Stavros next considered if he should call anyone concerning this fire-fighting deployment. He said to Hernandez, "Tell Air Traffic Control that Runways Four-Left and -Right will be down for at least fifteen more minutes."
Stavros focused his binoculars and stared at the scene at the end of the runway. He couldn't actually see the right front door, which was facing away from him, but he could see the deployment of the vehicles. If the aircraft blew and there was still a lot of fuel on board, the vehicles that had moved off a hundred yards would need new paint jobs. The two fire trucks near the aircraft would be scrap metal.
He had to admit that there were times when the Emergency Service people earned their pay. But still, his job was stressful every minute of his seven-hour shift. Those guys got stressed maybe once a month.
Stavros remembered what the nasty Emergency Service guy had said-We're in a possible rescue situation. This in turn reminded him that his part in this drama had officially ended as soon as the 747 had come to a halt. All he had to do was keep advising Air Traffic Control of the status of the runways. Later, he'd have to write a report consistent with his taped radio transmissions, and consistent with the fate of the aircraft. He knew that his telephone conversation with the Justice Department guy was also taped, and this, too, made him feel a little better.
Stavros turned away from the big window and went to the coffee bar. If the aircraft blew, he knew he'd hear it and feel it, even up here in his tower. But he didn't want to see it.
Andy McGill shouldered his fire ax in his left hand and put the back of his gloved right hand against the aircraft's door. The back of the fire glove was thin and theoretically you could feel heat through it. He waited a few seconds, but felt nothing.
He moved his hand to the emergency external door handle and yanked on it. The handle moved out away from its recess, and McGill pushed up on the handle to disarm the automatic escape chute.
He glanced behind and below and saw the fire-suited guy from the patrol car on the ground to his right. He had the charged hand-line aimed directly at the airliner's closed door. The other fire truck, Rescue Four, was fifty feet behind his own, and the guy on the roof was aiming the foaming cannon at him. Everyone had full bunker gear and Scott packs on and he couldn't tell who was who, but he trusted all of them, so it didn't matter. The guy at the foaming cannon gave him a thumbs-up. McGill acknowledged the gesture.
Andy McGill held the handle tight and pushed. If the aircraft was still pressurized, the door wouldn't budge, and he'd have to smash through the small door window with his crash ax to depressurize the aircraft and vent any fumes that might be inside.
He kept pushing and all of a sudden the door began to open inward. He let go of the handle and the door automatically continued to pull itself in, then retracted up into the ceiling.
McGill ducked below the threshold of the door to escape any outpouring of smoke, heat, or fumes. But there was nothing.
Without losing another second, McGill pulled himself up into the airliner. He looked around quickly and saw he was in the forward galley area, which was where he belonged according to the floor plans on file. He checked his face mask and air flow, checked his gauge to make sure his tank was full, then propped his fire ax against the bulkhead.
He stood there in the galley and peered across the wide-bodied fuselage to the other exit door. There was definitely no smoke, but he couldn't be sure about fumes. He turned back to the open door and signaled to the men with the fire hose and cannon that he was okay.
McGill turned back into the aircraft and proceeded out of the galley into an open area. To his right was the First Class cabin in the nose, to his left was the huge Coach section. In front of him was the spiral staircase that led into the dome where the cockpit and Business Class section were.
He stood there a moment and felt the vibrations of the engines through the airframe. Everything seemed normal except for two things: it was too quiet, and the curtains across the Coach and First Class areas were drawn closed. FAA regulations called for them to be open during takeoff and landing. And if he thought further about this situation, he would have wondered why none of the flight attendants had appeared. But that was the least of his problems, and he put it out of his mind.
His instinct was to check out one or both of the curtained compartments, but his training said to proceed to the cockpit. He retrieved his crash ax and moved toward the spiral stairs. He could hear his breathing through the oxygen mask.
He took the steps slowly, but two at a time. He stopped when he was chest-level to the upper deck and peered into the big dome of the 747. There were sets of seats paired along both sides of the dome, eight rows in all, for a total of thirty-two seats. He couldn't see any heads above the big, plush seats, but he could see arms draped over the rests of the aisle seats. Motionless arms. "What the hell…?"
He continued up the staircase and stood at the rear bulkhead of the dome. In the center of the dome was a console on which lay magazines, newspapers, and baskets of snacks. Late afternoon sunlight filled the dome through the portholes, and dust motes floated in the sunbeams. It was a pleasant scene, he thought, but instinctively he knew he was in the presence of death.
He moved up the center aisle and glanced left and right at the passengers in their seats. Only about half the seats were occupied, and they were mostly middle-aged men and women, the type you'd find in Business Class. Some were reclined backwards with reading material on their laps, some had their service trays open and drinks sat on the trays, although McGill noticed that a few glasses had tipped and spilled during the landing.
A few passengers had headphones on and appeared to be watching the small individual television screens that came out of the armrests. The TVs were still on, and the one closest to him showed a promo film of happy people in Manhattan.
McGill moved forward and turned to face the passengers. There was no doubt in his mind that all of them were dead. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind, tried to be professional. He pulled the fire glove off his right hand and reached out to touch the face of a woman in the closest aisle seat. Her skin was not stone cold, but neither was it body temperature. He guessed she had been dead for a few hours, and the state of the cabin confirmed that whatever had happened, had happened long before preparations to land.
McGill bent over and examined the face of a man in the next row. The face was peaceful-no saliva, no mucus, no vomit, no tears, no tortured expressions… McGill had never seen anything quite like this. Toxic fumes and smoke caused panic, horrible suffocation, a very unpleasant death that could be seen on the faces and in the body contortions of the victims. What he was seeing here, he concluded, was a peaceful, sleep-like unconsciousness, followed by death.
He looked for the cuffed fugitive and the two escorts and found the handcuffed man in the second from last row of the starboard side seats, sitting in the window seat. The man was dressed in a dark gray suit and though his face was partly hidden by a sleeping mask, he looked to McGill to be Hispanic or maybe Mideastern or Indian. McGill never could tell ethnic types apart. But the guy sitting next to the cuffed man was most probably a cop. McGill could usually pick out one of his own. He patted down the man and felt his holster on his left hip. He then looked at the man sitting by himself in the last row behind these two and concluded that this was the other escort. In any case, it didn't matter any longer, except that he didn't have to lead them off the aircraft and put them in a car; they were not going to Gate 23. In fact, no one was going anywhere except to the mobile morgue.