFK is a major hub for international destinations. Nassau to JFK to Heathrow isn’t out of the question. Or maybe someone on their way to the Mediterranean via Heathrow. I thought maybe we could get lucky.”
Jillian starts the survey, but Bob hangs back. “You want to start diving for the food and any supplies in the lake.”
“Yeah, it seems like our only move.”
“I agree, but there’s a problem.” Bob pauses dramatically. I get the impression he likes saying “There’s a problem” and pausing.
“What’s that?”
“All the checked baggage will be in LD3s.”
Oh, right. LD3s.
“What’s an LD3?”
“It’s a unit load device.”
A unit load device. Why didn’t he just say so?
“I don’t know what that is, Bob.”
“They’re metal cases that hold the luggage. On smaller aircraft, they simply load the bags in. On larger ones, like our fateful Boeing 777, they place the bags in the LD3s, then move them onto the plane. They can get more bags on that way and keep them straight. The 777 can carry up to thirty-two LD3s, and maybe a dozen pallets. I can’t remember.”
“Pallets?”
“Yeah, with food, supplies, etcetera.”
“What does all this mean?” I ask.
“The LD3s will be stacked two wide all the way to the tail. Even if we can dive down to them, they’ll be hard to get to. We might be able to get into the first two, but there’s no way we can haul them out and get to the rows behind them. Bottom line: we can’t count on getting to anything in the checked baggage.”
So much for that plan. “That’s good to know.”
“I’ll check with Jillian and the pilot, try to figure out where the pallets might be positioned. If they’re near where the plane broke apart, or here in the nose, we could get lucky.”
“All right. Thanks, Bob.”
Bob Ward. Annoying? Yes. Helpful? Also yes.
The doctor is queued up next, that “Something is seriously wrong, Mr. Stone” look on her face. Then again, Sabrina has had that look on her face since we met, so maybe that’s just how she always looks.
“Hi, Sabrina,” I say, bracing myself.
“We need to build a shelter.”
At least somebody around here gets right to it.
“Why?”
“Most of the passengers suffered mild hypothermia on the first night. Some, such as yourself and Ms. Lane, moderate cases. This morning, I’ve observed a trend: about half the passengers have a cold. If they remain out in the elements, that could progress. If it rains, they’ll fare even worse. We could have cases of bacterial infection or pneumonia soon. At a minimum, I would like to move anyone with a compromised immune system, older passengers, and anyone on an immunosuppressant therapy—which are common for autoimmune diseases—to the nose section and enclose it.”
“Okay. Let me have someone check the trees supporting it. It moved some last night. If it collapses under the added weight, we’ll be worse off. I’ll be back this evening, and we’ll reassess then.”
“Where are you going?”
“Someone has to scout the area around us, look for food, maybe even help—or a better shelter.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Fine. Anyone but you.”
“What?”
“You can’t leave.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be chaos here without you.”
I just stare at her, unsure what to say. She’s probably right. That worries me, but it also brings a sense of something I haven’t felt in a long time: fulfillment. Right now I feel like I’m doing exactly what I need to be doing, that I’m making a difference in people’s lives. I haven’t felt that way in a very long time.
A BREAK. BOB FOUND A pallet with some food in the nose section. It was tossed around, torn to pieces, but it’s yielded enough for two meals. That’s brought morale up and quelled most of the complaints for now.
Sabrina has added a request for medications, especially antibiotics, to the luggage survey, but so far the poll hasn’t revealed much. There’ve been reports of fishing gear, and two passengers claimed snorkeling sets—but it’s all in checked baggage at the bottom of the lake, locked inside those steel crates. I’ve felt out a few of the guys who swam out to the rear section with me, and none of them are keen to go diving into the wreckage. I can’t say I blame them. Instead, I’ve sent them out with some of the other passengers who’re still in decent shape to scout the surrounding areas. They left a few hours ago in four teams of three, one for each cardinal direction. They’ll hike until they find something or someone, or until midday, whichever comes first, then head back, hopefully arriving before sunset. We’ll know a lot more then.
I hope.
HARPER’S SICK.
She awoke with a ragged cough, a headache, and a low-grade fever. She swears she’s okay, but Sabrina is concerned enough to move her, against her protests, to the nose section.
I’ve checked the trees supporting the back of this section. They still make me nervous, but I don’t see a better option at the moment.
We’ve hung blue blankets over the open end, but every few minutes an icy draft makes it past them. During the day, it’s colder than by the fire at the lake, but I figure it will be much better at night, especially after Sabrina packs it full of patients.
The mysterious Asian, Yul Tan, has come up with a better solution: build a wall. He and Sabrina have stacked the first- and business-class carry-on luggage from floor to ceiling, plugging any holes with deflated life vests.