Falling(68)
Theo motioned for them to come over just as his phone started to ring.
“Agent Baldwin,” he said as he answered. He listened for a beat before looking around the parking lot. Then, with a start, he began to wave his arm. “I see you. We’re at the front, by the RVs. I’m waving.”
Carrie turned to see a van headed toward them. It had several antennas and a large satellite dish mounted to the roof. As it got closer, she could make out the red CNB logo painted across the side. Stopping beside them, the side door slid open and Vanessa Perez, a young woman Carrie recognized from the evening broadcast, hopped out. She gave the family a warm, relieved smile before her eyes widened at the sight of Theo, all bloody and beat-up.
“What happ—”
“Later,” Theo said, cutting her off. He took the baby from Carrie as she and Scott climbed into the van before he, Elise, and the reporter piled in after them. The door shut, and the van was off.
“Where are we going?” Carrie asked, bracing herself as the van made a sharp turn.
Theo paused before saying simply: “Home.”
* * *
“Coastal four-one-six, come in,” Dusty said, rocking his chair back and forth.
As the tower’s senior controller—and as a man whose temperament treated the extreme as blasé—he was the obvious choice for handling 416. But watching the beacon track across the radar in front of him with no response in his headphones, Dusty felt his chest squeeze uncomfortably. He assumed that was the feeling of “anxiety” that people often talked about.
He didn’t like it.
All traffic into JFK, LGA, EWR, DCA, IAD, and BWI had been diverted to alternates, the airspace closed to all inbound aircraft save one: Flight 416.
Typically at that time of night, the runways would be packed with international red-eyes heading to Europe. Trans-cons coming in from out west. Commuter traffic from all the major East Coast cities. More than sixty million passengers traveled in and out of New York via JFK’s four runways every year. But tonight the airport looked like a sleepy regional operation.
Inside the tower it was another story. Flashing red-and-blue lights painted the room from the emergency crews outside on the ground. It accentuated the frenetic energy, but the professionals remained focused.
“Coastal four-one-six, come in,” Dusty said again.
Nothing.
He checked the clock. Eleven minutes with no response.
Leaning back in his chair, he looked across the room to the military officer sitting at another station. The metal on his uniform glinted under the lights. He wore thick, official-looking headphones that were nicer than any piece of equipment in the tower. One hand pressed to an ear, the other wrapped around a hand mic, he tapped out Morse code. Military code talkers had been deployed to the DC towers as well, just in case, although 416 had yet to communicate with any of them.
Making eye contact with Dusty, the Morse talker shook his head. Glancing at the clock, he wrote something on a piece of paper and held it up: “18.”
Dusty cursed and dragged a hand down his stubbly face. Nearly twenty minutes dark. He glanced to the back of the room, where the number of stern men in uniform seemed to grow every minute.
Dusty knew it wasn’t looking good for Flight 416.
He glanced at the three large televisions that hung on the wall across the far side of the room in the tower. Normally displaying weather radars and flight information, tonight they were tuned to various news stations. The only thing being covered was the unfolding crisis. Some network showed basic stock footage and information: animated displays of the flight path, departure and arrival times, aircraft specs and logistical frameworks. Other screens replayed Jo’s video, which had elevated her from anonymous flight attendant to household name in record time. A picture of the Hoffman family circulated: father, mother, son, and daughter on a beach at sunset. Live feed from Washington, DC, showed traffic at a standstill as the roads in and out of the city clogged with evacuees.
On the other side of the room, Dusty could see George in his office. The ATC manager stood behind his desk and braced himself on his fists, confronting Lieutenant General Sullivan, the military commander who was in charge. George’s controllers had never seen their boss lose his temper or even raise his voice, so they looked away and tried not to listen. It felt like a betrayal of the man they respected so much. But overhearing was unavoidable and it quickly became clear to Dusty and his colleagues that George was losing the argument.
“You’re going to shoot down that plane, aren’t you?”
“That doesn’t concern you,” Sullivan said. “Contingency plans do not—”
George slammed his fists on the desk. The controllers flinched. “You’re going to shoot down a commercial airliner full of innocent civilians—”
“That is enough, Mr. Patterson!” the officer barked, unaccustomed to insubordinate pushback. “You and your staff are hereby ordered to commence standard operating procedures and nothing more. Anything else is unauthorized and out of your hands.”
George didn’t respond.
“Do you understand?” Sullivan snarled.
“Affirmative,” George replied. “Your guys will have full access to whatever they need.”
The door ripped open. The controllers tried to look busy.
“Dusty,” George said calmly, his face a worrisome shade of red. Three uniformed officers stepped up behind him. “I’m going to need you to teach these guys the basics.”