Chapter One
Abigail Webster took in the city lights that stretched and faded into the chill, wet depths of the night. Here where it was warm, they seemed impossibly distant and a secret universe unto itself. After all, Tacoma, Washington was an enchanting city, once the magic of a winter night took hold. In the distance, from their vantage point, the dark swath of blackness that was Commencement Bay and Puget Sound made for a small shiver in her being.
Tonight was their tenth anniversary and dinner celebration. Across the table and their completed repast, her husband Dennis turned his idle consideration from the dark, velvety vista to stare quietly at her. She noticed the movement and met his eyes. Chin propped on the palm of one hand she made thoughtless, slow circles with the forefinger of her other hand on the rim of the empty water goblet before her.
"Hey, you with me?" Dennis asked. "You've been brooding all night. I know your friend is sick, but this is supposed to be a time for celebration, gaiety, mirth, that sort of thing."
After a few seconds' contemplation, Abby acquiesced and nodded, smiled agreement. Then fixing her eyes on his, "Convicted as charged."
Dennis nodded and smiled back.
She shook off their differences and made the effort to brighten her countenance. Returning his smile, "I love you, and the night was wonderful."
"I love you too, Abby—madly!"
His smile broadened, and she noted the erotic quality to it. She watched as he coursed his gaze about her face and figure. His request for the night had been a sporty two-piece black pant suit, a tight gray turtleneck pullover, and a delicate gold chain necklace. It looked elegant, trim without being dressy, comfort without formality. She was delighted when he earlier made it known how it contemplated her wavy, dark brown hair that fell and tousled about her shoulders, her gray eyes, and soft, high cheeks.
"I know that look," Abby teased.
"You do?" Dennis played along with a gesture to himself, an air of hand-in-the-cookie-jar innocence to it. He dropped the facade with a dramatic humph. "Then I guess you know me pretty good, don't you?"
"Hey, it's me, Denny. It happens to be my job."
Abby felt a little restless, tired even. She looked forward to some peace and quiet with him, even if it was in their car and the drive to the Tacoma Narrows Airport. The prospect of getting home and comfort quickly burgeoned like an out-of-control fantasy.
Shortly, their waitress passed by, and Dennis had the necessary business transacted. Outside, Abby pulled the collar of her jacket up around her neck against the chill of the night. The earlier mist now degenerated to a light drizzle, which only made the cold all the more intrusive.
"You know, we don't have to take the plane back," she reminded him by way of suggestion, a degree of misgiving taking hold. Even with his pilot's license and experience, tonight was not the greatest of nights to be traipsing across the heavens in a small aircraft. She stepped closer to the curb at the sight of an approaching vehicle. "I would think the weather should ground most light aircraft on a night like this."
"I know, Abby," he replied, turning his head to talk to her, embraced in his left arm, "but the plane will be faster. Remember, we have to get back to the apartment, and I would like to avoid all the Seattle traffic. Also remember I do have that bridge structural support glitch that needs looking into first thing in the morning and the time I yet have to put into it once we get home. Besides, you know what the hostess said about that jack-knifed semi closing most of the northbound lanes of I-5 up in Federal Way."
Abby flashed a grimace and tossed in a groan for good measure as that little tidbit of cheery news came exquisitely back to mind. "Tonight of all nights," she muttered. "Thanks for the reminder."
Well, Denny happened to be an experienced pilot, after all. And he was reluctantly right, again. The prospect of a torturously protracted traffic jam and a midnight trail-breaking detour held about as much appeal as a toothache. And with a company car on call, a driver, and an available aircraft at their disposal, the temptation for a short hop proved irresistible. One half hour to the local airport and a near equal amount of flight time would almost see them warm and comfy in their home away from home. That felt much better than suffering through eternally drawn-out hours of late-night gridlock.
Practical considerations evaporated any previous trepidation.
Home for now was temporarily in Mountlake Terrace. With all his hours—more than she cared for at times—it proved more convenient for them to rent an apartment for the few weeks he was scheduled to be there. She helped by tending paperwork as an itinerant office manager. In a way, it was a working vacation, which was a sight better than either, or both, of them torturing themselves with the insanity of daily commutes on chronically congested freeways. The I-5 parking lot, they called it at times. She usually quit at five; he most times went another hour or two.
"Piper alpha, tango, delta, 2-3-7 you are cleared for take-off. Wind is from the southwest at 10 mph. Visibility is two miles. VFR apply."
Dennis turned to glance at her as the plane rolled forward.
"Hear that, Abby?" he said as their Piper lifted into the chill night air. Visual flying rules."
