The Dinosaur Battle Of New Orleans

by Dane Hatchell

  “Captain? What are we going to do? We’re too low and too far from MSY or Lakefront to land!” Hall cried out.

  Wesselman’s mind raced with options for a makeshift runway. The interstate system was a crowded mess as always. There were no vacant fields large enough in Louisiana’s most populated city to put the bird down. There was only one option that he saw. He shifted the wing flaps and trimmed the rudder, pointing the nose of the jet toward the Mississippi River.

  “MSY, this is Delta two-thirty-six. We’ve lost thrust on both engines. No time for us to reach you or Lakefront. I’m putting us down in the Mississippi,” Wesselman said over the radio.

  “The Mississippi! You can’t do that,” the control tower said.

  “It’s all I’ve got,” Wesselman said. Spare seconds were few. No time to argue with a controller who didn’t have an imminent fear of dying in a fiery explosion. He needed his full wits if he had any hopes of saving the lives of his passengers. “Inform the Coast Guard. We have one hundred and twenty-two passengers and crew. I expect to save them all.”

  “Copy, two-thirty-six. Godspeed.”

  “The Mississippi River? Who do you think you are, Sully Sullenberger?” Hall said, the previous admiration of his captain void in his tone.

  “What do you want me to do? Land on Canal Street and park next to Harrah’s Casino for a round of blackjack?”

  “But we’ll all die!”

  “Get ahold of yourself, man!” Wesselman commanded. “I’ll have you know I was one of the pilots who flew the simulator for evidence at Sullenberger’s trial.”

  With eyes widened and hope in his voice, Hall said, “You did? So you learned what you needed to do to land on water?”

  “No, I crashed. But, I learned what not to do. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

  Ding. Ding. Ding. (The Flight Warning System began its incessant chime.)

  Too low. Terrain, the Ground Proximity System announced.

  The nose of the 737 now pointed in line with the winding river.

  “The bridge! You’re heading toward the Mississippi River bridge!” Hall said, panicked.

  “The river is too curvy to go the other way. I need as straight of a shot as I can get.”

  Too low. Gear.

  “We’re not going to clear the bridge!” Hall said.

  “Shut up and tell me our speed.”

  “One hundred and fifty knots, sir,” Hall said, seemingly distracted by the menial task.

  Good, Wesselman knew the speed. He wanted Hall to focus on something else.

  Terrain terrain. Pull up. Pull up.

  “We’re going to hit! We’re going to hit!” Hall screamed.

  “Brace for impact,” Wesselman announced over the radio.

  The jet no longer seemed to fly. Instead, it drifted slowly between the two towers of the Mississippi River Bridge, over the horizontal trusses in the middle. If the wheels were lowered, Wesselman doubted they would have cleared the trusses.

  With the muddy waters of the Mississippi looming before them like a dark highway to death, Wesselman prepared to set the metallic bird down.

  *

  “Brace for impact!” the Captain’s voice said over the cabin’s speakers.

  Kathy was still disoriented from the second hit on the back of the head. Her duty now was to warn the passengers in a constant chant to brace for impact; like a drummer pacing strokes on a dragon boat.

  “Brace for impact. Brace for impact. Brace for impact. Brace for impact.”

  She recognized Sharon Henderson’s voice over the cabin speaker. Sharon and Jayla Watkins were the other two flight attendants on-board. Kathy didn’t like Sharon taking over her duties, but she guessed her delay at giving the warning prompted Sharon to move to action.

  “Brace! Brace! Brace! Brace!” Sharon called out again.

  With her feet flat on the floor, and her arms tight against her thighs with her head in her lap, the plane hit the water.

  There was a tremendous splash, and the impact jarred her head again.

  Passengers let out a chorus of death screams.

  Kathy knew the end was imminent. Her mind’s eye saw the jet break apart and rolling flames in an all-consuming inferno engulf everyone and everything.

  *

  The jet hadn’t stopped its forward progression on water when Wesselman unlatched his seat belt and jumped out his chair. Now was not the time to reflect how lucky they were to get this far. The plane could quickly take water and drown everyone on board! How ironic would that be?

