It began with the drink cart.
It grazed my elbow as it rocketed down the aisle, unmanned.
The plane was still perfectly level at that point. No pitching. No diving. No turbulence.
All that came later.
When the drink cart flew by me, I sat up and began looking around at the other passengers, searching for that universal look of recognition, some acknowledgement that hey, something here is seriously amiss.
A guy in a blue Ole Miss hat a few rows up turned around and looked back at me. He gave me the wide-eyed What was that? Which I appreciated.
The lady hogging the armrest beside me was still sound asleep – a rosary and faded prayer card clutched in her withered hand – and the girl in the window seat beside her, who I imagined was her daughter was reading Pessoa’s Book of Disquiet.
Neither of them had seen the runaway drink cart.
I saw an Asian girl take her headphones off, look around, but that was it.
People weren’t nearly as disturbed as they should have been.
As I was.
But that would change.
I was already what they call a “white knuckle flyer” so all my fears and anxieties were heightened. We had made it through the takeoff (the scariest part of the flight – or so I thought) and we had reached what I imagined was our cruising altitude of 34,000 feet so I finally began to relax. I even loosened my seatbelt a little.
I was about an hour into the movie I had downloaded on my iPad beforehand (we were probably 40 minutes into the actual flight), and I was expecting the flight attendants to make their rounds with their drinks and little biscotti cookies when the cart flew by me.
I felt a gust as it passed.
No one anywhere near it.
I looked to the galley behind me, but no one was there either.
Then I saw a flight attendant peer out who looked every bit as surprised as I was.
There was no way she had pushed this thing.
No one on the plane was strong enough to launch a cart like that.
Not anyone of this earth anyway.
It had sailed down the aisle unobstructed – all 32 rows of economy, past business class, through the blue curtain of the first-class cabin, and struck the cockpit door. The other flight attendants were still in their jump seats and were as shocked as the rest of us (at least those of us who were paying attention) when the thing crashed into the door.
Because the seat belt sign was still on, and it was still early in the flight, all of the passengers were still seated, and the cart’s only obstacles (if you can call them that) were a few purse and shoulder straps from bags that had been stowed under the seats, but the cart steamrolled over those and struck the cockpit door with enough force that Terrence Toast, the semi-famous TV analyst and famed “aviation expert,” closed his laptop, and walked up to the main galley to investigate.
But there was no logical explanation to be given.
Not to Terrence Toast. Not to anyone.
Not yet at least.
That’s when the phone rang.
The “purser” or lead flight attendant in first class answered it. It was the cockpit. The pilot naturally wanted to know what had struck the door. The flight attendant told them it was a drink cart though she couldn’t say what (or who) might be behind it (literally). Neither she, nor the pilots, nor aviation expert Terrence Toast, had any reason to believe the errant drink cart had been an attempt to breach the cockpit.
Not yet.
“It was a small miracle that thing didn’t strike or injure anyone in the aisle,” the flight attendant said. “Had we hit some rough air?” she asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Nope,” the pilot said. “Smooth sailing so far.” He laughed.
“Must have been a ghost,” he said before hanging up.
He had no idea how prescient he was.
In retrospect, there were a few other things before the drink cart incident that gave me pause but they certainly weren’t “red flags;” nothing that would have caused me to deboard the plane anyway. Or take another flight. Or cancel my trip or anything like that.
There had been that persistent beeping noise of what sounded like the seatbelt sign going on or someone pressing the flight attendant call button, but that had been going on intermittently since I had boarded, and I had gotten used to it.
Then there was glitchy in-flight entertainment system. Someone – the flight attendant or the co-pilot – had come over the P.A. and said it had been acting “buggy” and they were working on it. There were a few audible groans as the prospect of five and a half hours without entertainment sank in (I had brought my iPad and downloaded plenty of movies ahead of time for this exact reason).
But neither of these things seemed like harbingers of pending doom.
Far from it.
In fact, as I was boarding, I took it as a good sign that there was a “celebrity” on board (even if Terrence Toast was about as famous as your local weatherman). He was known for doling out his aviation-related expertise on cable news and silly as it may sound, for me, having Terrence there was the next best thing to having another pilot on board.
As I walked down the aisle to my seat, I noted several sets of equally telegenic well-heeled parents; several kids and babies; as well as a pair of Catholic priests seated in one of the Emergency Exit rows.
