Not today. Jonathon sighs again. His glossy black Kenneth Cole’s reluctantly stop. Jon’s fraying patience tells him to run, to sprint down the hallway and let the news director’s thankless orders try and give chase. The repercussions may even be worth it.
“Footage is coming down now on Pathfire,” Mitch says to his news team. His stubby legs strain to stand. Everyone in the room rises to their feet almost as one, like a military unit heading into battle. “And tell Jean to get her producers ready for a cut-in,” he barks, pointing into the face of his assignment editor. “I wanted to be live five minutes ago!”
Barely over five feet tall, the news director waddles surprisingly fast down the hallway toward Jonathon. Mitch has learned to compensate for every short inch with an intimidating personality and an unconditional demand for respect. “Walk with me,” Mitch says. His legs almost blur as they move past, expecting the much taller creative director to catch up to his forced pace. Mitch lowers his voice. “Sorry to jump on you right as you’re coming in,” he says without really meaning it. The news director looks secretively back down the busy hallway. “But something’s about to hit the ‘holy shit’ fan.”
“Breaking news?” Jonathon asks. His irritation quickly changes to curiosity. Veiled fear betrays Mitch’s normally guarded eyes. Something’s up. An overwhelming need for information suddenly ignites in Jon, pushing away all of this morning’s distractions.
The department heads walk to the metal stairs and take them down into the steel, blue epicenter of the KOMO 4 Newsroom. “There will be,” Mitch whispers. His eyes dart around. “Two U.S. security council members were assassinated this morning. Our source in the White House says the administration is talking action, Jonathon.”
“Which kind?” Jon scoffs. “We’re gonna boycott your economy until it collapses? Or bomb your ass back into the Stone Age?”
Mitch points sharply back at him, his face lighting up. “That’s the use of democracy I was thinking. China and Russia have taken a wait-and-see stance, so the U.N.’s hands are tied. The press secretary hasn’t released a statement yet. But there’s a news conference scheduled for 1 P.M. Eastern.”
The news director stops at the LCD-monitor wall beside the massive glass assignment desk, scanning the frenzy across his 60-person newsroom. “News meeting! Now!” he bellows. The journalists freeze at the unusually urgent tone.
“We’ll need a custom open and CGs,” Mitch says to Jonathon. The news team converges around them with eager eyes.
“I’ll talk to graphics,” Jonathon says. “What are you slugging it?”
“Assassination in Tehran.”
Chapter 9
9:08 a.m.
Rubbing rhythmically on the sides of her growing stomach, Isabel paces up the single aisle of the narrow purple and gold Northwest Airlines’ plane. Quietly, she crouches to tighten an already double-knotted Reebok.
Dark hairs on the back of Abd’s sun-beaten neck suddenly begin to tingle. He cocks his head, feeling the burning whispers of suspicion heat the air. The Arab turns, his sunken eyes going wide.
The black man with the fearsome gaze is sitting right behind him. The shadow nods to a kneeling stewardess, his sharp face without expression. The pitch-black color of the man’s skin seems to devour all light from around him.
Abd spins when his eyes realize they are also being watched.
Isabel continues forward, looking down into the critical gaze of Abd as she passes. Not on my plane, her eyes flash. The words each want so badly to say are barely held back, like animals fighting against a cage too small to hold them. Their silence moves across the plane in a timeless dance of judgment and prejudice.
She stops next to 8B. A smile slowly returns to her face. The twisted mess of Chris’s athletic limbs is pinned between the dinner tray and seat back just in front of him. “Ready to hang up the basketball shoes and get home?” Isabel asks, trying to stifle a laugh.
“Sure,” Chris says. His mind drifts to the chaotic region of close to two million self-involved people he’s returning to. “Gridlock. Bullshit schools. Divorcing parents slowly killing each other.” The basketball star looks up into her soft brown eyes, grinning ear to ear. “I can’t wait.”
“My, aren’t you cheerful this morning?” Isabel says. There’s an odd silence from the partner in crime sitting next to him. She flips on her maternal tone. “What’d you do to him this week, Captain Cornrow?”
