Falling by T.J. Newman

CHAPTER SEVEN

JO STEADIED HERSELF AS SHEwaited for the other flight attendants to come up front. She had tried to sound so nonchalant when she called them. Poor things had no clue what was about to hit them.

“What is this? Are we praying? What’s going on here?” Big Daddy said, startling Jo with his silent approach. His badge may have said “Michael Rodenburg,” but everyone at Coastal knew him as Big Daddy—and everyone at Coastal knew Big Daddy. Five foot three, not 115 pounds soaking wet; he’d been in the airline’s first flight attendant class and was one of only a handful still flying who had an employee number with only three digits. Coastal Airways was his third airline since starting his career a lifetime ago (the exact year of which he never exactly specified). He was a never-ending source of flight attendant folklore, the authenticity of which no one dared question. Passengers and crews either loved him or hadn’t a damn clue what to do with him. But either way, Big Daddy could get away with murder.

“Where’s Kellie?” Jo said.

“She’s coming.”

“Good. Listen. Things are about to get… interesting. Okay? I’ll explain once she gets here, but you and I are the seasoned ones. We’re gonna have to hold it tight, because I don’t know how Kellie’s going to react.”

“React to what?” Kellie said, her approach unseen from behind the galley curtain.

“Listen, baby girl,” Big Daddy said, clapping his hands. “Training is over. Shit is about to get real. But no matter what Jo says, just remember: planes can fly—no problem—with only one engine, and if at least seventy-five percent of the people currently on this plane walk off alive? I consider that a success.”

“Not helping,” Jo said, eyebrow peaked. “All right, look. We’re facing something that… I… Look, we’re going to have to…” She sighed. “Guys, this is a new one.”

Ignoring their looks, she soldiered on, ripping the Band-Aid off as quickly and clearly as Bill had with her. Neither moved a muscle or visibly reacted as they listened silently to the situation at hand.

Once Jo finished, Kellie’s wide eyes shot back and forth between her and Big Daddy like she was watching a tennis match, the seconds ticking on as the two senior members of the crew simply stared at each other with mutually raised eyebrows and pursed lips. During their preflight briefing, Jo had asked how long she’d been on-line. Kellie had said a little over a month. Jo realized the poor girl probably hadn’t even had her first medical yet, not even oxygen.

“I’ll cover service, don’t worry about that,” Kellie offered.

The other two stared.

“What… do you mean?” Jo asked.

“Like, while you guys handle all the crisis stuff. I’ll get all the food and drink orders.”

Jo and Big Daddy shared a glance. Jo spoke softly. “Honey, listen. The usual things? The drinks and the food and the smiling? You know that’s not what we’re here for, right?”

“Sure, but it’ll still have to get done,” Kellie said. “So I’m saying I’ll take care of all that so you guys can focus on, like, this other stuff.”

Jo watched the young flight attendant put on plastic gloves and shake out a trash bag.

“I’ll collect trash and just, you know, do service stuff,” Kellie said. “Probably better I’m out of the way anyway. I’m so new, I’d… I’d just be in the way, I’m sure.”

Jo wrapped her fingers around the young woman’s forearm, pulling her back in as she tried to leave. A heavy tear slid down Kellie’s cheek, plopping onto her red dress just above her wings.

“Kellie,” Jo said. “That’s not our job. Service is just something we provide.”

It had been decades since Jo’s initial training, but that didn’t matter. The five weeks of training flooded back in Technicolor vividness as though she’d been in Kellie’s class last month. Relentless studying followed by written tests. First aid and self-defense. Drilling, over and over, the evacuation of hundreds of people from a burning aircraft, or from a water landing. She and her classmates, breathless and sweating, had screamed commands until they were hoarse, orchestrating survival. They’d learned about the different kinds of fires and the different ways to fight them. Hazmat, heart attacks, hijackings. Federal regulations and federal air marshals. Turbulence. Terrorists. And all of it in a pressurized metal tube, thirty-eight thousand feet in the air going six hundred miles per hour. Five weeks of training and in only one of those days did they go over food, drinks, and hospitality. Jo watched the junior flight attendant struggling to breathe, knowing that this was the moment when Kellie understood what her job really was.

