by Bobby Akart
As Tyler predicted, the process started at the rear of the coaster. One car at a time, the safety bar was manually released, a task that required the firefighter to climb down the coaster’s rail and crank a lever on the undercarriage of the car. As the safety bars opened with a loud pop, gravity immediately pulled the riders forward within the car. They were instructed to use the seat in front of them to support their weight while the firefighters affixed the safety rope and swung them to safety.
The deliberate process took ten to fifteen minutes per passenger, raising the anxiety levels of the remaining passengers in the first two cars. In addition, the temperatures began to plummet as a cold front moved through the east coast. The combination of the colder temps, a slight breeze, and the inability to move in the cramped space caused the children to begin shaking.
Angela noticed it first. “Are you guys all right up there?”
“It’s cold, Mom. We’re tough, right, kiddo?” Kaycee genuinely loved her younger brother although, as was typical, she had a tendency to pick on him because she could. It was never mean-spirited. Eventually, she assumed J.C. would turn the tables on her.
“Yeah, I’m tough,” added J.C. “I’m really cold, but I’m not scared.”
The firefighters began to assist the passengers in the car behind them. Tyler came to admire the young girls, who had screamed louder during the ride than when their lives were truly in danger. Somehow, the death of the other passengers reminded them they still had a chance to escape this nightmare.
The firefighter who had conversed with Tyler earlier finally appeared next to Tyler and J.C.’s side of the car. He tried to insert some humor into the tense situation. “Rankin, party of four?”
Angela and Tyler got a chuckle from his lighthearted attempt to calm their nerves. Angela replied on behalf of the family, “Yes, that would be us. We had reservations to eat down there somewhere.”
“I take it you’re ready to get out of here?”
“Yeah! Let’s go!” shouted Kaycee.
Chapter 48
Six Flags Great Adventure
Jackson, New Jersey
Kaycee Rankin lived for this adrenaline rush, her younger brother, J.C., not so much. He was a feet-firmly-planted-on-the-ground kinda kid. Tyler and Angela would lay in bed on those rare occasions when their schedules permitted, and talked about what their kids would be doing when they grew up.
Tyler was firmly convinced Kaycee would grow up to play football. The first time he suggested she could get a scholarship to a Southeastern Conference school like South Carolina, Angela slugged him. He recalled the conversation they’d had.
“My daughter is not gonna be one of those bikini babes during the Super Bowl halftime show on some crappy cable network.”
Tyler always thought that was ironic because his wife previously made a living as a fitness model, which required her to wear swimwear for photo shoots. But it was natural for a mother to hope for something different for her daughter. Just the same, playing football wasn’t what she had in mind.
As for J.C., he was still too young to have a plan set for his life. One thing for certain, he had the ability to be witty and a real charmer—even to the point of being manipulative. He could convince anyone of anything, eventually convincing himself in the process.
After Kaycee’s accident, Tyler and Angela didn’t realize how much love was showered upon their daughter to the detriment of J.C. During those formative years, it had somewhat of an impact on J.C.’s mental wellness. As a result, Tyler and Angela tried to focus on doing things that were of interest to him, including this trip.
They often referred to their son as the president-in-training. He loved the theatrics of political campaigns in particular. While Kaycee would be in one room watching sporting events, J.C. would be in the other, watching replays of powerful political speeches. If the truth were known, the youngster knew more about politics than Tyler did.
When he began to show a strong interest in history, especially as it related to America’s founding, Tyler and Angela promised a trip to historic places related to the War for Independence and the creation of the United States.
He was truly in his element during the trip, pointing out certain factoids to the family as they visited Boston. He told the story of Paul Revere to his sister and the importance of the Liberty Tree. Much to Tyler’s surprise, J.C. was well versed in the history of the Loyal Nine and the subsequent Sons of Liberty.
As J.C. was explaining the backstory during the family’s stroll through Boston Common, the two adoring parents asked each other twice how old their son was.
“He’s like a history book in a child’s body,” Angela had remarked as J.C. went on and on about the Boston Tea Party and other major events that had occurred in Boston.
The firefighter finished attaching everyone’s harnesses, and then he turned his attention to Tyler.
“I need you guys to brace yourself and be prepared when the safety bar lifts. For hours, you’ve grown accustomed to it holding you back. Your body is not used to the gravity pull that you’ll feel at this altitude.”
“Won’t the ropes help?” asked Angela.
“Yes, but everyone needs to be ready to hold themselves in place. Understand?”
Angela and Tyler looked at one another and nodded.
Tyler addressed their children. “Okay, guys. It’s time to get out of here. We need you both to brace yourselves against the front of the car until the firefighter can get into position to put the other harness on J.C. It will just take a minute, right?” Tyler looked to the firefighter with hopeful eyes.
“That’s right. I’ll be just underneath for a moment to release the safety bar. The extra harness is sitting in the car at your feet. As soon as you’re loose, I’ll scramble up there and get you squared away.”
“Okay,” said J.C. sheepishly, still seemingly unsure about the whole operation. He felt for the single safety belt strapped loosely around his waist.
