by Justin Bell
A hard crosswind struck the small plane in the left front side, shifting the entire aircraft to the right and Jackson tensed his muscles, white-knuckling the yoke, his eyes moving down to the instrument panel. Altitude was dropping as he eased the yoke back, trying to maintain some kind of control over the aircraft. Even so, it pitched lightly to the right, the buildings below him disappearing from view underneath and to the left of the new direction of the aircraft, the sun beating down through one of the side windows from above.
As Jackson eased the Cessna back level, a vast shadow blanketed the cockpit in momentary darkness and he glanced over through the pilot’s side window and sucked in a swift breath. A full-sized 737 airliner was passing just above him, cutting a path between him and the sun, nose down and angled, flying far too low, far too quickly and coming in well short of Logan Airport.
“Oh no,” Jackson whispered as he watched, his mind barely able to process the horrific event he was seeing. Shrill warning warbles echoed in the cockpit and lights flared red across the instrument panel warning of his attitude and his altitude, so he snapped his head away, trying to focus back on his own problems. Outside of the front windscreen he saw the large plane continue its fateful plummet, hurtling down toward the busy city below, the inevitability of what he was watching gripping him like invisible fingers.
Hanscom Field was northwest of the city itself and he slowly guided the smaller plane in that direction, desperately trying to keep its nose up as the buildings below grew larger and closer with each passing second. Severe winds battered the Cessna from both sides, knocking it back and forth, but Jackson tightened his grip much like his heart tightened in his chest and continued manhandling the aircraft, trying to force it level and straight.
He couldn’t help himself. He glanced out of the side window despite his wish not to see what was going to happen and looked just in time to see the 737’s left wing slam into one of the tall Boston buildings. The skyscraper blasted apart, disintegrating on one side as the wing hacked through it like a dull machete. Underneath the wing, the engine sparked and caught fire, flames racing up the surface of the metal, igniting the fuel tanks. Within seconds, the entire massive aircraft was engulfed in a wild, raging ball of white-hot fire, the plane tumbling down into the thick of the clustered city. Jackson looked away as he heard the massive, thundering explosion several seconds later, narrowing his tunnel vision to the northwest and trying not to think of what had happened down in the city just a moment before.
What exactly had happened down in the city? He’d seen his own pilot, the kindly old gentleman coughing up half a lung of blood before slumping dead in his chair. Did the same thing happen with the pilot of the 737?
If so, how? Why?
“Focus, Block, focus!” he shouted to himself as buildings ahead rushed toward him at odd angles, the plane digging lower than he felt comfortable with. Another downdraft shot up over the nearby buildings and buried itself in the nose of the plane, driving it sharply downward, and Jackson planted his feet, hauling back on the sticks, desperate to keep the aircraft level. The buildings were no longer obscure shapes ten thousand feet below but were now very real, rising up to meet him. Yanking the stick left, he swept around the upper levels of a glass and concrete structure, lifting the nose enough to rise clear of another.
“Just like riding a bike, right?” he asked no one in particular. “Except the bike isn’t soaring through the air.” In the back of his mind he tried to picture flying the old crop duster. The old Piper PA-36 was a world apart from the Cessna 402 he was guiding through downtown Boston now, but the concepts remained the same, and crop dusting required low altitude evasive maneuvering. It was only too easy to get tangled up in power lines and other obstacles, and he remembered an especially close call with his father in the co-pilot’s seat, cursing him a blue streak when he almost clipped the phone lines leading to the house.
Of course, clipping the phone lines wouldn’t have potentially killed himself and thousands of people.
He banked the Cessna left, skimming just to the side of another building—it seemed taller than he remembered—then he quickly leveled out and shot forward, his map telling him that Hanscom Field was coming right up.
His eyes scanning the console, he located the radio and a handy sticky note stuck just above it told him that the tower was on channel 118.5.
“Hanscom Field, this is… I gotta be honest, I don’t know who this is, but the pilot’s had a medical emergency and I’m comin’ in hot and fast!”
“Acknowledged,” a voice came back, remarkably calm given what they were saying. “We’ve got some major issues going on down here and at Logan, so come in at your own risk. Runway two-nine is clear, though we have two more incoming flights that should be arriving shortly… if they’re still in the air.”
Jackson opened his mouth to ask a question, but shut it again, instead focusing his attention on easing the throttle and guiding the aircraft down. Up ahead he could see the vague shape of Hanscom emerging from the landscape, its familiar “x marks the spot” runway design immediately catching his eye. He’d flown out of and back to this field plenty of times in his short city career, though he’d never been the one landing the plane.
He neared the surface, trees and smaller buildings growing larger and clearer, and suddenly something occurred to him. Glancing at the console, he remembered what he’d almost forgotten. To his left, he moved his hand and clasped it around a white lever, then pushed, his heart slamming as the retractable landing gear slowly swung out from the belly of the plane. That had never been a concern of his with the old Piper, but this Cessna was a different beast altogether.