  “Radio in that we’ve made it. Then, get up and get the passengers out!” Wesselman said to Hall as he opened the door to first class seating.

  Hall was still in the crash position but snapped to attention and grabbed the seat buckle at the captain’s command.

  Ignoring the questions and calls from the passengers in first class, Wesselman went straight to the front right passenger door and opened it. The waves of the muddy Mississippi threatened to steal their lives but were still several feet below.

  “Not on my watch,” Wesselman said through gritted teeth. He deployed an inflatable slide and watched it unfold and grow into a temporary refuge. “Everyone, calmly leave your seats and file out in an orderly fashion. We have plenty of time before the plane takes on too much water. The Coast Guard is on its way to pick us up. Remember to inflate your life vest when you get on the slide.”

  Jim Hall exited the cockpit and stepped over to the left passenger door, throwing it open, and deploying the inflatable slide.

  Wesselman snaked down the aisle before it became impassable with bodies and burst through the curtain separating first class from coach. He was pleased to see all four mid-cabin emergency doors were open and people had begun to step out onto the wings.

  Kathy Stevens helped an elderly lady from her seat, and the other two flight attendants herded the others out from the rear of the plane.

  “Any injuries?” he asked Kathy, though her back was to him.

  “I don’t think anything more than bumps and bruises. The people just want to get out and worry what’s broken later.”

  Fear did have a way of masking pain. Wesselman had heard many soldiers’ stories of getting hit during a firefight and not realizing it until after it was over. He was amazed how calm the people were. He’d seen more frenzied passengers on a normal arrival; trying to be the first ones out.

  “You did a great job landing, Captain!” a man cried out from the rear.

  Mild applause and a few verbal affirmations let him know others felt that way too.

  “I’m still gonna miss my connecting flight,” an overweight man with an unlit cigar in his mouth complained, not bothering to look the captain in the eye.

  Wesselman poked his head back in first class to find it empty and Hall looking out the right side of the passenger door.

  “The Coast Guard is almost here. There are tugboats coming to the rescue too,” Hall said.

  For the first time, tension released in Wesselman’s back. He took in a breath of river air and thought he could smell Cajun spices mixed with roasting pork. What he wouldn’t give for a hurricane from Pat O’Leary’s right now!

  “Go out and help the passengers get on the boats. Leave with the last of them,” Wesselman said.

  “Yes, sir,” Hall said without a protest.

  Jim Hall was a good man and would one day be a good pilot, Wesselman thought. Hall still had much to learn before he earned a Captain’s hat. His flight experience didn’t include a military foundation to make him a warrior. That was a big disadvantage. Being a warrior taught Wesselman how to be a survivor. A survivor knows what it takes to win, no matter the cost.

  The minutes ticked by and shortly the plane was void of its passengers. Water was less than a foot away from spilling into the cabin, and most of the passengers were already safely aboard other vessels.

  He was the Captain, and there was no way he could leave without being one hundred percent sur
e there was no one left behind.

  Starting from the cockpit, he went down the aisle checking bathrooms and between seats, the galley, and the small areas designated for the crew only.

  After the first pass, he repeated the process. That’s what it took for him to allow himself to leave his plane to her watery grave. “You did good,” he said as he patted the fuselage by the door opening.

  Stepping out and onto the wing, water wet the bottom of his shoes.

  Three Coast Guard vessels and four tugboats set fifty or so yards away. The last of the passengers taking a boat that ferried them from the plane were just about to get off.

  Thomas Wesselman looked up to the sky and gave thanks. He had peace and a calm unlike anything else he had ever felt. The weight of the universe lifted from his shoulders.

  Cheers and waves erupted from the people on the boats. Many jumped with joy, and a few waved US flags.

  Wesselman smiled the width of the Mississippi and waved back. Despite the near horrific tragedy, this was the happiest day in his life.