“Not me this time,” Darius says defensively. “His girl’s been, uh… playin’ a little ball of her own while he’s away.” He smiles, elbowing Chris in the shoulder.
The reality of his best friend’s words slam into him with a ferocity he doesn’t want to accept. Chris’s stomach begins to churn—butterflies in a hurricane. “Thanks, D. Gets better every time you say it, too.” Chris’s words hiss out through gritted teeth. “Want me to tell the captain so he can make an announcement?”
Seeing a rare look of violence in Chris’s eyes, Darius promptly scoots back. “Just filling her in.” He motions towards Isabel. “Girl’s got inside knowledge of the female psyche.”
Chris looks sharply back at him.
“What?” Darius says casually. “I’ve read some books.”
Isabel’s glowing smile returns as she looks down at the boys she babysat so many years ago. “Contrary to what you might have heard, women don’t make sense sometimes. Even to each other.”
Both teens blink questioningly up at her. They seem unsure if this is a rare moment of truth or just another female trick to keep them stumbling around blindly through the universe’s greatest unknown.
“It’s better you found out her true intentions now anyways,” Isabel says. She points to her pregnant stomach. “Before something like this happened to you.”
Chris’s eyes soften.
Isabel glances around before leaning down closer to the boys. “Best advice I can give you,” she whispers, “is to keep your eyes open, your priorities straight, and your tool in its shed.” Her eyes lock on Chris’s. “You’ll find the right one eventually. You’re too good of a kid not to.”
Her head snaps up as the plane hits some rolling turbulence. The fasten seatbelt symbol lights up with an ominous chime.
“I better go,” Isabel says. She lays her hand reassuringly on Chris’s shoulder. “We’ll talk more at breakfast with your mom.”
* * *
A squeak of temptation sounds from the drink cart wheeling up the orange-carpeted aisle behind Devin. His hands clutch tightly to the armrests, his knuckles as white as stretched bone. Every shudder and twitch of the plane shoots through the fireman’s tense body. The seatbelt sign turns off over his head, chiming peacefully but doing little to calm. It feels more like patronizing laughter.
Devin’s left hand whips up to wipe at the beads of sweat on his forehead before quickly returning to grip the wet armrest — as if letting go of it for more than a split-second would have catastrophic consequences for the plane and everyone in it.
“Would you like something to drink?” Isabel asks. Her normally fiery eyes soften with sympathy as she looks down at the flushed redhead. The fireman is practically ripping the seat braces from their sockets.
The simple question relaxes Devin instantly. The message’s innate possibilities begin to burn into the very soul of the recovering alcoholic, reigniting an all-too-comfortable thirst. He looks up at the temptress with a hopeful uncertainty. His mind begins to race. He tries to swallow, but his throat suddenly feels like sand paper.
“Coffee?” Isabel presses. She pauses, seeing the hunger for something else in his intense, emerald eyes. “Beer? Wine? What are you in the mood for?”
Devin glances around the cabin for answers. His eyes stop on several other passengers happily drinking from cans of Heineken or plastic cups filled to the brim with dark crimson wine. The laughter and enjoyment on their faces sends deprived tremors down his back. New justification pulls his eyes back to the well-stocked drink cart. Just one
wouldn’t hurt, he reasons. I need to relax anyway. Besides, it’s been six months since… the thought trails off. Another involuntary shudder ripples through him. I can control it now…
“Sir?” Isabel prompts. She shifts to her other swollen foot, trying to ease the pregnant throbbing.
“I’m trying to be good, love,” Devin answers weakly. He averts his eyes from the small liquor bottles sitting so invitingly along the top of their polished metal chariot. “They put anything stiff in Diet Coke these days?”
“I wish they did,” the stewardess laughs. “Make my job a whole lot easier.” She picks up a couple of square glasses from the top shelf, holding them out for the commissioned hard sell. “I do have all the usual suspects if you want something stiffer. It’ll help loosen up that death grip you have on my armrests.”
