Falling(37)

The crowd simmered to a hush as the barber slid the VHS tape into the player. Sam and Ben took their seats cross-legged on the floor with the rest of the kids. They didn’t say a word, just sat with their jaws hanging open while Ben tried to catch his breath.

Someone turned off the lights and the glow from the TV became the only illumination in nearly the whole village. Words in English no one could understand filled the screen, while odd percussive ’80s music, foreign to their ears, played in the background. Then, two words appeared:

TOP GUN.

Everyone in the room cheered.

For the next two hours, no one moved. They were transfixed by the strange world they saw on the TV. Palm trees and sun. Motorcycles and beautiful blonde women. Men in uniform. Aviator sunglasses and volleyball.

Airplanes.

When the movie ended, everyone dispersed, chatter and excitement carrying them off. Off to the restaurant, off to their homes, off to begin what they would be doing for a long time: discussing.

Sam and Ben stayed frozen in place, eyes glued to the TV while everyone around them moved. It wasn’t until the last credit rolled off the screen that they turned to each other.

They shared a look that neither of them understood. Hours later when the sun was rising and the whole plan was laid in front of them, they would get it. By morning, they would have it all figured out.

They would start saving their money. They would learn English. They would get to America. And they would become pilots. They had no idea how. But that didn’t matter. They would figure it out. They knew, more than they had ever known anything, that this was their destiny. To go to America. To be comfortable, unbothered, and happy. To play on California beaches and date beautiful women. To fly airplanes.

But as the cafe owner shooed them out, they didn’t know any of that, yet.

They just knew that everything had changed.



* * *



“Coastal four-one-six, slow to mach seven-five for metering.”

Somewhere, in some en route control center miles beneath Flight 416, an air traffic controller watched a small dot track forward on the radar in front of him. His tone felt casual, like it was just another direction on a day like any other.

Ben switched the gun to his left hand, reaching for his mic with the other.

“Roger wilco. Slow to mach seven-five, Coastal four-one-six,” he said, his voice as calm and even as the controller’s. “I gotta hand it to ATC,” he said to Bill. “They deserve Oscars for the show they’re putting on. I mean, if you sent the FBI to your house, the FAA has to know what’s up.” He laughed and told Bill to unplug the laptop’s headphones and take the privacy screen off after he finished adjusting the plane’s speed.

Bill had heard the controller, but it was only sound. Ben spoke too, but his words held no meaning either. It was just noise that bounced around the cockpit. Bill didn’t know anything anymore. He only knew the barrel of that gun. He didn’t move.

Rolling his eyes, Ben reached forward. He twisted a knob counterclockwise and the yellow numbers on the dash began to descend. When they reached the ATC directive, he pulled the controller up and the plane’s computer set the new speed. “Talk to ATC. Fly the plane. Crash the plane. Do I have to do everything today? This is your leg to fly, you know.”

Bill continued to stare at the gun. His mind flashed to a few hours earlier when he passed—no, breezed—through crew security at the airport. Ben would have met the same screener not long after. But the first officer’s abuse of the system was the least of Bill’s problems at the moment.

Bill looked to his laptop. There was a strange new listlessness to Carrie’s expression. She seemed to be staring at something that wasn’t there, her focus scattered and undefined. Sighing as though that was that, she locked her eyes on Bill. The hair on the back of his neck stood on edge.

Something in her had changed.

Unclipping the privacy screen, Bill tossed it and the headphones on top of his messenger bag. Elise’s whimpering filled the cockpit.

“How do you two know each other?” Carrie asked Sam.

The tone of her voice was too familiar and Bill was suddenly wildly uncomfortable with not knowing what had happened when he’d lost contact with them. He felt a whole new level of alpha male protection, one rooted in envy and possession. It was animal, not rational, but it snapped Bill back into focus.

He watched Carrie and Scott glance up at something out in front of them before dropping their gazes a few moments later.

“Bendo is my brother,” Sam said. “Well, good as.” Pointing at the camera, he said something in a language neither Carrie nor Bill understood. Ben laughed in response and replied in the same foreign tongue. The warmth of their reunion felt unfair, like ticker tape falling on the losing team.

“Well, Ben is my brother too,” Bill said, his voice shaking. He stared at the wings on the first officer’s shirt before pointing back at the cockpit door. “They boarded this plane in good faith. They put their lives in our hands. Our duty is to respect that responsibility.”

Sam began to talk but Ben stopped him with his hand.

“Why?” Bill continued, his voice rising. “Why not just shoot me and crash the plane? If that’s what you wanted, you didn’t have to involve my family.”

“This isn’t what we wanted,” Ben said.