Falling(23)

Kellie looked to the back of the aircraft. Her head whipped right and left. She looked at every exit. Shifting her weight, she pulled against Jo.

“Sweetheart,” Jo said. “Where are you gonna go?”

Kellie stared at the back of the plane with no answer.

Big Daddy cleared his throat. Closing his eyes, he flared his nostrils through a deep intake of air. “Okay,” he said, his eyes fluttering open. “I’ll say this much. When this is all over and we’re walking off the plane in Kennedy? Someone is going to have to pull my bag because I will be pushing that big boy”—he jabbed an emphatic finger at the liquor cart—“off this plane and directly into my hotel room.”

Turning to Kellie with a look that said How about you?, Jo waited.

“I’m not ready for something this big,” Kellie whispered. “I’m not even off probation.”

Jo tried not to laugh. At a moment like this, the poor girl was worried about getting in trouble with her supervisor. “I know, honey. It doesn’t feel fair, does it?” She shook her head. “But it is what it is.”

The three stood in silence for a moment, processing. Kellie wiped her tears, accepting the napkins Daddy handed her. Blowing her nose, she rubbed her lips together and cleared her throat, attempting a smile. The others politely ignored her quivering cheek.

“I’m a whisky girl,” said Kellie, her youthful cadence making most statements sound like questions. “So I call dibs on a few Jack and Gingers.”

“Well, all right, then,” Jo said, nodding in approval. “Jack and Gingers for you, a whole bottle of that first-class Chardonnay for me, and, I’m assuming, the rest of the cart for Daddy.”

“Preach,” Daddy confirmed.

“But in the meantime?” Jo said. “We have to prepare this plane and the one hundred and forty-four passengers on it for an airborne chemical attack and emergency landing. Okay? Now, I have an idea—”

“Excuse me?” came a voice from behind, making them jump. It was the man at the window in row two, aircraft left. “I was wondering what snacks—”

“No,” Daddy said, “we’re busy. You finished your chicken a half hour ago, your blood sugar is fine.” Sliding the galley curtain shut on the dumbfounded man, Daddy turned back to the crew. “What?” he said in response to Jo’s face. Rolling his eyes, he poked his head out into the cabin.

“Wink. Just kidding,” he said coyly. “Jo has popcorn, potato chips, almonds, gummy bears, and little squares of chocolate.”

With chips and ginger ale in hand, the passenger regarded the three flight attendants with suspicion before returning to his seat. Big Daddy closed the curtain behind him.

“Okay,” he said. “The end with that nonsense. The whole plane is cut off. Jo. What’s your idea?”

Jo thought about all the problems they faced. The gas attack. Washington, DC. Bill’s family. The unknown mole on board. There was so much going on, but most of it was entirely out of their control. They couldn’t afford to waste time and energy worrying about it all.

“Okay. So,” Jo said. “There’s a lot going on, but the problem we need to focus on is the attack here in the cabin. We have no idea what it is, so we’re just going to assume it’s worst-case scenario and plan from there.”

“Sarin nerve gas,” Daddy said. “Ricin. VX. Anthrax. Cyanide. My god, what if it’s botulinum?”

“C’mon,” Jo said. “That’s chemical warfare–level stuff. There’s no way these people got their hands on something like that.”

“Um, they’ve managed to hijack a domestic commercial flight in a post-9/11 world. I don’t think we should count anything out.”

“So say it is one of those,” Kellie said. “What can we expect will happen? Like, to us. If we breathe it.”

“I mean,” Daddy began, flourishing his hand, “we’re talking shortness of breath? Muscle paralysis? Abdominal pain, vomiting, and diarrhea? Loss of consciousness? Foaming at the mouth? And, uh. Well. Death.”

Jo pinched the bridge of her nose. “Short answer: we don’t want to breathe it. So,” Jo said, crossing her arms, “here’s my idea. The passengers will need clean oxygen—”

“The PSUs,” Kellie said.

“Yes!” Jo said. “Exactly. Everybody on board has oxygen right above their heads. We just need to release the masks.”

Opening the compartment below her jump seat, Jo extracted the small metal slat affixed to the inside. The manual release tool was essentially an expensive version of a paper clip bent open into a straight line. She held it up and they all gazed upon the smallest, most inconsequential piece of emergency equipment on any aircraft. Its only purpose was to release the masks above the seats—manually, row by row—in the unlikely event that an automatic release didn’t happen. None of them had ever used it or thought they ever would.

“We have to assume the attack will happen right before we land, just before final descent,” Jo said. “But we need to be ready early. Honestly, as soon as we can. We don’t know how much passenger resistance there might be, and it’s going to take some time even if it goes perfectly. Which means we need to start dropping the masks soon.”