Falling(11)

There is a backup on board.

The innocent souls on board.

Which ones weren’t innocent?

Whose eyes watched him and the rest of the crew, reporting back to this maniac? Did they have weapons? A canister full of poison back there already? Would they release it? Would they kill the crew, then rush the cockpit—kill Ben themselves—then force Bill to make his choice? Bill couldn’t keep up with his thoughts as they raced from one sick scenario to another.

What are your demands?



Sam read the email and held his hands open. “What do you mean? I just told you.”

You told me the conditions. But what do you want?



He laughed. “Bill, what are you not getting? I don’t want anything. I don’t want money. I don’t want a prisoner exchange. I don’t want political leverage. This isn’t 1968, man. This is not ‘Take me to Cuba.’ It’s not QAnon looking for kids in a pizzeria or whatever other bullshit your white supremacists believe. And it’s not some crazy seventy-two virgins in paradise jihad shit either. It’s got nothing to do with that.”

He leaned into the screen.

“All I want is to see what a good man—a good American man—does when he’s in a no-win situation. What does a man like you do when he has to choose. A plane full of strangers? Or your family? See, Bill, it really is about the choice. You. Choosing who will survive. That is what I want.”

Bill didn’t move. The man laughed.

“I love how that freaks you out! Knowing I can’t be bought. Or negotiated with. It terrifies you to know I want not a thing in the world except exactly what is happening.”

The men stared at each other. Bill raised his hands to type a question. His hands shook.

Why? Why are you doing this?



Bill hit the delete button until the sentences erased. If this man was going to answer that, Bill knew it would be on his own terms. He typed another question, but deleted it too. His fingers moved frantically. He wanted to understand what he was dealing with so he could figure out how to fix it.

Elise whimpered. He looked up at his daughter.

Bill knew he would get nowhere if he continued on and that he was only wasting time. He needed to get to work.

He typed, this time hitting “Send.”

How did you know I would be working this flight?



“You mean, how did I make sure you would be working this flight?” Sam said. “Turns out your chief pilot Walt O’Malley is quite the little pervert. He had no problem guaranteeing you would work the flight—so long as the pictures of the little boys on his hard drive didn’t become public.”

Bill’s heart burned at the betrayal. His boss, his colleague. His friend. They’d worked together for twenty-three years. This was rotten all the way up to the system chief pilot.

His thoughts slid out of control, nothing to hang on to, nothing to stop them. He was powerless in his own cockpit. Helpless as a man and as protector of his family. Threats at home, and threats on board. He was terrified of the other ways he could discover he had been duped.

Closing his eyes, Bill thought he might be sick. With a deep breath, he stretched his hands wide and then clenched his fists, repeating that motion while narrowing his mind’s eye to the image of the blood coursing through his hands. Gradually, his pulse slowed.

Why did you choose me?



Sam paused after reading the email, turning his gaze to the camera that connected them. “You arrogant prick. You think this is personal? You’re just a means.”

It will feel personal to the 149 innocent souls on this aircraft you want to kill.



“Well, of course it will. Death always feels personal, Bill. It feels damn fucking personal. But you know what the crazy thing about death is? It’s not personal. Everyone dies. No one escapes it. It’s the only fair thing in the world. Sometimes you’re young, sometimes you’re old, sometimes you deserve it, sometimes you don’t. But what the fuck is that, anyway? Death doesn’t just happen to ‘bad’ people, death doesn’t give a shit.” He shook his head, muttering to himself. “Fucking innocent souls…”

His gaze settled on Scott. “Look at your son, Bill.”

Bill refused. Seconds ticked by.

Sam slammed his fists on the desk. Carrie clutched Elise with a sob.

“Look at your son.”

Scott stared squarely into the camera. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, his knuckles white in a defiant clench. He was trying, trying so hard, to be brave. The gravity of the man he would grow into perched precariously on the trembling legs of a young boy. Father and son, the man and the one becoming, stared at each other through a small lens.

“Captain Hoffman,” Sam mused softly, “is your son good? Does he deserve this?” Sam shook his head sadly. “You speak of innocence as if it meant something to the world. But we’re all just a means to someone else’s end.”

Sam leaned back, crossing his arms across the explosive suicide vest.

“The choice is yours. I already made mine.”

Bill heard someone close the door to the lav out in the cabin. He thought of Jo and the rest of the crew going about their work. He thought of the passengers who were just trying to get where they needed to go. He envisioned the people in DC; senators and members of Congress discussing legislation while their aides passed them paperwork. Security guards smiling down at schoolchildren on a field trip. Families reading plaques in front of statues and paintings. Just regular people living peaceful lives. He thought of his daughter, Elise, who hadn’t taken her first steps yet. His son, Scott, who just wanted to play.