Kellie looked to the back of the aircraft. Her head whipped right and left. She looked at every exit. Shifting her weight, she pulled against Jo.

“Sweetheart,” Jo said. “Where are you gonna go?”

Kellie stared at the back of the plane with no answer.

Big Daddy cleared his throat. Closing his eyes, he flared his nostrils through a deep intake of air. “Okay,” he said, his eyes fluttering open. “I’ll say this much. When this is all over and we’re walking off the plane in Kennedy? Someone is going to have to pull my bag because I will be pushing that big boy”—he jabbed an emphatic finger at the liquor cart—“off this plane and directly into my hotel room.”

Turning to Kellie with a look that said How about you?, Jo waited.

“I’m not ready for something this big,” Kellie whispered. “I’m not even off probation.”

Jo tried not to laugh. At a moment like this, the poor girl was worried about getting in trouble with her supervisor. “I know, honey. It doesn’t feel fair, does it?” She shook her head. “But it is what it is.”

The three stood in silence for a moment, processing. Kellie wiped her tears, accepting the napkins Daddy handed her. Blowing her nose, she rubbed her lips together and cleared her throat, attempting a smile. The others politely ignored her quivering cheek.

“I’m a whisky girl,” said Kellie, her youthful cadence making most statements sound like questions. “So I call dibs on a few Jack and Gingers.”

“Well, all right, then,” Jo said, nodding in approval. “Jack and Gingers for you, a whole bottle of that first-class Chardonnay for me, and, I’m assuming, the rest of the cart for Daddy.”

“Preach,” Daddy confirmed.

“But in the meantime?” Jo said. “We have to prepare this plane and the one hundred and forty-four passengers on it for an airborne chemical attack and emergency landing. Okay? Now, I have an idea—”

“Excuse me?” came a voice from behind, making them jump. It was the man at the window in row two, aircraft left. “I was wondering what snacks—”

“No,” Daddy said, “we’re busy. You finished your chicken a half hour ago, your blood sugar is fine.” Sliding the galley curtain shut on the dumbfounded man, Daddy turned back to the crew. “What?” he said in response to Jo’s face. Rolling his eyes, he poked his head out into the cabin.

“Wink. Just kidding,” he said coyly. “Jo has popcorn, potato chips, almonds, gummy bears, and little squares of chocolate.”

With chips and ginger ale in hand, the passenger regarded the three flight attendants with suspicion before returning to his seat. Big Daddy closed the curtain behind him.

“Okay,” he said. “The end with that nonsense. The whole plane is cut off. Jo. What’s your idea?”

Jo thought about all the problems they faced. The gas attack. Washington, DC. Bill’s family. The unknown mole on board. There was so much going on, but most of it was entirely out of their control. They couldn’t afford to waste time and energy worrying about it all.

“Okay. So,” Jo said. “There’s a lot going on, but the problem we need to focus on is the attack here in the cabin. We have no idea what it is, so we’re just going to assume it’s worst-case scenario and plan from there.”

“Sarin nerve gas,” Daddy said. “Ricin. VX. Anthrax. Cyanide. My god, what if it’s botulinum?”

“C’mon,” Jo said. “That’s chemical warfare–level stuff. There’s no way these people got their hands on something like that.”

“Um, they’ve managed to hijack a domestic commercial flight in a post-9/11 world. I don’t think we should count anything out.”

“So say it is one of those,” Kellie said. “What can we expect will happen? Like, to us. If we breathe it.”

“I mean,” Daddy began, flourishing his hand, “we’re talking shortness of breath? Muscle paralysis? Abdominal pain, vomiting, and diarrhea? Loss of consciousness? Foaming at the mouth? And, uh. Well. Death.”

Jo pinched the bridge of her nose. “Short answer: we don’t want to breathe it. So,” Jo said, crossing her arms, “here’s my idea. The passengers will need clean oxygen—”

“The PSUs,” Kellie said.

“Yes!” Jo said. “Exactly. Everybody on board has oxygen right above their heads. We just need to release the masks.”

