showed that they now had an artificial altitude pressure of 30,000 feet, then 35,000 feet. Stuart
estimated that the artificial atmosphere would bleed off at about the time the Straton hit 50,000 feet. Then the altimeters
would read the same. Subspace would be in the cabin.
Stuart started to feel light-headed. Instinctively, he pushed the autopilot button back on. He slammed his hand into the automatic
descent selector, pushing it to its maximum rate of descent, letting the computer bring it down as fast as it was safely possible.
He sat back in his seat. His head was pounding with pain. Sinus cavities. The air pockets inside his skull could not adjust
to the rapid rate of cabin altitude change. His nose began to bleed. A river of blood poured down his white shirt. His lungs
had already been emptied of most of their air. He felt hollowed out. His hands and feet were cold, and he didn’t know if it
was from loss of blood or loss of cabin heat.
The Straton’s four engines were sucking up and compressing the thin outside air and pumping all the pressurized air they could
into the ruptured cabin. As they descended lower, the air was slightly thicker and the pressurized airflow became stronger.
But Alan Stuart suspected, knew really, that it was a losing battle. There was one hell of a big hole back there, and the
arithmetic of the problem . . .
If a basin has ten gallons of water and is losing one gallon a second through the drain, and a tap is replacing a half gallon
every five seconds, how long before
. . . Too long. His head was bursting, and he couldn’t think of anything but the pain now.
Captain Stuart turned his head slowly toward McVary. McVary had strapped on the copilot’s oxygen mask and was transmitting
an emergency radio message on the international distress frequency. Stuart shook his head. “Useless,” he said softly, but
he also reached for his oxygen mask and pulled it on, tightening the straps hard against his face. He looked back at Fessler.
Fessler was lying slumped across his desk. Blood was pouring from his mouth, ears, and nose.
McVary continued to transmit the distress signal, though his speech and thoughts were fragmented. He sucked hard on the oxygen
mask as he spoke, and blood collected in his mouth and he had to swallow it.
McVary knew that the oxygen mask alone was not enough. Without a sustaining pressure to force the oxygen into and through
his lungs, it was almost totally useless. The flight deck’s emergency oxygen canister, behind Fessler’s panel, could just
as well be back in San Francisco for all the good it was doing them. Only a military pressure suit—a space suit—of the type
he had once worn could exert the necessary pressure on his body so that he could breathe. But he knew that even if he had
one, there would not have been enough time to hook it up.
Dan McVary, who as a young man had flown exotic military jets through wild maneuvers, was suddenly more frightened than he
had ever been. How had this happened? Commercial transports were not supposed to completely decompress the way military craft
did when they were hit in combat. The possibility of sudden decompression was so slight that it had been ignored by the aeronautical
engineers who built the Straton. There were no air-lock doors or pressure bulkheads between the sections as there were watertight
compartments on a ship or airtight compartments on modern dirigibles. These safety features were too heavy for an airliner.
Too costly. A complete decompression was not supposed to happen. But it had. How? He wondered if airtight compartments would
have helped anyway. The image of the
Titanic
with its so-called watertight compartments flashed through his mind. Engineering marvels . . . every contingency planned
for . . . only a set of the most . . . the most unusual circumstances . . . his head was splitting and he felt a coldness
deep down in his body that chilled him in
estimated that the artificial atmosphere would bleed off at about the time the Straton hit 50,000 feet. Then the altimeters
would read the same. Subspace would be in the cabin.
Stuart started to feel light-headed. Instinctively, he pushed the autopilot button back on. He slammed his hand into the automatic
descent selector, pushing it to its maximum rate of descent, letting the computer bring it down as fast as it was safely possible.
He sat back in his seat. His head was pounding with pain. Sinus cavities. The air pockets inside his skull could not adjust
to the rapid rate of cabin altitude change. His nose began to bleed. A river of blood poured down his white shirt. His lungs
had already been emptied of most of their air. He felt hollowed out. His hands and feet were cold, and he didn’t know if it
was from loss of blood or loss of cabin heat.
The Straton’s four engines were sucking up and compressing the thin outside air and pumping all the pressurized air they could
into the ruptured cabin. As they descended lower, the air was slightly thicker and the pressurized airflow became stronger.
But Alan Stuart suspected, knew really, that it was a losing battle. There was one hell of a big hole back there, and the
arithmetic of the problem . . .
If a basin has ten gallons of water and is losing one gallon a second through the drain, and a tap is replacing a half gallon
every five seconds, how long before
. . . Too long. His head was bursting, and he couldn’t think of anything but the pain now.
Captain Stuart turned his head slowly toward McVary. McVary had strapped on the copilot’s oxygen mask and was transmitting
an emergency radio message on the international distress frequency. Stuart shook his head. “Useless,” he said softly, but
he also reached for his oxygen mask and pulled it on, tightening the straps hard against his face. He looked back at Fessler.
Fessler was lying slumped across his desk. Blood was pouring from his mouth, ears, and nose.
McVary continued to transmit the distress signal, though his speech and thoughts were fragmented. He sucked hard on the oxygen
mask as he spoke, and blood collected in his mouth and he had to swallow it.
McVary knew that the oxygen mask alone was not enough. Without a sustaining pressure to force the oxygen into and through
his lungs, it was almost totally useless. The flight deck’s emergency oxygen canister, behind Fessler’s panel, could just
as well be back in San Francisco for all the good it was doing them. Only a military pressure suit—a space suit—of the type
he had once worn could exert the necessary pressure on his body so that he could breathe. But he knew that even if he had
one, there would not have been enough time to hook it up.
Dan McVary, who as a young man had flown exotic military jets through wild maneuvers, was suddenly more frightened than he
had ever been. How had this happened? Commercial transports were not supposed to completely decompress the way military craft
did when they were hit in combat. The possibility of sudden decompression was so slight that it had been ignored by the aeronautical
engineers who built the Straton. There were no air-lock doors or pressure bulkheads between the sections as there were watertight
compartments on a ship or airtight compartments on modern dirigibles. These safety features were too heavy for an airliner.
Too costly. A complete decompression was not supposed to happen. But it had. How? He wondered if airtight compartments would
have helped anyway. The image of the
Titanic
with its so-called watertight compartments flashed through his mind. Engineering marvels . . . every contingency planned
for . . . only a set of the most . . . the most unusual circumstances . . . his head was splitting and he felt a coldness
deep down in his body that chilled him in
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