Falling, p.23
Falling, page 23
He needed to stop the bleeding. He needed to land the plane. There was so much he needed to do. But his body betrayed him.
As his head succumbed to a feather lightness, he slumped forward, rolling over his legs onto the floor. The last thing he saw in his peripheral vision as he slipped out of consciousness was a fighter jet pulling up alongside the plane.
* * *
“Uh, sir?”
The whole tower was waiting for Tink’s report.
“The cockpit appears to be empty. I don’t see anyone in there.”
* * *
A green light lit up on the keypad. The cockpit unlocked.
Jo pushed the door open with force, the sturdy metal frame latching neatly against the magnets that held it in an open position. She braced, wide-eyed, waiting.
Nothing happened.
Cautiously stepping into the cockpit, she saw movement outside the plane to her left. Raising her mallet reflexively, she saw the nose of a fighter jet drop out of sight behind them.
Shit.
Jo looked down, surveying the scene.
Ben was slumped face-forward onto the center console, blood pouring out from under his body. The gun lay on the floor, just beyond his reach. Jo kicked it away from him.
With her hands under his shoulder and waistline, she pushed him over, his body crumpling into a pile on the floor at the foot of his seat. Rolling him onto his back, Jo raised the ice mallet with a gasp but knew instantly there was no need. He was soaked with blood all the way to his belt from something protruding out of his neck. She leaned forward, unable to tell what it was through the mess of blood and flesh.
She dropped the mallet and turned to the left seat.
In a ball at the foot of his chair, Bill didn’t move. Jo scrambled over the controls with a knee on the seat, clambering after her captain.
Crying his name, she tried to roll him over. She could see blood pooling on the ground—but she also saw his back rise with breath. She screamed his name louder, struggling to get a hold on him. She shook his torso while repeating his name but he didn’t respond. Her angle was too awkward to slap him, so she pinched his arm—hard. A soft groan escaped his lips. She screamed his name one more time and his eyes fluttered open to the sound. As Bill came closer to consciousness, Jo positioned herself better and began the battle to pull him upright. He was twice her size, but adrenaline gave her an assist, and somehow she was able to get him moving. Together, with Jo doing most of the work, Bill got back in his seat.
“We’re not done here,” she demanded. “Tell me what to do.”
* * *
The commercial plane pulled ahead as Tink continued to drop her speed.
The voice in her ear said, “All units move to firing positions. Standby for the order.”
“Roger,” Tink said.
The porthole window on the aircraft door was too small for her to see anything. But continuing aft, she could see in the passenger windows. An unexpected lump choked her throat.
Through the purple cabin lighting, Tink could see the passengers in their oxygen masks pressed up against the windows watching her. A man near the front of the plane pushed his glasses up as they slid down on the yellow cup. A few rows back an elderly woman laid her hand against the window, a crumpled tissue pressed against her palm. In the row right behind her, Tink could see only the top of an oxygen mask as the small child who sat there struggled to see up and out the window.
The civilian aspect of war was always the hardest to reconcile. A war zone should be a place for soldiers and no one else. Too many nights she’d woken in a sweat, the eyes of that little girl or that old man haunting her sleep.
But this wasn’t a war zone. This was just a plane full of innocents, trying to get to their destination. She was the one who had no place here. For the first time in her career, she felt hesitant.
As the last row of the plane passed, she saw a piece of paper pressed to a window with two words scrawled on it in large letters.
“Help Us.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THEO STOOD APART FROM THE group looking down at his phone. He called carrie over.
The family and the camera crew were all huddled around the news van, glued to the coverage on the screens inside. Some of the neighbors had come out, offering water and snacks, but no one had the stomach for anything. So they all just stood around, numb with helplessness, watching what was happening back east.
Carrie followed Theo away from the van. He kept his voice low.
“Four-one-six is starting to veer off-course.”
Carrie stared at him blankly. “How do—”
“Rousseau’s texting me updates. Washington was a decoy. The real target is Yankee Stadium.”
Carrie turned her head, looking at nothing, as though she didn’t understand the words he had said. Theo’s phone vibrated.
He read the message twice before closing his eyes with a sigh. He didn’t want to tell her what it said and he couldn’t stand the sight of Carrie waiting to hear it.
“Theo, please,” he heard her say after a moment. “It can’t get much worse, can it?”
He kept his eyes shut as he told her that one of the F-16s had tried to get a visual—and the cockpit appeared to be empty. According to the fighter pilot, no one was flying the plane.
Carrie didn’t say anything. Theo heard her start to cry.
“Mom?” Scott said. Theo opened his eyes to see the little boy approaching, his sister cradled in his arms.
The sight of the two of them nearly destroyed Theo. Carrie had her back to the children and she wiped her eyes hastily before turning to face them. With a small smile that looked painful, she brushed the hair out of the boy’s eyes and took the baby from his arms. Taking her son’s hand, they walked back to the news van together.
