Departure Read Online Free Page A

daughter on there. Your husband or wife, waiting, unconscious, helpless. Right now someone’s mother is checking her phone at home, wondering when she’ll hear from her son. In another hour, she’ll start to worry, and if we don’t go get those people, she’ll never see or talk to her son again, and it will be becausewe were too scared to wade into that water and save him. I can’t live with that on my conscience, and I know you can’t either. It could just as easily be any one of us on that plane, sitting there, alive but unconscious, waiting to drown. And they will drown, without us. If we don’t help, right now, they die. No one else is coming for them. It’s us, here and now, or they die. That’s it. We didn’t sign up for this, but nobody else is here. No one will save those people if we don’t. Every second we waste, another person dies. There are probably two hundred people in that section of the plane, and their lives are in our hands. I have a plan, and I need your help. If you want to sit here on the bank and watch them drown, step out of the group.”
    No one moves a muscle. Save for the faint commotion in the plane, it’s dead quiet. I take a breath, realizing I’ve been holding it while Nick spoke.
    â€œGood. The first thing we’re going to do is make a fire. Who has a lighter?”
    â€œRight here.” A middle-aged man wearing a New York Giants sweatshirt steps forward, holding it out.
    â€œThank you.” Nick takes it with a nod. “Okay, everyone run into the woods and bring back as much wood as you can carry. Thirty seconds. Don’t bother with anything that isn’t already on the ground. Go. Hurry.”
    He turns to me. “Gather some small branches and twigs and break them up.”
    We follow the others into the woods, returning with armfuls of kindling. Setting his down, Nick hunches over the pile. A few seconds later, the first tentative flame is flickering. I add my take to it, and as the rest return from the woods with their own twigs and branches, it grows quickly into a small bonfire. God, the heat feels good. And that’s not all. Rescue teams have got to be looking for us by now, and the fire can only speed up their search.
    â€œAll right. Good work,” Nick says, standing up from the fire to focus on the group huddled around the flames. “Here’s the plan. We’ve got enough people to make two lines. We’re going to stretch out, spacing ourselves at about arm’s length all the way to the plane. When the plane gets to just above water level, we’ll wade in quickly, swim to ourpositions, and start passing the survivors down the lines to the bank. Speed is the key. The people who come off will have life vests on, so those of you in the deeper water should be able to push them to the next person in line. Everybody in the water above their waist gets a life vest, so you don’t have to tread water. This is important: don’t stay in the water longer than you can stand it. If you get too cold, if you feel your limbs going numb, tap out and come to the fire. Warm up, and if you’re able, get back as soon as you can. Once the people coming out get dry and warm, they can go back and join the line. Okay?
    â€œOne last thing. If you’re a strong swimmer—if you’ve ever been a lifeguard, or you swim regularly, or even if you’re just in really good shape and can hold your breath for a while—come see me right now.”
    Three people step forward, all younger guys, twenties and early thirties.
    Nick turns to me. “How about you?”
    â€œYeah.” I nod, my mouth dry. “I’m good. I’m a good swimmer.” Might be a stretch. I was on a team before going to uni, but that was over a decade ago.
    He leads the four of us away from the group and speaks quietly. “We’ll go out first. Don’t put on a life vest, it will slow you