Falling by T.J. Newman
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CARRIE’S PACE WAS BRISK ASthey crossed the parking lot. Scott trailed her by a few steps, struggling to keep up.
“Mom,” the boy said, “where are we going?”
Carrie glanced over her shoulder. Rousseau was walking back to the other agents nonchalantly. He hadn’t seemed fazed when she retrieved the kids; he merely handed Elise over and then squeezed Scott’s shoulder and told him he was a brave young man. Then he turned and walked away, and that was that.
“We’re going to help Daddy,” Carrie said.
Scott looked back toward the FBI agents, confused. “Aren’t they?”
Carrie hesitated. “Uh, yes, baby. They are. We’re just going to try something else too.”
They moved toward the far end of the parking lot where several rows of RVs were parked. Theo had instructed her to get the kids and then meet him over there. She didn’t ask what would happen after that. She barely knew Theo, but to say she trusted him with their lives was a literal statement today.
Carrie’s pulse raced as they walked around the RVs. Some had lights on and their owners sat in collapsible chairs enjoying the sea breeze from their makeshift front porches. Carrie was nearing the end of the rows when she heard her name. She whipped her head to her left, toward the sound.
Theo motioned for them to come over just as his phone started to ring.
“Agent Baldwin,” he said as he answered. He listened for a beat before looking around the parking lot. Then, with a start, he began to wave his arm. “I see you. We’re at the front, by the RVs. I’m waving.”
Carrie turned to see a van headed toward them. It had several antennas and a large satellite dish mounted to the roof. As it got closer, she could make out the red CNB logo painted across the side. Stopping beside them, the side door slid open and Vanessa Perez, a young woman Carrie recognized from the evening broadcast, hopped out. She gave the family a warm, relieved smile before her eyes widened at the sight of Theo, all bloody and beat-up.
“What happ—”
“Later,” Theo said, cutting her off. He took the baby from Carrie as she and Scott climbed into the van before he, Elise, and the reporter piled in after them. The door shut, and the van was off.
“Where are we going?” Carrie asked, bracing herself as the van made a sharp turn.
Theo paused before saying simply: “Home.”
“Coastal four-one-six, come in,” Dusty said, rocking his chair back and forth.
As the tower’s senior controller—and as a man whose temperament treated the extreme as blasé—he was the obvious choice for handling 416. But watching the beacon track across the radar in front of him with no response in his headphones, Dusty felt his chest squeeze uncomfortably. He assumed that was the feeling of “anxiety” that people often talked about.
He didn’t like it.
All traffic into JFK, LGA, EWR, DCA, IAD, and BWI had been diverted to alternates, the airspace closed to all inbound aircraft save one: Flight 416.
Typically at that time of night, the runways would be packed with international red-eyes heading to Europe. Trans-cons coming in from out west. Commuter traffic from all the major East Coast cities. More than sixty million passengers traveled in and out of New York via JFK’s four runways every year. But tonight the airport looked like a sleepy regional operation.
Inside the tower it was another story. Flashing red-and-blue lights painted the room from the emergency crews outside on the ground. It accentuated the frenetic energy, but the professionals remained focused.
“Coastal four-one-six, come in,” Dusty said again.
Nothing.
He checked the clock. Eleven minutes with no response.
Leaning back in his chair, he looked across the room to the military officer sitting at another station. The metal on his uniform glinted under the lights. He wore thick, official-looking headphones that were nicer than any piece of equipment in the tower. One hand pressed to an ear, the other wrapped around a hand mic, he tapped out Morse code. Military code talkers had been deployed to the DC towers as well, just in case, although 416 had yet to communicate with any of them.
Making eye contact with Dusty, the Morse talker shook his head. Glancing at the clock, he wrote something on a piece of paper and held it up: “18.”
Dusty cursed and dragged a hand down his stubbly face. Nearly twenty minutes dark. He glanced to the back of the room, where the number of stern men in uniform seemed to grow every minute.
Dusty knew it wasn’t looking good for Flight 416.
He glanced at the three large televisions that hung on the wall across the far side of the room in the tower. Normally displaying weather radars and flight information, tonight they were tuned to various news stations. The only thing being covered was the unfolding crisis. Some network showed basic stock footage and information: animated displays of the flight path, departure and arrival times, aircraft specs and logistical frameworks. Other screens replayed Jo’s video, which had elevated her from anonymous flight attendant to household name in record time. A picture of the Hoffman family circulated: father, mother, son, and daughter on a beach at sunset. Live feed from Washington, DC, showed traffic at a standstill as the roads in and out of the city clogged with evacuees.
