Falling by T.J. Newman

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

JO STOOD NEXT TO KELLIEon the other side of the galley curtain, listening to the sounds in the cabin. Right after they stopped the video, all three had held their breath. Would there be screaming? Pandemonium? About a minute had passed and there hadn’t been much of a reaction at all.

“So far, so good,” Daddy said without taking his eyes off the cabin. “Nobody’s released their own poison. No one’s saying they’re a bad guy too. No one’s even pressed a call button. I’m surprised. I thought that may—”

He cut himself off and broke away from the galley.

Jo ripped the curtain open, following Big Daddy as he hustled up the aisle toward a man who was charging forward. The two men met just beyond the bulkhead.

“I want to know,” the man said, loud enough that half the plane could hear, “when we’re getting on the other side of that damn door.”

Big Daddy raised an eyebrow at the finger pointed in his face. “What door?” he asked.

“That one.” The man’s chin jerked toward the cockpit.

“Ah,” said Daddy. “Unfortunately that won’t be happening, sir.”

The man exhaled a harrumph, his cheeks flushing even hotter. His was the type of face that had a natural pink to it, but his barrel chest and paunchy beer gut made it clear that it wasn’t the result of running a quick half mile. If Jo was being honest, he made her nervous. She knew men like him. Big on ego, small on tolerance.

“Sir,” Daddy said, “that door has multiple locks, all of which are controlled from the inside. There’s no key. And even if we were able to unlock it—which we can’t—there’s a manual override inside the cockpit.”

The man blinked, as though the thought of unlocking the door had never occurred to him. Jo put her hand on Big Daddy’s shoulder to let him know she had his back and to remind him to stay cool.

“Then we’ll bust it down!” the man hollered, spittle flying out of his mouth.

Someone a few rows back grunted in agreement. A few heads nodded.

“That door,” Jo said, her voice low and firm, “is bulletproof. Kevlar reinforced. Impossible to break down by design.”

“Didn’t stop them on September 11th.”

“That door is because of September 11th,” Jo said. “You think it’s luck no one’s breached a cockpit since then?”

The man didn’t answer, merely shook his head, nostrils flared. The crowd was starting to turn with him, their fear finding comfort in his overconfidence.

“We’ve gotta get in there!” a female voice shouted from somewhere. Jo couldn’t even tell who had said it.

“Okay,” Jo said. “Let’s say we could break the door down. Which we can’t. But let’s just say we could. What are you going to do once you’re in there?”

The man blinked again. This too he hadn’t yet worked out.

“We’ll take ’em down!”

“Who?” Big Daddy asked.

“The terrorists!”

A couple people cheered.

“The only people in that cockpit,” Jo said calmly, “are the two pilots flying this plane. Who we very much need alive and well. The terrorist you want is on the ground back in LA. Breaking into the flight deck would accomplish absolutely nothing and only put us at greater risk.”

No one replied.

“Honey, if the bad guys were up there I’d be with you in a heartbeat. But the only thing you’ll find up there are the good guys,” she stressed. Jo didn’t dare let on that there might actually be an accomplice among them in the cabin.

A man sitting on the aisle spoke up. “But you said a gas attack was coming from them?”

“That’s right,” Jo said with a sigh. “Our pilots have a problem. One they need our help with. There will be a gas attack, because if there isn’t, an innocent family will die.”

Jo let the statement hang in the air for a moment.

“Authorities on the ground are looking for the family but the pilots need to buy them time. Bill, our captain, is trusting us to be ready. Ready to protect ourselves. Which is something we can do. That is the way we fight, that is the way we beat the terrorist. We work together. We trust each other. We survive.”

She looked around at the passengers. They all seemed to be considering.

“We do need to fight. But we do that by being strong enough to take the hit, not give it.”

No one responded, which she took as a good sign. The main aggressor didn’t seem sure where to turn now, either in his argument or on the plane. So he stared at her, breathing heavily, but silent. She thought of her sons when they were little. They used to square off against her with the same look that was in his eyes. Jo had gotten the picture real fast: a power struggle never ended well. Instead, she learned how to finesse the boys’ frustrations. Redirect their energy. She empowered them, filled them with importance and duty. Really, she just needed them to pick up their toys. But her tactics got it done.

Stepping in front of Big Daddy, she faced the man straight on.

“What’s your name, sir?” Jo said.

“Dave.”

“The crew will need help, Dave. Can we count on you?”

His chest puffed up.

“We need to reseat people,” Jo continued before he could think about it too much, and frankly, before she could think about it too much. They had no idea who was with them or against them. She was recruiting assistance blind. “There are eight seats in first class. I want two empty and the other six filled with people willing to help me fight. There are two young men, already seated in first class, who I believe will want to help. And you, sir”—she smiled at Dave—“make three. So let’s get three more, then we’ll reseat the passengers in first class. The attack will come from the front, so we’ll want—”

“Women and children in the back,” Dave interrupted.

A woman in a nearby window seat laughed. “Jesus Christ,” she said, “we’re not on the Titanic.” Standing, she placed her knee on the chair, arm resting on the seat in front of her. “Ma’am, my wife and I volunteer.” From the middle seat, her wife nodded solemnly.

Dave scoffed. “Ladies, I think it would be better for the women—”

“Let me rephrase,” the woman said. In a calm voice she went on to explain that she was a six-tour Marine Corps veteran turned LAFD firefighter, and her spouse was a paramedic with a black belt in jiu jitsu. Dave didn’t have much to say after that.

“Excellent,” Jo said quickly. “That makes five. We need one more.”

The hum of the engines went from background noise to prominence. No one moved, no one said a word. It was grade-school tactics. If you stayed still enough, the teacher wouldn’t call on you for the answer.

A metal click; a seat belt unbuckled. Focus shifted forward toward the noise. Three rows ahead, on the aisle seat, aircraft right, a man stood.

Eyes followed him up. And up.

“Are we allowed to say ‘No thanks’?” Big Daddy said under his breath to Kellie.

The man was enormous. At least six-foot-eight. Probably more. He turned to face them and heads pulled back to take him in, uncertainty passing through the collective. Black hair buzzed close to the scalp. Dark eyes, shadowed in the dim lighting, peered out from a pale face that was more bones than anything. Jo immediately understood why Big Daddy had failed to put a finger on the man’s essence. He had an intangible mysteriousness, a mercurial quality of shadow.

The crew shared a look.

“I will help,” he said with a voice that scraped the lowest registers. The faint accent was foreign but unplaceable. The tone, void of emotion.

Jo forced a confident smile. “Thank you, sir. That makes six.”