I’m not suggesting any of this is logical or that God would ever prioritize the lives of the rich or good-looking – or even the life of a quasi-celebrity like Terrence Toast – over anyone else but seriously: What kind of God takes down a plane with little kids and priests onboard?
I guess if you don’t believe in God, it’s a moot point.
I can’t say I fully believed in God at that time either. Especially after the last couple of years, where I had a rough go of it. The last eleven months had been particularly brutal.
A transient in the Mission once told me I used God as a dishrag – believing in Him only when I needed to clean up a mess; then discarding Him after the mess was gone.
I had made a pretty big mess of things lately and I don’t remember asking God for help with the cleanup. Maybe I should have. I would have needed a pretty big dishrag. My point is that I don’t remember how strong my faith was or if I believed in God at the time.
Then again, I didn’t believe in ghosts either.
But that would change.
In fact, everything I thought I knew about the world was about to change – the entire fabric of my reality was like a sweatshirt that was about to be turned inside out.
Now that I think of it, I remember saying a prayer – a Hail Mary and what I could remember of an Our Father – as the plane throttled down the runway.
Call it an occupational hazard, but I knew enough about aviation disasters to know how dangerous that part of the flight was. If something bad was going to happen, the odds were good it would be on takeoff.
As we lifted off the ground, I thought of the 1987 Northwest Airlines flight that went airborne for a measly 14 seconds before the plane banked sharply, its wing clipped a light pole at a nearby rental car agency, and the plane smashed into a highway embankment, killing all but one passenger – a 4-year-old girl – instantly.
That was Flight 255 from Detroit Metro to Phoenix Sky Harbor. 148 passengers were killed that evening, all because the pilot forgot to put the flaps down before takeoff.
When I felt we had been aloft for longer than 14 seconds, I returned to my iPad and tried to watch my movie (Leaving Las Vegas) to distract myself.
I always refused to look out the window during the plane’s ascent.
My hand was shaking but my tremor had nothing to do with my fear of flying.
I had been sober for almost 24 hours, something my wife (ex-wife) alleged I was incapable of in court.
When I felt that the woman next to me was looking at me, I hid my hand in my hoodie pocket.
Through my headphones, I could hear the landing gear retract.
I took a deep breath and exhaled quietly through my nostrils.
I was pretty sure we had made it so there would be no further need to pray.
But I was wrong.
What makes all this even more complex is that while I was anxious about flying, I still wasn’t fully convinced I wanted to live anymore.
Not that I wanted to die, per se; I just didn’t really see a path forward.
In the preceding two and a half years, I had lost my job as an associate at Kendall Ross & Shapiro (the West Coast’s premiere aviation and aerospace mass tort and product liability litigation firm); I was forced to file for bankruptcy (Chapter 11); my wife divorced me (I had carelessly allowed my marriage to atrophy while trying to repair our finances); and I had, for all intents and purposes, lost total custody of my six-year-old daughter, Grace, whom I adored, after foolishly representing myself in Family Court (and getting a DUI – not my first – on the way to the custody hearing).
With barely six grand in my checking account, I bought a one-way ticket to Honolulu (on Aloha Air, which made me nervous, but it was the cheapest fare I could find).
My plan was to dry out in paradise. Use the time to formulate an actionable plan to get my life back on track. My best (and only) remaining friend who happens to be an Internist at St. Francis tried to dissuade me from leaving the city. He said quitting cold turkey could kill me. It would wreak havoc on my “limbic system.” Alcohol, he said, suppresses certain neurotransmitters in the brain, which adapt by working harder to function properly. When you stop drinking too fast, he explained, the neurotransmitters still try to compensate, which sends them into a state of “overexcitement.”
He told me to wait until he could get me “a bed” somewhere. He even told me to keep drinking (which sounded good at first). But I knew his “bed” was only going to lead to a treatment center somewhere. Then AA. Holding hands with strangers. A halfway house in Oakland probably. That was the last thing I needed.
What I needed were blue skies and a little bit of sunshine so I could clear my head.
I thought about having one last drink on the plane to calm my nerves.
Before I quit for keeps.
And that was when the drink cart raced by me, careening wildly out of control at the precise moment I was trying to devise a way to restore order to my now-shattered life.
The symbolism wasn’t lost.
I watched the same flight attendant who had been behind me when the cart took off, wheel the thing back down the aisle in a calm and controlled manner. She wore a pleasant, calming smile on her face now, as if she were running for office. Nothing to see here.