“Be careful dangling my old buddy Jack in front of me,” Devin forcibly chuckles. His hands grip the seat harder. “You may get more than you bargained for, love,” Devin winks. His red hair sparkles with scarcely restrained fire. “Just the Diet Coke for now, please.”
Isabel’s eyes narrow. She watches the man’s face, knowing just a little more prodding would compel an eager sale from this Brit. But something inside tells her to drop it. She pours half a can of Diet Coke into a plastic cup filled excessively with ice and puts it into his trembling hands.
Devin gulps at the liquid. He closes his eyes and imagines a warm, smoky flavor hitting his mouth instead. The fireman sighs. So this is what it feels like to be neutered. Vaguely, he hears the stewardess ask the overweight businessman next to him if he wants anything before she continues on.
His attention drifts out to the darkening clouds. Bursts of lightning flash and pulse inside them. Faint openings briefly emerge through the mist, their blurred edges shaking gently with the plane. The outstretched fingers of panic creep back into the firefighter’s mind. His hands unconsciously search again for the security of the armrests.
Something flickers outside his window. Devin turns, thinking he sees the orange glow of fires far below. But the clouds just thicken again, blocking out any view of downtown Seattle. Slowly, his muscles loosen. The turbulence is replaced by the peaceful calm of tranquil air.
All at once, the passengers gasp. The plane begins to shake violently back and forth, like a beast fighting against a vengeful master.
Abd Al-Aziiz grabs the headrest of the seat in front of him, pulling it hard to his chest. The baby beside him screams. “Ibn haram!” Abd yells. Allah be merciful. Allah be merciful…
Stuffing down his own fear at the plane’s quaking jolts, the sky marshal leans his thick torso to the right. He looks around the seat at the quick motions of his target. “Stay seated, sir!” Terrence booms. His deep, authoritative voice echoes back loudly even over the revving engines.
Abd spins. “Excuse me?”
The overhead PA chimes weakly above. The seatbelt sign blinks on again to eliminate any doubt.
“I said stay seated!” Terrence digs his feet in under the chair and slowly unbuckles.
“Prepare the cabin for arrival,” the pilot announces through the loudspeaker. “What the f…” he starts, hurriedly cutting off his mic. Oh, my God…
“Go to hell!” Abd yells at the fierce black man behind him. He fumbles with his belt, trying to stand. The engine turbines roar all around them.
Terrence’s eyes flash. “Sit down NOW!” he bellows. The sky marshal’s muscles are poised granite. He looks hungrily back at the Arab.
The plane slams into another turbulent pocket of clouds, sending the 80-passenger E75 jumping upward. The unyielding atmosphere thrusts it awkwardly into the sky.
Abd’s eyes dart back down in panic to finish disengaging his latch. “Neek Hallak!” he screams, stumbling to his feet.
Terrence lunges forward. His left hand’s ferocious grip cracks the bones in Abd’s shoulder. His right moves under his jacket to find the coarse grip of a sidearm. “Give me a reason,” Terrence booms, his mind bringing him closer to authorized brutality.
“Get off me!” the Arab man screams in pain as he struggles to free himself from the marshal’s grasp. Like an injured animal backed into a corner, the Arab’s entire body becomes a weapon, throwing elbows and fists into the chiseled stone behind him.
Terrence unsnaps the leather holster and pulls his Sauer P226 from its sleeve. His finger settles eagerly onto the trigger.
In an instant, the front of the plane hurtles downward to the shrieking of its passengers. Both men smash into the ceiling, splintering the plastic roof. The interior lights go out. Air masks deploy. The ship shakes furiously back and forth as it begins falling from the heavens.
The plane screams through the misty air. It banks right, then left as it passes into the low clouds over Seattle. Devin fumbles for his air mask, looking out the vibrating window in dread. His eyes go wide.
Jesus.
The world below is on fire. Through gaps in the smoke, he sees that where Seattle should be, there is only chaos. The wreckage of buildings litter a landscape ablaze. The city is gone. Thick smoke and dust rising from the damage blot out the sun. Rain comes in torrents across the windows of the falling plane, obscuring the horrific view as it shoots across the glass.
