Falling(78)

“All the way. Okay.”



* * *



The plane’s nose dipped. The descent was a far cry from the steady feet-first approach aircraft generally took. Each erratic flailing made the controllers in the tower hold their breath.

The plane was approximately fifteen seconds out. At this point, with the binoculars, they could see into the cockpit.

Bill. Jo. An empty first officer’s seat.

Ten seconds until landing.

No one in the tower breathed, no one moved. No one wanted to be the reason the putt lipped out, the ball bounced off the rim, the home run nicked the pole and went foul.

Five seconds till landing.



* * *



ONE HUNDRED.

Jo watched the lights at the beginning of the runway. Two thick belts of red-and-yellow approach bulbs. Then a thin green line. Then a long stretch of white: the touchdown zone. In the middle, a single path. The centerline.

FIFTY.

FORTY.

Jo and Bill watched the horizon scope. It tilted. He corrected. It tilted again. He overcorrected. He struggled to keep his hand steady.

THIRTY.

TWENTY.

This was it. Jo wanted to close her eyes but resisted.

RETARD. RETARD. RETARD.

The voice calmly warned them that the ground was imminent.

In that final second, she heard Bill whisper to himself.

“One hundred and forty-nine souls on board.”





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE


THE BACK WHEELS SLAMMED INTO the runway and the plane’s nose tipped high as it rocked backward. The tail struck the ground. Jo could feel the auto-brake system engage as the plane tried to slow itself.

“Now!” Bill screamed. Jo pulled back on the thrust levers.

The plane jerked and the nose fell forward violently in response. Slamming into the ground, the nose gear collapsed, sparks and smoke spewing out from underneath the plane. Grinding into the concrete, the plane barreled down the runway.

Jo watched Bill press his feet into the pedals as hard as he could, but he was so weak that she couldn’t imagine it would have much impact. He shifted his feet right to left, steering the rudder in a desperate attempt to keep the plane on the runway.

She could see flames and sparks out the window. The plane was out of control.

The end of the runway loomed in front of them, the line of red lights issuing a declaration: Stop.

Jo didn’t know if they could.



* * *



Everyone huddled around the CNB van covered their open mouths in disbelief of what they were witnessing. The plane was moving so fast, too fast. There was no way it was going to stop in time.

There was an unexpected snap. The nose plunged downward and the tail shot into the air. Time stopped as the plane did too. A pause. The plane stood in a strange headstand, momentarily motionless. With a loud creak, she fell back onto her belly.

No one moved.

The cloud of debris and smoke dissipated moments later. A wrecked commercial airliner. Battered and beaten at the absolute edge of the end of the runway.

But in one piece.

Everyone watching reacted in the same instant. The neighbors, the media personnel; all cheered and exchanged high-fives or hugs. Vanessa went down to one knee on the pavement, covering her face as the cameraman clapped her on the back.

Carrie and Theo didn’t react. Standing side by side, they never took their eyes off the plane. Until they had a visual on Bill and Jo, they wouldn’t allow themselves to breathe easy.

All was still for a few seconds. Then, in jerking and robotic movements, the forward door released and swung outward. A yellow slide belched from the opening, unfurling clumsily until it touched the ground. The back exits followed suit, as did the ones over the wings. The passengers appeared, popping out of the doors and jumping down the slides. Two people stayed at the bottom of each slide, helping others climb off. Another person stayed and directed the passengers on where to run to.

Big Daddy was at the forward door, the same door the passengers had used to board the plane less than six hours earlier on the other side of the country. As the passengers leapt from the aircraft, he was visible in profile, waving his arms and shouting directions inaudible to those outside the plane. His hand, bandaged in white gauze, clung to a bar attached to the inside wall of the fuselage, anchoring himself to firm ground.

Kellie was at the back exit, her face red as she screamed. A man hesitated at the top, looking down on the bright streak of blood an injured passenger had left on the yellow slide. Kellie placed her hand on his lower back and pushed. He tumbled down to safety, his legs wobbly as he was helped up.

Emergency vehicles descended on the aircraft, blue-and-red flashing lights washing over the chaos. Firemen circled around the plane, shouting to each other with wide arm movements as they determined what actions needed to be taken. Hazmat first responders appeared next, leaping from medical vehicles in full-body protective gear. Against the darkness of the night, their white suits shone like a new pair of tennis shoes fresh out of the box. Soon enough they would be marred by the markings of conflict: smoke, dirt, sweat, blood.

The flow of passengers slowed. The evacuation was over almost as quickly as it began—model procedure under unprecedented circumstances. A few scattered passengers streamed down the back slide, but nobody else emerged from the front.

Suddenly an enormously tall man appeared at the front of the aircraft with another full-grown man draped over his shoulder like a dish towel. The large man slid the other off his shoulder, positioning him not-so-carefully at the top of the slide. He unceremoniously used his foot to start him on his descent, the medics at the bottom receiving the red-faced, portly man. Checking for injuries, they called for a stretcher, hazmat taking him away.