When she got near me, I raised my hand like a diligent student.
“Excuse me, ma’am…”
She tilted her head and smiled at me as if she were Jackie Kennedy.
“What was that?” I asked.
“The cart hadn’t been secured properly,” she said. “We hit a patch of rough air. We’ll resume our beverage service shortly.”
I sat in awe as she continued pushing the cart back to the galley.
Not secured properly?
That was her explanation for the cart flying down the aisle like a runaway semi?
Blaming turbulence when there hadn’t been any? Everything she said seemed suspect. And resuming service? When did beverage service begin?
Her response raised more questions than answers.
I never thought I’d be the type of person who “suspected a cover-up” but I began to suspect a cover-up.
Flight attendants are paid to do this, I reminded myself. They’re trained to manage crises. Play act. Placate passengers through those frozen rictus smiles. It was as if it never happened. As if the genuine surprise I had seen register on her face when the cart took off hadn’t happened.
But it had.
As she stood in the galley, I saw her conversing with another flight attendant I couldn’t see. What were they talking about? Who would get the final rose on The Bachelor?
It was as if nothing happened.
I looked at the guy in the Ole Miss hat, but he was facing forward again, watching a newly released movie on the headrest screen in front of him. The picture on the in-flight entertainment system was still “buggy” – cutting in and out – but he didn’t seem to mind.
The Asian girl had her headphones back on and she appeared to be sleeping as did the woman beside me. Her daughter was still reading the Pessoa book. On the cover was an arresting black and white image of a man in a suit with his arms raised to the heavens. The man’s head was missing, and a stunned bystander was in the process of running away from him.
Great picture.
Whatever had (or had not happened) with the drink cart was now immaterial; as far as the Aloha Air flight crew was concerned, that was the end of it.
But that wasn’t the end of it.
As I said before, the drink cart incident was only the beginning.
At that exact moment, the cart appeared beside me, and the flight attendant asked me what I’d like to drink.
I thought about it a moment.
“I’ll have a Diet Coke.”
I placed my empty cup on the edge of the tray table and as I chewed the last of my ice, I watched the cartoon icon representing our plane make its way across the ocean on the TV headrest in front of me. It featured the aircraft’s speed (547 mph or 475 knots); its altitude (34,000 feet), as well as the outdoor temperature (a frigid -56 degrees Celsius). Manipulating the screen to see the surrounding areas, I knew we’d be in real trouble if we needed to land somewhere right now. There was nothing near us. Not even a speck of land.
And that’s when my screen went out. I figured it was temporary. They had been acting up the whole time but when I sat up and looked around, I noticed all the screens had gone dark now.
After a minute or two, it became apparent they weren’t coming back on either.
I went back to watching my movie (Elisabeth Shue was naked and curled in a fetal position in the shower) when I began to feel flushed.
I reached for the air and twisted the nozzle – clockwise then counterclockwise – but there was no air either. I pressed the Call Button (always a last resort for me as I’m not big on asking for help), but it didn’t light up either.
I saw other hands reaching up, pressing the button, and having the same difficulty.
I looked down the aisle and noticed the track lighting that lined both sides of the aisles was now out. I thought the aisle was illuminated before, but I couldn’t say with any degree of certainty. What I did know for certain, was that our plane was having electrical issues over the ocean, I wasn’t feeling very well, and that’s when I really began to sweat.
The woman beside me who I guessed was El Salvadorean (she was Brazilian) tapped me on the arm. I could tell she didn’t speak English, but I knew she needed to use the restroom.
I undid my seatbelt and stood in the aisle so she could get out and use one of the restrooms behind us.
Both were occupied.
I thought of a trick I learned during one of my first depositions. There was a manual release latch for the bathroom locks located behind the No Smoking signs in case the flight crew ever needed to enter a locked john. I would never use it, but I enjoyed knowing it was there.
I sat back in my seat, fastening my seatbelt again even though I knew I would have to get up again momentarily to let my seatmate back into our row.
But that’s not what happened.
The lady brushed past me. She was heading toward the front of the plane. She was going to use the first-class bathroom. Good for her, I thought. She must really have to go.
I looked over at her daughter who was now asleep.
I wondered what, if any, systems in the cockpit might be affected by the electrical issue(s) and if they were even aware of the problems in the main cabin.
As it turned out, they were aware. The first officer had noticed that the onboard Wi-Fi that powered his iPad – something he used for both in-flight checklists and navigation – had gone out. He had backup cellular service, but he knew if the Wi-Fi was out in the cockpit, most everything in the main cabin would be out as well.