A brief twinge of anxiety trickled through her nerves with the momentary lightness that came once the wheels of the single-engine aircraft departed terra firma. Despite any reservations, though, she felt that warm glow of relief to finally be homeward bound. Miserable nights did that.
Clearing the field, Dennis put them into a smooth climbing left turn. To the right and about two hundred meters below a hint of stygian ground and a few hazy lights dropped precipitously away to the black expanse of nothingness that was the abysmal, swirling void of Puget Sound at night. The tide-driven body of water ended less than a kilometer to the east on the Tacoma side. There the city began at water's edge. Specks of urban illumination defined a vague boundary between liquid and solid ground. They climbed over and past the twin Tacoma Narrows Bridges, a glittering binary necklace of slithering diamonds and rubies spanning the solid blackness. Soon they would cross over part of Tacoma and Ruston then back over the water of Commencement Bay.
Abby listened to the background chatter almost drowned out by the static coming from the small plane's speakers.
At altitude the earlier drizzle grew heavier, fading the city's lights into the cold, damp depths of the night. Here in the warmth of the cabin, they appeared as a distant part of a secret universe. Now they crossed above the dark swath of Commencement Bay and Puget Sound. Dennis banked to the left, flying over water to avoid the flight paths in and out of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.
Abby laughed quietly to herself. Had she ever had a life before she met Dennis? She knew that her life started when they met, and it was comforting to know that the love she felt for her husband was returned in kind. No matter how frustrating a normal day could be, one of them always found a way to make the other laugh. But those frustrations did seem to pile on at times.
"We'll be landing in about thirty minutes," Dennis announced, cutting into her private lightheartedness.
She turned and looked at him again. "I love you, Denny."
"I love you too, Abby...madly! And you looked so elegant tonight."
"Hey, it's me, Denny. It happens to be my job."
A thousand meters above the black expanse of nothingness that was the abysmal, swirling void of Commencement Bay; the deep body of water ended less than a few kilometers to the east on the Tacoma side. There the city began at the water's edge. Specks of urban illumination defined a vague shoreline.
Suddenly, Abby felt an inexplicable twinge of anxiety. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she felt cold.
A raucous noise exploded without warning into the cockpit—the proximity advisory. Only a couple of moments had passed since Denny last spoke to her, moments that saw him now busy listening in on his radio headset. Its cruelty forced a refocusing to the task at hand.
"Has air control given you an explanation?" inquired Abby, raising her voice for Denny to hear her over the din. She peered uncertainly outside into the gloom.
For long tension-filled seconds, Denny continued to listen to the report coming through his earphones.
"The controller says that there's an unidentified about a kilometer off our five o'clock position, approximately one hundred seventy meters above us," he said on rising concern.
Abby strained to look back and up, seeing only the vague outline of the wing stretching off into the darkness. It blotted out anything overhead and behind.
"They're still on the horn trying to raise the pilot of the unidentified craft," he said.
"Any indication what kind of problem?"
"Not a clue."
His terse comment gave her an icy chill. This was about the worst possible situation for any pilot to be in. At least Denny could hear the tower. They were flying deaf and almost blind. On a slight positive note, it was still a big piece of sky, and the two craft more than likely would simply pass each other, with nothing worse than some prop wash and a few jangled nerves.
"Which means they're blind to us, unless they have a proximity warning system too," she went on. "Wonderful!"
"That's the size of it," Dennis muttered. "Ground now says the problem's with the other pilot. They're keeping an eye on the situation and will advise on any change. For now, we tiptoe our way around."
Abby trusted implicitly the unknown, faceless controller on the ground. They were a good lot, and she trusted them with her life. Such trust, however, did not extend to other pilots and their possible failures to maintain attentiveness or equipment.
Accordingly, uncertainty turned into worry, despite her attempt to hold it off. She nestled deeper into her seat. Maybe it would impart a little more security against overwhelming forces that were drawing too close for comfort. And for a long, palpable minute, the penetrating drone of the plane's engine filled the tension-amplified cabin.
"I still can't see anything, Denny. Maybe the controller... wait a minute. I think—"
The burgeoning intensity of her voice was cut off by the urgent scream exploding in Dennis's headset that even she could hear.
"Abby... hold on! They've turned our—"
The explanation died in his throat.
Dennis hauled back on the control wheel. At the same time, instinct took control. He threw the plane into a gut-straining evasive left turn.
Too late.
An explosion of sound and movement crashed in. The little plane shook violently, like a toy smacked on a floor by a rambunctious child.
