by Bobby Akart
The metal edge of a laptop came whizzing by like a frisbee, spinning just right so that the corner caught him above the right eye, immediately drawing blood. He felt for the warm substance, which partially obscured his vision. He pulled his right arm up to wipe the blood away.
Incredibly, the passengers became calm for a brief moment, except for the sound of a crying baby. It was if everyone waited to see if it was over, or just beginning.
The two men in front of Cort began to vomit. Their lurching was uncontrollable, and the awful stench filled the stale air within the cabin. The gross smell reminded him that the cabin had limited oxygen.
He leaned over to the two women next to him to see how they fared. Despite being banged around, they were not directly harmed like he was. Then he pushed the sliding window cover up to look outside. He expected to see something. Lights along the shore. Rescue boats. Oil rigs.
Nothing. Nothing but water.
Just as Cort came to the realization that the plane was submerged under the surface, several other passengers made the same determination.
“Oh, my god! We’re sinking!”
“We’re dropping to the bottom of the ocean!”
“Everybody, we have to get out!”
The hysterical passengers of Delta Flight 322 lost their collective minds. They flooded the aisles in a panicked search for the exits. In their frightened state, some had forgotten where the nearest exit row was and tried to force themselves toward the front of the aircraft. Others pushed toward the rear, thinking the exit rows over the plane’s wings would be safest. The result was several immovable objects pushing against one another, resulting in a stalemate.
Several struggles were underway in which big, burly men lost all sense of decorum and chivalry as they shoved women and children back into their seats or onto the floor. An elderly man was being trampled as passengers forced their way toward rows twenty-four and twenty-five immediately in front of Cort.
Meanwhile, the plane was noticeably sinking, tail end first. Cort could sense that he was being pushed back against his seat by gravity. Then he heard shouts from the back of the plane.
“Water is coming in! Hurry. Get out. We’re flooding back here!”
Everyone’s sense of urgency came at once. One of the drunks fumbled with the emergency exit door. He shoved his large frame against the door while he opened the locking latch. Unaware of how the emergency exit door functioned, he undertook the task incorrectly.
The MD-88 had an escape slide built into the aircraft that automatically opened once the door was unlatched. The mechanism uses highly compressed air to inflate the slide, which doubles as a life raft.
Because the life raft was inside the aircraft, by inflating it, the door was forced open. But, when submerged, the process differed. The door was designed to act as a plug based on the highest pressure being inside the aircraft, which ordinarily forced the door outward in an emergency situation. Now, the greater pressure was outside, in the form of the Gulf of Mexico. The force was reversed, causing the emergency exit door to open inwards.
Much to the chagrin of the two drunks, as soon as the latch was released, the evacuation slide inflated and shot to the surface. The door, however, soared into the main cabin like an asteroid entering the Earth’s atmosphere, crushing the two drunks together and cracking their skulls, rendering them unconscious.
Water was rushing in now and filling the aircraft when suddenly a groan of metal could be heard followed by a ripping sound. The plane was breaking apart.
All of a sudden, the aircraft’s orientation in the water quickly shifted. The tail section began to rise until the plane was almost parallel. Then it broke away from the cockpit and the galley.
Water rushed to fill the opening, and the back of the plane shot upright, lifting the passengers backwards toward the surface. Cort, who had unbuckled his seatbelt with the intention of clearing the blockage created in the exit row, tumbled into the aisle and fell downward toward the front of the plane.
Gravity caused passengers to drop from the rear of the aircraft as the main cabin slowly rose to the surface. Cort struggled to hold on, using all of his strength to claw his way back toward his row. The front of the aircraft from first class to the exit rows was filling up with water as the open exit door provided a gaping hole for the Gulf to pour in.
The plane continued to rise, and when the tail section hit the surface, its ascent stopped, leaving rows ten through twenty-five, the exit row, full of water.
“This way! Come to the rear!”
A flight attendant began to shout instructions to the passengers from Cort’s row to the tail section. A rush of air entered the back of the plane as the aft exit underneath the tail cone was opened. Some ambient light from the stars gave Cort the ability to see the carnage.
“Hurry!” shouted another flight attendant.
Passengers began using the seat backs as ladder rungs, climbing upward through the rear of the aircraft toward the opening. Cort assisted the ladies in getting unbuckled and pointed in the right direction. In the row across the aisle from Cort, a college-age boy was about to head up the seat ladder when Cort stopped him.
Speaking calmly, he placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Listen, will you help these ladies get out of here? I need to go help a friend.”
The young man hesitated and responded, “Yeah, um, sure. Come on, y’all.”
Behind Cort in the lower-numbered rows, passengers were swimming toward the tail-section exit. Some had the presence of mind to use their seat cushions as floatation devices, while others pushed their way toward Cort’s location in search of air. Rather than wait to climb out the back, most of the passengers took a deep breath and swam through the doorways that were now open on both sides of the plane. One after another poured out into the fifty-seven-degree waters of the Gulf.