  The dark water bubbled just to his left in front of the wing. In a split second, a mouth as large as a car sprang from the water. It looked similar to an alligator’s but was more round than long. Water slung as its jaws opened, hitting Wesselman in the face, and revealing teeth as large as railroad spikes.

  With no time to move, the mouth closed, ushering instant darkness. Wesselman’s conscious quickly eroded, but not before teeth mangled soft flesh and jaws crushed bone in an explosion of agonizing pain.

  *

  Half of the crowd screamed, and the other half stood with mouths agape. The captain was there one second, and then he was gone, snatched from the wing by a large creature from the depths of the Mississippi River.

  “I knew they had big catfish in the Mississippi River, but that was ridiculous,” Stinky said over the stunned silence.

  “Hmm,” Dave Einstein said. “That wasn’t a catfish. It was a mosasaur from the Cretaceous period. Interesting…”

  With an incredulous look on his face, Stinky said, “Yeah, well I know what mosasaur means from the Greek.” Before Dave had a chance to reply, Stinky said, “It means shut your yap, you self-absorbed, millennium snowflake!”

  In the distance, the steam whistle of the paddlewheeler Southern Queen announced it was about to begin its four-hour adventure down the mighty Mississippi.

  Chapter 3

  Bridget Reed had her hand under Dr. Bryan Breaux’s head as the clouds dissipated in his mind from the effects of the quantum transportation device. Breaux’s eyes sparkled with life.

  “Bridget, I’ve been on the most amazing journey,” the professor said.

  Having one’s brain disassembled and 3D printed back in place probably introduced a lot of confusion. “I’ve been right here with you the whole time, Doc. You’re looking good. How do you feel?”

  “No, I’ve been gone for weeks…perhaps months.” Breaux’s tongue slid between his lips. “Back in time…millions…hundreds of millions of years.” He turned his head and looked Bridget in the eyes. “Something went wrong with the quantum transport. Q created a time-wave and sent me back to prehistoric times. I…I lived among long-extinct creatures…mostly hiding. But I never stayed in one place very long. The time-wave kept shifting and shifting. Until…” he reached out with his right hand and touched Bridget on the arm, “until now.”

  “We need to get you to a hospital. Do you want me to call nine-one-one?”

  With renewed strength in his voice, he said, “No.” He then lifted from the floor with his left elbow and sat upright, quickly covering his private parts with the hand he had removed from Bridget’s arm.

  “In fact,” Breaux continued, “I don’t think I need to go to the hospital at all. At least, I mean today.”

  “I don’t know, Dr. Breaux. Your body has just gone through a traumatic experience. Checking into a hospital where they can measure your vitals is in your best interest.”

  “What do you want me to say? Hello, I’ve just been demolecularized and reassembled. Can you please take my temperature and blood pressure?”

  “Tell them you have complications from pancreatic cancer. You are dying, you know,” Bridget said, regretting her words might have come out too insensitive.

  A boyish smirk curled on Breaux’s lips. “Cancer? What cancer? I don’t have cancer anymore.”

  “But you can’t know that,” Bridget said and stood. “I’m beginning to think the transportation has affected your brain.”

  “I wrote the program that replaced all the cancer cells with normal cells. I know it worked. Plus,” Breaux brought his left hand up to his chest, “Plus, the demon is gone.”

  “The demon? What are you talking about now? Some New Orleans Voodoo baloney?”

  “Not hardly. One morning I woke up, before I knew I had cancer, and I knew something was not right in my body. I ignored it at first. After a few weeks, I broke down and went to the doctor, of which my tests showed negative. Still, I felt like something wicked resided inside. The cancer finally progressed enough to show up in tests. From that point on, I’ve called that feeling my demon.”

  “And that feeling is gone?”

  “Yes, Bridget. That feeling…my demon is gone!” Breaux said victoriously. “Now, if you would excuse me, I’d like to get dressed.”

  “I’ll give you all the space you need, Doc. I’m going to wash my face and get a Coke from the break room. I need some relief.” Bridget turned and left.