Abby let out a shriek, but it was lost in the violent screech of roaring engine, shredding metal, and disintegrating airframe.
Abby thrust her hand sideways, where it found Denny's arm. She could feel the iron-hard tension in it as Dennis fought a sudden life and death struggle with the wildly erratic control column.
By some miracle, the stricken aircraft managed to hold a tenuous straight course. Abby swept a glance past the altimeter... and realized their momentary respite was only an illusion: the instrument was shaving off altitude readings in a blur of motion. From what she could tell, it was about ten meters every five seconds. They were level but headed down.
They had only one ultimate, grim conclusion with that kind of rate...unless Denny could pull something off. And why they were not in a wild, gyrating free-fall or disintegrating altogether she could only speculate.
Dennis hauled back on the wheel all the harder. The altitude readout slowed maybe a little.
Abby threw her own one hundred thirty pounds into the fray, for all it was worth.
"Abby... " Dennis forced out through clenched teeth, "get on the radio...tell 'em we're hit, going in!"
Denny yanked off his headset and flung it sideways to her.
Driven by her own adrenaline-fueled terror, Abby clawed her slender fingers deeper into her own control wheel.
"ABBY!"
"Okay!" Shaken free, she reluctantly let go.
"Good. Tell 'em I think the vertical stabilizer's sustained damage and the elevator's just about shot. I can only guess what else."
It took a long moment for her to wade through her own turmoil to concoct a mental report. It was a moment they did not have. Whatever she needed to say, she had to say it now, while their transient fragment of control remained. Unfortunately, and that was a big unfortunately, their descent angle was much too steep for ditching. Fixed landing gear did not help matters either. They would simply flip upon contact with the water, and that would be the end of that.
Terrific!
Again, she checked the altimeter, groaned in dismay. One hundred and twenty meters slipped past.
Abby shook her head in bewilderment. One minute they were flying along, enjoying the sights and the next they were seconds from a grim, cold, ignoble demise at the bottom of a very big piece of water that rose toward them like a demon out of the night.
Abby managed to make the call then threw her strength back into the tandem control column. She dug her boot heels into the cabin's metal flooring for leverage. The results were not worth the effort.
Something snapped in the controls.
The plane lurched in a sickening motion, pitched over even steeper. Panic choked the breath from her throat.
In one semi-lucid thought, crammed amid the torrent of frantic ones, she sensed the fleeting impression of the plane simply giving up its struggle to stay airborne. It wanted to surrender to its fate and die. Their efforts felt so pathetic in contrast.
"Control's contacted Coast Guard, Port, and local authorities," she forced out on the tail end of a tight yelp.
"Wonderful! Somehow, I don't think it's gonna matter."
"Hey, I did what you wanted! At least they know!"
"Well, don't get your hopes up, love. If the crash doesn't kill us the cold will. It's winter, remember? We have only seconds left. Use them well...like for praying."
Abby began to weep, at first not realizing it.
If fate did not allow them to somehow survive what was to be a catastrophic impact, what did they have to look forward to? Would they be uninjured or even conscious? How long could they survive in forty-five-degree water, at night, in the middle of winter, and with a running tide, no doubt? And those were known variables.
A lot of if's!
"Happy anniversary, Denny!"
"Yeah, same here."
Abby's gaze latched onto the altimeter with morbid fascination. From what she knew of Denny's flying, her best guess of their heading had them coming down too distant from any solid ground.
"Noooo!" she mumbled under her breath. "Denny, what is that?" she stammered as a sudden, alien sensation washed over her.
"Abby, this really is not the time... "
"No, Denny, I mean it. I feel sort of...different. Something's wrong."
Thirty meters.
"Impending death...will definitely do strange things to you," he said through clenched teeth.
The cabin began to fill with a dim, thin, wavering mist of luminescence. It coalesced from the very air itself. In a second, it intensified to a bright golden amber. The sound of droning bees, millions of them, overwhelmed the whining engine. Prickly static tickled and crawled along her skin.
All of it took a mere second.
Abby screamed... or thought she did. Next came a vague awareness of a jolt. Unconsciousness took her.
But not completely. Not at first.
She sensed suspension, floating, though without a sense of warmth or cold. They were not quite flying, not quite swimming. There existed no light, no dark, no pain, or sensation of physical touch or being. Time lost coherent meaning. She fought against losing effort to focus, concentrate, to stay awake and aware.
Where was Denny?
Her mind refused to work; instead, it roiled in slow motion. She was adrift on a thick, formless, soupy sea.
Then that left her. The universe about her folded in on itself and evaporated.