Distracted for a moment, he knew he was coming in too hard and too fast and he peeled back on the sticks, trying to guide the plane in a more graceful downward slope. The runway filled his windscreen and he glanced at it through the crimson smears streaking the glass, tensing his muscles as he prepared for the impact. The plane leveled and hit the surface with a thrash and jolt, his arms slamming along with the rubber on pavement, and an immediate squeal told him he’d made contact. Shuddering like a child out in the cold without their jacket, the plane angled left, but he adjusted, trying to straighten out. As he slowed the plane, he noticed for the first time a dark plume of smoke off toward the trees, a deep, dull, metallic gray, rising up toward the pale blue sky.
As he got the aircraft on the ground and under control, the impact of what he’d seen in the air and what had just happened to him started to settle upon him like a heavy blanket, his shoulders slumping and his breath lodging in his throat. There was a dead man next to him, and likely thousands more on the streets of Boston, one of the worst disasters he was certain the city had ever seen.
Little did Jackson Block know, the real disaster was only just beginning.
***
A little over a hundred miles away, Lisa Martin eased her old hatchback into one of the narrow parking spaces in downtown Aldrich, Connecticut. The very definition of a one-horse town, Aldrich had been where she’d lived her entire life.
Well, nearly her entire life.
Shutting the door as she exited the vehicle, she stood for a moment and appreciated the silence of this small slice of downtown, the main street lined with buildings on each side, but with car traffic sparse and foot traffic nearly non-existent at this time of day. She didn’t typically work weekends, but when the library was in need, she always made sure to be available. Besides, even unexpected weekend work was still less stressful than the normal day-to-day she’d experienced in Boston while she’d been there for those few short months. Where her fiancé still was, grinding to ascend the mythical corporate ladder.
She’d wished Jackson luck when she’d left, and she’d meant it. Lisa knew how important it was to him to be respected and valued for the hard work he put in, and while she herself doubted the validity of measuring yourself by your job, in this day and age it was easy to fall into that trap. Growing up on her parent
s’ farm, Lisa was no stranger to hard work, but she was raised to work hard for the sake of working hard, not because you expected recognition or benefits. It was just what you did if you wanted to live.
It hadn’t been a stretch for her to transfer that work ethic to her current occupation, even if it was worlds away from the farm. Currently employed as a technical services engineer, Lisa was accustomed to being called at all hours of the day or night, especially as one of the only advanced engineers who lived anywhere close to Aldrich. The company she worked for was nearly sixty miles out of town, though she worked out of her home, well her parents’ home, and was nearly always on call for one customer or another. Today she wasn’t on call, but rather than dispatch the on-call tech all the way to Aldrich, it made more sense for her to hop in the car and trek downtown to see if she could help.
Opening the hatch of her car, she reached in and removed the canvas tool bag and slung it over her slender shoulder. It was heavy with several different tools that she rarely used, but she always brought it, just to be on the safe side. Technology had evolved to the point where very little had to be physically repaired, most things were just rip and replace, but Lisa didn’t like to be left empty handed.
“You need any help with that?” the elderly librarian asked, stepping down the concrete steps onto the sidewalk.
Lisa smiled. Yes, the tool bag was heavy, but she’d been an avid fitness buff for most of her adult life right alongside Jackson the whole way, and there were few tools that she was unable to lift and tote on her own.
“No thank you, Ms. Crane, I’ve got it covered, okay?”
Ms. Crane nodded her narrow head and smiled warmly. “Thank you so much, dear,” she said as Lisa approached. “I know it’s your day off. We just have a book signing this evening and the wireless isn’t working. I don’t understand what could be going on.”
Lisa smiled right back. “Don’t even worry about it, Ms. Crane. Under control.” She strode up the stairs smoothly, her legs moving in practiced concert with her body. Along with the weight lifting, running, and cross fit, she’d been attending the local mixed martial arts studio for several years, and felt like, for the first time, her body and mind were almost perfectly aligned with each other. As she reached the crest of the stairs, she couldn’t help but think how strange it was that she felt that way now. Now that she’d left Boston and left her fiancé behind.
She loved Jackson. She’d loved him for just about as long as she could remember, but coming back to Aldrich, leaving the chaotic insanity of the city, it had been like a cold splash of water that had fully awakened her to the importance of her home and her family.
Her mother’s illness certainly played a role in that as well.
She walked through the front door of the old, nineteenth century building, which had been renovated several times, but still had hints of the old school architecture, and followed Ms. Crane to the wireless router which was screwed to a thick, wooden support beam.
Lisa shook her head softly, quietly bemoaning how the gorgeous old support beam had been defaced by a blue and black, metal and plastic box with dual antennas and blinking green lights. If the person who had built the library could see it now…
“I’m going to check downstairs, okay?” she asked. “This is one of the access points, but the controller is downstairs.”
Ms. Crane nodded.
Lisa turned away and headed toward the stairway, but a swift, sudden gasp grabbed her attention. It was a narrow, thin voice, a hushed shriek of surprise and dismay.
“Ms. Crane?” she asked, whirling around. “Ms. Crane?”
Suddenly, the library was dark and quiet. There was a murmured undercurrent of noise from something, though Lisa couldn’t tell exactly what. Turning back around, she walked down the hallway toward the opened room where she’d left the elderly librarian.
