Falling by T.J. Newman

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ON THE RADAR DISPLAY INfront of bill, multiple cross marks popped up to their rear. Four F-16s were now within striking distance of Flight 416.

Bill rubbed his face in frustration. He had known it would come to this when they found out about Ben’s involvement. It was exactly why he hadn’t sent a Morse message to tell them. Now he had two threats to deal with.

“It’s not fair,” Bill said.

Ben spoke, without looking at him. “What, Bill? What isn’t fair?”

The plane bounced in response to a wind pocket, twinkling neighborhood lights appearing through the window on Bill’s side as the plane banked left. It was a clear night, but the wind was fierce and the plane bucked and twisted.

“Coastal four-one-six, come in.”

The repeated squawk from the same controller came through both their headsets again, but neither pilot moved to respond. They hadn’t since the first gas attack, and they wouldn’t the rest of the flight. It was just the two men now.

“It’s not fair that…” Bill struggled to put his thoughts in order. “That I’m here. And you’re here. That I had my life, and you had yours. It’s not fair that nobody seems to care about your people. It’s not right. And I’m sorry.”

Ben didn’t reply.

Bill turned to face his copilot directly. “You have my word, Ben. I will spend the rest of my life working to right these wrongs. I can’t change what’s happened in your life. You can’t change it either. But if we crash this plane, nothing good is going to come of it. You know this country. You know what we’ll do in response. You know who will suffer.”

Ben stared out the window.

“But if we don’t crash this plane,” Bill continued, “we can work together. I’ll educate myself. I’ll learn what I already should have known. And then maybe the two of us can fix some things.”

The gun was directly between them. Neither spoke. Ben turned, searching the captain’s face. Bill looked him in the eye, desperately hoping his sincerity was felt and believed.

“Ben. It’s not too late.”

Holding the mail in his mouth, Ben pulled the door handle toward him as he struggled with the key. The lock squeaked, as did the door, when he walked into the apartment, pulling his suitcase behind him. Turning on the kitchen light, a sink full of dirty dishes welcomed him home. He tossed the mail onto the kitchen table next to a half-eaten bowl of cereal.

He sighed. Exhausted from his four-day and exhausted by his life.

“I thought you were going to call the super to fix the door while I was gone,” he said loudly, laying his hat on the counter, draping his uniform coat across the back of a chair. “The place looks like shit, man.”

Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he sat at the table, flipping through the mail. Trashing the junk, he laid the rest next to the newspaper.

The newspaper.

He cocked his head. He and Sam didn’t get the paper.

Picking it up, he found a different publication underneath from adifferent day. Below it, another one. All of them were dog-eared and marked with red ink. Every story was about the troop withdrawal.

Realizing Sam hadn’t said anything since he’d come home, Ben turned. Sam’s bedroom light was on, the door ajar.

“Sam?”

There was no response.

“Saman,” he said louder, crossing the living room. Knocking to no response, he pushed the door open.

Blood soaked the mattress so deeply it almost appeared black. If there hadn’t been trails of red leading from Sam’s forearms down, Ben probably wouldn’t have understood what he was looking at.

“Oh my god!” Ben yelled, lunging toward his friend, then pulling back, pivoting on his heels. “Fuck!” he screamed, running into the kitchen. Grabbing his phone, he dialed 911, swearing again as he ran back into the bedroom.

Sam’s eyes were clear and focused despite his shallow breathing and gray skin. Ben hovered over him shouting into the phone.

“Hurry!” he screamed, and hung up, the phone clenched beneath white knuckles.

He grabbed the bedsheet and wound it around Sam’s wrists to try to stop the bleeding. The two friends stared at each other, trying to interpret what the other was thinking.

Sam’s voice was weak and slow. “Remember when we got drinks that time at that place by the beach? The place with the outdoor patio. With the blankets for when it gets cold? We had oysters. You tried to hit on the girl at the bar next to you. Then her boyfriend showed up.”

Ben smiled faintly and nodded.

“Right then. Right there. That’s the exact moment our village was attacked.”

Ben shut his eyes.

“We left them there.”

Tears squeezed out the corners of Ben’s closed eyes, dropping onto Sam’s chest.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Sam whispered. “Any of it.”

He groaned in pain. Ben gripped his wrists tighter.

“Why?” Sam said. “Why are you stopping me?”

Ben clenched his jaw, his breath savage with shame and anger. For the first time he admitted to himself what Sam had already decided.

“Because I’m pissed off you would leave me here. We will do this together.”

“Ben, let’s make a choice,” Bill said, “together. Right now. Let’s choose to help your people, not hurt them. We can do that.”

Bill couldn’t tell if Ben was seriously considering the offer, but the young man was clearly thrown off. Empathy must not have been in his calculations. Bill realized he was leaning toward Ben, trying to will him to his side, to a place where they could land the plane safely, together.

“Coastal four-one-six, this is Air Force Lieutenant General Sullivan speaking on behalf of the president of the United States of America.”

The pilots flinched at the aggressive voice that barked through the cockpit. “Be advised, we are aware First Officer Ben Miro is a threat. If you do not respond immediately, we are prepared to authorize a military strike on your aircraft. Consider this your warning.”

Ben turned to look at the sky, lifting his chin, his jaw clenching.

“It was never about the crash, Bill. It was never about you or the passengers or your family. It wasn’t really even about the choice.” He shook his head. “It was about waking people up. Doing something dramatic enough to get their attention. Something they couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t personal.”

He turned on Bill with dead, black eyes.

“That was before. Now? I want you to burn.”