Cort didn’t know if Congressman Pratt had already exited the wreckage. He was concerned that the sixty-something-year-old man, who was pushing three hundred pounds, might be in trouble. Cort did what he knew was right, setting aside any political differences the two men might’ve had, and the threat to his own life his decision meant.
After taking his life vest off, Cort shed his jacket and removed his tie. He kicked off his shoes and took a deep breath. Then Michael Cortland did something he almost didn’t live to regret.
Chapter 43
Times Square
New York City
Tom and Donna stood arm in arm as the clock ticked a minute closer to midnight. In another three minutes, the twelve-foot-diameter geodesic sphere would begin its sixty-second descent to the bottom as millions of people prepared to count down the final seconds. Then they’d give their loved one a kiss for good luck, perhaps toast a glass of champagne, and belt out the words to “Auld Lang Syne.”
The ball was covered with nearly three thousand Waterford crystal triangles in varied sizes ranging from four to five inches. Television cameras couldn’t capture the enormity of the sphere that weighed in at twelve thousand pounds.
For this New Year’s gala, the triangles included eight hundred eighty-eight special cuts representing the spirit of peace and kindness. The pattern resembled an Adonis blue butterfly, with its four brilliantly-colored blue wings that graced its body.
Of course, Tom and Donna couldn’t see this design clearly, as the thousands of LED lights that illuminated the ball generated millions of vibrant colors and patterns, creating a spectacular kaleidoscope effect.
Mesmerized by the appearance, Donna hopped a little out of sheer excitement as her eyes were affixed to the ball perched nearly two hundred feet above them. Tom also stared upward, waiting for the ball to begin its descent.
That was when he caught a glimpse of something flying up Seventh Avenue directly toward them. He wiped the moisture away from his eyes, caused by the snow flurries that pelted his face. The object was getting closer, and then suddenly a second one appeared next to it, flying in formation about a hundred
feet off the ground.
His mind raced to the many conversations he’d had with Willa about drone warfare. She’d told him that the United States might be the master of the remotely piloted aircraft, like the Reaper and Predator drones, as a tool of modern warfare, but terrorists were becoming adept at using commercial drones to level the playing field on a smaller, more localized scale.
Tom shouted to his wife, “Donna, we have to go!”
“No, why? It’s just a couple more minutes.”
“No! There’s no time. Come on!”
Tom jerked her arm and began frantically forcing his way through the crowd toward the Jersey barriers. People shoved back, but not out of hostility. The entire evening, they’d been accustomed to being pushed and shoved.
Tom persisted and began issuing verbal commands. “Please move out of the way. We have an emergency!”
“Tom! Why? What’s wrong?”
He heard the drone buzz over their heads. He ignored his wife’s pleas, and when he reached the Jersey barriers, he straddled one and helped his wife climb over. He looked around for cover. Bubba Gump was closed, as was the Levi’s clothing store adjacent to it.
He pulled Donna as close to the store’s entrance as he could and tried to force himself through a packed group of people crowding the entrance to the Hard Rock Café. They wouldn’t budge.
“This way!” he shouted, reversing course as he tried to shove through the masses to turn down Forty-Forth Street. They reached the corner just as the one-minute countdown was about to begin. The air around Times Square was filled with the sounds of shouting revelers eagerly anticipating the moment that people around the world had waited for. The noise was deafening, and the revelers distracted, so they never noticed the drones buzzing over their heads.
Two quadcopters carrying contact explosive devices raced toward their target. They were designed to detonate violently when exposed to a relatively small amount of energy created by sound or, in this case, pressure and friction.
As the quadcopters collided with the sphere, the nitroglycerin contained within their payload exploded, easily shattering the Waterford crystal that encapsulated the ball, sending millions of shards of glass fluttering downward upon the shocked crowd.
The sounds of explosions were heard in all directions, causing a chaotic stampede as over a million terrorized revelers sought protection.
Tom quickly assessed the situation. Blowing up the ball was most likely not the terrorists’ goal. The visual of frightened Americans coupled with their dead bodies being trampled was.
“Dirty bombs,” he mumbled to himself as he stared into the sky between the skyscrapers. “Come on, Donna, there’s not much time!”
They were running with the crowd now, doing their best to hug the wall and avoid getting knocked over. None of the businesses were open. They needed to get back to the hotel, but the long city blocks prevented them from taking a direct route.
Tom led them under an awning and tucked into a doorway. He contemplated waiting there, but the wind was blowing too hard They kept moving as more explosions rocked the vicinity of Times Square, setting off car alarms, which joined the cacophony of sirens from police and fire vehicles.
Suddenly, Donna fell to the ground and screamed in agony. “My ankle!”
She’d turned her ankle on the edge of a sewer grate and crashed into the stampeding mob. Tom tried to help her up, but he was knocked over too. The collapse caused a chain reaction that looked like it was straight out of a Three Stooges movie, except it wasn’t funny.