* * *
The beacon on the radar moved further and further from the airport, heading straight toward the Bronx. The only sound in the tower was the occasional attempt to gain contact with the cockpit. But the transmissions had become rote, without hope—no one expected to hear anything from 416.
Lieutenant General Sullivan pushed a button and spoke clearly.
“Sir? We’re running out of time. We need a decision, Mr. President.”
* * *
The lights seemed brighter. The grass greener. The air colder. The noise more crisp. To Bobby, everything at Yankee Stadium felt amplified.
He and the other players on the field bent at the ready, slapping into their gloves. They spat on the field while the batter tapped his bat on the inside of each shoe. The batter let out a heavy exhale before stepping into the box and grinding his feet as he settled in.
The pitch—fastball, outside.
The batter hacked at the ball, dropping to a knee as he fouled it off. Bobby knew how bad the man wanted it, because he knew how bad he wanted it. This was no longer just the World Series. This was something else entirely. The batter stepped out of the box, pulling his jersey up off a shoulder, lifting his helmet a couple times.
All around the park, fans continued to flee, jostling each other to get closer to the exits. Parents held their children to their chests. Couples gripped each other’s hands. The exits remained clogged, the staircases filled.
A high-pitched scream came from the upper decks to his left. Bobby looked over to find a woman tumbling down the stairs, her body picking up speed in its uncontrolled free fall. Bobby held his breath as he watched her approach the rail at the bottom of the section, a baseball game suddenly the least important thing in the world, but then he saw a large man brace himself and catch her at the very last moment, stopping her from falling a hundred feet to the stands below.
In the lower decks of the stadium, crowding into the rows around home plate and trickling down the baselines, Dodger blue bled into Yankee pinstripe. As the players had returned to their positions on the field, many of the fans had followed suit. It wasn’t discussed and it wasn’t planned. It was a collective understanding.
They yelled and jeered with each pitch, they ribbed each other and turned their caps inside out. A big guy trotted down from the abandoned concessions with a half dozen looted beer cans clutched against his chest. His buddy heralded him as the hero he was and they promptly distributed the wealth within their section, a sloppy cheer following.
A tiny section of the electronic scoreboard was reserved for the game’s stats and the rest of the massive screen projected what was going on outside of their new utopia. Carrie Hoffman pleading to the president. Rescue teams flanking JFK’s runways. Reporters pointing up into the night sky. Passengers wearing oxygen masks. And a roving camera inside the stadium showing the remaining faces of those lucky enough to attend game seven of the World Series.
A crack of the bat, the ball hammered to left-center.
The outfielders chased after it, the left fielder pulling back in the gap, but Bobby waved him off, his eyes never leaving the ball. When he got to the wall, Bobby leapt off his feet to attempt the impossible.
Returning to the ground, he slowly extended his glove in the air as astonishment clouded his face. His hand inside still stung from the slap of the ball.
Third out. Game over. The Yankees had won the World Series.
No one moved. Not the players, not the fans. They all simply stared at center field.
Then came a drumbeat through the speakers as victorious horns started to bleat.
Start spreading the news…
Bobby stood with his back to the wall, the ball in his glove. The batter, standing in the middle of the base path between first and second, stared into the outfield at his failure. Bobby stared back. After a moment, the losing runner turned and began to walk toward the winning pitcher. He was the only thing that moved in the whole park. No one except Frank Sinatra said a word.
On the mound, the batter stopped in front of the pitcher. Reaching forward, he grabbed the man’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug with such force it knocked his glove off. The pitcher’s fingers turned white as he clutched the man’s back.
Both teams emptied their dugouts as Bobby and the rest of the outfielders ran in. Meeting the two players in the middle of the diamond, they all embraced. Most of them cried. They held their caps and bowed to the fans.
With Ol’ Blue Eyes crooning the Yankees’—and the city’s—iconic anthem, every person in that stadium, player and fan alike, held on to each other and made peace with their choice to stay.
* * *
In the cockpit, Jo tried not to look at the buildings in front of them that drew closer through the windshield. Everything trembled and shook.
Leaning forward in obvious pain, Bill grabbed the sidestick. Blood covered his hand.
Taking a breath, he pressed the trigger underneath.
* * *
The open line hummed throughout the tower. Not with the typical scratchiness of aircraft communication, but with the even buzz of advanced technology. The feed to the White House, to the president, played for all to hear. No one moved or spoke as they waited for the verdict on Flight 416.
The president cleared his throat. He’d made his decision.
* * *
The echo of Frank Sinatra’s last note lingered for a second before dissipating into silence. Everyone looked up at the sky, watching, waiting, praying.
A low rumble in the distance grew louder.
Fear mounted as the players and fans shifted on their feet—but everyone stayed put.
It was the undeniable sound of an airplane closing in.
* * *
“Okay,” the president began. “I say—”
A burst of static halted the order. Someone drew a ragged breath and a faint voice hijacked the moment.
“This is Captain Hoffman. I have control.”