The co-pilot tried to call the flight attendant and give her advance notice of his plan to go down to the electronics bay (a process that would require blocking off the cockpit, peeling back the carpet, and going down the stairs) but the phone was out too.
He had no choice but to break with the FAA’s post 9/11 protocol (intended to protect the cockpit) and venture out of the cockpit alone.
He looked out the peephole first, making sure the coast was clear, then he found the purser in first class.
She was surprised to see him.
“Phone’s out,” he said. “Going need to get down to the bay.”
“Ugh, really?” She seemed sympathetic but she also knew the added responsibility of securing the cockpit would fall on her. Post 9/11 protocol required her to position a drink cart horizontally to block off access to the front galley and the first-class bathroom.
The hatch to the electronics bay was located under a patch of carpet in the aisle between the galley and the cockpit. A ladder led down to the bay, a room roughly the size of a men’s room, which was loaded floor to ceiling with every console that powered the plane.
The purser made sure the lavatory was clear then positioned her cart to block off the aisle just as my seatmate, desperate to go to the bathroom, reached the front of the plane. Terrence Toast stopped typing and looked up from his laptop to watch the exchange.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. This restroom is reserved for our first-class passengers.”
My seatmate peered over the flight attendant’s shoulder where the first officer was lifting the hatch with a small flashlight in his hand, and she let out a blood-curdling scream.
Her daughter jolted awake and was trying to squeeze past me before I could even make room for her to get out.
“Mama!!!” she yelled.
But the situation at the front of the plane escalated quickly. The co-pilot abandoned his trip to the electronics bay and was already inserting himself between his purser and the passenger who was screaming about “the fantasma.”
Initially, they thought the woman was upset about not being able to use the bathroom but then she fell to her knees and began blessing herself.
The co-pilot thought the lady was having a psychotic break and once the other two flight attendants arrived on the scene, he left to inform the captain.
But he found the door to the cockpit locked.
He used the code and knocked three times in rapid succession. But as soon as the pilot opened the door, the plane went into a dive of 4,000 feet before the pilot managed to get back into his seat, regain control of the yoke, and right the aircraft. “Autopilot disengaged somehow,” he said.
Even though he knew that still wouldn’t explain the dive.
And the co-pilot knew it too.
It was pandemonium in the cabin. There were a few scattered screams as the plane plummeted, but it was over before anyone could truly make sense of it. I remember hearing silverware clanking. Babies crying. And I saw a few people recording it on their cell phones.
I began to pray (surprising even to me).
I promised God that if I made it out of this, I would really change this time.
Later, I learned that those who weren’t strapped into their seatbelts like my seatmates and the flight attendants, ricocheted off the ceiling, although miraculously, no one was seriously injured.
The pilot came over the P.A. and said we had encountered some unexpected rough air and asked everyone – including the flight crew – to return to their seats. He said he would keep the seatbelt sign on until further notice.
At the front of the plane, the flight attendants were still trying to help the woman to her feet when the woman’s daughter arrived and began apologizing on her mother’s behalf and translating what she could. It was then the pilot walked out and stood listening.
First-class passenger and aviation aficionado Terrence Toast, who had a front row seat to all of this, watched the unfolding spectacle with a mixture of exhilaration and glee.
“She says… she saw someone enter the cockpit.”
“The co-pilot?”
“No, she says–”
“A flight attendant?”
“No… she says… the person she saw was wearing a pilot’s uniform, a hat and everything but…” She listened to her mother. “The person she saw was… not of this world.”
“What does that mean?”
“She says… what she saw was…” She took a deep breath, “A ghost.”
“A ghost?”
“Olhe!” the mother said to her daughter and pantomimed a look of terror.
“Not a ghost. A spirit. An evil spirit.
“Is he – or whatever it is she saw – still here?”
“Yes… she says he went to the front, into the cockpit. He’s trying to crash the plane.”
The pilot looked at the purser who had logged nearly as many hours in the air as he had. She was skeptical but treated the woman with dignity. The pilot continued to listen.
“She says there are others.”
“Others? Oooo-kay….,” said the purser. “How many… of them… are there?”
The girl translated the question to her mother.
The woman turned around and began counting. Then she stopped.
“Too many to count, she says.”
“Are they all dressed as airline pilots as well?”