Please, God… he prays. A lifetime of memories with Katherine and his children fill his mind with a fading hope. Keep them safe. The profound words that will save them, the words that will make God Himself reach out of the clouds to save eighty lost souls, never form. Only the halting lessons from a childhood of forced Catholicism emerge in the terror. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…
The thunderous roar of the engines gets louder and louder as the plane approaches the ground. Slowly at first, the nose begins to come up. Engines at max power, the aircraft slams onto what’s left of the I-5 freeway.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done…
Hearing the sounds of tearing metal, Devin’s head whips to the right. One of the huge wings shears off when it catches on a row of thick light poles. Blinding light and smoke enter the cabin as the plane begins spinning savagely along the cracked asphalt. The hellish carousel twists through shadows of fire—death and reality both becoming blurred.
On earth as it is in heaven…
The crumbling aircraft moans, ripping into pieces. Lives scream out as they’re torn away from one another. Clutched hands pull apart, shattering families and dreams forever. They cry and plead into the distance for help.
Deliver us from evil…
Devin’s heart thunders in his chest. The grating of sheet metal and concrete shrieks through his body. He glances around at the chaos, but his eyes can’t seem to focus.
The fuselage crashes into the supports of a bridge, throwing him into the crumpled seats just in front. Sobs and screams of pain echo back across the cabin. The dying choir grows all around, weeping — begging to be spared. Jet turbine blades beside Devin grind against shards of metal from a car caught within.
Forgive us… he prays, before the world outside throbs away to a crimson black.
Chapter 10
Sparks shower down inside the flickering KOMO newsroom. Twisted shapes look up for answers but are greeted by pain and destruction instead. A police scanner on the assignment desk screeches unintelligibly. Its sharp electronic tones squeal back from the legions of silenced first responders. The noise is piercing, like digital screams from the dead.
Lights above the desk crack and burst, sending glowing fragments down on top of the wreckage. As the pieces settle, voices emerge from the shadows.
“Please…”
“Help…”
Suddenly, a cascade of explosions light up the room. Computer monitors ignite from the falling sparks, shooting shrapnel throughout the tightly clustered work area — and the people still left inside.
Jonathon Thomas tries to shake the fog from his mind. He pulls himself out from under a desk. The newsroom is pitch-black. It flickers only briefly as electronics f
lash, then fade. The sounds of chaos surround him. People are groaning everywhere he turns, pinned under unseen debris or crawling over the bodies of colleagues. Their pleas for help go unanswered. Shrieks of pain reverberate from behind as some forgotten friend’s life begins to dim.
The darkness seems to swallow time itself.
Jonathon gasps. The black closes in. He can feel its cold touch clutching for him in the dark. The sounds. The horrific sounds…
* * *
Devin’s head snaps up. His eyes burn. He puts a hand up to the sudden aching in his skull. Wincing, his fingers find a three-inch cut along his scalp. Blood runs from it, tracing the left side of Devin’s face and eye.
Fumbling with the seatbelt, his heart pounds. It won’t give. The air is like fire in his lungs. A bitter taste from the melting unknown billows through the cabin, making him gag. I’m going to die. The thought slams into him with a trembling certainty.
Devin coughs. He glances around with a growing desperation for anyone still alive aboard the airliner, but his eyes still can’t quite focus. Only blurred shadows and shapes darken the smoke.
He squeezes his eyes closed. Devin’s 17 years as a firefighter slowly fill his mind. It tempers his emotions, turning the fear that twists through his stomach into an odd sort of detached calm. His breathing slows.
Devin looks back outside his window and sees one of the massive engines still spinning. It chews through a car lying awkwardly inside. He feels the plane’s cabin shaking, but all of the sounds are drowned out by a low hum in his ears. Everything else is quiet. So quiet.
He looks down again at the seatbelt, pushing and pulling on the buckle. The bent metal pieces slowly grind apart. Devin reaches over beside him to check on the business man. The man’s snapped neck rolls his face toward Devin, a scream now forever etched into the flesh.
Yield Page 6