Falling by T.J. Newman

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

THE PILOTS FLINCHED AS Apiercing alarm shattered the silence. Locking eyes, they processed the meaning of the seldom-heard alert in the same moment.

Both men released their harnesses and lunged across the cockpit.

Their bodies crashed together over the center console as Ben’s left hand stretched toward the override toggle that was below them, just to the right of Bill’s seat belt. It was the only way to stop a keypad entry attempt. If he managed to flip the switch down, an electronic bar would slide into position behind the three spring-loaded locks at the top, middle, and bottom of the cockpit door.

Bill felt the plane lean right. He quickly hit the button labeled AP1 and three loud chimes announced the plane’s return to autopilot. Struggling to reach Ben’s gun with one hand, he tried to keep Ben away from the override toggle with the other. Bill leaned his body into his copilot, leveraging his height advantage, but Ben was younger and stronger.

Bill gave up on reaching the gun and went for Ben’s neck instead. Careful not to hit any buttons, he put his foot up on the edge of the center console and raised himself to increase the downward force on Ben’s windpipe. Ben buckled slightly, his feet shifting to take the weight. Bill felt his back brushing the buttons in the panel above him and stooped lower as a soft purple hue began to color the first officer’s face.

The override window was forty-five seconds. Bill wondered how much time had passed, knowing he had to get the upper hand before that door opened.

Ben’s face had now turned a shade of blue and his eyes were watering. As Ben’s strength waned, Bill could see the gun slipping from his fingers. Ben was able to connect one desperate blow to the side of Bill’s head and Bill’s foot slipped from the console. Losing his grip, Bill fell over the controls.

Ben gasped for air, leaning back against the front dash. Bill picked himself up carefully, knowing every button or lever mistakenly pushed or engaged could spell a new crisis. Bill knew Ben understood that too. It was the only reason the first officer hadn’t fired the gun. A stray bullet could destroy the avionics. Worse, puncture the airframe and cause a decompression. Bill knew Ben wanted the plane to crash—but on his terms.

When Ben had recovered enough to move again, he went for the toggle, and in that moment, Bill reached into his seat, wrapping his hand around the only tool he had left. Clutching the pen that had laid in his lap the whole flight, Bill spun around, grunting as he unleashed his arm in an uppercut.

Ben’s eyes bulged and then blinked softly, his free hand rising to the pen that stuck out of his throat. Blood poured down his neck, turning his white uniform shirt crimson. He glanced around the cockpit in a dazed stupor before his attention landed on the weapon in his other hand. Ben leveled the gun at Bill and his eyes rolled into his head as he pulled the trigger.

Big Daddy ducked and Jo clutched her oxygen mask at the sound of the gunshot. Josip glanced over his shoulder quickly before turning back to the cabin, eyes sweeping side to side with alarm. The flight attendants listened in vain. Not another sound came from the cockpit.

Jo adjusted the strap on her oxygen tank and centered herself in front of the cockpit door. Her heart pounded against her chest like a wild animal in a cage. Left foot forward, mallet in her right hand, she put most of her weight on her back leg, bouncing slightly, waiting to pounce on the door when the green light lit up and it unlatched. If it lit up and unlatched.

“How long’s the override period?” Daddy asked. “Thirty seconds?”

“Forty-five.”

“Jesus,” he whispered into his mask.

A movement caught Jo’s eye and she looked down.

A thin trail of blood seeped out from under the cockpit door.

“Who do we have up there?”

A commander slid a piece of paper in front of Lieutenant General Sullivan. Dusty stepped back out of the way, tossing his headphones on the table. Walking to the other side of the room, he stood beside George and the other controllers and watched their tower turn into a command center.

“Tink, Redwood, Peaches, and Switchblade.”

Narrowing his eyes at the radar, Sullivan pressed a button.

“Tink, gimme eyes on the cockpit.”

“Yes, sir.” The feed sounded throughout the tower.

Blinding pain seared through Bill’s arm. The bullet had torn straight through his right shoulder and into his back. Holding himself steady on the dash, his vision flagged as his body went into the initial stage of shock.

Ben’s body was slumped onto the center console. Gritting his teeth, Bill leaned over to try to push the first officer off the controls. His brain went fuzzy, a dizzy light-headedness impeding even the most basic of movements. He sat down, afraid he might pass out. Bill grasped at his wounded shoulder, pulling his hand back to find it coated with blood.

He needed to stop the bleeding. He needed to land the plane. There was so much he needed to do. But his body betrayed him.

As his head succumbed to a feather lightness, he slumped forward, rolling over his legs onto the floor. The last thing he saw in his peripheral vision as he slipped out of consciousness was a fighter jet pulling up alongside the plane.

“Uh, sir?”

The whole tower was waiting for Tink’s report.

“The cockpit appears to be empty. I don’t see anyone in there.”

A green light lit up on the keypad. The cockpit unlocked.

Jo pushed the door open with force, the sturdy metal frame latching neatly against the magnets that held it in an open position. She braced, wide-eyed, waiting.

Nothing happened.

Cautiously stepping into the cockpit, she saw movement outside the plane to her left. Raising her mallet reflexively, she saw the nose of a fighter jet drop out of sight behind them.

Shit.

Jo looked down, surveying the scene.

Ben was slumped face-forward onto the center console, blood pouring out from under his body. The gun lay on the floor, just beyond his reach. Jo kicked it away from him.

With her hands under his shoulder and waistline, she pushed him over, his body crumpling into a pile on the floor at the foot of his seat. Rolling him onto his back, Jo raised the ice mallet with a gasp but knew instantly there was no need. He was soaked with blood all the way to his belt from something protruding out of his neck. She leaned forward, unable to tell what it was through the mess of blood and flesh.

She dropped the mallet and turned to the left seat.

In a ball at the foot of his chair, Bill didn’t move. Jo scrambled over the controls with a knee on the seat, clambering after her captain.

Crying his name, she tried to roll him over. She could see blood pooling on the ground—but she also saw his back rise with breath. She screamed his name louder, struggling to get a hold on him. She shook his torso while repeating his name but he didn’t respond. Her angle was too awkward to slap him, so she pinched his arm—hard. A soft groan escaped his lips. She screamed his name one more time and his eyes fluttered open to the sound. As Bill came closer to consciousness, Jo positioned herself better and began the battle to pull him upright. He was twice her size, but adrenaline gave her an assist, and somehow she was able to get him moving. Together, with Jo doing most of the work, Bill got back in his seat.

“We’re not done here,” she demanded. “Tell me what to do.”

The commercial plane pulled ahead as Tink continued to drop her speed.

The voice in her ear said, “All units move to firing positions. Standby for the order.”

“Roger,” Tink said.

The porthole window on the aircraft door was too small for her to see anything. But continuing aft, she could see in the passenger windows. An unexpected lump choked her throat.

Through the purple cabin lighting, Tink could see the passengers in their oxygen masks pressed up against the windows watching her. A man near the front of the plane pushed his glasses up as they slid down on the yellow cup. A few rows back an elderly woman laid her hand against the window, a crumpled tissue pressed against her palm. In the row right behind her, Tink could see only the top of an oxygen mask as the small child who sat there struggled to see up and out the window.

The civilian aspect of war was always the hardest to reconcile. A war zone should be a place for soldiers and no one else. Too many nights she’d woken in a sweat, the eyes of that little girl or that old man haunting her sleep.

But this wasn’t a war zone. This was just a plane full of innocents, trying to get to their destination. She was the one who had no place here. For the first time in her career, she felt hesitant.

As the last row of the plane passed, she saw a piece of paper pressed to a window with two words scrawled on it in large letters.

“Help Us.”