Kaycee gave the belt one final tug to tighten it and then tried to encourage her brother. “I’ll help you, buddy.”
J.C. nodded and prepared himself. The firefighter crawled under the car and began to crank the release mechanism. At first, the safety bar opened smoothly, and then it stopped suddenly.
“It’s okay,” the firefighter began. “My hand slipped on the lever.”
J.C. looked over at Kaycee for reassurance, and then without warning them, the firefighter cranked the lever the rest of the way, abruptly opening the safety bar before the children were prepared for it.
“Oh no!” exclaimed the firefighter as he lost his balance and swung wildly toward the center of the Kingda Ka structure.
“Ahhhhh,” screamed J.C. as his small body crashed into the edge of the coaster compartment in front of him. He toppled over the hood and began sliding downward, desperately trying to hold on.
“Grab him!”
Kaycee was trying to hold onto his jeans, but J.C. kept sliding downward, slipping through her grasp. She grabbed one ankle, causing him to spin sideways until all she had was his shoe.
“Daaad!” plead Kaycee as she struggled to brace herself and hold onto her brother.
“Help!” screamed J.C.
Tyler hooked his right arm through the lifted safety bar and swung outside the car like an acrobat performing a high-wire act. He reached for J.C.’s leg with his left arm, but it was too late. His foot slipped out of his sneaker, leaving J.C. and his shoe careening toward the ground.
Chapter 49
Delta Flight 322
Using the seat backs, Cort pulled himself deeper into the water, quickly moving past several dead bodies that were stuck in their seatbelts or who’d been knocked unconscious from the overhead luggage. He’d lost count of the number of rows he’d passed, but when the curtains separating the first-class seating from the main cabin floated in front of his face, he knew he was there.
Cort wrestled with the curtains, which fluttered around his body.
He grabbed the partition wall and heaved himself forward into first class. He quickly became disoriented, unable to remember where Congressman Pratt was seated. At first, he looked to his right, not realizing that the aircraft was upside down. The seats were empty.
Relieved, he turned his body around and planned to swim straight up the aisle to the aft exit. As he grasped the headrests to use them as a catapult, he felt hair. Cort reached into the dark water, grasping the seats on the other side of the aircraft for leverage.
He felt the unmistakable portly, bloated corpse of Congressman Pratt. The man was still strapped into his seat with his life vest around his neck. It had been inflated and wedged his body between the seat back in front of him, which had been fully reclined. The congressman had drowned having never had the opportunity to leave his seat.
Cort shook his head and closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do, so he focused on his own survival. Propelling himself upward using his arms like oars against the seat backs, Cort floated toward his row, where much-needed oxygen awaited.
However, upon reaching the exit rows and his original seat 26-C, there was no oxygen. Only water. The plane must have slipped deeper toward the bottom of the Gulf.
Cort kept swimming. Row after row, he expected the water to end and the much-needed oxygen to appear. It didn’t. He looked upward toward the tail section. The faint glow of starlight was gone.
He stopped. Did the plane shift? Am I swimming down now? Deeper into the water? Panic set in. He didn’t want to drown.
Cort tried to relax his body and mind. He had to decide. Go back to the exit row, or continue toward the tail section?
He thought quickly and then removed a seat cushion next to him. The buoyant effect would answer the question. He released it and it gradually floated toward the aft exit door. Cort didn’t hesitate and chased it up the aisle, grabbing another seat cushion as he went. His legs kicked at the water, forcing his body past the lavatories and out of the plane through the exit door.
But it still wasn’t over.
Using the seat cushion to aid him toward the surface, he kicked as hard as he could, mustering all of his energy and will to reach the surface. But he was fading.
The average person can hold their breath for thirty to sixty seconds. Cort, who remained in excellent physical condition by playing basketball at the congressional gym, was in better shape than most.
The instinct not to breathe underwater was so strong that it overcame the agony and feeling of helplessness when a person was running out of air. No matter how desperate a drowning person became, the body’s innate desire to inhale didn’t occur until it was on the edge of losing consciousness.
At that point, the body’s bloodstream became filled with carbon dioxide, and the amount of oxygen diminished. The chemical sensors in the brain triggered an involuntary breath, one that cannot be suppressed willfully, whether the body was underwater or not.
Neurologists call this the break point. It usually happens after eighty-seven seconds. Some physicians refer to the brain’s reaction as neurological optimism. It was as if the brain had made an irrational determination—holding my breath is killing me, and breathing in might not, so I might as well breathe in.
When the first involuntary breath was taken, most people were still conscious. In a way, it was unfortunate because there weren’t many things more unpleasant than gasping for air only to have water forced into your lungs instead. Drowning was a horrible way to die.
Cort had entered a state of voluntary apnea when he took that last deep breath and descended into the plane in search of Congressman Pratt. That was two minutes ago. He had reached his break point when voluntary apnea becomes involuntary. A point where his next spasmodic breath would drag water into his mouth and down his windpipe. A point where the Gulf of Mexico would flood his lungs and end any transfer of oxygen to the blood.
His final breath.
The process of drowning made it harder and harder not to drown. The body became akin to a sinking boat, with its destiny the bottom of the ocean.