On the other side of the room, Dusty could see George in his office. The ATC manager stood behind his desk and braced himself on his fists, confronting Lieutenant General Sullivan, the military commander who was in charge. George’s controllers had never seen their boss lose his temper or even raise his voice, so they looked away and tried not to listen. It felt like a betrayal of the man they respected so much. But overhearing was unavoidable and it quickly became clear to Dusty and his colleagues that George was losing the argument.
“You’re going to shoot down that plane, aren’t you?”
“That doesn’t concern you,” Sullivan said. “Contingency plans do not—”
George slammed his fists on the desk. The controllers flinched. “You’re going to shoot down a commercial airliner full of innocent civilians—”
“That is enough, Mr. Patterson!” the officer barked, unaccustomed to insubordinate pushback. “You and your staff are hereby ordered to commence standard operating procedures and nothing more. Anything else is unauthorized and out of your hands.”
George didn’t respond.
“Do you understand?” Sullivan snarled.
“Affirmative,” George replied. “Your guys will have full access to whatever they need.”
The door ripped open. The controllers tried to look busy.
“Dusty,” George said calmly, his face a worrisome shade of red. Three uniformed officers stepped up behind him. “I’m going to need you to teach these guys the basics.”
The tower was silent.
“I’m a little busy for training new hires right now,” Dusty said, his eyes darting between his boss and the men.
“Couldn’t agree more. Do it anyway,” George said as he put his own headset on, grabbing a pair of binoculars off a desk and tossing them to one of the officers.
No one in the tower said a word. Everyone knew what the military’s secondary protocol was in a situation like this. But actually facing it rendered them speechless.
Dusty shook his head, muttering to his seatmate, “Is it too late to call out sick?” He gestured for the men to come over, but stopped short and pointed at the TVs instead. Everyone turned.
Having broken away from footage in the field, CNB was now broadcasting a lone news anchor in the studio. His eyes darted between the camera and his notes. The look on the man’s face said it all: he had exclusive, breaking news, in an already unprecedented moment. Someone in the tower unmuted the TV.
“—the wife of Captain Bill Hoffman, the pilot flying the hijacked flight, Coastal four-one-six. As we speak, she is with one of our Los Angeles field reporters, and I am told Mrs. Hoffman has an important message for the American public, and for the president. We’ll break to them as soon as we get word that they’re ready. CNB has not been told what…”
Dusty looked over to George and the military officers but they were captivated by the scene unfolding on the screen in front of them. He turned back to the radar. As far as Dusty was concerned, the ball was still in play. “Coastal four-one-six, come in,” he said again into his mic, almost adding at the end: please.
Carrie’s body slapped back against the seat as the news van came to a halting stop. The cameraman slid open the side door and hopped out quickly. Vanessa followed suit with Scott trailing her. Carrie jumped out next, turning back to take Elise from Theo. The camera was already rolling on the reporter as she walked backward, away from the van, speaking into a handheld microphone.
“I’m here at what remains of the Hoffman home,” Vanessa said, indicating the pile of rubble over her shoulder, “with Mrs. Hoffman—Carrie—and her two children. I’m thrilled to report that the family is now safe, and unharmed. But the situation on Flight four-one-six remains precarious, and Mrs. Hoffman has an important message she needs to share with everyone watching. Specifically, the president of the United States.” The reporter took a breath and motioned for the family, but stopped. The cameraman glanced over his shoulder. Seeing the family’s state, he turned the lens, and the view of the world, toward them.
Carrie stood still with her mouth hanging open, rooted in place by the sight of her home. Or what had been her home. With slow steps forward, she moved toward what the explosion had left behind—which was… nothing. There was nothing left to their house. She heard Scott sniffle and took his hand.
Vanessa held up the yellow caution tape and the family ducked under. The reporter didn’t speak and Carrie knew everyone watching at home was silent too. They’d all seen the house, they knew what had happened. But this was the family’s first time coming home, seeing it for themselves. Carrie looked across the way to the oak tree in their backyard, thinking of how she’d stood at the kitchen sink, just this morning, watching its leaves dance in the breeze. The tree was now splintered and scorched and the kitchen was simply no longer. She shook her head slowly as she took it all in, but didn’t say a word.