Those who were frantically chasing the rest of the crowd fleeing Times Square couldn’t see what had happened in front of them. They all crashed into the pile of bodies strewn about the sidewalk in front of 1155 Avenue of the Americas, the Durst property remodeled after the turn of the century. The granite sidewalks proved to be much harder than concrete as people’s heads struck the ground during their falls. Tom and Donna were now covered in a bloodied, panicked mass of injured revelers.
Donna moaned for assistance. “Tom, help me. I can’t breathe!”
Hearing his wife in distress, Tom Shelton disregarded his age. He stood and began dragging bodies off his injured wife, slinging them about like they were rag dolls. This resulted in more people tripping into the bunch, but Donna was free of the pile. He helped her under the entrance to the massive office building, where they were able to catch their breath.
Tom found a scarf on the ground and gave it to his wife. “Wrap this around your mouth and nose. Do not breathe the air, okay?”
She did as he requested and then looked around. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know, but from what I can see, this is what the apocalypse looks like.”
Chapter 44
Near Anacostia Station
Washington, DC
Hayden’s feet were screaming in pain from the unusual way she was walking along the Metrorail toward the south side of the Anacostia River. Her feet, however, were the least of her concerns at the moment. She was still alone, and now the tunnel was filling with smoke.
The DC Metrorail trains were powered by seven hundred fifty volts of electricity running through cable to third rails that run parallel to the two main rails. Insulators affixed to the concrete section that held the track kept this third rail off the ground. As the train traveled along the track, the train shoe extended outside the train itself, made contact with the third rail, and provided power.
When the power failure occurred, a surge shot through the third rail and created a stray current, a continuous flow of electricity beyond the third rail’s normal capacity. This stray current instantly generated an enormous amount of heat and interacted with the insulators holding up the third rail, which resulted in a series of tiny fires up and down the tracks in the tunnel.
Hayden came across the fires as she made her way through the tunnel, but they were not a threat to her safety. The smoke, on the other hand, had become a real problem. Not only did it obscure her visibility, but it was stealing the oxygen from the confined space.
Hayden took her chances with the unsure footing and made her way to the bottom of the railbed next to the walls of the tunnel. The smoke was floating toward the ceiling, and traveling along the lowest possible point helped her breathing. She pulled her left arm out of her coat sleeve and used the cashmere material to cover her nose and mouth. Her eyes were still watering, but she was able to move faster now.
After fifteen minutes of walking up a slight incline toward the other side of the river, she heard voices ahead. Some people were talking excitedly while others were crying. The smoke began to dissipate, and she assumed she was nearing the Anacostia station.
Instead, she found a group of passengers huddled under a ladder affixed to the wall that led up through the smoke. The group huddled at the bottom consisted of Hispanic women and children.
Hayden wasn’t sure how to approach the group. They didn’t appear to be in danger but, rather, frightened. As she slowly closed the gap between them, she glanced upward. The ambient light from above ground allowed her to see the smoke pouring through the open space.
“What’s going on?” she asked as she approached the group. One of the women was cradling a toddler while another one seemed to be tending to another child’s leg.
“They all left us here,” one of the women replied. “Some kept going and others climbed up the stairs. Nobody was willing to help us.”
Hayden returned her arm inside her jacket, as the air had cleared thanks to the opening. She pointed up the ladder. “What’s up there?”
“The ladder leads to a vent shaft,” the woman replied. “The children are too weak to climb. This young one fell and sprained her ankle. I cannot carry the little one and go up the ladder. We fear it is too far to walk along the tracks; plus, we heard screams ahead.”
Her added comment reminded Hayden there was a predator lurking around in the dark behind them. If they moved forward, they could be walking into troub
le. If they stayed here too long, her assailant would be upon them, and he’d take out his furor on these innocent people, especially her.
Hayden raised her voice so she could get their attention. “Ladies, listen to me. Can you climb up?”
“Yes, but the children—”
“I understand. Now, please wait here and stay calm. Let me make sure it’s safe, and I have an idea. Can you stay calm for me?”
“Yes, but please do not leave us. The men left us.”
“Don’t worry. Just wait until I return.”
Hayden didn’t hesitate. She looked back in the direction of the stalled train in the pitch-black tunnel, then adjusted her jacket and briefcase. She began her ascent up the ladder. With each rung, the smoke cleared, and fresh air hit her lungs. When she reached the top, the ability to breathe deeply was exhilarating and gave her a much-needed second wind to help those below her.
She climbed through the steel doors that had been flung open by other passengers. The vent shaft opened up into an empty field surrounded by dormant, tall grasses and leafless trees. Off in the distance, she could see a low-rise office building with a few lights burning.
She turned around and around, attempting to get her bearings. She could hear the roar of automobile traffic on the Suitland Parkway. She quickly spun around as a car alarm began to blare behind her. She then positioned herself so that the freeway was to her left and the car alarm was to her right. After taking into consideration the direction the track was following, she determined which direction was south, where Congress Station was located.
As her eyes adjusted from the smoke-filled tunnel to the outside, she was able to see lights off in the distance. A good sign. She assessed her options. The fact that the power was on both relieved and puzzled Hayden. What could cause the power to the trains to be cut off, but not the rest of the area?
