Falling by T.J. Newman
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BEN’S FEET KICKED UP BROWNdust that clung to the thick, midsummer air. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, squinting against the setting sun as he ran as fast as he could. His chores had taken longer than he expected—he didn’t even have time to eat dinner—and his stomach rumbled as he hurried, but he didn’t care. He was late. He just hoped he wasn’t too late.
Nearly every storefront he passed was closed early for the day, the homes above them dark as well. No cars were out, so he ran in the middle of the road. No people were out either. Almost everyone in their northeastern Syrian village was already at the cafe. Ben picked up his pace.
Rounding the corner, he saw the cafe’s lights spilling out into the twilight along with the patrons who couldn’t find a chair inside. The shop was packed wall to wall and excited chatter rang through the crowd. The scene was thick with anticipation, as it always was on the rare occasions when something different happened in a place this small.
Ben pushed his way into the cafe, plunging through the crowd, a smack on the back of the head from Auntie Sarya not even slowing him. A single oscillating fan stood off to the side, slowly sweeping over the packed roomand back again—and at the front of the room, Sam blocked the view of the TV with his outstretched arms, his fingers spread wide. Arguing with all the might a nine-year-old boy could muster, he pleaded with the village barber to wait until Ben got there before they started the movie. Someone threw a cashew, hitting Sam in the face. Everyone laughed, including Sam, who picked it up, ready to lob it back into the crowd when he spotted Ben. Jumping up with a hoot, he declared that they could now start. More nuts sailed his way in return.
The crowd simmered to a hush as the barber slid the VHS tape into the player. Sam and Ben took their seats cross-legged on the floor with the rest of the kids. They didn’t say a word, just sat with their jaws hanging open while Ben tried to catch his breath.
Someone turned off the lights and the glow from the TV became the only illumination in nearly the whole village. Words in English no one could understand filled the screen, while odd percussive ’80s music, foreign to their ears, played in the background. Then, two words appeared:
TOP GUN.
Everyone in the room cheered.
For the next two hours, no one moved. They were transfixed by the strange world they saw on the TV. Palm trees and sun. Motorcycles and beautiful blonde women. Men in uniform. Aviator sunglasses and volleyball.
Airplanes.
When the movie ended, everyone dispersed, chatter and excitement carrying them off. Off to the restaurant, off to their homes, off to begin what they would be doing for a long time: discussing.
Sam and Ben stayed frozen in place, eyes glued to the TV while everyone around them moved. It wasn’t until the last credit rolled off the screen that they turned to each other.
They shared a look that neither of them understood. Hours later when the sun was rising and the whole plan was laid in front of them, they would get it. By morning, they would have it all figured out.
They would start saving their money. They would learn English. They would get to America. And they would become pilots. They had no idea how. But that didn’t matter. They would figure it out. They knew, more than theyhad ever known anything, that this was their destiny. To go to America. To be comfortable, unbothered, and happy. To play on California beaches and date beautiful women. To fly airplanes.
But as the cafe owner shooed them out, they didn’t know any of that, yet.
They just knew that everything had changed.
“Coastal four-one-six, slow to mach seven-five for metering.”
Somewhere, in some en route control center miles beneath Flight 416, an air traffic controller watched a small dot track forward on the radar in front of him. His tone felt casual, like it was just another direction on a day like any other.
Ben switched the gun to his left hand, reaching for his mic with the other.
“Roger wilco. Slow to mach seven-five, Coastal four-one-six,” he said, his voice as calm and even as the controller’s. “I gotta hand it to ATC,” he said to Bill. “They deserve Oscars for the show they’re putting on. I mean, if you sent the FBI to your house, the FAA has to know what’s up.” He laughed and told Bill to unplug the laptop’s headphones and take the privacy screen off after he finished adjusting the plane’s speed.
Bill had heard the controller, but it was only sound. Ben spoke too, but his words held no meaning either. It was just noise that bounced around the cockpit. Bill didn’t know anything anymore. He only knew the barrel of that gun. He didn’t move.
Rolling his eyes, Ben reached forward. He twisted a knob counterclockwise and the yellow numbers on the dash began to descend. When they reached the ATC directive, he pulled the controller up and the plane’s computer set the new speed. “Talk to ATC. Fly the plane. Crash the plane. Do I have to do everything today? This is your leg to fly, you know.”
Bill continued to stare at the gun. His mind flashed to a few hours earlier when he passed—no, breezed—through crew security at the airport. Ben would have met the same screener not long after. But the first officer’s abuse of the system was the least of Bill’s problems at the moment.
Bill looked to his laptop. There was a strange new listlessness to Carrie’s expression. She seemed to be staring at something that wasn’t there, her focus scattered and undefined. Sighing as though that was that, she locked her eyes on Bill. The hair on the back of his neck stood on edge.
Something in her had changed.
Unclipping the privacy screen, Bill tossed it and the headphones on top of his messenger bag. Elise’s whimpering filled the cockpit.
“How do you two know each other?” Carrie asked Sam.
