by Rick Mofina
Nothing was breaking on TV, either. Kate picked up more dispatches.
“EastCloud Forty-nine Ninety, repeat—we can give you Teterboro or Newark.”
“Thank you, New York. We’ve got a visual on the Verrazano Bridge. We’ll keep LaGuardia.”
“Forty-nine Ninety, stand by.”
Kate did another online check. No one was tweeting anything.
This is all happening now.
Resentment bubbled in the pit of her stomach. She’d come in today on her own time to finish a feature about crime on the subways of the world’s largest cities. She was pulling together files from Newslead’s bureaus in Mexico City, Seoul and São Paulo. But she had to stop. The situation on the radios gnawed at her.
No way am I taking the blame for us missing a major breaking story because someone else failed to do their job.
Kate went to the scanner room, looking for the incident log, or at least a note from whoever was on duty. She found nothing. Again, she looked around the newsroom. One person was working in graphics. Other than that, no one was around. A portrait of an industry withering before the internet, she thought. When she’d started, one hundred and forty newspeople had worked here at headquarters.
That number was now seventy-one.
Kate went to the news assistant’s desk, just in time to see a girl barely out of her teens returning while drinking from a thermos.
“Who’re you?” Kate asked.
“Penny. I’m the new assistant. Todd was here but he went home sick.”
“Who’s on the scanners?”
“Sloane. I forget his last name.”
“Parkman. Where is he?”
“He told me he was stepping out to get scones and would be right back. Is everything okay?”
Kate rolled her eyes.
Sloane was the worst person you could put on scanner duty. All that crash-and-burn stuff is a bit too tabloid for me, but they say everybody has to do their time here, she’d overheard him tell a friend on the phone.
He’d joined Newslead a year ago between rounds of layoffs. His family was one of New England’s oldest. He had degrees from Harvard and Columbia, had worked at the Washington Post and Forbes, and had boasted about having political connections in Washington and corporate connections on Wall Street.
He always introduced himself as Sloane F. Parkman and assured you that he knew everyone and everything, right down to the best bars in Manhattan, the best shops and restaurants. He wore Brooks Brothers shirts, had a gleaming, white-toothed grin and never had a hair out of place.
How he’d gotten a job with Newslead in a time of cutbacks was no mystery. Kate knew that he’d been hired at the urging of her editor because of mutual family ties. There were no secrets in a newsroom. Sloane had half the news-reporting experience that Kate had yet he regarded her as he would an untested rookie, and as a latter-day-Dickensian working-class woman to be pitied.
I applaud you for what you’ve achieved in your life, he’d told her one day. It’s nothing short of heroic, putting yourself through that community college in Chicago the way you did—sorry I’d never heard of it. In any event, here you are. And raising a child alone. Bravo, Kate. Bravo.
That was Sloane F. Parkman.
Kate entered the scanner room with Penny in tow as new transmissions came through clearly.
“Forty-nine Ninety, this is LaGuardia tower. Are you declaring an emergency?”
Kate took notes, motioning for Penny to sit in the empty chair and use the computer at the desk.
“Penny, did they teach you how to listen to the scanners?”
“No, not yet.”
“Did Todd show you how to alert the photographers on duty and call freelancers?”
“Yes.”
“Okay—wait—listen!”
More transmissions were coming through. Kate cranked up the volume and took notes.
“Affirmative. We’re declaring an emergency. We have passenger and crew injuries aboard. Approximately thirty, some pretty bad. We’ll need a lot of ambulances.”
“Fatalities?”
“None to report.”
“Forty-nine Ninety, do you have damage to your aircraft?”
Kate was writing as fast as she could, trying to make sure her notes were clear.
“Damage to the cabin, ceiling, galley, storage bins.”
“Are you citing turbulence?”
“Negative. Negative on turbulence. We had a sys—” A burst of static drowned out part of the transmission, but the message ended clearly with “—malfunction.”
“Repeating. You’re reporting a—” more static “—malfunction?”
“Affirmative.”
“Forty-nine Ninety, you have priority clearance to land. Runway Four. Crash and Rescue will meet you at your gate.”
“Roger...visual approach for Runway Four...”
Penny turned to seek direction from Kate but the older woman had already grabbed her bag and was rushing toward the elevators.
“Penny, I’m heading to LaGuardia!” Kate shouted. “Alert every photographer and let them know we have a plane in trouble landing now!”
Three
Queens, New York
As the taxi raced through the skyscraper-lined streets, Kate searched for updates on her phone.
Nothing so far.
She set up an alert for anything that broke on EastCloud Flight 4990.
Crosstown traffic was good; there were few double-parkers and unloaders blocking the street, and within minutes they’d entered the Midtown Tunnel. It smelled of exhaust and gleamed gold from headlights reflecting on the walls. As it curved under the East River to Queens, Kate found herself taking stock of her job and her life.
Wasn’t she living her dream?