CHAPTER FORTY
HEADS WHIPPED UP AS THE airliner tore across the top of Yankee Stadium. Everyone ducked. The plane’s undercarriage was right on top of them, the wings rocking side to side in a crazed flyover. It wasn’t until the tail cleared the end of the stadium that they realized the plane wasn’t going to crash.
The ballpark erupted with more jubilation than if every seat had been filled. Four F-16s appeared, trailing after the plane. The noise shook the stadium.
They were safe.
* * *
“I repeat! No strike! Escort only!” Lieutenant General Sullivan bellowed into the mic. “Stay ready, but we’re gonna give this plane a chance.”
There was no time for celebration. The controllers still had a job to do.
“Get the fuck out of my seat, hawk,” Dusty said, putting headphones on so fast they nearly broke. “Coastal four-one-six! Welcome back! You are cleared for landing.”
* * *
The CNB camera crew hugged one another while the neighbors high-fived and slapped each other on the back. Carrie’s knees buckled under the relief but Theo caught her before she could fall. She turned a teary smile to Scott, who jumped up and down.
“Dad!” he screamed, his young voice lost in the melee.
* * *
Bill pulled back on the sidestick as hard as he could. The plane shot nearly vertical, black sky filling the window. Jo fell backward, tumbling against the open door. In the cabin, passengers shrieked at the violent change of direction. Jo pulled herself up, ripping off her oxygen mask and chucking it and the tank on top of Ben’s body.
She screamed out the door, “Daddy! Get Josip in his seat! And hang on!”
Turning back to Bill, Jo searched for the wound. His entire arm felt wet. Finally, she found the source: right shoulder blade. Jo looked around the cockpit before ripping Bill’s uniform coat off the hanger. Rolling it into a tight ball, she pressed the mass against the wound, using her other hand to pull against his shoulder to create pressure. Bill cried out in pain. The plane banked right as his hand jerked the sidestick.
“I know, baby, but I’ve got you,” Jo said. “Tell me what to do.”
Bill’s voice was weak. “I need you to be my right hand.”
* * *
In the tower, everyone watched the beacon on the radar. It turned, and turned again, angling itself east until it was undeniable. Coastal 416 was on its way to JFK. Warm relief spread through Dusty’s body as George clapped him on the back. The controller next to them collapsed into a chair with a sigh.
Outside, the flashing lights of the emergency crews began to move into receiving position.
“Coastal, you are cleared for landing on three-one right,” Dusty said into the mic. “Continue direct approach.” He released his finger for a sidebar and spoke to George. “They’re cleared for three-one right but they’re starting to fly in alignment with two-two left. Switch runways?”
George thought about it. “Let’s not. Three-one right is already programmed into the original flight plan. Let’s keep it as simple as possible for them. But they’re going to do whatever they want anyway.”
* * *
Bill instructed Jo on where to find the release for the extra cockpit jump seat. She slid it out until she heard a latch click into place. Pulling the straps as loose as they went, she buckled in, scooting as far forward on the chair as possible. She was now behind the pilot’s seat with a dead-center view of Queens out the window. Taking up the blood-soaked uniform jacket, she reapplied pressure. She feared Bill might pass out.
“Okay,” she said. “What first?”
“Speed,” Bill said, nodding at the dash. “We’ve got to lower it. The knob that says ‘MACH.’ Twist it counterclockwise until you see one-three-zero.”
Jo leaned forward, searching the displays.
“This?”
Bill nodded, grimacing.
Twisting the knob, she watched the numbers descend. At one-three-zero she stopped.
“Now pull it.”
Jo pulled on the knob. She immediately felt the plane slow. “Now what?”
Bill looked at the navigation display, then glanced out the window.
“Landing gear. On the right side. See that lever? No, down. Look a couple displays down.” He tried to point but his right arm was useless. “No. No—yes! That one. Pull it down.”
The plane vibrated. Underneath them, the landing gear slowly dropped into position.
ONE THOUSAND.
Jo jumped at the loud robotic voice. She’d never heard the altitude callout from inside the cockpit, just muffled from the other side of the door.
“Okay, above the gear—” Bill slumped forward.
“No!” Jo screamed, pulling him back. She slapped his cheek so hard she worried she might knock him back out. “Stay with me, Bill!”
He roused, looking around the cockpit, confused. Shaking his head, he opened and closed his eyes. He looked as faint as his voice was becoming.
“Auto brake. Above the landing gear—there. Push the button under it that says ‘MED.’ ”
Jo pushed it and the spring-loaded button popped back. A blue ON appeared beneath it.
Bill looked to the navigation display and then glanced out the window. Jo followed his gaze.
The lights of JFK’s runways blinked them home.
They had visual.
* * *
When the approaching aircraft came into view, dipping and twisting its way toward the runway, the tower erupted in cheers.
The plane’s lights grew brighter with each second. ETA: one minute. Everyone with binoculars tried to get a visual on the condition of the aircraft. The landing gear appeared, the tires stretching into position below the airframe.
The plane banked right dramatically, then corrected itself, tilting far left in response. It was a windy night, but Dusty knew that wasn’t the cause of the erratic movements.
