To my surprise, he didn’t reply. Not even a simple OK to acknowledge my message.
I decided to leave it at that, feeling thankful—and hopeful—that I wouldn’t have to deal with any more drama, and that I wouldn’t receive another abusive text the next time he went out with the boys and got hammered.
o0o
The next four weeks passed uneventfully, with no more texts or calls from Kyle, and it was pure heaven to know that he was on the other side of the country. I didn’t care what he was doing or who he was seeing. In fact, I hoped he’d found a new girlfriend and was madly in love with her, and was now wondering what he’d ever seen in me. That would be just fine, because I had met someone myself—a young man who was the exact opposite of Kyle…fair hair, tall lanky build, and obsessed with school, just like me.
His name was Malcolm. I met him at my summer job as a waitress in a high-end downtown restaurant. Malcolm was a physics grad who had just been accepted into medical school in San Diego. He’d been hired as a waiter for the summer, working the dinner hour.
Malcolm was brilliant, academically speaking, and he never flew off the handle or wanted to tip over a mailbox. He was a grown-up, and very driven and ambitious. That was one of the things I loved most about him, because I was happy being the same way.
We started dating after about three weeks of working together, and by August, things had gotten pretty serious. My family thought he was a healthy change after Kyle, and their approval mattered to me a great deal.
The only problem was that Malcolm was about to start medical school on the West Coast, while I was heading back east to finish the final year of my engineering degree at Princeton, and possibly do a master’s. I was disappointed that we wouldn’t be able to spend more time together because I believed he might actually be “the one.” I didn’t want to break up, but I knew that if we were going to see each other during the school year, I would have to get over my fear of flying.
Was that even possible? I was uneasy as the end of August approached—because I’d never been able to talk myself out of that fear in the past.
“You should let me take you flying and give you some lessons,” Wayne said one afternoon when he was home for four days after a few flights back and forth to Europe. We had just gotten into his truck to drive to the supermarket and pick up some steaks for the barbeque. “We could go to the flying club and you can sit in the cockpit with me, and I’ll let you steer the plane and hold the yoke.”
He backed out of the driveway and started off down the street.
“Are you joking?” I replied. “You’re talking about a small, private plane? I’d rather stick needles in my eyes.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Wayne replied. “I promise, you’ll love it, and I’ll be right there, beside you the whole time. And I know you, Meg. When you want to accomplish something, you attack it, hard. So attack this. You just need to face your fear and feel like you’re in control.” He glanced at me from behind the wheel as he drove onto the main road. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure that when you’re sitting in the captain’s seat, and you see how it all works, you’ll be hooked.”
“I don’t know,” I said hesitantly, gazing off at the mountains in the distance.
Wayne reached across the seat and squeezed my shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Just give it a try. We could go tomorrow.”
I breathed deeply as I held my arm out the open window and felt the lift of the wind beneath my palm. I couldn’t deny that something in me had always been fascinated by the science of aerodynamics and the fact that a giant 400-ton machine could even get off the ground.
At the same time, any news about a major air disaster left me morbidly captivated and glued to the television set. I would read everything I could get my hands on about it. I wanted to know exactly what had happened, and more importantly, why it happened.
Maybe Wayne was right. Maybe I just needed to face my fear head on. Maybe even embrace it.
“Okay,” I said with purpose, turning to look at him. “Let’s do it. Can we make it happen tomorrow?”
Just saying the words sent a burst of adrenaline into my veins.
Wayne grinned at me, looking very pleased. “I’ll see what I can do, Captain Andrews.”
PART III
Nine Years Later
Chapter Sixteen
Jack Peterson
I always knew when rain was in the forecast. I didn’t need a meteorologist to tell me about it, because I felt it in my right knee and thigh, and sometimes in my arm.
As I sat at my mother’s kitchen table at her summer house in Cape Elizabeth, Maine, after my parents had gone to bed, I massaged my right quadriceps. Though the femur was completely healed and I had no trouble walking, it was a bone-deep ache on days like this, when bad weather was coming.
For a moment, I considered taking something for it, but decided against that because this was nothing, really. Nothing compared to those early weeks in the German hospital after the bombing, which included a second surgery to replace my knee and a full schedule of excruciating physio that lasted for many months back home in the United States. Not to mention the burns on my chest and stomach which took forever to heal.
At any rate, I had been on pain killers for a full year, and it hadn’t been easy to get off them, which was why I rarely took anything for pain these days. This level of discomfort, I could handle.
Rising from my chair, I carried my phone out to the front deck overlooking the water, and sat down on one of the Adirondack chairs. I tipped my head back to look up at the stars, but there were no stars that night because of low cloud cover. I couldn’t see the moon either. Nevertheless, it was a warm and windless night. Wonderfully tranquil. Just the sound of the waves lapping onto the beach and the salty scent of the sea made it worth the trip from Manhattan that afternoon.
