"Our only chance," Farver said, "is a barrier island with a long beach."
Craig said, "We'll screw up time. This could be catastrophic. We should put down in the water . . . "
"No," Farver said. "We find a beach and land. Now. Douse the lights so we can see out better."
There was black ocean to port, scattered lights (becoming dense far ahead) to starboard, and in between a thin grey line — sea foam on a beach, perhaps with a little phosphorescence. Farver steered the 707 parallel to the line and slightly starboard of it.
He took the P.A. mike. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Captain Farver. In lieu of an airport touchdown, we will make an emergency landing on a beach. Please follow all the instructions our flight attendants give.
"Landing gear down," Craig said.
One of the engines bucked and banged, then went silent.
"Four just flamed out," Flight Engineer Purcell said, "and the rest can be expected . . . "
Other engines bucked, then silence descended like a thick shroud that not even the reactions of the passengers could throw off. With the silence came further darkness as the plane no longer generated electricity.
The 707 had become a glider, descending slowly but relentlessly. Farver could see out a little better, but not well enough to guess the altitude. The radar altimeter was out and with the outside air pressure unknown the aneroid altimeter couldn't be trusted. He felt cold tingles all over plus a sinking sensation in his gut. Where's the ground!
He expected contact the next second, but it didn't happen. More silent seconds passed. Farver felt cold deep in his core as he sensed that the 707 might just keep gliding down through a nether region.
After what he and everyone else had witnessed, that horrid thought couldn't be dismissed.
Sudden noise: thumpimg, the hiss of sand against parts, banging and crackling from the starboard wing. With arms aching from exertion Farver steered, hoping to keep the 707 out of the water at port and away from any trees, poles or buildings at starboard. He could feel the aircraft slowing but it had plenty of momentum to go. The harsh noises went on and on. Reverse thrusters would have been welcome.
Finally the noises subsided and stopped. The aircraft had stopped.
With the power off, Farver would have to address the passengers in person. He said, "Purcell . . . lanterns," and Purcell groped in the emergency cubbyhole until he had a pair of nine-volt lanterns. Farver left his chair and went to the rear on slightly rubbery legs. Craig followed, and the others rose.
"Any landing from which we can walk . . . " Craig said.
Farver opened the door to a rising murmur from the passenger compartment. The stewardesses and some of the passengers had flashlights whose beams waved crazily. Farver took one of Purcell's lanterns and aimed it directly above himself so that he would be steadily illuminated. Gradually the milling, babbling crowd noticed and became less noisy.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Farver said, and most of the people stopped talking. Farver went on, "We have landed near New York City."
Faint cheers rose, half-hearted at best. It seemed that most people knew it wasn't the same New York City they had expected to arrive at.
Farver said, "We are going to evacuate through the starboard side. Our attendants will deploy the emergency chutes and we will slide out. Please do not take any luggage, just your own bodies. I say again, leave through the starboard side only."
Tense minutes followed as people slid into darkness. From time to time someone would utter a cry of pain. This evacuation system wasn't perfect — when dozens of people slid out of a plane there were bound to be at least a few casualties.
Farver was the last one out of his ship. Crew members were already tallying the casualties and damage. The plane's starboard wing down to the outer engine had brushed a pygmy forest; otherwise, this beach landing had been the nearest to ideal. Everybody was more or less ambulatory, although there were several sprains and one elderly man was in terrible pain with what might be fractured ribs.
Two large women — mother and daughter, Farver guessed — approached the crowd. The older one held a kerosene lantern whose yellow flame was no match for the plane's nine-volt jobs. The other held a pitchfork and looked ready to use it. Farver swung his lantern so that its beam illuminated the plane from nose to wing. The younger woman dropped her pitchfork and both women retreated.
Farver turned to his people and said, "Welcome to 1901."