Falling by T.J. Newman

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

THEO STOOD APART FROM THEgroup looking down at his phone. He called carrie over.

The family and the camera crew were all huddled around the news van, glued to the coverage on the screens inside. Some of the neighbors had come out, offering water and snacks, but no one had the stomach for anything. So they all just stood around, numb with helplessness, watching what was happening back east.

Carrie followed Theo away from the van. He kept his voice low.

“Four-one-six is starting to veer off-course.”

Carrie stared at him blankly. “How do—”

“Rousseau’s texting me updates. Washington was a decoy. The real target is Yankee Stadium.”

Carrie turned her head, looking at nothing, as though she didn’t understand the words he had said. Theo’s phone vibrated.

He read the message twice before closing his eyes with a sigh. He didn’t want to tell her what it said and he couldn’t stand the sight of Carrie waiting to hear it.

“Theo, please,” he heard her say after a moment. “It can’t get much worse, can it?”

He kept his eyes shut as he told her that one of the F-16s had tried to get a visual—and the cockpit appeared to be empty. According to the fighter pilot, no one was flying the plane.

Carrie didn’t say anything. Theo heard her start to cry.

“Mom?” Scott said. Theo opened his eyes to see the little boy approaching, his sister cradled in his arms.

The sight of the two of them nearly destroyed Theo. Carrie had her back to the children and she wiped her eyes hastily before turning to face them. With a small smile that looked painful, she brushed the hair out of the boy’s eyes and took the baby from his arms. Taking her son’s hand, they walked back to the news van together.

The beacon on the radar moved further and further from the airport, heading straight toward the Bronx. The only sound in the tower was the occasional attempt to gain contact with the cockpit. But the transmissions had become rote, without hope—no one expected to hear anything from 416.

Lieutenant General Sullivan pushed a button and spoke clearly.

“Sir? We’re running out of time. We need a decision, Mr. President.”

The lights seemed brighter. The grass greener. The air colder. The noise more crisp. To Bobby, everything at Yankee Stadium felt amplified.

He and the other players on the field bent at the ready, slapping into their gloves. They spat on the field while the batter tapped his bat on the inside of each shoe. The batter let out a heavy exhale before stepping into the box and grinding his feet as he settled in.

The pitch—fastball, outside.

The batter hacked at the ball, dropping to a knee as he fouled it off. Bobby knew how bad the man wanted it, because he knew how bad he wanted it. This was no longer just the World Series. This was something else entirely. The batter stepped out of the box, pulling his jersey up off a shoulder, lifting his helmet a couple times.

All around the park, fans continued to flee, jostling each other to get closer to the exits. Parents held their children to their chests. Couples gripped each other’s hands. The exits remained clogged, the staircases filled.

A high-pitched scream came from the upper decks to his left. Bobby looked over to find a woman tumbling down the stairs, her body picking up speed in its uncontrolled free fall. Bobby held his breath as he watched her approach the rail at the bottom of the section, a baseball game suddenly the least important thing in the world, but then he saw a large man brace himself and catch her at the very last moment, stopping her from falling a hundred feet to the stands below.

In the lower decks of the stadium, crowding into the rows around home plate and trickling down the baselines, Dodger blue bled into Yankee pinstripe. As the players had returned to their positions on the field, many of the fans had followed suit. It wasn’t discussed and it wasn’t planned. It was a collective understanding.

They yelled and jeered with each pitch, they ribbed each other and turned their caps inside out. A big guy trotted down from the abandoned concessions with a half dozen looted beer cans clutched against his chest. His buddy heralded him as the hero he was and they promptly distributed the wealth within their section, a sloppy cheer following.

A tiny section of the electronic scoreboard was reserved for the game’s stats and the rest of the massive screen projected what was going on outside of their new utopia. Carrie Hoffman pleading to the president. Rescue teams flanking JFK’s runways. Reporters pointing up into the night sky. Passengers wearing oxygen masks. And a roving camera inside the stadium showing the remaining faces of those lucky enough to attend game seven of the World Series.

A crack of the bat, the ball hammered to left-center.

The outfielders chased after it, the left fielder pulling back in the gap, but Bobby waved him off, his eyes never leaving the ball. When he got to the wall, Bobby leapt off his feet to attempt the impossible.

Returning to the ground, he slowly extended his glove in the air as astonishment clouded his face. His hand inside still stung from the slap of the ball.

Third out. Game over. The Yankees had won the World Series.

No one moved. Not the players, not the fans. They all simply stared at center field.

Then came a drumbeat through the speakers as victorious horns started to bleat.

Start spreading the news…

Bobby stood with his back to the wall, the ball in his glove. The batter, standing in the middle of the base path between first and second, stared into the outfield at his failure. Bobby stared back. After a moment, the losing runner turned and began to walk toward the winning pitcher. He was the only thing that moved in the whole park. No one except Frank Sinatra said a word.

On the mound, the batter stopped in front of the pitcher. Reaching forward, he grabbed the man’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug with such force it knocked his glove off. The pitcher’s fingers turned white as he clutched the man’s back.

Both teams emptied their dugouts as Bobby and the rest of the outfielders ran in. Meeting the two players in the middle of the diamond, they all embraced. Most of them cried. They held their caps and bowed to the fans.

With Ol’ Blue Eyes crooning the Yankees’—and the city’s—iconic anthem, every person in that stadium, player and fan alike, held on to each other and made peace with their choice to stay.

In the cockpit, Jo tried not to look at the buildings in front of them that drew closer through the windshield. Everything trembled and shook.

Leaning forward in obvious pain, Bill grabbed the sidestick. Blood covered his hand.

Taking a breath, he pressed the trigger underneath.

The open line hummed throughout the tower. Not with the typical scratchiness of aircraft communication, but with the even buzz of advanced technology. The feed to the White House, to the president, played for all to hear. No one moved or spoke as they waited for the verdict on Flight 416.

The president cleared his throat. He’d made his decision.

The echo of Frank Sinatra’s last note lingered for a second before dissipating into silence. Everyone looked up at the sky, watching, waiting, praying.

A low rumble in the distance grew louder.

Fear mounted as the players and fans shifted on their feet—but everyone stayed put.

It was the undeniable sound of an airplane closing in.

“Okay,” the president began. “I say—”

A burst of static halted the order. Someone drew a ragged breath and a faint voice hijacked the moment.

“This is Captain Hoffman. I have control.”