Falling(76)

A crack of the bat, the ball hammered to left-center.

The outfielders chased after it, the left fielder pulling back in the gap, but Bobby waved him off, his eyes never leaving the ball. When he got to the wall, Bobby leapt off his feet to attempt the impossible.

Returning to the ground, he slowly extended his glove in the air as astonishment clouded his face. His hand inside still stung from the slap of the ball.

Third out. Game over. The Yankees had won the World Series.

No one moved. Not the players, not the fans. They all simply stared at center field.

Then came a drumbeat through the speakers as victorious horns started to bleat.

Start spreading the news…

Bobby stood with his back to the wall, the ball in his glove. The batter, standing in the middle of the base path between first and second, stared into the outfield at his failure. Bobby stared back. After a moment, the losing runner turned and began to walk toward the winning pitcher. He was the only thing that moved in the whole park. No one except Frank Sinatra said a word.

On the mound, the batter stopped in front of the pitcher. Reaching forward, he grabbed the man’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug with such force it knocked his glove off. The pitcher’s fingers turned white as he clutched the man’s back.

Both teams emptied their dugouts as Bobby and the rest of the outfielders ran in. Meeting the two players in the middle of the diamond, they all embraced. Most of them cried. They held their caps and bowed to the fans.

With Ol’ Blue Eyes crooning the Yankees’—and the city’s—iconic anthem, every person in that stadium, player and fan alike, held on to each other and made peace with their choice to stay.



* * *



In the cockpit, Jo tried not to look at the buildings in front of them that drew closer through the windshield. Everything trembled and shook.

Leaning forward in obvious pain, Bill grabbed the sidestick. Blood covered his hand.

Taking a breath, he pressed the trigger underneath.



* * *



The open line hummed throughout the tower. Not with the typical scratchiness of aircraft communication, but with the even buzz of advanced technology. The feed to the White House, to the president, played for all to hear. No one moved or spoke as they waited for the verdict on Flight 416.

The president cleared his throat. He’d made his decision.



* * *



The echo of Frank Sinatra’s last note lingered for a second before dissipating into silence. Everyone looked up at the sky, watching, waiting, praying.

A low rumble in the distance grew louder.

Fear mounted as the players and fans shifted on their feet—but everyone stayed put.

It was the undeniable sound of an airplane closing in.



* * *



“Okay,” the president began. “I say—”

A burst of static halted the order. Someone drew a ragged breath and a faint voice hijacked the moment.

“This is Captain Hoffman. I have control.”





CHAPTER FORTY


HEADS WHIPPED UP AS THE airliner tore across the top of Yankee Stadium. Everyone ducked. The plane’s undercarriage was right on top of them, the wings rocking side to side in a crazed flyover. It wasn’t until the tail cleared the end of the stadium that they realized the plane wasn’t going to crash.

The ballpark erupted with more jubilation than if every seat had been filled. Four F-16s appeared, trailing after the plane. The noise shook the stadium.

They were safe.



* * *



“I repeat! No strike! Escort only!” Lieutenant General Sullivan bellowed into the mic. “Stay ready, but we’re gonna give this plane a chance.”

There was no time for celebration. The controllers still had a job to do.

“Get the fuck out of my seat, hawk,” Dusty said, putting headphones on so fast they nearly broke. “Coastal four-one-six! Welcome back! You are cleared for landing.”



* * *



The CNB camera crew hugged one another while the neighbors high-fived and slapped each other on the back. Carrie’s knees buckled under the relief but Theo caught her before she could fall. She turned a teary smile to Scott, who jumped up and down.

“Dad!” he screamed, his young voice lost in the melee.



* * *



Bill pulled back on the sidestick as hard as he could. The plane shot nearly vertical, black sky filling the window. Jo fell backward, tumbling against the open door. In the cabin, passengers shrieked at the violent change of direction. Jo pulled herself up, ripping off her oxygen mask and chucking it and the tank on top of Ben’s body.

She screamed out the door, “Daddy! Get Josip in his seat! And hang on!”

Turning back to Bill, Jo searched for the wound. His entire arm felt wet. Finally, she found the source: right shoulder blade. Jo looked around the cockpit before ripping Bill’s uniform coat off the hanger. Rolling it into a tight ball, she pressed the mass against the wound, using her other hand to pull against his shoulder to create pressure. Bill cried out in pain. The plane banked right as his hand jerked the sidestick.

“I know, baby, but I’ve got you,” Jo said. “Tell me what to do.”

Bill’s voice was weak. “I need you to be my right hand.”