he unfastened his belt and jumped to his feet. He half flew, arms and legs outstretched over seated passengers,
skimming their heads as he sailed along. At the starboard-side hole his big body smashed into the jagged aluminum skin, opening
his throat and severing his left arm as he was vomited out of the sick and dying aircraft.
In those lavatories that had opened, water gushed out of the taps and commodes into the low-pressure environment. From the
bowels of the giant airliner, waste tanks flowed backward and their contents came up through the sink drains and toilets.
In the galleys, water valves ruptured and water overflowed the sinks. Pantries and refrigerators swung open and their contents
flew out into the passageways and into the cabins.
In the pressurized baggage compartments below the cabin floor, aerosols and pressurized containers ruptured and disgorged
their contents throughout the luggage. The cats and dogs that rode in kennels beneath their masters were banging wildly against
their cages in fear.
The outward-opening cockpit door held for a moment. It strained against its lock and aluminum hinges, but the difference in
pressure between the cockpit and the cabin was too great and the door finally burst outward into the first-class upper lounge.
Captain Stuart heard the door go. Suddenly, every loose object on the flight deck—maps, pencils, coffee cups, hats, and jackets—lifted
into the air and converged on the open door, then disappeared into the lounge and down the stairway. Stuart felt himself pulled
back into his seat. His arms flew up over his head and his wristwatch ripped loose. He pulled his arms down into his lap and
waited until the initial rush of air subsided. He sat still trying to steady the hard beating in his chest. He calmed his
rushing thoughts and tried to reconstruct what had happened in the last few seconds. He remembered that he had felt the jolt
of a mild impact on the Straton only seconds before, but he had no idea what had caused it. What he did know was that the
autopilot was still functioning and the craft was still under control. He glanced quickly at McVary, then glanced quickly
back at Fessler. “What happened?” he yelled.
McVary kept staring silently at his instruments.
Fessler was looking back at the open door and didn’t respond.
“Descend!” Stuart commanded, and yanked shut the power levers controlling all four engines, then disengaged the autopilot
and pushed forward on the control wheel. The Straton transport abruptly nosed downward. But at their incredibly high cruise
speed, the forward momentum slowed their initial descent. Stuart watched the ground altimeter as they moved slowly downward.
Fifty-eight thousand feet. Fifty seconds had gone by since the impact.
Stuart quickly scanned his instruments. Cockpit indications were still good, except that he had already lost a major portion
of his pressurized cabin air. His first thought was that a fuselage door had somehow opened. He looked at the door warning
lights. They showed all the doors closed. Had a faulty window blown out? No. The decompression was much too rapid for that,
and what had caused the jolt? A bomb.
It had to be a bomb,
he thought.
What is happening back there?
Stuart looked at the cabin altimeter—the differential pressure gauge—which told him at what relative altitude the cabin pressure
was. The hands of the cabin altimeter were spinning upward like those of a broken clock. The cabin pressure, which had always
been kept at 10,000 feet, was now at 19,000 feet.
Losing pressure. Hold the pressure
. They were losing the artificial atmosphere that they had brought with them—this atmosphere from earth that made it possible
to live at 62,000 feet—throwing it out into subspace, through some large hole.
Stuart glanced at the two altimeters together. The ground altimeter showed that the Straton had only gotten down to 55,000
feet. The cabin altimeter
skimming their heads as he sailed along. At the starboard-side hole his big body smashed into the jagged aluminum skin, opening
his throat and severing his left arm as he was vomited out of the sick and dying aircraft.
In those lavatories that had opened, water gushed out of the taps and commodes into the low-pressure environment. From the
bowels of the giant airliner, waste tanks flowed backward and their contents came up through the sink drains and toilets.
In the galleys, water valves ruptured and water overflowed the sinks. Pantries and refrigerators swung open and their contents
flew out into the passageways and into the cabins.
In the pressurized baggage compartments below the cabin floor, aerosols and pressurized containers ruptured and disgorged
their contents throughout the luggage. The cats and dogs that rode in kennels beneath their masters were banging wildly against
their cages in fear.
The outward-opening cockpit door held for a moment. It strained against its lock and aluminum hinges, but the difference in
pressure between the cockpit and the cabin was too great and the door finally burst outward into the first-class upper lounge.
Captain Stuart heard the door go. Suddenly, every loose object on the flight deck—maps, pencils, coffee cups, hats, and jackets—lifted
into the air and converged on the open door, then disappeared into the lounge and down the stairway. Stuart felt himself pulled
back into his seat. His arms flew up over his head and his wristwatch ripped loose. He pulled his arms down into his lap and
waited until the initial rush of air subsided. He sat still trying to steady the hard beating in his chest. He calmed his
rushing thoughts and tried to reconstruct what had happened in the last few seconds. He remembered that he had felt the jolt
of a mild impact on the Straton only seconds before, but he had no idea what had caused it. What he did know was that the
autopilot was still functioning and the craft was still under control. He glanced quickly at McVary, then glanced quickly
back at Fessler. “What happened?” he yelled.
McVary kept staring silently at his instruments.
Fessler was looking back at the open door and didn’t respond.
“Descend!” Stuart commanded, and yanked shut the power levers controlling all four engines, then disengaged the autopilot
and pushed forward on the control wheel. The Straton transport abruptly nosed downward. But at their incredibly high cruise
speed, the forward momentum slowed their initial descent. Stuart watched the ground altimeter as they moved slowly downward.
Fifty-eight thousand feet. Fifty seconds had gone by since the impact.
Stuart quickly scanned his instruments. Cockpit indications were still good, except that he had already lost a major portion
of his pressurized cabin air. His first thought was that a fuselage door had somehow opened. He looked at the door warning
lights. They showed all the doors closed. Had a faulty window blown out? No. The decompression was much too rapid for that,
and what had caused the jolt? A bomb.
It had to be a bomb,
he thought.
What is happening back there?
Stuart looked at the cabin altimeter—the differential pressure gauge—which told him at what relative altitude the cabin pressure
was. The hands of the cabin altimeter were spinning upward like those of a broken clock. The cabin pressure, which had always
been kept at 10,000 feet, was now at 19,000 feet.
Losing pressure. Hold the pressure
. They were losing the artificial atmosphere that they had brought with them—this atmosphere from earth that made it possible
to live at 62,000 feet—throwing it out into subspace, through some large hole.
Stuart glanced at the two altimeters together. The ground altimeter showed that the Straton had only gotten down to 55,000
feet. The cabin altimeter
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