Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [3]
At that moment the stall warning came on. “We’re nearly at stall! It can’t be both. Going manual … now.”
A soothing woman’s voice spoke. “Warning. You are about to stall. Warning. You are about to stall. Warning…”
But when the autopilot disengaged, nothing happened.
“Are you nosing down?” Jones asked, looking over, seeing for himself that McIntyre had pushed the yoke forward.
“No response,” McIntyre said. “Nothing. Jesus!”
“Airspeed 156, stall. Altitude 43,750, still climbing. Holy shit!”
Then the mighty 787, cruising at over forty-three thousand feet, stalled. All 427,000 pounds of the airplane ceased to fly as the plane nosed up a final moment, then simply fell toward the blue ocean eight miles below. All three experienced a sensation of near weightlessness as the plane plunged toward the earth. Westmore closed her eyes and locked her mouth shut, vowing not to make a sound.
Behind them came a roar of passengers screaming.
As it stalled, the airplane lost its flight characteristics, which depended on forward motion through the air for control. The plane fell as an object, not as an aircraft. Without comment McIntyre pulled the yoke well back, fighting to maintain some control and keep the craft upright. Without air control, the plane could easily roll onto its back. If it did, they were lost.
Under his breath Jones said, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…” He scanned the PFD. “Airspeed 280, altitude twenty-nine thousand.”
“Jesus,” McIntyre said. “I’ve got nothing.” The yoke was not giving him any feel. The plane was moving through space absent any control. “Engaging auto!”
Through the closed door came more screams. Neither pilot heard them.
Jones reached over and engaged the autopilot. Both men were trained that in an emergency, the autopilot had a superior solution to any they could come up with. They’d been shown example after example of pilots wrestling with airplanes until they crashed, doing the wrong thing over and over, when the autopilot would effortlessly have saved the craft.
“Patience. Give it time,” McIntyre said as if to himself.
Another long moment passed. Nothing happened. The airplane wobbled to the right, corrected itself as it was designed to do, then wobbled to the left.
“Airspeed 495, increasing; altitude twenty-seven thousand, falling,” Jones said. He resumed the Hail Mary.
“Mother of God,” McIntyre muttered, “hear me. Disengaging auto. Setting throttle to idle!”
The airplane was now in a significant dive, and the crew could feel the buildup of airspeed as it rushed toward the sea. The sound from the passengers was now a steady desperate drone. The plane was well nosed forward. The horizon, which should have lay directly in front of them, was instead high above.
“Airspeed 770, altitude twenty-two thousand!” Jones’s voice had risen an octave.
“Shit!” McIntyre said. “God damn you!” he shouted, cursing the airplane. “Reboot,” he commanded. “Reboot the fucking computer! Hurry up.”
Jones tore his eyes from the PFD. “Rebooting.” They were under strict orders never to reboot in flight. This was a ground-service procedure. Jones fumbled for the switch. “Got it! Not responding, Bobby. It’s not responding! It’s locked!”
“Kill the power.” McIntyre’s face shone from sweat. “Hurry. We haven’t much longer!”
Jones looked to his right, ran his hand and fingers down the display, found the master switch, and flipped it off. The PFD went black.
“Wait!” McIntyre snapped. “Give it a second. Okay. Now!”
Jones flipped the switch. “On!” There was a pause. The dials before them sprang to life.
From behind them came a steady roar of terror punctuated by loud noises, as luggage from the overhead compartments and laptops flew about, striking anything in their own flight path.
“Engaging auto!” McIntyre said. Nothing.
“It’s still rebooting,” Jones said. They couldn’t know