by Tom Abrahams
“Open is rolling,” said the producer. “Stand by.”
“Stand by,” repeated Turner. The timpani-heavy theme music crescendoed. He cleared his throat and the field producer pointed at him.
“Terror in the sky turns into the search for survivors in the sea. We’ll have the latest information on the Los Angeles-bound Pacific East Flight 2929 that crashed into the Gulf,” said Turner. He was looking at an iPad slowly rolling his script from bottom to top, a portable teleprompter that helped him stay on track. “Also tonight, we’re live from New Orleans, where the UCLA men’s basketball team has taken another step closer to a national championship.”
He could hear the audio from the game in his ear as he glanced at the prompter one last time and then eyed the camera lens with his trademark “concerned and credible, yet approachable and affable” gaze.
“And that is where we begin our newscast on this Saturday evening. Hello, Southland, I’m Lane Turner, reporting tonight from the Big Easy, New Orleans, Louisiana, where the semifinal matchup for the UCLA Bruins was anything but easy. They went down to the wire against the heavily favored North Carolina State Wolfpack.”
Turner shot a quick glance at the advancing teleprompter, pausing for a breath. He then mentioned the many fans that had traveled east for the big game then introduced a taped piece, called a package, he’d spent much of the day putting together with the help of his photographer and producer. When the piece ended, a minute and fifteen seconds later, he was again on camera.
“For many of those fans, they are leaving happy but drenched. As you can see behind me right now, the skies have opened and we are under a flash flood watch here. Let’s check in now with meteorologist Monica Muldrow for how the weather might impact travel here and Monday night’s championship game.”
Turner stared into the camera, and Monica Muldrow began her forecast. “It doesn’t look good,” she said. “That flash flood watch is likely to become a warning, Lane. Of course, here in Los Angeles, the weather is sunny and a temperate seventy-four degrees with no chance of precipitation. But as we move the map and zero in on Texas and Louisiana, we can see this upper level low-pressure system is intensifying. This is the same low that created the violent storm that brought down Flight 2929. And what we have here is a system that isn’t moving. It’s just regenerating line after line of intense storms with heavy rainfall. They are moving east to west, as all systems do this time of year.”
Lane half-listened to the forecast while he checked the paper scripts he held in his hands. His field producer had paused the iPad at the beginning of the next story. He pressed his earpiece more snugly into his ear as Muldrow finished her forecast.
“Be careful out there, Lane, and stay dry,” she concluded.
“Thanks, Monica,” said Lane with a smile that quickly evaporated as he transitioned to a more serious story. “You heard Monica mention the rain falling in New Orleans is part of the same low-pressure system that took a Pacific East crew by surprise late yesterday. The aircraft, carrying two hundred and ten people aboard, lost communication and then altitude before crashing into the Gulf some seventy-five miles off the Florida coast. Joining us now from Miami is Southland reporter Damion Smith. Damion, we understand federal investigators are there, as are some family members of those on board the plane.”
There was a brief pause and then Smith began the live portion of his report. Turner could hear it in his earpiece.
“It’s too early to know an exact cause of the crash,” said Smith, “but we do know that what was an active search and rescue mission has, within the last few minutes, become a recovery mission. That means authorities believe all two hundred ten passengers and crew aboard Flight 2929 are dead.”
There was another brief pause. Then the taped portion of Smith’s report began. In his ear, Turner heard a woman’s wail. It sent shivers along his spine. “It is unmistakable,” said Smith, “the sound of a mother learning her child is gone, killed in a senseless plane crash for which there are no answers. At least not yet.”
Next came the voice of the spokesperson for Pacific East Air. “We extend our deepest condolences to the families and loved ones of those aboard Flight 2929,” he said, clearly reading from a prepared statement. “We too have lost people close to us, and we grieve with you.”
“The plane, a Boeing 737-300, was en route to Los Angeles International Airport from Miami,” came the reporter’s voice again. “The twenty-three-hundred-mile journey began normally, we’re told. There was no cause for alarm as it reached its cruising altitude.”
A spokesperson for the National Transportation Safety Board was next. She was answering a question from a news conference held earlier in the day.
“At some point,” she said, “we know the pilots communicated an issue with weather. They were instructed to alter their flight plan to accommodate the sudden change in conditions off Florida’s southwestern Gulf Coast. Shortly after those initial adjustments, air traffic control noted significant anomalies with respect to the aircraft’s altitude and speed.”
Smith again. “Investigators have not clarified what those anomalies were, and they have not yet released an official manifest containing the names of the ill-fated passengers and crew. Families here are awaiting those answers, as are we. Reporting live from Miami, Florida, I’m Damion Smith. Lane?”
“Thanks for that troubling update, Damion,” said Turner. “We’ll return here to New Orleans with game highlights and the latest postgame reaction from the Bruins’ players and coaches later in the newscast when Tank Melton joins me with sports. For now, let’s head back to the Southland and my colleague Courtney Leigh. Courtney?”
“Thank you, Lane,” said Courtney. “Tensions are mounting—”
Turner pulled out his earpiece and disconnected the thin cable that attached to his cell phone. He hung up the phone, which had provided the audio of the newscast, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. Then he pinched the small alligator clip at his lapel and handed the lavalier microphone to his producer. He turned around to face the arena and the falling rain.