The tone of her voice was too familiar and Bill was suddenly wildly uncomfortable with not knowing what had happened when he’d lost contact with them. He felt a whole new level of alpha male protection, one rooted in envy and possession. It was animal, not rational, but it snapped Bill back into focus.
He watched Carrie and Scott glance up at something out in front of them before dropping their gazes a few moments later.
“Bendo is my brother,” Sam said. “Well, good as.” Pointing at the camera, he said something in a language neither Carrie nor Bill understood. Ben laughed in response and replied in the same foreign tongue. The warmth of their reunion felt unfair, like ticker tape falling on the losing team.
“Well, Ben is my brother too,” Bill said, his voice shaking. He stared at the wings on the first officer’s shirt before pointing back at the cockpit door. “They boarded this plane in good faith. They put their lives in our hands. Our duty is to respect that responsibility.”
Sam began to talk but Ben stopped him with his hand.
“Why?” Bill continued, his voice rising. “Why not just shoot me and crash the plane? If that’s what you wanted, you didn’t have to involve my family.”
“This isn’t what we wanted,” Ben said.
“Then what do you want?” Bill pleaded. “I don’t understand what you want. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
Ben looked out the window in front of him, considering the question, the hand holding the gun drooping slightly.
“Where we come from, our people have a saying. ‘No friend but the mountains.’ It means our fate is one of betrayal and abandonment. That we only have each other. No one else cares. We can only count on ourselves.”
Ben looked to Sam, his eyes misting above a forlorn smile.
“We tried not to believe that,” the first officer continued. “We wanted so badly to believe it could be different, it would be different. We bought into hope. Into the American Dream. Freedom, hope, belonging—that’s all we wanted. For ourselves and for our families. And tell me—why is that wrong? To want that kind of life? Why shouldn’t our lives have that kind of dignity? Why don’t we deserve it? We played by your rules, we did what you wanted, we were everything you asked us to be. And you betrayed us! You ask me how I could betray this profession—well, how could you betray millions of people who only want a decent life of their own?”
Bill tried to think of a good response, but came up empty. He didn’t really grasp what Ben was talking about. Finally he said, “What does any of that have to do with my family or the passengers on this plane?”
Ben spread his arms wide and laughed.
“Keep going. Keep reacting exactly as we knew you would. Because that’s exactly it! That’s exactly why we’re doing this! You people never think it has something to do with you. All around the world, shit happens. And you just carry on. Because it doesn’t have to do with you. You never get involved unless you’re forced to. So?” He motioned around the cockpit. “Here we are. You’re finally being forced to face the truth.”
“What truth?”
“The truth that people are only as good as the world lets them be. You’re not inherently good and I’m not inherently bad. We’re just working through the cards life dealt us. So putting you in this position, dealing you these cards—what does a good guy do now? It’s not about the crash, Bill. It’s about the choice. It’s about good people seeing they’re no different from bad people.” He looked from Bill to Carrie. “You’ve just always had the luxury of choosing to be good.”
Bill’s face flushed. He didn’t fully understand what Ben was talking about, but he recognized the anguish he saw burning in his copilot’s eyes. It was the same hot rage that coursed through Bill’s body every time he looked at his helpless, captive family.
“But what about people who have no choice?” Bill said. “The passengers on this plane, the people in Washington, DC. How do their innocent deaths prove your point?”
“What about the innocent deaths of my people?” Ben spat back. “Why are their lives of less worth, why are their deaths less tragic? No one cares when they die horrible deaths. It’s time your people shared the same meaningless ending. I want America to mourn in the way we’ve had to mourn for our whole lives.”
“An eye for an eye isn’t justice,” said Bill.
“Neither is inaction. Nothing will change if nothing changes.”
“But nothing will change if you do this either. America won’t bow to a vigilante terrorist.”
“We never wanted you to bow! We just wanted to be seen!”
Ben panted in the silence that followed his outburst, the gun trembling in his hand. Bill faced forward in his chair. Ben turned his head away to look out the window. Sad attempts at a physical de-escalation in the cramped space.
Bill dropped his hands to his side, defeated. He didn’t know what to do. Everything felt hopeless. He stared at his family, mentally removing them from this madness, trying to remember how simple their lives seemed as recently as last night.
Bill had grilled hamburgers. They had eaten with the TV on, volume low, watching the game. Scott spilled his milk at one point. Elise had cried and so Carrie ate her sweet potato fries standing up, bouncing her until she stopped. Bill remembered thinking he needed to take out the trash when he threw the milk-soaked paper towels in the bin. He had forgotten to do that before he left this morning.
A distant noise was beeping in his earpiece. Bill barely noticed it, lost in the blissful memory of normalcy. But the faint, irregular sounds eventually pulled Bill away from his reverie. All at once something clicked in his mind as he strained to listen, trying not to breathe.
But now there was only silence. His mind was playing tricks on him.
He looked over to Ben, who showed no sign of having heard anything unusual. If there were any sounds, they would come through the backup frequency, which was only audible in Bill’s earpiece. Ben was in his own world anyway. He was inspecting the gun, his thumb running over the handle.
Suddenly, there it was. Bill’s eyes widened. There was a noise.
It wasn’t his imagination. Someone had heard him and they were talking back.