Stephen King - The Langoliers

Brian had just a moment to think that this guy really did know much more than he should. “It’s out of our reach. We’d crash in the woods.”

“Then Boston is out of reach, too.”

“You bet.”

“This is starting to look like being a bad decision, matey.”

The plane struck another invisible current of turbulence, and the 767 shivered like a dog with a bad chill. Brian heard faint screams from the main cabin even as he made the necessary corrections and wished he could tell them all that this was nothing, that the 767 could ride out turbulence twenty times this bad. The real problem was the ceiling.

“We’re not struck out yet,” he said. The altimeter stood at 2,200 feet.

“But we are running out of room.”

“We—” Brian broke off. A wave of relief rushed over him like a cooling hand. “Here we are,” he said. “Coming through.”

Ahead of the 767’s black nose, the clouds were rapidly thinning. For the first time since they had overflown Vermont, Brian saw a gauzy rip in the whitish-gray blanket. Through it he saw the leaden color of the Atlantic Ocean.

Into the cabin microphone, Brian said: “We’ve reached the ceiling, ladies and gentlemen. I expect this minor turbulence to ease off once we pass through. In a few minutes, you’re going to hear a thump from below. That will be the landing gear descending and locking into place. I am continuing our descent into the Bangor area.” He clicked off and turned briefly to the man in the navigator’s seat. “Wish me luck, Nick.” “Oh, I do, matey — I do.”

Laurel looked out the window with her breath caught in her throat. The clouds were unravelling fast now. She saw the ocean in a series of brief winks: waves, whitecaps, then a large chunk of rock poking out of the water like the fang of a dead monster. She caught a glimpse of bright orange that might have been a buoy.

They passed over a small, tree-shrouded island, and by leaning and craning her neck, she could see the coast dead ahead. Thin wisps of smoky cloud obscured the view for an endless forty-five seconds. When they cleared, the 767 was over land again. They passed above a field; a patch of forest; what looked like a pond.

But where are the houses? Where are the roads and the cars and the buildings and the high-tension wires?

Then a cry burst from her throat.

“What is it?” Dinah nearly screamed. “What is it, Laurel? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” she shouted triumphantly. Down below she could see a narrow road leading into a small seaside village. From up here, it looked like a toy town with tiny toy cars parked along the main street. She saw a church steeple, a town gravel pit, a Little League baseball field. “Nothing’s wrong! It’s all there! It’s all still there!”

From behind her, Robert Jenkins spoke. His voice was calm, level, and deeply dismayed. “Madam,” he said, “I’m afraid you are quite wrong.”

A long white passenger jet cruised slowly above the ground thirty-five miles east of Bangor International Airport. 767 was printed on its tail in large, proud numerals. Along the fuselage, the words AMERICAN PRIDE were written in letters which had been raked backward to indicate speed. On both sides of the nose was the airline’s trademark: a large red eagle. Its spread wings were spangled with blue stars; its talons were flexed and its head was slightly bent. Like the airliner it decorated, the eagle appeared to be coming in for a landing.

The plane printed no shadow on the ground below it as it flew toward the cluster of city ahead; there was no rain, but the morning was gray and sunless. Its belly slid open. The undercarriage dropped down and spread out. The wheels locked into place below the body of the plane and the cockpit area.

American Pride Flight 29 slipped down the chute toward Bangor. It banked slightly left as it went; Captain Engle was now able to correct his course visually, and he did so.

“I see it!” Nick cried. “I see the airport! My God, what a beautiful sight!”

“If you see it, you’re out of your seat,” Brian said. He spoke without turning around. There was no time to turn around now. “Buckle up and shut up.”

But that single long runway was a beautiful sight.

Brian centered the plane’s nose on it and continued down the slide, passing through 1,000 to 800. Below him, a seemingly endless pine forest passed beneath Flight 29’s wings. This finally gave way to a sprawl of buildings — Brian’s restless eyes automatically recorded the usual litter of motels, gas stations, and fast-food restaurants — and then they were passing over the Penobscot River and into Bangor airspace. Brian checked the board again, noted he had green lights on his flaps, and then tried the airport again... although he knew it was hopeless.

“Bangor tower, this is Flight 29,” he said. “I am declaring an emergency. Repeat, I am declaring an emergency. If you have runway traffic, get it out of my way. I’m coming in.”

He glanced at the airspeed indicator just in time to see it drop below 140, the speed which theoretically committed him to landing. Below him, thinning trees gave way to a golf-course. He caught a quick glimpse of a green Holiday Inn sign and then the lights which marked the end of the runway — 33 painted on it in big white numerals — were rushing toward him.

The lights were not red, not green.

They were simply dead.

No time to think about it. No time to think about what would happen to them if a Learjet or a fat little Doyka puddle-jumper suddenly trundled onto the runway ahead of them. No time to do anything now but land the bird.

They passed over a short strip of weeds and gravel and then concrete runway was unrolling thirty feet below the plane. They passed over the first set of white stripes and then the skidmarks — probably made by Air National Guard jets this far out — began just below them.

Brian babied the 767 down toward the runway. The second set of stripes flashed just below them... and a moment later there was a light bump as the main landing gear touched down. Now Flight 29 streaked along Runway 33 at a hundred and twenty miles an hour with its nose slightly up and its wings tilted at a mild angle. Brian applied full flaps and reversed the thrusters. There was another bump, even lighter than the first, as the nose came down.

Then the plane was slowing, from a hundred and twenty to a hundred, from a hundred to eighty, from eighty to forty, from forty to the speed at which a man might run.

It was done. They were down.

“Routine landing,” Brian said. “Nothing to it.” Then he let out a long, shuddery breath and brought the plane to a full stop still four hundred yards from the nearest taxiway. His slim body was suddenly twisted by a flock of shivers. When he raised his hand to his face, it wiped away a great warm handful of sweat. He looked at it and uttered a weak laugh.

A hand fell on his shoulder. “You all right, Brian?”

“Yes,” he said, and picked up the intercom mike again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “welcome to Bangor.”

From behind him Brian heard a chorus of cheers and he laughed again.

Nick Hopewell was not laughing. He was leaning over Brian’s seat and peering out through the cockpit window. Nothing moved on the gridwork of runways; nothing moved on the taxiways. No trucks or security vehicles buzzed back and forth on the tarmac. He could see a few vehicles, he could see an Army transport plane — a C-12 — parked on an outer taxiway and a Delta 727 parked at one of the jetways, but they were as still as statues.

“Thank you for the welcome, my friend,” Nick said softly. “My deep appreciation stems from the fact that it appears you are the only one who is going to extend one. This place is utterly deserted.”