“Whew,” he said, exhaling, “that’s some rain there. Not sure how we’re going to get out of here without getting wet.”
“Uh, Lane,” the producer said, the lilt of a question in her inflection, “we have another segment. It’s…” She asked the newscast producer how long they had until the next segment. “It’s fourteen minutes from now. You might want to keep your mic on and be listening to the newscast.”
He waved her off and checked his watch. “I’m good. Plenty of time. I want to soak in the environment. I don’t often get this chance, you know, being cooped up inside the station.”
The producer, a woman whose name escaped Turner, crinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes. “Okay,” she said, drawing out the second half of the word. “I guess that’s fine. But control may need to talk with you and—”
Turner turned his whole body toward her, flashing her his billboard smile. “That’s why you’re here. You can talk with the control room and let me know what they need. Good?”
She pressed her lips into a flat smile, blinking back her frustration. “Sure.”
Turner could taste the chicory on his own breath. He hadn’t had anything to eat since his breakfast overlooking Jackson Square from his undersized chair and table at the edge of Decatur Street. He tugged on his belt, pulling up his suit pants to his navel.
“What are you thinking for dinner?” he asked. “Po’boys? Jambalaya? Crawfish?”
“You’re just listing every stereotypical New Orleans dish you can think of, aren’t you?” asked the photographer.
“Rice and red beans?” Turner added without answering the question. “I’m thinking Brennan’s for breakfast tomorrow. A little bananas Foster? I hear they do it tableside.”
The producer sighed. “I hadn’t given it much thought. I’m kinda focused on the newscast right now. Maybe you should be doing that too, Lane?”
“Maybe.�
�� He shrugged. “But I did a lot of research on the food scene here. Spent a fair amount of time on Google looking up where to eat. There are many good options.”
“I was just going to eat at the hotel,” said the photographer. “I’m exhausted. We were up at seven this morning. That’s five o’clock on the West Coast.”
“I’ll probably grab something at the hotel too,” said the producer. “They’ve got twenty-four-hour room service.”
Turner raised his hands, waving them off. “Suit yourself. I’m getting something that sticks to my ribs. Then maybe I’ll hit Bourbon Street. I’ve never had a Hurricane.”
“We’ve got seven minutes,” said the producer. “Tank is on his way out right now. Apparently the second game is getting ready to tip off.”
Turner sighed and dialed the most recent number on his cell phone. He plugged in the cord that connected to his earpiece and slid the molded plastic back into his ear. Then he motioned for the mic, which the producer took from the photographer and handed to him.
The newscast was in the middle of the main weather segment. Weather in southern California was a joke. Unless they were in wildfire season or mudslide season, there was virtually no difference in the forecast from one week to the next. Lane Turner was convinced he could be the chief forecaster if they’d let him. He was convinced a five-year-old could be the chief forecaster if they’d let one try.
Monica Muldrow was explaining how the high temperature on Sunday would be the same as the high temperature on Monday but slightly lower than Tuesday. The lows would be consistently in the sixties. The highs would never reach above eighty degrees. Turner chuckled to himself.
From behind him he heard the heavy panting of a man running, out of breath. It was Tank Melton. He was already dialed into the newscast with an earpiece in place.
“Hey, Lane,” he said breathlessly. “Good game, right?”
“Sure thing, Tank,” said Lane. “Fantastic.”
Lane and Tank had worked together for the better part of a decade. They were cordial to each other, though neither ever spent time with the other off the set. Lane took a second lavalier mic from the producer, whose name he still couldn’t recall, and handed it to Tank.
“Thanks,” said the sports director, gathering himself for their imminent live report.
“Sure thing,” Turner repeated. “Hey, you interested in grabbing some dinner tonight? I’ve got a list of places the Internet insists we try.”
Tank smiled and shook his head. “Thanks, Lane, I appreciate it. I’m probably going to take a rain check, so to speak. I’ve got a lot to do tonight and I’m pretty tired. I’ll grab something from room service.”
“Suit yourself,” said Lane, listening to Monica wrap up the weather and Courtney Leigh read a tease for their upcoming report.
The producer gave them an updated time. “Three minutes,” she said. “Right after the next commercial break.”
Turner adjusted his tie. The temperature was dropping. The rain, which was steady, was blowing at an angle now. He cursed the weather, hoping it wouldn’t force him to resort to room service like the others.
CHAPTER 5
April 4, 2026
Los Angeles, California
Perspiration stung Danny Correa’s eyes. He tasted it. It was in his ears, dripping down his back, lathering his chest. Even the palms of his hands were sweaty.
His thighs burned from the pressure of having partially squatted on them for more than a minute now.
“Ich,” he said, throwing a punch forward.
“Ni,” said the instructor, moving his arm into a blocking position.
Danny mirrored the movement with the rest of the class. “Ni,” he said and blew a drop of sweat from his face.
“San,” said the instructor, throwing another punch, this one with his left hand.
“San,” said the class collectively and threw punches with their right hands.
