Charles Maine - World Without Men

His mind, seeking some intelligible clue, suddenly focused itself on the background of murmured conversation in the cabin. He became aware of a certain subdued excitement in the voices around him. One voice particularly, an aggressive American voice, demanded: “Why the hell have we turned back?”

Turned back… The phrase reverberated hollowly in the cavity of his skull. He stared incredulously out of the window towards the sun, and saw only confirmation of his fears. The jet liner had indeed turned back.

The reason was not far to seek. Security had played its next move. The aircraft had not yet reached the point of no return and was still under the control of the United Kingdom navigation network. An authoritative order from the ground to turn back would have to be obeyed.

And they would be waiting for him at the airport, and this time there would be no mistake…

He bit his lower lip and looked around. At the far end of the cabin, near the door to the flight deck, a cluster of passengers were excitedly interrogating the air hostess. Fragments of question and answer came to his ears. There is no cause for alarm, sir… But I have an appointment in New York in just over an hour… What’s the trouble, miss; is it weather?… We have to carry out ground network instructions, sir… I wanna talk to the captain; I insist on talking to the captain…

The captain, thought Brad. He was the key to the situation! He slipped one hand stealthily into his pocket and stroked the cold, reassuring shape of the dope pistol.

Slowly he stood up and joined the group near the flight deck door. A moment or two of hesitation, of cautious manoeuvring for position, and then he had achieved his purpose. He closed the flight deck door silently behind him.

The navigator glanced up inquisitively from his plotting table and murmured something into the intercom micro phone. The radio officer abandoned the controls of his equipment and swung round on his swivel chair. There was no hostility in their expressions, just curiosity.

Brad produced the gun and the atmosphere changed instantly. The other men became tense, guarded and uncertain of themselves, knowing they would have to react, but not quite sure how.

“No tricks,” Brad said coldly. “I mean business.”

He pointed to the radio officer. “Shut down your equipment.”

“Are you crazy? We can’t land without radio.”

“We’re not landing — not yet awhile. Shut it down.” He pointed the gun at the navigator. “Radar too.”

They didn’t move. He aimed the gun at a glowing amber radar screen.

“Shut it down before I wreck it.”

There was no mistaking the stubborn defiance in the navigator’s eyes. Brad squeezed the trigger. The dope slug in its soluble skin was by no means armour-piercing, but it was capable of shattering glass. The radar tube imploded abruptly, spraying fine glittering shards of glass over the plotting table.

“You bloody maniac!” shouted the navigator, switching off the equipment.

Brad turned his attention to the radio officer. In a moment the shrill noise of the radio power unit whined into silence as the switches were opened. The two men stared sullenly at him.

“Don’t move,” said Brad, “and don’t leave the flight deck. It would be foolish to alarm the passengers.”

Watching both men carefully he crossed to the control cab in and opened the communicating door. The pilot was sitting well back in his seat, smoking a cigarette and shaking the ash over the small, carpeted floorspace. The copilot was staring out over the ocean, propping his chin in his hands, in a posture that suggested boredom.

Brad tapped the pilot on the head with the barrel of his gun. The man swung round peevishly, but froze immediately as his eyes focused on the weapon He looked starkly into Brad’s face.

The copilot, sensing the movement, turned his head, registered alarm for an instant, then struggled to get out of his seat. Brad pushed him gently back again.

“Turn round,” he ordered, but they didn’t understand his meaning.

“There’s been a change of plan,” he stated, speaking slowly and distinctly above the pervading throb of the jets “We’re going on to New York after all. So turn her around — quickly!”

The pilot shook his head. “Nothing doing. Better put that gun away before you do some damage. There are forty passengers on this craft.”

“I know, and I don’t care. If you go back to London I die automatically in a few hours, a few days. If I destroy this aircraft I die a little sooner, that’s all. If I reach America I live. It’s as simple as that.”

“Tell it to the police when we land,” said the pilot.

Brad took a deep breath and gripped the gun more firmly. “Turn her around — now!”

The pilot turned to face the controls, then folded his arms. “Go to hell,” he said firmly.

Brad shot him in the back. The dope slug made a tiny hole in his tunic and blood glistened for a few moments, then clotted rapidly as the slug dissolved in the warm flesh. The anaesthetic effect was almost instantaneous. The pilot stiffened abruptly, made to push himself erect, then col lapsed across the seat, his right arm dangling limply close to the undercarriage control levers. The unconsciousness would last for about an hour.

The copilot was staring at his partner as if unable to believe his eyes. Brad concentrated his attention on him.

“Turn her around,” he said firmly.

Rebellion flared briefly in the other man’s eyes. He was older than his colleague, Brad observed, possibly a family man, with a wife and children waiting for him back home. There was even something homely in the brown of his eyes and the clipped softness of his graying mustache. He wouldn’t want to flirt with death too much…

“Turn her around,” Brad repeated.

The copilot hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, then took over control of the jet liner Presently the horizon ahead tilted slowly and the sun swung around in a vast arc and the Atlantic Ocean below reversed itself: the aircraft was once again pointing towards the west.

Brad remained on the flight deck, taking up a position by the pilot’s communicating door so that he could supervise the copilot and keep a watchful eye on the other members of the crew to his rear. From where he was standing he could not clearly see the radio officer, and it seemed to him at one time that the man was manipulating the communications equipment, perhaps contacting the ground network to inform them of the dramatic events that had occurred. It didn’t matter. America was the destination, and he would be able to justify the violent line he had taken. The press would back him up, and clever lawyers would twist the law to exonerate him. There was nothing to worry about.

In a day or two he would explode the bombshell that would startle the entire world. At first they would not believe him, but independent authorities would begin to check the statistics and make computations, and gradually they would know the truth, the truth that he had slowly and methodically ferreted out in defiance of suppression and censorship and security. The news of the approaching death of mankind.

Becoming engrossed in his thoughts he did not observe the five black specks approaching from high in the northern sky until they were quite close. Puzzled, he leaned over the unconscious pilot to see them better. They were aircraft of some kind, small and swift, with delta wings and large in line jets. Rather like high-speed military fighters, he thought uncomfortably.

The copilot had noticed them too. He glanced quickly at Brad, frowning a little, and there was something vaguely disquieting in his expression. He pulled back on the control column so that the jet liner began to climb gently.