She saw it then, a television set perched on a table in the corner. She hadn’t noticed it before, after all, it was always there, but usually it was dark. Today, it was turned on and she could see the city of Boston framed within its vintage, curved, cathode ray tube. The buildings were immediately recognizable, except that they were surrounded by thick pillars of smoke and swarming with bright, yellow flame.
Ms. Crane turned toward her, face paling, fingers pressed to her chin.
“I… I need to go,” stammered Lisa. “I need to go and check on Jackson.”
“Go, dear!” Ms. Crane said in her frantic voice. “Go, now.”
Lisa went, pushing her way through the front door and down the stairs, nearly running to her car, already pulling the cellphone out of her pocket, yet already suspecting that if things were really that bad in Boston, she may not even be able to get through.
***
Jackson lifted the door toward the tail of the plane, then stepped down the extended ladder of the Cessna 402. He could smell the bitter twang of stale smoke in the late morning air. Everything around him smelled burned, as if he was walking into a room filled with ovens permeating a thick, rancid heat. As his foot hit the tarmac he angled around the tail of the plane and could see pale smoke rising from the trees east of the airfield. A small, warbling firetruck cruised over the surface of the runway several meters away. The siren was shrill and tinny, the low roar of the truck hurtling over rough paved tarmac almost louder than the horn itself as it barreled toward the trees.
Behind him, Jackson heard the rapid thumping of falling footsteps, someone running up on his blind side. He whirled and looked at the person approaching, a skinny man with round glasses and a disheveled mop of dark, wet hair.
“What’s going on out here?” Jackson asked, narrowing his eyes toward the frantic looking man.
“I was hoping you could tell me, man!” the guy replied. “This place is a nightmare. Plane went down east of the runway over in the trees there. Radio chatter is through the roof. I hear something bad happened in the city.”
Jackson nodded. “I saw it. 737 went down in downtown. Took the top half of Hancock with it. Least I think it was Hancock.”
The man pressed a palm to his sweat-streaked forehead. “What the—?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, bro.”
The man dropped his hand, looked toward the rising smoke, then back at Jackson again. “You look familiar. You’ve flown in here before, right?”
Jackson nodded. “Yeah, but as a passenger. First time as a pilot.”
“Yeah, right… that’s Drew’s plane, right? Where is he?”
Jackson looked back toward the aircraft, still not quite believing that he had been the one to land it. Even with his experience in the old Piper, the Cessna 402 looked like a much newer, larger, and fancier plane, one he had no business being behind the sticks on.
“He… he died,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“Mid-flight. Had a coughing fit, hacked half his lungs over the windshield and just stopped breathing.”
“Holy—”
Jackson turned his hands over and looked at them. The dark skin on his left hand was still stained with a deep, dried streak of crimson. His eyes fixated on the color and held there, reminding him that not too long ago he’d put his hand in Drew’s blood and smeared it across the window. With the sun beating down on the plane, they couldn’t see the streaks from this angle, but he knew they were there. His stomach tightened deep inside of him, twisting like laundry being wrung out to dry.
The man’s eyes were wide and he took a cautious step backwards. “I don’t like this,” he whispered. “I don’t like any of this.”
Jackson pulled out his cellphone and turned it on, fumbling with the touch screen. He placed it to his ear, but heard nothing. Pressing a quick series of buttons, he attempted to make a call, but just heard an automated voice reporting that circuits were busy.
“You got a phone in there I can borrow?” Jackson asked, looking over at the skinny man.
The man didn’t reply, his eyes just widened further, and he tu
rned to look at him more closely. He shook his head back and forth like he didn’t understand what Jackson was saying.
“Buddy,” Jackson repeated. “I need a phone. I’ve gotta get a ride into the city.”
“Into the city? Are you crazy?” He took two steps backwards, then turned and took off, running at a full tilt back toward the tower, leaving Jackson standing in the tarmac just watching him grow smaller.
“What is going on?” he asked the empty air.
Hanscom Field stood just northwest of Hanscom Air Force Base in Bedford, Massachusetts, which was west of the city itself. It was the desired destination of many corporate flights rather than dealing with the expensive runway rental and congestion of Logan Airport. Jackson’s new job took him all over New England, and the chartered flight contract his company had with Andrew Graves had proven to be very useful indeed. Boston to New York was a hop and skip, and even farther trips like his recent jaunt down to North Carolina were made far easier by the private charter. Flying throughout the Northeast was one of the things he liked best about this big city job.
One of the only things he liked about it. The rest of the job he could do without, especially now. Especially since Lisa moved back home.
Runway 29 ran east to west, just north of the Air Force Base, and with his inexperienced landing, he’d left himself a long walk down the paved surface toward the terminal. He began the trek, looking back over his shoulder a time or two, staring at the Cessna sitting on the runway while wondering what was going to happen to Drew’s body inside. Thick smoke rose from the trees just beyond the Cessna, long fingers reaching up toward the blue sky, the silence sliced in ragged halves by the continued off-kilter scream of the firetruck sirens. A second truck had arrived, and it angled around the plane, moving toward the treeline where the other had been.