Danny eyed the clock above the mirrored wall in front of him. Class was nearly over, and he was exhausted. Though the dojo’s sensei had insisted the air-conditioning remain off to induce muscle flexibility and strengthen endurance, Danny was convinced it was a cost-saving measure. Electricity costs in California had skyrocketed as an unusually warm spring had strained the grid.
Another bead of briny sweat dripped into the corner of one eye, blinding him momentarily as he continued through the progression of prescribed moves from memory. He pulled his fisted hands to his sides and kicked his right leg into the air, then planted that foot firmly on the dojo’s spring-loaded, padded floor before pivoting on the balls of his feet ninety degrees.
He’d been coming to the dojo for a month after having taken a decade-long hiatus from the martial arts. There was something in his gut that told him he’d need the skills that had rusted in his muscle memory. It was an overwhelming sense that he’d have to defend himself against a coming attack.
It wasn’t anything concrete and he didn’t tell anyone about it. It was merely something that nagged at his psyche and had him looking over his shoulder whenever he left his modest apartment. He had recently installed three slide-bar locks on its front door and a metal bar that prevented the back slider from opening.
“Hachi,” said the instructor.
Danny imitated the eighth move back toward the mirrored wall. The nape of his neck was soaked. Only two more moves and class would mercifully end. He wasn’t in the shape most of the other students had attained. He was the newbie and there were no exceptions for him.
“Juu,” said the instructor.
Ten.
Danny completed the final move, held his position, bowed to the instructor, and bent over at his waist, the cool streams of sweat trickling along the sides of his face, and he held himself upright, his hands on his knees.
He stayed there for several moments, the droplets of sweat splashing onto the floor, painting an abstract picture of the effort he’d put forth for the past hour. A strong, viselike hand touched his shoulder, gripping the stiff cotton fabric of his gi, the white karate uniform all of the students and instructors wore inside the dojo. Danny lifted his head to see his instructor standing in front of him.
“You did well today, Mr. Danny,” he said. “You are improving.”
Danny stood up and planted his hands on his hips. “Arigato.”
A polite smile spread across the instructor’s chiseled face, revealing his dimples. He nodded. “Leie,” he said. “Not at all. You need not thank me for noticing your effort.”
Danny wiped his brow with the back of his arm. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled. Then he stepped back deferentially. “As soon as I change, I’ll be back to clean.”
“Of course,” said the instructor. “We don’t doubt you’ll earn your lessons both through labor of many kinds.”
Danny thanked him again, this time in English, and backed away. He moved toward the far wall, the one opposite the mirrored one, and found his belongings: a black duffel bag so worn it appeared almost pink, a pair of scuffed athletic shoes, keys to a high-mileage Volkswagen, and his cell phone. He was out of data and hadn’t made it a point to reload his prepaid plan.
He slung the duffel, heavier than it was before class, onto one arm, tossed the keys into the shoes and picked them up, palming his phone. There were message notifications on the screen: one missed call, one voicemail, and several text messages, all from the same number.
What little energy Danny had left in his body left him as if osmosis had sucked into him, taking his energy away from him and sliding into the ether. The call and messages were from Derek.
Derek.
Danny gritted his teeth while moving toward the locker room. He shouldered open the door with force, pretending it was Derek, and wound his way to an empty spot on a varnished wooden bench surrounded by lockers.
He dropped his belongings onto the bench, not paying attention to the conversations playing out around him, while leaning against a locker to read the texts. His blood
pressure was rising, the tension in his shoulders hardening, and the acid in his gut was beginning to leak its way up into his throat.
Derek.
He held the phone up to his face to unlock it, then thumbed the screen to reveal the string of text messages. He wanted to puke. There were four messages, each of them sent only minutes apart.
DANNY, I NEED 2 TALK WITH U. CALL ME PLZ.
DANNY, LEFT A MSG 4 U. IMPORTANT.
DUDE, R U IGORING ME? SRIUSLY.
PLZ CALL ME. ASAP. URGENT.
He was reading the last of the messages when the phone buzzed and the screen changed to reveal an incoming call.
Derek.
Danny’s thumb hovered over the icon that would allow him to ignore the call, but he answered it instead. Might as well get it over with, he thought to himself. He hadn’t even said hello when Derek started his staccato soliloquy.
“Danny,” he said breathlessly. “Sheesh. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for an hour. You haven’t answered. Are you ignoring me? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got you on the phone now, so it’s all good. You’re there, right? You can hear me? Danny?”
Danny puffed his cheeks and sighed, exhaling all of the air stored in his lungs. “I’m here,” he said with all of the excitement of a man about to undergo a digital exam.
“Okay,” said Derek. “Great. I mean not great. But we need to talk. It’s critically important.”
Danny remained silent, waiting for Derek to keep talking.
“You there? Danny?”
“We’re talking,” said Danny. “What do you want, Derek? You’re not supposed to call me unless it’s an absolute emer—”
“It is an emergency, Danny. Are you somewhere private?”
“I’m in a locker room.”
“By yourself?”
Danny surveyed the others in the room. They were in various states of undress and topics of conversation. “Yes.”
“You know I work in tech,” Derek said, “and I dabble in VC. So I—”