I wondered what Katelyn and Aaron were up to in Portland. I hadn’t even told Katelyn I was flying home for the weekend, because that had been a rather spontaneous decision. It had been a slow news week with not much happening in the world, so it seemed like a good time to get out of the city.
By now, it was almost 10:00 p.m., and I wondered if it was too late to call.
I decided to text Katelyn to find out what they were up to tomorrow.
Hey there. Surprise—I’m in Cape Elizabeth. You still up?
I set the phone down on the arm of the chair and wondered if things would ever change. Would there ever come a day when my brother’s wife wouldn’t be the main reason I wanted to get on a plane and fly home for a visit—even when I knew she would always love Aaron, and that she and I would never be anything but friends?
At least, since I’d returned home from Afghanistan, I’d finally come to terms with it. I’d learned to accept things the way they were. Life was rough. There it was in a nutshell. And never in a thousand years would I want to jeopardize what she and Aaron had, or cause tension in their family. I loved Katelyn and the kids too much.
As for Aaron, beneath the civility, he and I still didn’t like each other a whole lot—because not all memories could be swept under the carpet—but neither of us wanted our age-old issues to infect the rest of the family, the kids especially.
I had no children of my own and I wanted to be a good uncle to them, and of course, I wanted Katelyn to be happy. I believe that was Aaron’s priority as well—which I respected, because we both loved her—so we found a way to lay the past to rest. At least on the surface.
My phone rang just then. I picked it up and saw that it was Katelyn. “Hello?”
“Hey stranger,” she said. “When did you get in?”
I closed my eyes for a second and wallowed in that familiar sense of calm, because for some reason, just the sound of Katelyn’s voice made everything feel right with the world.
“A few hours ago. It was a last-minute decision. I thought I might go out with Dad and do some sailing, but that was before I realized it was going to be raining all weekend.”
“Yes, they’re calling for some bad weather,” she said. “But it’s not supposed to start until tomorrow afternoon. You could always get out there early.”
“Maybe.” Though I didn’t feel terribly inspired.
“How’s everything at work?” she asked.
Like me, Katelyn was a reporter and was currently lead anchor for the evening news at one of the local Portland stations. She was a celebrity in town, and it didn’t hurt that she was married to the richest man in Maine—the man who built the boat that won the most recent race for the America’s Cup.
“It’s been a slow month for news,” I replied, “which isn’t a bad thing, I suppose.”
“I hear you,” she said. “No major disasters or embarrassing political scandals. We should be thankful.”
“But where’s the fun in that?” I said, and she laughed.
“Would you like to come for dinner tomorrow night?” she asked. “The kids would love to see you. Invite Margie and Stan, too.”
“They just went to bed,” I replied, “but I’ll mention it in the morning.”
“Great,” she said. “Well, I should get going. It’s late. I’ll tell Aaron you’re in town, and we’ll see you around five tomorrow?”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
I ended the call, set my phone down on the arm of the wooden chair, and sat for a while on the front deck, alone, listening to the waves and staring out at the dark water.
Eventually, I noticed that the world had become abnormally quiet. The crickets stopped chirping, and there wasn’t a breath of wind in the air. It felt almost eerie, and I sat forward, listening intently, my eyes focused and alert.
Nothing.
The pain in my leg returned, so I massaged the muscle with the heel of my hand, then rose from the chair to go back inside.
If only I had known, then, what was to come—that there would be no joyful family dinner with Katelyn and Aaron the next day. I would not see the children and build houses out of LEGO with them on their family room floor, nor would we eat ice cream with sprinkles on their veranda overlooking the city.
Within hours, there would only be chaos.
Chapter Seventeen
Shortly after I went inside the house, I turned on the television and sat down on the sofa in the front room. I lowered the volume so as not to wake my parents, and scrolled mindlessly through the guide, searching for a good film.
I remember precisely what time it was at that point, because I had checked the clock on my phone, which indicated 10:17 p.m.
About ten seconds later, a terrible noise erupted somewhere, far off in the distance. I stood up instantly, moved to the window, pulled the curtains aside, and looked out.
It sounded like thunder, but I knew it was nothing of the kind.
My stomach dropped—a typical response for me, because I’d suffered some post-traumatic stress after my accident. A sudden loud noise would often cause me to jump and relive the terror of the Hummer flipping over repeatedly on the road in Afghanistan.
But it had been nine years since then, and I was mostly over it. On that particular night at the window in my parents’ living room, I knew, intellectually, that I was not in the middle of a war. I was in Cape Elizabeth, enjoying the peace and quiet of the seaside community that was like a second home to me.
Although it was not so peaceful at 10:17 p.m.
The noise grew louder, and the walls began to shake. I quickly grabbed my phone and pressed record. I filmed the vase teetering on the coffee table and noticed the lights starting to flicker.
“Mom, Dad! Get up!”
My father ran out to the front room, tying the belt on his navy terrycloth bathrobe. “What is it?”