For Michael Cortland, former basketball player at Yale, as well as loving husband and father, the clock was running out. He was half-conscious and weakened by oxygen depletion. He was in no position to fight his way back to the surface. Fate had caught up with him.
His destiny.
Chapter 50
Times Square
New York City
A dirty bomb looked no different than any other conventional explosive, but it was wrapped in radioactive materials. Bundles of cobalt-60 or strontium-90 could take the most common ordnance and create radioactive dust clouds capable of causing severe sickness or death in millions who came in contact with the material. The cleanup costs associated with the widely dispersed radioactive particles could cost trillions of dollars, not to mention the fact the affected areas might have to be abandoned for many years or even decades.
As the quadcopter drones buzzed through the skies of Manhattan, dropping their payloads around Times Square, as well as near Grand Central Station, the island’s transportation hub, widely dispersed particles of radioactive material blanketed Midtown New York. The dust was inhaled or absorbed into the body, but it didn’t necessarily kill immediately. It could potentially hasten the demise of those whose immune systems were weak due to a previous cancer or other diseases.
Those who justify the use of dirty bombs as a humane form of warfare argue that, like an electromagnetic pulse attack, it’s not a weapon of mass destruction but, rather, a weapon of mass disruption. In the attackers’ minds, immediate body count was the standard by which the use of a weapon should be judged. Not fear.
The quadcopters delivered a deadly blow to New York City, one that wouldn’t be fully understood for days or weeks. In addition to the panic, and the deaths that resulted therefrom, the financial center of the world would suffer an unimaginable economic calamity.
Tom knew about the threat, as he’d studied the subject extensively after a Thanksgiving Day conversation with Willa. She’d warned him that drone warfare would be used by terrorists in the years to come. He just didn’t imagine it would happen so soon. He pushed the conversation into the back of his mind. For now, his focus needed to be on their survival.
“Donna, this is very important,” he said calmly to his gimpy wife. “You have to keep this scarf wrapped around your face as tight as possible. I’m gonna keep my sweatshirt pulled over my nose and mouth.”
“Tom, is there poison in the air?”
“Sort of. Maybe. I mean, possible radioactive material. Listen, you won’t smell it and nobody will know they’re ingesting it. But, trust me, it’s there.”
“I don’t know if I can walk and hold this in place too.” She looked down at her right leg, which was bent at the knee to keep pressure off her ankle.
“You’re not gonna have to worry about that because I’m gonna carry you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma’am. Really, just like I did the day we got married.”
Tom couldn’t see his bride’s grin, but he could see her eyes smiling at him. “Okay, but I’m a little chubbier than back in the day.”
“Well, I’m not that skinny kid from Beaufort, South Carolina, anymore either.” Tom stretched out the name of his hometown, pronounced BYOO-fert, out of habit. The town’s pronunciation was often confused with the coastal town of Beaufort, North Carolina, which was pronounced BOH-fert. Residents of both these Southern towns were quick to correct Yankees who got it wrong.
Donna, who was a Charlestonian through and through, mocked him from time to time and couldn’t resist in this tense moment. “Okay, my BYOO-tiful husband, carry me up to your lair and have your way with me.”
Tom rolled his eyes and laughed. “Okay, Miz Shelton, here we go.”
With a grunt he swept her up in his arms, and the two momentarily touched their foreheads to one another. Tom moved along the Avenue of the Americas under the canopy-designed entrance to the block-w
ide office building until he made his way to the corner of West Forty-Fifth Street.
They were only a couple of blocks away from Times Square, and in the fifteen minutes since the bombs had begun to detonate, the crowd had thinned somewhat, scattering throughout Midtown Manhattan like millions of mice fleeing a giant cat.
He turned against the flow of people who were pushing and shoving their way down Forty-Fifth Street. Using the canopy as cover down the left side of the street, he noticed that Connolly’s Pub across the street had been broken into, and people were stepping over the broken plate glass to get inside. Ignoring the melee as people fought to seek cover, he pushed forward until he saw the orange flags marking the entrance to the Hyatt Centric. Now his challenge was to cross the street.
Donna turned her head and saw the problem. “Should we wait until they pass?”
“It’s a steady stream of people, and the longer we’re in the open, the more dangerous it is. Hold me tight, Donna. I’m gonna need my arms to push people out of the way as we go across.”
Donna gripped her husband’s neck and shoulders so that her arms supported her own weight. Tom studied the flow of people. There were too many. Then he noticed the temporary sawhorse barricades put into place by the city. Most were toppled over, but one was pushed to the side next to a FreshDirect delivery van parked in front of Bobby Van’s restaurant to their left.
“Here we go!” exclaimed Tom as he made his way alongside the delivery truck and tucked the barricade under his arm. It was heavy, as was Donna, but adrenaline and love fueled him.
Using the barricade as a battering ram at first, and then a method of diverting the crowd as he turned it sideways, the masses slowed and began to divide in the center of the street as he moved across. When he was close enough to reach the sidewalk in front of the Hyatt, he dropped the barricade, which allowed him to run the final ten feet to avoid the stubbornly approaching mass of people.