Falling(73)

Bobby turned to the jumbotron and jogged backward. The screen showed a video of the stadium’s evacuation plan, with cartoon figures of event staff guiding and assisting fans.

When he got to the mound, he caught the tail end of the explanation from the home plate umpire. It sounded like they were supposed to exit the field through the clubhouse and head to the team buses.

Bobby turned to the Dodgers shortstop. “What’s happening?” he whispered.

“That plane? I guess the stadium’s the target.”

Bobby’s eyes widened. They all knew about Flight 416. Equipment guys in the clubhouse had told the coaches, who told the players, and all game long they’d gotten updates. In a social media world, news this big didn’t go unnoticed. Even if you were playing in the World Series.

All around them, fans scrambled in retreat. Clogged aisles lined each section of the stadium as spectators clambered over the chairs and jumped over railings. Traffic at the exits bottlenecked and the wide corridors became a sweltering mess of humanity. Bobby could only imagine how bad the mob scene would be outside the stadium.

A man in a Dodgers hat ran up an aisle, pushing people aside as he went. A woman clutching her sobbing child stepped in front of him and he didn’t hesitate to shove them both out of the way. As they fell to the ground, another man pulled the fan back by the neck of his hoodie and began to pummel his face. A third man rushed over to help the woman and child to their feet.

Bobby pulled off his glove and tucked it under his arm as he watched humanity at its worst. And best. Adjusting his hat, he looked around the stands and the palpable atmosphere of fear and panic began to eat at him too—and that’s when he noticed the elderly couple.

Coming down the aisle, they moved closer to the field. Stopping about five rows up from the home team dugout, they turned in, the man watching his wife’s feet as she stepped over discarded cups and wrappers. They sat down and looked around, soaking up the incredible view from their new seats. It was a significant upgrade. The old man wrapped an arm around his bride and she popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth with a laugh. She wore a Yankees cap that was probably older than any of the players on either team and probably half the front office too. He had his mitt, the leather aged and worn.

“Okay, let’s move,” the umpire said, slapping his hands together.

“Wait!” Bobby hollered. Everyone turned to him. He was the captain. His voice had weight. “How long do we have?”

The umpire looked at him quizzically. “Five minutes? Ten?”

Bobby shook his head. “You know damn well that’s not enough time to evacuate.”

The umpire blinked at him.

“C’mon,” Bobby said. “Top of the ninth, game seven of the World Series? At Yankee Stadium? A terrorist attack? That’s not a coincidence. That’s a message.” He looked around at the bedlam. “You’re telling me you want this to be our message?”

The players looked at each other, at the stadium. Bobby smiled.

“I don’t know about you boys, but I always prefer to go out swinging.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


THE PILOTS FLINCHED AS A piercing alarm shattered the silence. Locking eyes, they processed the meaning of the seldom-heard alert in the same moment.

Both men released their harnesses and lunged across the cockpit.

Their bodies crashed together over the center console as Ben’s left hand stretched toward the override toggle that was below them, just to the right of Bill’s seat belt. It was the only way to stop a keypad entry attempt. If he managed to flip the switch down, an electronic bar would slide into position behind the three spring-loaded locks at the top, middle, and bottom of the cockpit door.

Bill felt the plane lean right. He quickly hit the button labeled AP1 and three loud chimes announced the plane’s return to autopilot. Struggling to reach Ben’s gun with one hand, he tried to keep Ben away from the override toggle with the other. Bill leaned his body into his copilot, leveraging his height advantage, but Ben was younger and stronger.

Bill gave up on reaching the gun and went for Ben’s neck instead. Careful not to hit any buttons, he put his foot up on the edge of the center console and raised himself to increase the downward force on Ben’s windpipe. Ben buckled slightly, his feet shifting to take the weight. Bill felt his back brushing the buttons in the panel above him and stooped lower as a soft purple hue began to color the first officer’s face.

The override window was forty-five seconds. Bill wondered how much time had passed, knowing he had to get the upper hand before that door opened.

Ben’s face had now turned a shade of blue and his eyes were watering. As Ben’s strength waned, Bill could see the gun slipping from his fingers. Ben was able to connect one desperate blow to the side of Bill’s head and Bill’s foot slipped from the console. Losing his grip, Bill fell over the controls.

Ben gasped for air, leaning back against the front dash. Bill picked himself up carefully, knowing every button or lever mistakenly pushed or engaged could spell a new crisis. Bill knew Ben understood that too. It was the only reason the first officer hadn’t fired the gun. A stray bullet could destroy the avionics. Worse, puncture the airframe and cause a decompression. Bill knew Ben wanted the plane to crash—but on his terms.

When Ben had recovered enough to move again, he went for the toggle, and in that moment, Bill reached into his seat, wrapping his hand around the only tool he had left. Clutching the pen that had laid in his lap the whole flight, Bill spun around, grunting as he unleashed his arm in an uppercut.