“Mrs. Hoffman,” Vanessa said gently. “Are you alright?” She held the microphone out.
Carrie switched Elise to her other hip before retaking Scott’s hand. Turning to the reporter, her wet eyes burned with determination as she said, “We’ll be alright once the plane is on the ground.”
Vanessa smiled. “Ma’am,” she said, “what do you need us to know?”
Carrie nodded, bringing Scott in front of her and placing a hand on her son’s shoulder before taking a deep breath in.
“Mr. President,” she said, exhaling her nerves. “I know you’re in the Situation Room right now deciding what should be done. I know you’re being presented with all the information as it comes in. I know you know that my children and I were taken from our home at gunpoint. That we were tied up and gagged. That I was strapped with explosives. That our”—her voice broke as she glanced at the smoking pile of rubble—“our home was destroyed. I know you know that the FBI rescued us. That we’re now safe. And I know you’ve also been informed that my husband’s copilot, the first officer, has a gun and that he’s been a part of the plan all along.”
Carrie had no idea what officials had shared with the public so far, but by the look on the reporter’s face, that was clearly new information.
“I know the decision of what to do right now is ultimately up to you alone. That choice cannot be easy to make. I know that the United States doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.” Carrie wrapped her arm around the front of Scott’s shoulders, her voice breaking again. “And I know that more likely than not you’re going to choose to shoot down that plane.”
Scott looked up at his mom. She tightened her grip.
“Sir. Mr. President. Before you make that decision, before you shoot down a commercial flight full of innocent Americans, I need to tell you what information I know. What you won’t be told by the FBI. What won’t be in your briefings.”
Carrie paused as a tear slid down her cheek. A smile graced her lips.
“I know what will save that plane. I know the best chance those innocent passengers have at survival. I know how to get them home tonight to their families.” Another tear. “But it won’t be the easy choice—it will be the hard choice. Because it will require you to ignore the facts—and trust in the truth. Because the truth is this: the best chance Flight four-one-six has is already on board.”
Carrie bit her bottom lip, staring off for a moment, trying to figure out how to articulate what she wanted to say.
“When my family was taken and Bill was presented with the choice of us or the plane, do you know what he said? When our children had a gun to their heads, when he knew our house had been blown up—do you know what he said?” She shrugged with a smile. “He said no. He didn’t make a choice. He didn’t give in because he also knows we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
She ran a hand through her hair. “See, that’s where these guys miscalculated. They misunderstood duty. Bill—my husband, Captain Hoffman—is a man of duty. I understand that entirely. And Mr. President, as a man of duty yourself, I’m sure you do too. I am unbelievably grateful that the FBI found us in time. Because I know my husband. And I know, on my life—and today I can actually say that—that my husband would not have crashed that plane to save us. And now? Now that his family is safe and he knows that?” A small chuckle escaped her lips. She stood a little straighter. “It’s not possible that my husband won’t figure out a way to land that plane safely.”
Adjusting Elise on her hip, she placed her hand firmly on top of Scott’s shoulder.
“Mr. President. For the sake of my children’s father, and all the mothers and fathers and sons and daughters on board that plane right now, I am begging you to make the brave choice to give that plane and the passengers on it a chance. If you make the weak choice, the easy choice, and you shoot it down—we know exactly what will happen. But I’m asking you to be brave and have faith. I’m asking you to choose to trust in a good man, a man of duty. I know, sir, that your faith will be rewarded.”
The tower was reduced to stunned silence before a murmur of discussion began to fill the space. The air was charged with hope and Dusty clapped the controller next to him on the back.
“Would it be weird if I gave her a standing ovation?”
The controller ignored him, her face contorted with alarm. She pointed at Dusty’s radar.
“Fuuuuuuuu—” Dusty muttered. “George? Four-one-six has started to fly off course.”
“Quiet!” the Morse talker said. The entire tower turned at the uncharacteristic outburst. Everyone watched him listening to his headset, intense concentration painting his face. Suddenly his tight brow slackened in understanding, mouth falling open.
“It’s not Washington. The target is Yankee Stadium.”