Falling by T.J. Newman
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“TAKE THE PLANE OFF AUTOPILOT,”ben said.
Bill stared out ahead of him, his body pressed against the seat belt harness. He reached up to the panel over his head, punching a button labeled “AP1,” and the green light above it went out. Three chimes rang through the cockpit. The autopilot had been disengaged. Bill wrapped his fingers around the joystick to his left, the plane coming under his total control.
His vision had returned but his head was still woozy, the struggle to focus made worse by the sounds that replayed in his head.
The sounds from the cabin during the second attack.
The first attack, the crew had expected. The noises were awful, but they were restrained and controlled; the sounds of a difficult, but fair, fight.
The second had been different. The suffering was palpable.
Goddammit, Bill. Be a pilot. Shut it out. Compartmentalize, goddammit.
Compartmentalization was the only way to remain in control during a crisis. Tackle the issue with logic and reason—deal with how you feel about it later. It’s a mindset drilled into every pilot from day one.
But all the training in the world couldn’t completely drive the sounds of the attack from his head. And along with those sounds came a single voice that called up a possibility he didn’t want to consider.
Today you will fail,the voice said. Your family, Jo, the crew, the passengers. You already have failed them and you will continue to.
Bill clenched and unclenched his fist repeatedly.
Compartmentalize, Bill.
Gradually, his shoulders dropped. He began to breathe through his nose instead of his mouth. The cacophony in his head softened until only the hum of the engines remained.
The day was not over.
They were still on their original path, approaching New York from the southwest, flying over New Jersey suburbs. Homes with a view of the city. A vantage from which, all those years ago, people had stood in their backyards watching gray smoke rise off the downtown skyline against a perfect blue-sky morning. In the distance, directly in front of them, the island of Manhattan glimmered in the night.
It was cruel of Ben to wait this long to direct Bill to the next step. Washington felt so far away now that their original destination was within view.
“Hand fly to the target,” Ben said.
Bill furrowed his brow. “Navigationally speaking, how do—”
He stopped himself.
No.
No, no, no…
Bill cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid? So blind?
“We’re not diverting to DC, are we?”
Ben’s face held no emotion.
“Of course.” Bill put it together out loud. “Why would you tell me the real target? You assumed I’d talk to the ground. Why would you give them five hours to prepare?” Bill shook his head and stared at New York City out the window in front of him. The looming potential targets seemed to mock his shortsightedness.
“Enough already, Ben. What’s the real target?”
The Empire State Building was lit up blue and white, the iconic landmark rising up out of the heart of midtown. Below, at the city’s southern tip, the tallest building on the island: One World Trade. The Freedom Tower.
“Don’t tell me,” Bill said.
The first officer shook his head.
Ben stared out the window straight ahead. A smile crept onto his face. He nodded in front of him.
Bill followed the direction of his gaze. Out the window, up the island of Manhattan. Past One World Trade, beyond the Empire State Building, to a cluster of bright lights in the Bronx.
Under his breath, Ben began to sing.
“Take me out to the ball game…”