Fire: The Collapse

by William Esmont

High above Western Kansas

  Captain Mike Pringle scratched his chin as he scanned the instrument cluster of the Boeing 757-200 that was hurtling west at four hundred and twenty knots. Everything checked out, as expected, and his thoughts drifted back to the previous evening.

  Stuck in Washington because of severe thunderstorms, he had made the best of a bad situation, spending the night with an exotic Air France hostess named Barbara, who was also grounded by the weather. The sex had been phenomenal, lasting until dawn when he finally collapsed from sheer exhaustion. He had managed to squeeze in a few blissful hours of sleep, barely enough to meet the legal limit.

  At forty-four, Mike was doing exactly what he wanted with his life. After a relatively successful career with the Air Force and two tours supporting the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, he had opted for early retirement rather than chase the next set of bars on his shoulder. Life in the military meant long hours and low pay with the constant threat of people shooting at him. That was fine for the young guys, but he had bigger plans.

  Since joining United Airlines three years earlier, he had methodically climbed the seniority ladder, to the point where he now spent most of his days high above the flyover states. The next step was to get on the international roster. He figured that was a year, maybe two, away. He didn’t mind. Being a pilot had its perks, especially the steady supply of fresh new women.

  He glanced at his copilot, Marty Sellers, and grinned. At fifty-one, the father of five, and a devout Mormon, Marty was the anti-Mike. Strangely enough, the men got along well, and they made a determined effort to work together whenever possible. Mike figured Marty enjoyed living through his exploits, getting a vicarious thrill at glimpsing a life he had forsaken.

  “Big weekend plans?” Mike asked, looking to break the monotony of the trip.

  Marty folded his novel over his knee and stretched. “Nothing major. Swim meets for my oldest.”

  It was Friday morning and they had a hundred and sixty-five people on a nonstop from DC to San Francisco. The flight was running a day late, but for the most part, the passengers weren’t complaining. More storms were predicted for the weekend, and this was the only ticket out of town.

  An amber light blazed into life on his console. Cabin call.

  His radio squawked. “Sir? This is Brenda. We have a situation back here.” Brenda was serving the rear. He hadn’t worked with her before, but she had seemed professional enough during the preflight introductions. Mike raised an eyebrow at Marty.

  “I’m listening…”

  “A passenger in 36C. He’s—”

  Mike cut her off. “He’s what?”

  “He’s having trouble breathing.” A note of panic was creeping into her voice.

  Mike relayed the information to Marty, and they exchanged a look of concern. There wasn’t much either of them could do from the cockpit. FAA regulations barred them from leaving their seats to assist, even in the direst emergency.

  “Hold on, Brenda. I’ll find out if there’s a doctor on board.”

  “Thank you.”

  Changing the radio to broadcast to the entire plane, Mike cleared his throat and put on his best voice of authority. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing a medical emergency. If there are any doctors or trained medical personnel on board, please press the call button located directly over your head. I repeat, if you are a doctor or you have medical training, press the flight attendant call button.” He switched back to speak with Brenda. “Brenda?”

  “Yes, Mike?”

  “Any luck?”

  “Yes, sir. Two passengers. JoAnne is collecting them.” Good. JoAnne was in charge of the center of the plane. Mike had flown with her on several occasions and knew she had a solid head on her shoulders.

  “Thanks. Keep me posted.”

  “Think it’s serious?” Marty asked as Mike ended the call.

  “Beats me. Can you check with ground control and let them know we may need to make an emergency landing?”

  Marty nodded. “Sure. At this rate I don’t think we’re ever going to get home.” He began murmuring into the radio. The plane was still a little over three hours from their final destination. If they had to put down early, it probably meant Denver or Salt Lake City.

  Mike opened a line to Barbara again. “Barbara?”

  She didn’t respond at first, and then, suddenly, she screamed, an earsplitting howl of pain that drilled into Mike’s brain. Mike tore his radio off and held it a few inches away, massaging his sore ears. “What was that?”

  “Uh, Mike,” Marty said tentatively. “Denver’s not answering.”

  “Just a second Marty—” He dialed the volume down. “Barbara? What’s going on?”

  No response. Mike felt a tension headache building. He switched channels to first class. “I’m calling Chad.” Chad was the senior flight attendant on board and should be near the phone. Mike relied upon his crew for a host of duties, not the least of which was security. There was no response. Maybe he’s helping JoAnne, he ruminated, his concern mounting. He tried again. Three rings without an answer.

  “Mike.” Marty waved at him.

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t raise Chicago, either...”

  Mike was getting a bad feeling, the sort of tickle he had gotten in Afghanistan when a mission was about to go to shit. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on, just an itch in the back of his mind, like bobbing on the ocean at night and feeling a large animal brushing against your legs.