  “I need some relief too. Bridget, I’m taking you to the Quarter, and we are going to celebrate.”

  “Don’t you think you’re pushing things?” She called back while still walking away. “Why don’t you go home and celebrate?”

  “Because I don’t want to be alone, and I want you to come. You helped save me!”

  “Do you need me around because you’re worried you might have complications from the experiment?”

  “No, I want you to come because I might get too drunk. You might have to drive me home.”

  *

  Dr. Bryan Breaux shut down his aging Volvo in the Parking Lot next to the historic Jax Brewery in the French Quarter. The brewery and bottle house’s run lasted from 1891 to the mid-1970s, actually becoming the largest brewery in the south at one point. Financial problems had forced Jax to sell to a competitor. Now, the converted brewery had a variety of specialty shops, retail stores, and restaurants serving food with a Creole flair.

  “This is the most expensive parking lot in the Quarter,” Bridget said after she and the professor exited the vehicle and headed for Jackson Square. “I usually park down by the French Market. Plenty of free parking over there.”

  “Eh, that’s too far away. I have a new lease on life, and I don’t want to waste the precious time I’ve left on Earth to save a few dollars.”

  Passing through the lot entrance and waiting for an opportunity to cross Decatur Street, a distinctive Lucky Dog cart caught his peripheral. The cart was shaped like a hot dog on the bun and slathered in rich mustard. The proprietor hadn’t seen the edge of a razor in quite some time. His dingy white jacket had a combination of ketchup red, mustard yellow, and relish green splatters that would have earned a spot in a Jackson Pollock exhibition. The lady in the blue dress he spoke to had a beard and fairy wings.

  “I’ve lived in New Orleans for over ten years, been to the Quarter countless times, and I’ve never once had a Lucky Dog,” Dr. Breaux said.

  “I’ve had them before. You’re not missing out on anything.”

  “But if I don’t eat one, then I’ll never have that experience. I don’t want to die without knowing what a Lucky Dog tastes like.”

  “The experience might just kill you. Don’t you see how filthy that vendor looks? Lucky Dog’s are drunk food anyway. You aren’t drunk yet.”

  “Well then, we might have to make a stop here on the way back.”

  “Whatever,” Bridget said, sounding in no mood for a petty a
rgument.

  “Hey, buddy?” the vendor said. “I saw you lookin’ over here. You want me to fix you up with a Lucky Dog?”

  The professor shifted his gaze back to the vendor, and said, “I’m sorry, sir. I think I will take a pass on that. Maybe later.”

  The vendor shrugged, and the bearded lady next to him asked, “How about my lucky dog?” She lifted her blue skirt high enough to reveal that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  Feeling a rush of blood to his face, Breaux said, “Uh, ah, no thanks. No thank you. I’m going to pass on that too.” Seeing an opening in the traffic, he grabbed Bridget’s hand and led her across the street.

  “What? You aren’t going to try out that lucky dog?” Bridget asked and then giggled.

  “Not what I had in mind,” Breaux said.

  “But what about the experience? You may die never knowing what that lucky dog was like.”

  “You’ve made your point. Not all experiences are prudent.”

  They took the sidewalk a short block away to Jackson Square, passing several donkey driven carriages with accommodating carriage drivers bubbling with enthusiasm, ready to take a rider on a historical tour of the city.

  Dr. Breaux slowed his pace, and said, “You know, all the years I’ve been here, I haven’t taken a carriage ride.”

  “Are you going to start up again? I thought you wanted to get a drink? We’re not on a date. If you want me to stick around, you better anchor me down with a cocktail,” Bridget said, as she took the lead and pulled him along.

  They reached the corner of St. Peter Street, which ran on the west side of the block wide, wrought-iron fenced Jackson Square. Pat O’Leary’s was just over a block away.

  Turning, restaurants and other specialty stores lined the left side of the street. On the right side, various artists had set up shop, hanging their wares on the iron fencing, ready for purchase at a special price. A Tarot card reader or two had tables open with an empty chair waiting to show the next customer their inevitable future.