Falling(45)

But the realization hit hard.

There was no evidence. They didn’t have any clues.

“Yeah, Liu here,” the assistant director said into the phone just as Theo reached her. She cleared her throat. “Second location is a negative. Begin phase one of asset evacuations in Washington, DC.”





CHAPTER TWENTY


PERCHED IN HIS TOWER, HIGH above the runways of JFK International Airport, George Patterson was used to adapting to circumstances that were outside of his control.

This was different.

Fingers interlocked, he rested his forehead against his knuckles, his elbows sitting on the pile of papers that littered his desk: flight routes, weather reports, emergency protocols. Pages full of symbols, codes, and acronyms that would be clear as chicken scratch to most people.

I’m a birdwatcher, George would tell people with a smile when asked what he did for a living. He meant it tongue in cheek, but for twenty-seven years he had done just that, metal wings reflecting the sun and moon as he watched them soar. Birdwatcher was easier for most to understand than chief operating manager of JFK Air Traffic Control.

Weather. Mechanical failures. Time. The laws of physics. He was at peace with where he stood with those factors. He had no control. They were what they were. Accept the given circumstances and deal with what you can control. Don’t waste time on what you can’t. That’s how he ran the tower. That’s why he was the boss.

But for the second time in his career, frustration simmered under his usually steady demeanor. It didn’t have to be this way, he thought. He’d had the same thought at the end of the day on September 11th as he sat on the side of his bathtub weeping, hiding from his wife and kids. His entire job was to maintain balance in an environment fraught with uncontrollable factors. And standing in front of the TV watching the flight attendant’s video, he found himself frustrated, again, that the problem they faced today was not one of chance. Someone had created it.

Walking to his office window, he watched his staff at work. Every station occupied, controllers leaning forward in their chairs, speaking rapidly into their headsets, turning dials and changing displays on their monitors. He knew countless other towers and centers across the nation had received the same emergency NOTAM directive JFK had.

It is believed CA416’s first officer does not know about the captain’s predicament. Do not discuss the situation over open air. Direct all cockpits to alternate frequencies for briefing.

All incoming JFK area traffic will be diverted to alternates, a no-fly zone will be enforced as CA416 approaches.

All communication with CA416 needs to remain standard. Diversion and discretion is our aim and their best hope.



In planes all over the country, captains and first officers were looking at one another, curious as to why they were being directed to new channels of communication. But the intrigue would disappear as emotionless protocols were enacted by aircraft after aircraft as they were brought into the loop. It was miraculous almost, the speed at which the web of communications spun itself across the sky, every pilot at work that day made aware of the situation at hand, responding as they had been trained.

Only those on a need-to-know basis knew that the airports in DC—Dulles International Airport, Reagan National Airport, and Baltimore/Washington International Airport—were also preparing as JFK was. For what, they had no idea. They weren’t supposed to deal with this flight; this wasn’t their bird. And if the captain ended up crashing the aircraft into the terrorist’s target, they wouldn’t handle 416’s path at all. But they still had to be ready. For anything.

But in New York, as soon as the controllers saw the video on the news, as soon as they knew the plane’s destination was JFK, they came into work without needing to be asked. George could see one of his controllers wearing what were clearly his pajamas. Another had taken her high heels off and slid them under her desk. The first date wasn’t going well anyway. Sweat soaked the T-shirt of one of his guys who had come straight from the gym.

My god, he loved these people. How proud he was of their dedication to their duty. Like a lighthouse, they served as a steady reassurance of hope. Through the chaos of the storm, they would be the predictable in the unpredictable. They would be the beacon home. Not just his tower. Every controller and every center that 416 would encounter had a unified purpose: guide them in.

In a twenty-four seven, three hundred sixty-five industry, this wasn’t an office or a workplace. This was their tower. Where they spent holidays, weekends, late nights, and early mornings. Together. It was their second home.

But George knew, any minute now, military officials would arrive and it would be turned into a crowded war room.

“Hey, boss?”

George looked to the man standing in the doorway. Blond hair flowed to his shoulders from under a faded Mets cap while a wrinkled and untucked Hawaiian shirt rode up to betray a sliver of potbelly. The slop of manhood was George’s smartest and most senior controller. It was this or storm chasing, Dusty Nichols had said of his decision to become an air traffic controller. Those were the only two jobs he could think of that didn’t require a tie or regular bathing.

“What’s up?” George said.

“I’ve got Chicago center on the line. They’re telling me they’re communicating with four-one-six’s captain—but not in vocal transmissions.”