  Marty continued to fiddle with the communications system, switching frequencies, trying to raise the major air traffic control centers along their route, to no avail. “There must be someone else out there.” He punched up a radar screen that displayed the airspace around them.

  “Mike. Look!” He pointed at a blip ten miles out and closing. According to the transponder, the signal represented a Continental Airlines flight heading due east at twenty-six thousand feet.

  Mike matched frequencies with the other airplane and keyed his transmitter. “Continental Eight Two, this is United Four One requesting ground relay.” He held his breath as he waited for a response.

  Finally, after what seemed like eternity, a female voice responded. “United Four One. This is Continental Eight Two. Negative on ground relay. Repeat. Negative on—” There was a sharp BANG, and the communications channel went silent.

  “Continental Eight Two. United Four One. Come back.”

  Dead air.

  As they watched, Continental 82 crossed through twenty thousand feet. Seventeen thousand. Ten thousand. It was going down.

  The skies were clear, and Mike bent forward to the cockpit window, scanning for any trace of the other aircraft. It was difficult to see over the nose of the giant Boeing, but he thought he caught a flash of metal far below. He shared a solemn look with Marty. “I think they went down.”

  Marty double-checked the radar. Continental 82 had vanished.

  Mike pulled out his mobile phone. Three bars. It was a long shot to place a call this high. The plane’s speed relative to the towers on the ground would make holding a signal nearly impossible. “I’m gonna try headquarters,” he said. “They’ll be able to tell us what’s happening.”

  Marty looked like he was in shock. Unlike Mike, he had no combat background. He had worked his way up to the right seat via the private aviation world, starting with small commuter aircraft hauling people up and down the West coast and eventually graduating to the big jets.

  Mike dialed the switchboard in Chicago and pressed Send. The line rang three times before he was connected. A voicemail recording came on with a stock message explaining that the navigation menu had recently changed and recommending he listen closely to ensure he reached the correct party.

  Mike cursed, and praying for an operator, mashed down on the zero button. He needed someone who could tell him what the hell was going on.

  Crash!

  That was in first class, Mike thought. It soun
ded like a drink cart tipping over.

  He pulled the phone away from his ear and motioned to Marty. The door had a sliding security peephole mounted at eye-level, a means of inspecting the length of the cabin without exposing themselves to anyone trying to take control of the aircraft.

  Before Marty could respond, the cockpit door rattled with a direct impact. But it held. Visions of Continental 82 flashed through Mike’s head as he speculated on what was happening in the rear. Thoughts of 9/11 intermingled with his fear. Are we under attack again?

  For the first time, Mike was grateful for the reinforced doors. He had bitterly opposed their introduction when they had first been announced. He felt that as a pilot he had a responsibility to show his face to the crew and passengers and to be accessible at all times.

  Putting his phone up to his ear, he motioned for Marty to check the door. Marty unfastened his harness and made his way between the seats to the peephole. Sliding the cover aside, he put his eye to the door. There was another impact, and Marty jerked reflexively.

  “What is it?” Mike asked, curiosity burning a hole in his gut.

  “Hold on.” Marty tried again. Mike watched with anticipation. Meanwhile, the phone continued to ring. Marty took a quick step back, his face ashen. “This is not happening…”

  Ashen faced, he returned to his seat.

  “Marty?” Mike said. “What’s happening back there? Tell me, damn it!”

  Marty’s answer was a rapid shake of his head. His eyes were bugged out, and he looked like he was about to be sick. Mike sighed, placed his cell phone on the console, and climbed out of the pilot’s chair. He approached the peephole cautiously, keeping one eye on Marty.

  Mike’s brain refused to process the sight on the other side of the door. He froze, unable to comprehend the atrocity playing out feet from where he stood.

  A man was lying on the floor with Chad hunched over him ripping and tearing at the man’s throat like a starving lion on the Serengeti. Greasy bits of flesh and gristle dangled from Chad’s teeth. Splatters of blood coated the cabin, staining the walls a dark red, congealing on the floor in viscous puddles of liquid gore.

  A knot of passengers huddled farther back in the center aisle. As Mike prepared to turn away, a ruined face popped up inches from his own on the other side of the door. It mashed against the peephole, blocking his view. Mike held his breath and forced himself to remain still. The figure moved away from the peephole, leaving Mike with a view of the cabin blurred by some unidentifiable bodily fluid. A moment later, the figure charged the door, the force of the impact bending the door in its frame, showing cracks of light from the cabin around the edges.

  Mike flailed away from the door.

  “What the hell was that?” Marty asked.

  “He knows we’re here,” Mike replied, shaking uncontrollably. He sank into his seat and buckled in the safety harness. He had to think, had to land the plane.

  “Mike?” Marty asked again.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Mike snapped. “But we need to get on the ground now.” Pulling on his headset, he began skipping through the radio frequencies, frantically searching for someone, anyone, to guide them in.

  Ten