For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to be a reporter and to get her life on track. In spite of all that she’d endured, she’d managed to work her way up the journalistic ladder to a position at Newslead, one of the world’s top news organizations. The global newswire service had bureaus in every major city in the United States and in one hundred countries. Its reputation for excellence had been solidified by awards it had won throughout its history, including twenty-two Pulitzers. Newslead was respected and feared by its chief rivals, such as the Associated Press, Bloomberg and Reuters. Kate was proud to work for Newslead, but things were changing.
Fierce competition, the corrosive impact of the internet on the distribution of news and the melting number of subscribers continued to exact a toll.
Kate had to struggle not to pin her hopes on the rumor that Chuck Laneer, the editor who’d hired her at Newslead before he’d left to teach at Columbia after clashing with former management, was returning to help rebuild the news division. Chuck was gruff, wise and old-school. He could kick your butt and respect you at the same time.
But so far the news of Chuck’s return was only gossip.
The reality was that anxiety had gripped the newsroom. Management weighed every financial decision extensively. Staff faced constant evaluation. Performance on every news story was scrutinized. Newslead had instituted a “staff efficiency process,” linking story count and story pickup to individual performance assessments. It was championed by Kate’s editor, Reeka Beck, a twenty-eight-year-old Ivy League management zealot.
Reeka had a cover-girl face, an insatiable ambition and was convinced that her news judgment was superior to that of seasoned journalists. Reeka had been a junior copy editor at Newslead’s Boston bureau, whose collective work had been a finalist for a Pulitzer. In reality, she possessed little reporting experience. She’d never covered a homicide or asked an inconsolable parent for a picture of their dead child.
But her moneyed bloodline gave her an advantage. Reeka
’s uncle sat on Newslead’s board of directors. However, most people strained to tolerate her—her dealings with reporters were often so curt and officious they bordered on rudeness. Conversations with her nearly became confrontations. Reeka had embraced the staff efficiency process even though it was killing morale.
Last month twenty people were let go from headquarters. Some were news veterans like Liz Cochrane, who’d covered wars, interviewed Mexican drug lords and escaped being kidnapped by terrorists in Iraq. Liz had sat near Kate and that day had been horrible.
She’d seen Liz falling apart at her desk while reading her severance letter then tenderly placing her belongings in a box for printing paper—A cardboard coffin for my career, she’d joked while saying goodbye.
Even though Kate had made it through the latest round of terminations, watching the funereal march of dismissed colleagues had been heart-wrenching. She’d been in their shoes; she was familiar with that soul-shattering feeling, for she’d struggled much of her life.
She was a thirty-two-year-old single mom with a nine-year-old daughter and she was living with her sister, Vanessa. There were days when Kate felt like she was hanging on by her fingertips but she was still here, doing the best that she could because she was a fighter who never gave up.
The cab left the tunnel and passed through the toll gates. As it accelerated on the Long Island Expressway, Kate’s phone rang.
It was Reeka. “What’re you doing, Kate?”
“Heading to LaGuardia. We’ve got a plane in trouble.”
“You’re not on today. Who assigned you to go to LaGuardia?”
“No one. I was in the newsroom working on my subway crime feat—”
“I just spoke with Sloane. He’s on duty and he assures me that this Buffalo jet thing is minor. He’s been listening to the scanners all day.”
“No, he wasn’t there when I was there, when things were popping!”
Sloane’s trying to cover his ass by hanging me out to dry—
“Kate, were you in today hoping to collect overtime?”
“No. Reeka, listen, I was there on my own time working on my feature when this broke on the scanners. Sloane was out buying scones.”
“I don’t think so. I know Sloane and if he says—”
Anger bubbled in Kate just as her phone chimed with a news alert. The Associated Press had issued a bulletin: “Commuter jet with multiple injuries on board declares emergency landing at LaGuardia.”
“Reeka, did you see what AP’s just put out?”
A moment passed before Reeka responded.
“I see it. Okay, get to the airport and file as soon as you can.”
Four
Queens, New York
Sirens wailed and emergency lights flashed as two ambulances sped by Kate’s cab on the Grand Central Parkway near the airport.
“We need Terminal C, arrivals pickup area.”
She directed the driver while keeping her phone to her ear. After four attempts, she’d finally reached Dwayne, somebody with EastCloud’s public affairs. He’d put her on hold.
She’d already left messages with the National Transportation Safety Board, the Federal Aviation Administration, LaGuardia Airport, the Port Authority and several other agencies. No responses. Her taxi was on the ramp to the airport when the line clicked and Dwayne returned.
“Sorry, who’ve I got here?”
“Kate Page with Newslead. What happened to Flight Forty-nine Ninety? Why did it declare an emergency?”
“We’re still assessing matters. We’ll put out a statement soon.”
“Are there fatalities? How many injur—?”
“I have to go.”
“Can you estimate the number of injuries?”
“We’ll put out a statement. I really have to go.”
The call ended as Kate’s cab slowed on the edge of havoc.
