by L Jan Eira
“I wish I could see your face right now, Jack, but I have to settle for your voice. If you’d be kind enough to use the walkie-talkie,” said the unruffled voice.
“What do you want, Lagrange?” said Jack, fuming.
“Come, come, Jack. What do I want? I want revenge. Payback. I had it all, glory and fame. You saw fit to take it all away. For that, you will pay.”
“You are a sick man, Lagrange. You need help. Let’s land the airplanes and talk about this. I will get you all the help you need.”
“What will help me is to see you squirm.”
“You want to kill me? OK! Let’s land the airplanes, and you can have me. People on the ground don’t have to get hurt. Land, and I’m all yours,” Jack said into the walkie-talkie, a mixture of dread and fury in his voice. Rivulets of sweat dripped down his forehead. He gripped the yoke with deathly white knuckles.
“Kill you, I will,” emphasized the rogue airman, rage now accentuating every syllable of his words. “I will get my revenge.”
The faster airplane was now parallel with the Bonanza. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack briefly studied the aircraft. He tried but remained unable to identify the pilot, who maneuvered his plane to match their speeds perfectly.
“Speaking of revenge, look behind you,” said the scoundrel, endeavoring to get a glimpse of the struggling doctor whose cockpit suddenly flooded with dense smoke after a small explosion arose from behind and underneath the pilot’s seat.
Several moments later, the Bonanza stalled, forcing the aircraft to dip downward. The airplane entered a spiral, plunging earthbound at six thousand feet per minute. The aircraft’s structure shuddered uncontrollably as it sped to its inevitable doom; dense smoke emanated from the small cockpit window located to the left of the pilot. The plane sank rapidly, striking an opaque cloud layer at around five thousand feet. The strong arm of gravity yanked the aircraft downward, now out of sight, spinning faster and faster out of control.
• • •
The tension at the Evansville Tower had become palpable, filling the air and the hearts of all witnessing the events unfolding on the radar screen. All personnel on duty had joined Jason, all eyes fixated on the computer display. The blinking dots representing the two airplanes they had been following were too close to make a clear determination as to whether a collision had occurred over the last several seconds. The two blips had merged on the screen and from them continued to emanate a blinking red circle labeled Imminent Danger of Collision. An earsplitting beep proclaimed the urgency of the message.
“Bonanza niner-eight-Golf-Kilo, Evansville Approach, over,” said Jason nervously into his microphone, praying for an answer. “Bonanza niner-eight-Golf-Kilo, please respond,” he said after what seemed to be an eternity but was, in fact, several seconds of radio silence. Jason noticed his right hand was shaking, creating miniwaves of ripples through his coffee. He put the mug down on the table. Gloomily and slowly, he scanned all those present in the room. Their faces and demeanor spoke volumes. All eyes were poignant, overwhelmed, and devastated, all hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.
The radar screen and its accompanying deafening blare persisted with the loud declaration “Imminent Danger of Collision.”
“I can’t take it anymore,” said Tiffany, sitting down. “I’m going to get sick to my stomach.”
“Bonanza niner-eight-Golf-Kilo, Evansville Approach, over,” radioed Jason again, gloomily looking into Tiffany’s eyes in understanding. He, too, felt waves of nausea. Several seconds later, he keyed the microphone again. “Bonanza niner-eight-Golf-Kilo, Evansville Approach, please respond.” Nothing. “Bonanza Golf-Kilo, over.” Zilch. No reply. “Bonanza Golf-Kilo, please respond.”