“I don’t know yet.” I ran to the kitchen and whipped open the front door, recording everything the entire time. I stepped onto the deck with my father close behind me. We both looked up to find the sky over our heads bright orange.
“Oh, no,” I said, filming the glowing clouds, wondering if we should go back inside or run for our lives.
“What’s happening?” Dad asked, staring upward with wide eyes.
My mother shouted at us from behind the screen door. “Get inside!” She opened the door, reached out and tried to pull me back by the fabric of my shirt. I stumbled as I fought to keep my camera focused on the sky.
The house began to shake, and the terrifying noise was back, only it was different this time, as fire and fragments of steel and metal began to rain down onto the beach and into the shallow waters in the cove.
“I’m standing on my deck in Cape Elizabeth, Maine,” I said for the benefit of the camera, “recording something that appears to have exploded in the sky.”
A sudden gust of wind rose up and nearly knocked me over, and I felt the heat from the firestorm.
The noise became deafening as a huge silver engine dropped out of the sky and landed on the beach with a thunderous impact, causing the sand to splash up like water. I was too stunned to comment on what it might be, although I was certain it was a commercial jet engine.
Half a second later, another structure crashed to earth, landing in the wooded area just behind the Kettle Cove parking lot. The ground shook beneath my feet, and I had to shield my eyes from the wind, dust, and burning sparks that flew toward the house. Bits of red-hot metal tore through the air, barraging cars and lighting wooden fences on fire.
When I uncovered my eyes, I recognized what had landed in the trees: the front half of a giant commercial airliner. Around me, the neighborhood was burning, people were running and screaming, and I felt as if I were standing in the middle of the apocalypse.
All I could do was leap over the deck rail with my camera still running. I began to describe what I was witnessing as I sprinted toward the crash site where the fuselage had landed.
Chapter Eighteen
Meg Andrews
National Transportation Safety Board Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
“Did any of it go down in the water?” I asked Gary, the investigator in charge, as I followed him down the hall to his office.
Every phone at every desk was ringing, and the office had gone from quiet to complete pandemonium in a matter of minutes. The other on-call members of the Go Team were still arriving, but I had been in the office from the outset, working late, polishing the prose on my section of an open accident report.
When Gary called me on my cell to ask me to come in right away, I told him I was already there.
“Why aren’t I surprised?” he asked with a defeated sigh. “Go turn on CNN, Meg. There’s been an accident with Jaeger-Woodrow Airways—Flight 555. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”
Since that moment, I had been on the telephone, fielding calls from the media and different government authorities. I had never been so glad to see Gary walk through the door. He was a tall, large African American man in his early sixties, with a voice like James Earl Jones. As soon as he entered a room, it felt like everything was about to be wrestled under control.
On top of all that, he was like a father to me.
“That’s what’s still not clear,” he replied as he moved behind his desk, sat down and booted up his computer. “From the video, it looks like some of it went down in the water just off the beach, and other parts, on land. And there are some reports of more wreckage a mile or two off the coast, which suggests the fuselage broke apart at high altitude, long before impact. Those are rough waters off Cape Elizabeth, so the crash site will be a challenge, if that’s what happened.”
“So there might have been an explosion,” I said, already considering the implications of that.
Gary gave me a look. “You know better than that, Meg. Don’t make any assumptions until you see the evidence.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “I’m just eager to get there.”
“Me, too. Hannah’s working on our flights and hotel rooms, and we need to find a suitable location to set up command hea
dquarters. You can help out with that. You know the drill. We’ll need plenty of phone lines and scanners.” His cell phone rang and he checked the call display. “Shit. It’s the FBI. I have a feeling this one’s going to be complicated.” Before he answered the call, he waved a hand to usher me out of his office. “Keep your eye on CNN and everything Jack Peterson is reporting. He saw the whole thing and he’s right there. Let me know if they find any survivors.”
I hurried out of Gary’s office.
o0o
While I worked at getting our team assembled to leave for the crash site, I continued to watch CNN, and was amazed at the footage Jack Peterson had managed to capture—which they replayed constantly, over and over—not to mention the fact that the plane had gone down, practically in his front yard. At times I had to stop, shut everything out, and focus my eyes on the television screen, because I was a structures specialist and the footage was giving me a sense of the timing and direction of the aircraft’s fall from the sky.
I was looking to determine how much of the plane was intact when it impacted the ground. I listened carefully to the roar of the engine just before it landed—which suggested that the problem had not been engine failure. But we wouldn’t know anything for sure until we arrived on site and the systems specialists got to work on the evidence.
There was no question in my mind that we were going to need a copy of that video, so our specialists could analyze every detail.
It was now 11:25 p.m., and Peterson was broadcasting live from the site with a professional cameraman and a satellite van nearby. He was capturing more footage of the firefighters combing through the wreckage for survivors, all the while speculating about what might have caused the crash.
The Color of a Promise (The Color of Heaven Series Book 11) Page 7