Falling by T.J. Newman

CHAPTER FORTY

HEADS WHIPPED UP AS THEairliner tore across the top of Yankee Stadium. Everyone ducked. The plane’s undercarriage was right on top of them, the wings rocking side to side in a crazed flyover. It wasn’t until the tail cleared the end of the stadium that they realized the plane wasn’t going to crash.

The ballpark erupted with more jubilation than if every seat had been filled. Four F-16s appeared, trailing after the plane. The noise shook the stadium.

They were safe.

“I repeat! No strike! Escort only!” Lieutenant General Sullivan bellowed into the mic. “Stay ready, but we’re gonna give this plane a chance.”

There was no time for celebration. The controllers still had a job to do.

“Get the fuck out of my seat, hawk,” Dusty said, putting headphones on so fast they nearly broke. “Coastal four-one-six! Welcome back! You are cleared for landing.”

The CNB camera crew hugged one another while the neighbors high-fived and slapped each other on the back. Carrie’s knees buckled under the relief but Theo caught her before she could fall. She turned a teary smile to Scott, who jumped up and down.

“Dad!” he screamed, his young voice lost in the melee.

Bill pulled back on the sidestick as hard as he could. The plane shot nearly vertical, black sky filling the window. Jo fell backward, tumbling against the open door. In the cabin, passengers shrieked at the violent change of direction. Jo pulled herself up, ripping off her oxygen mask and chucking it and the tank on top of Ben’s body.

She screamed out the door, “Daddy! Get Josip in his seat! And hang on!”

Turning back to Bill, Jo searched for the wound. His entire arm felt wet. Finally, she found the source: right shoulder blade. Jo looked around the cockpit before ripping Bill’s uniform coat off the hanger. Rolling it into a tight ball, she pressed the mass against the wound, using her other hand to pull against his shoulder to create pressure. Bill cried out in pain. The plane banked right as his hand jerked the sidestick.

“I know, baby, but I’ve got you,” Jo said. “Tell me what to do.”

Bill’s voice was weak. “I need you to be my right hand.”

In the tower, everyone watched the beacon on the radar. It turned, and turned again, angling itself east until it was undeniable. Coastal 416 was on its way to JFK. Warm relief spread through Dusty’s body as George clapped him on the back. The controller next to them collapsed into a chair with a sigh.

Outside, the flashing lights of the emergency crews began to move into receiving position.

“Coastal, you are cleared for landing on three-one right,” Dusty said into the mic. “Continue direct approach.” He released his finger for a sidebar and spoke to George. “They’re cleared for three-one right but they’re starting to fly in alignment with two-two left. Switch runways?”

George thought about it. “Let’s not. Three-one right is already programmed into the original flight plan. Let’s keep it as simple as possible for them. But they’re going to do whatever they want anyway.”

Bill instructed Jo on where to find the release for the extra cockpit jump seat. She slid it out until she heard a latch click into place. Pulling the straps as loose as they went, she buckled in, scooting as far forward on the chair as possible. She was now behind the pilot’s seat with a dead-center view of Queens out the window. Taking up the blood-soaked uniform jacket, she reapplied pressure. She feared Bill might pass out.

“Okay,” she said. “What first?”

“Speed,” Bill said, nodding at the dash. “We’ve got to lower it. The knob that says ‘MACH.’ Twist it counterclockwise until you see one-three-zero.”

Jo leaned forward, searching the displays.

“This?”

Bill nodded, grimacing.

Twisting the knob, she watched the numbers descend. At one-three-zero she stopped.

“Now pull it.”

Jo pulled on the knob. She immediately felt the plane slow. “Now what?”

Bill looked at the navigation display, then glanced out the window.

“Landing gear. On the right side. See that lever? No, down. Look a couple displays down.” He tried to point but his right arm was useless. “No. No—yes! That one. Pull it down.”

The plane vibrated. Underneath them, the landing gear slowly dropped into position.

ONE THOUSAND.

Jo jumped at the loud robotic voice. She’d never heard the altitude callout from inside the cockpit, just muffled from the other side of the door.

“Okay, above the gear—” Bill slumped forward.

“No!” Jo screamed, pulling him back. She slapped his cheek so hard she worried she might knock him back out. “Stay with me, Bill!”

He roused, looking around the cockpit, confused. Shaking his head, he opened and closed his eyes. He looked as faint as his voice was becoming.

“Auto brake. Above the landing gear—there. Push the button under it that says ‘MED.’ ”

Jo pushed it and the spring-loaded button popped back. A blue ON appeared beneath it.

Bill looked to the navigation display and then glanced out the window. Jo followed his gaze.

The lights of JFK’s runways blinked them home.

They had visual.

When the approaching aircraft came into view, dipping and twisting its way toward the runway, the tower erupted in cheers.

The plane’s lights grew brighter with each second. ETA: one minute. Everyone with binoculars tried to get a visual on the condition of the aircraft. The landing gear appeared, the tires stretching into position below the airframe.

The plane banked right dramatically, then corrected itself, tilting far left in response. It was a windy night, but Dusty knew that wasn’t the cause of the erratic movements.

He glanced at the radar to check their speed. One hundred and forty-five knots. Fast. Too fast for a plane that size, that weight, at this stage. Not impossibly fast. But they needed to land long.

“Whoa there, girl,” Dusty muttered. “Flaps, flaps, flaps.”

Slats of metal on the trailing edge of the wings extended to his request as though they heard him. The increased drag slowed the plane nearly enough and they were in alignment with the runway. JFK wasn’t a tricky arrival, but there wasn’t much open space beyond the runway. Landing from the west on 31R meant the end of the runway opened onto other aircraft hangars, hotels, and roads.

They were going to land short when they needed to land long.

Jo followed Bill’s instructions and watched the artificial horizon on the primary flight display without blinking. She could see the sidestick shake under his hand, the plane’s orientation on the display moving in response.

FIVE HUNDRED.

She glanced at their speed. “Do the flaps again?”

Bill nodded and Jo pulled down on the flaps lever. It clicked down another notch.

“Now,” Bill said. “See those two levers in the center? The big ones between those wheels with the white marks.”

“These?” Jo’s hand hovered.

Bill nodded. “Those are the thrust levers. Put your hand on them and keep it there until I say. Once we’re on the ground—I’ll tell you when—you’re going to pull them back. Back toward you. Do it slowly at first. And when I tell you to, you’re going to pull them all the way down.”

“All the way. Okay.”

The plane’s nose dipped. The descent was a far cry from the steady feet-first approach aircraft generally took. Each erratic flailing made the controllers in the tower hold their breath.

The plane was approximately fifteen seconds out. At this point, with the binoculars, they could see into the cockpit.

Bill. Jo. An empty first officer’s seat.

Ten seconds until landing.

No one in the tower breathed, no one moved. No one wanted to be the reason the putt lipped out, the ball bounced off the rim, the home run nicked the pole and went foul.

Five seconds till landing.

ONE HUNDRED.

Jo watched the lights at the beginning of the runway. Two thick belts of red-and-yellow approach bulbs. Then a thin green line. Then a long stretch of white: the touchdown zone. In the middle, a single path. The centerline.

FIFTY.

FORTY.

Jo and Bill watched the horizon scope. It tilted. He corrected. It tilted again. He overcorrected. He struggled to keep his hand steady.

THIRTY.

TWENTY.

This was it. Jo wanted to close her eyes but resisted.

RETARD. RETARD. RETARD.

The voice calmly warned them that the ground was imminent.

In that final second, she heard Bill whisper to himself.

“One hundred and forty-nine souls on board.”