Red, white, orange and blue lights blinked from the police, fire and paramedic vehicles that were jammed outside the Terminal C arrivals area, backing up traffic. Kate paid her driver, who hastily scrawled a receipt.
Her phone was chiming with news alerts. She saw two news vans parked to the side. Up ahead, TV crews with shoulder-held cameras were shooting footage of people on stretchers being loaded into ambulances. Kate arrived to see one woman, her back raised on a gurney, her head bandaged and tears in her eyes. Microphones hovered near her and reporters hurled questions at her as paramedics placed her in an ambulance.
“Can you describe the flight?”
“It was horrible!” the woman said. “Just horrible!”
A cop inserted himself between the paramedics and cameras.
“Back off guys, back off!”
Kate’s phone continued chiming with alerts. Bloomberg and Reuters had issued bulletins on Flight 4990. Finally, she saw one from Newslead. Someone on the desk must have woken up, Kate thought. It sure as hell couldn’t have been Sloane.
Things were buzzing online, too.
Pictures were popping up everywhere. Twitter had images of the aftermath in the cabin. Luggage, clothes, books, laptops, food containers and other items were strewn about the interior. In one clear photo she was certain she’d seen streaks of blood.
Kate scanned the crowd for a Newslead photographer. Not finding one, she went inside to the busy baggage-claim area where more news cameras had encircled passengers who were recounting their ordeal for reporters. She joined one group and extended her recorder.
“Could you please take us through it again?” someone asked.
“It was right after they’d served us drinks,” a man with bloodied scrapes on his cheeks began. “Then bam, the plane tilts like we’re going to roll upside down. Like this.” He extended his arms, one hand pointed to the floor, the other to the ceiling as the woman beside him nodded.
“Everybody and everything not belted or bolted down flew,” the woman said, her eyes still wide with shock.
“People were hurled like rag dolls. The service trolley smashed around. We were hanging on with all we had,” the man said. “Then the plane rolled the opposite way, tossing people and things around like we were in a clothes drier. People were screaming and praying.”
“The luggage bins opened,” the woman said. “Suitcases and bags crashed on everyone. Then the jet just dropped and we were plunging, diving down. My stomach was in my mouth.”
“What went through your mind at this point?” a reporter asked.
“That we weren’t going to survive. That we were so helpless. That this was the end,” she said.
“How long did it last?” another reporter asked.
“I don’t know.” The man shook his head. “Five, maybe eight minutes.”
Kate glanced around and was relieved to see Stan Strobic, a Newslead photographer, had joined the group.
“When it was over,” the woman said, “and they got things under control, it got quiet, except for the moans and sobs. People were trying to comfort those who were hurt. I think one lady was a nurse. But the pilot never came on and said what happened. Nobody has told us anything.”
As the interview wound down, the couple—Connie and Carmine Delvecchio—spelled their names for the reporters. They ran a family towing business on Staten Island. Kate passed them her card.
Then she saw a woman across the baggage-claim area. She was near the baggage carousels, sitting alone on a bench, her back to the wall, her head raised with her eyes closed in anguish.
Kate nodded to Strobic to hang back as she approached her alone.
“Excuse me.”
The woman looked to be in her mid-thirties. She had a pretty, fresh-scrubbed face and was gripping her phone in her lap with both hands.
“Yes?”
“I’m Kate Page. I’m a reporter
with Newslead. Were you on EastCloud Forty-nine Ninety?”
The woman nodded.
“Can I get your name?”
“Diane Wilson.”
“Would you talk to me for a story about what happened on the flight?”
The woman was trembling as she adjusted her hold on her phone. She swallowed hard.
“It was the worst thing you could imagine,” she said.
Kate sat next to her. “Tell me about it.”
“I was certain we were going to crash and I was going to die.”
Kate took notes. “And at that moment, what went through your mind?”
“All I could think about was my family, that I’d never see them again, so I said goodbye.”
Kate took a quick look around. “Your family was on the plane with you?”
“No. I was alone. I used my phone to make my last message to my children and my husband.”
Diane lifted the phone slightly and lovingly from her lap.
“You texted them?”
“I made a video.”
“Did you send it to them?”
“No.”
“Has anyone seen it?”
“No.”
“Would you let me see it?”
Diane considered Kate’s request.
“I’m not sure. It’s private and my family’s coming to get me.”
“I know, but it might help me to really understand what you and the other passengers went through. It would help readers appreciate your ordeal.”
Diane lowered her head to her phone, caught her bottom lip between her teeth and her face crumpled. She fought tears as she stared at her phone for a moment, then her fingers began working.
“You can look at it but I can’t give it to you.”
The screen came to life with Diane’s face, a mask of fear. Through her tears she struggled to smile as her voice quivered in the cabin.
“It doesn’t look good. The plane’s in trouble and I don’t think we’re going to make it. No matter what happens, you know that Mommy absolutely loves you. Brandon, honey, take care of Melissa. Melissa, you help your brother take care of Daddy. Del, sweetheart, you’re the love of my life. Be good to each other and remember how much I love you.”