Opening the compartment below her jump seat, Jo extracted the small metal slat affixed to the inside. The manual release tool was essentially an expensive version of a paper clip bent open into a straight line. She held it up and they all gazed upon the smallest, most inconsequential piece of emergency equipment on any aircraft. Its only purpose was to release the masks above the seats—manually, row by row—in the unlikely event that an automatic release didn’t happen. None of them had ever used it or thought they ever would.

“We have to assume the attack will happen right before we land, just before final descent,” Jo said. “But we need to be ready early. Honestly, as soon as we can. We don’t know how much passenger resistance there might be, and it’s going to take some time even if it goes perfectly. Which means we need to start dropping the masks soon.”

“So what are you going to say in your announcement?” Kellie said.

“My announcement?” Jo said.

Kellie opened her hands. “What, we’re just going to, like, start dropping masks? And… hope they don’t notice?”

“Well, see, now that’s where we need to plan and come up with something. Because we obviously can’t tell them what’s going on.”

The other two stared. Daddy raised his hand.

“Josephina—quick question. What in the actual fuck?”

“We can’t tell them anything. The terrorist will kill Bill’s family if we do.”

“And that is truly awful, and I’m sorry. But what about these people? We’re just going to let them run blind into an attack while we know damn well it’s on its way?”

Jo shook her head. “It’s not just Bill’s family. There’s a backup, remember? Back here. With us.” The tone of her voice was rising with her anxiety. Taking a breath, she glanced around the curtain to survey the cabin. Two people were waiting for the bathroom in the back. A man stood in the aisle bouncing his baby. Nothing seemed off.

“Look,” she said. “We need to keep this contained. We can’t let anyone know anything is going on.”

“Okay,” Kellie said. “So again. We’re gonna drop the masks and smile and nod? Like it’s totally something we normally do on flights?”

Jo sighed and dropped her head. “I know. I know. Look, I don’t have an answer to everything. The only thing I know for sure is that we need those masks out, and that’s final. We must give these people what they need to survive. Let’s just start there, okay?”

Daddy raised his hands in surrender and Kellie nodded. The engines hummed, far in the back a baby cried, and someone in first class shut an overhead bin. The three flight attendants stared at the floor amid the ambient noise.

With a tiny gasp, Daddy covered his mouth, a glint of Eureka! gleaming in his eyes.

“The FAR!” he said. “How the hell did we forget Federal Aviation Regulation four-point-two-point-seven? It clearly states that in the event of an Oxygen Release System fault in the flight deck, flight attendants are required to manually release all cabin oxygen masks from the PSUs so that in the unlikely event of a decompression, passengers will have access to oxygen.”

Kellie blinked. “I didn’t know that FAR. I mean, if that’s what we’re supposed to do, then obviously—”

“He made that up,” Jo said.

Big Daddy curtsied.

“You want to lie to them?” Kellie said.

“Do it all the time,” Daddy said. “Guess they’re still not teaching that in initial.”

“No, he’s right,” Jo said. “Fooled you, it’ll fool them. I think they’ll go with it. We just need the masks out. Let’s cross that bridge first, then we’ll figure out what to do next after that.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s get this over with,” Kellie said. “But I’m not making the announcement. You guys can do the talking.”

“We’re all doing the talking,” Jo said. “No one’s making an announcement.”

“What?” Daddy said.

“We’re trying to be covert, remember? Bill’s still on the video call and the FO doesn’t know anything’s happening. He can’t know anything’s happening.”

“The pilots can hear our announcements?” Kellie asked.

“Sort of. They can always hear when we’re making an announcement, just not clearly. But if they want to, they can switch the audio and listen in. They just don’t usually. So the less attention we attract, the better. We have to make this seem like a nonevent. Not just for us back here, but for the sake of Bill’s family.”

Jo thought of Carrie. Over the years, enough company picnics and Christmas parties had turned into the families getting together on their own. The women weren’t best friends, but a happy hour here and there kept them in touch. When Scott was born, Jo gave Carrie a bunch of her son’s hand-me-downs and she loved the pictures she got of the baby in her boy’s old favorites.

Shaking the flood of images out of her head, she refocused.

Theo would take care of the family.

Bill would take care of the plane.

They needed to take care of the passengers.