Harry Turtledove - Supervolcano :Eruption

He could do exactly nothing about it. He’d never felt helpless in this particular way before. The guy sitting next to him must have made the same kind of calculation, because out of the blue he said, “I did two tours in Afghanistan. When the mortars start coming in, you just hope you’re lucky. After I got out of the Army, I didn’t figure I’d ever have to worry about that kind of shit again, y’know?”

“Uh-huh.” Bryce managed a nod. He wanted to freak out, but not in front of a bunch of strangers. How much of what got labeled bravery was really just fear of embarrassment?

He couldn’t see the cloud any more; the airliner’s turn meant it was behind them now. But he could imagine the shock wave tearing through the air and gaining on them every second. A bell chimed in the cabin. The seat-belt warning lights came on. “The captain has directed that everyone should return to their seats and remain there,” the boss flight attendant declared on the PA. “This is due to safety concerns for all on board, and will be enforced as necessary.”

That sounded tougher than airline personnel usually talked. Bryce thought of the Coke he’d had with his sandwich. Sooner or later, it would make itself known again. What was he supposed to do then if he couldn’t get up? Pee in his airsick bag? Maybe. And men had it easier there than women did.

The engines changed note once more. They were working harder. If that meant the plane was going faster, Bryce was all for it. The intercom came back to life: “This is the captain speaking, folks. We have been cleared to land in Lincoln, Nebraska. We will be approaching from the northwest, and I will have you down on the ground just as soon as I possibly can. Do please stay in your seats, with your belts securely fastened. This may not be real pretty, but I will make it work.”

One more piece of news that didn’t sound so good. Bryce looked out the window again. They were coming down like mad bastards. No leisurely landing descent today. When the pilot said he wanted to get down fast, he wasn’t kidding. Bryce’s physical eyes saw farms and ponds and roads swell beneath him. His mind’s eye saw a red needle on an altimeter sliding from right to left. Altimeters probably didn’t look like that these days-everything now was bound to be digital. So his mind’s eye wasn’t as precise as it might have been. So what?

Lincoln. The University of Nebraska was there. What did he know about the University of Nebraska? They had a good football team and a good university press. Who was their ancient historian? What kind of classics department did they have? He’d talked with some of their peoplen Chicago. Now he might try to crash on them for a little while-they were as close to family as he had this side of Youngstown, Ohio.

He didn’t want to think about crashing on right now, or crashing into, or crashing anything. When you analyzed poetry, you always had to remember the difference between literal and figurative language. Bryce was fully aware of it here. He still didn’t want to think about crashing just now.

They weren’t that far off the ground any more. If something went wrong, could they try landing on one of these country roads? They were long and straight, and most of them looked as if they took maybe one car a week. Not ideal runways, but better than nothing.

“Please raise your tray tables and return your seat backs to the fully upright position,” the boss flight attendant said. “We may be a little early with this announcement, or-” She broke off, one word too late.

How many people noticed? The Afghan vet beside Bryce muttered “Fuck” under his breath, so he did. Some passengers still had no clue about how bad things were liable to be. A middle-aged woman-Bryce thought she was the gal who’d miss dinner with Uncle Louie-was indignantly complaining that an attendant had no right to keep her from getting up and going to the bathroom.

“I haven’t got time to argue with you,” the frazzled attendant snapped. “But if you even touch your goddamn seat belt, I’m gonna crown you with my solid-steel coffeepot. You hear me? You better, ’cause I mean it.”

“I’ll get you fired for this!” the passenger said shrilly.

“Now ask me if I care,” the stewardess answered, and hurried to her own seat.

“This is the captain one more time.” The drawl came out of the PA again. “I suggest you take a brace against your seat backs. We have some turbulence coming up behind us, and it may get kind of severe. Once the wind event is past, we’ll take a look around and see where we’re at then. Hang on, folks.”

See where we’re at then could only mean see if we’re still flying. The veteran said “Fuck” again, more sincerely this time. It might have been a prayer. Across the aisle, a Hispanic woman was telling her rosary beads. Bryce Miller, a secular, bacon-scarfing Jew, wondered if she had some consolation he didn’t. Too late for him to start praying now. He knew more about the dead religions of ancient Greece than about the one he’d been born into.

Then something gave the plane a kick in the ass. Bryce said “Fuck!” himself, very loudly. He couldn’t even hear the obscenity through everybody else’s chorus of screams and curses and prayers. He waited for the wings to come off or the skin to peel away from the fuselage. The only thing he hoped for in that moment was that it would all get over with in a hurry.

But the plane didn’t come to pieces, though booms and crashes said carts were going cattywumpus no matter how well they’d been stowed. Oxygen masks deployed from the panels he’d never seen open before. Half the overhead luggage compartments flew open, too. They were stuffed so tight, though, that surprisingly few pieces flew out and clobbered people. It was the first advantage he’d ever found to charging for checked bags.

Someone in the cabin had thrown up and missed the airsick bag. Someone else-maybe more than one someone else-had shit him- or herself. Bryce hadn’t, though he didn’t know why not. In ultimate emergencies, human beings turned back into the animals they were beneath civilizonsolationand intelligence.

It wasn’t quite so bad after the first big boot. The plane kept shaking, but on a lesser level. Watch out for that first step, Bryce thought dazedly. It’s a doozy. In fact, as the screams eased off, it was as quiet as he’d ever known it to be inside a plane in flight.

Then he realized why. All the engines were out.

Which meant this wasn’t an airliner any more. It was the world’s most expensive glider. The most expensive, not the best. It was way too heavy to be the best. Someone had once said the space shuttle glided like an aerodynamic brick. The airliner would do better than that. How much better? Bryce didn’t know, but he was about to find out. The hard way.

“This is the captain.” The man still sounded absurdly calm. Maybe that was attitude, maybe training. Whatever it was, Bryce admired it. Still easily, the pilot went on, “Some of you will have noticed our descent is now powerless. The turbulent airflow snuffed out our engines. We have not been able to get a restart. I’m sorry to tell you that we won’t make it to Lincoln.”

He paused. Perhaps he was human after all. “That means I am going to have to find a place to put this aircraft down. The best place we’ve got is dead ahead, a reservoir called Branch Oak Lake. I am going to try and pull a Sully. As he had, I’ve practiced this on the simulator many times. Now I get to do it for real, just like he did.”

Another pause. “All I can do is give it my best shot. If you all stay as calm as you’re able to, it’ll help. I have radioed ahead to Lincoln. They will help us as quick as they can, and so will the folks around the reservoir. We’ll be going in in about a minute and a half. You folks in the exit rows, you’ll have a job to do. Listen to the flight attendants. Good luck to everybody, and God bless you all.”