“No… she says they look like people. All different ages. Normal people like… passengers almost. But …they’re badly hurt. Some are… missing limbs…”
“Ghosts with missing limbs. Wonderful.”
“She says they’re angry. Very, very angry.”
“We need to get her back to her seat. Please tell her that if she has another outburst, we’ll have no choice but to restrain her for the remainder of the flight.”
I watched as the flight attendants and pilot escorted the woman back to our row. I noticed one flight attendant was carrying plastic zip ties and a roll of electric tape. I thought they were going to strap the woman to her chair, but they didn’t.
With her sitting so close to me, I wished that they had.
I still didn’t know what had happened; I thought maybe the lady had rushed the cockpit or tried to open an emergency door. I assumed she was the reason the plane dove. One of the flight attendants knelt beside my seat and filled me in.
There had been an “incident” she said. It wasn’t common but this type of thing happens more than you might expect.
“What kind of incident?” I asked.
She gave me the Cliff’s Notes version I just gave you.
“So, what now?” I asked.
It was “wait and see,” she said. If the woman’s condition deteriorated or if she continued to act out, they would restrain her. If it escalated further, they would declare it a medical emergency and divert. If there wasn’t a safe place to land with adequate facilities to treat the woman, they would be forced to turn around and take us all back to SFO.
“Was she—” I whispered. “The reason the plane–?”
“No,” she said. “She had nothing to do with that.”
Given the circumstances, I found that hard to believe.
I watched as the flight attendant walked back to the galley.
Then I saw Terry Toast walk up. He stopped by my seat, keeping his hand on the top of my headrest, while he chatted up the flight attendants in the back.
Because of the engine noise, and the occasional flush of the toilets, I could only pick up bits and pieces of what they were saying. Despite everything that had happened, the flight crew still seemed to be in good spirits and dazzled by Terrence’s star power, which I guess made sense. In their industry, Terrence Toast was a big deal. It would be like if those priests in the Emergency Row randomly saw the Pope show up at their local parish.
Still using my seat to brace himself, Terrence leaned in close to the flight attendants and said something that made a few of them laugh out loud. They began whispering again, trying to be quiet. It was clear that the flight attendants all thought my seatmate was crazy.
“Bats in the Belfry,” I heard one of them say.
But as Terrence turned toward me, he said, “She may not be as mad as you think.”
He stopped and knelt beside our row so he could speak with my seatmate and her daughter.
To my amazement, he spoke fluent Portuguese.
He conversed easily with the daughter, but it was clear that whatever he was saying, put the girl’s mother at ease too. For the first time, I saw the woman next to me smile.
I could tell they didn’t know who he was. He was just a charming and compassionate passenger on an airplane who spoke their language. When they were done, I introduced myself to Terrence.
“Mr. Toast,” I said. “I’m a big fan.” Which, I admit, was a bit of a stretch.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said in his singsong Irish brogue. He was smiling but behind it I detected a look of grave concern. Something was bothering him.
I told him I was a lawyer with Kendall Ross & Shapiro, which was misleading, but I didn’t want him to think I was just some average joe in coach. I wanted to earn his trust.
“I have a question for you,” I said. “When we hit that turbulence…”
He smiled widely so I could see his bottom row of crooked yellow teeth.
“Not turbulence.”
I cocked my head, hoping he’d elaborate.
“That wasn’t turbulence. Not even ‘clear air’ turbulence feels like that – no, see… with turbulence it feels like you’re falling – that “dropping of the stomach” sensation. What we just experienced was an accelerated dive. An intentional act. It’s why you feel it here” he grazed my cheek with the back of his hand. “G force.”
“Intentional? So… the pilot did it? “
“Look at you,” he said. “The vexatious litigant’s wheels begin spinning.”
“I’m not looking to sue anyone. I just want to know what happened.”
“And I told you… someone – or something – deliberately disengaged the autopilot and pushed down on the yoke.”
“Someone or something other than the pilot?”
He bit his lower lip. It was clear he wasn’t ready to elaborate any further, but he was enjoying the game of this.
“If it wasn’t the pilot, who did it?”
I could suddenly feel a tremor in my tongue too. My eyes felt like they were bulging out of my skull.
“I suspect before this is over… We’re going to find out.”
The collar of my undershirt was damp with sweat. He started to walk away.
“Wait… don’t go,” I said.
He stopped and looked at me. In that moment, I felt he could see right through me. My whole sad life – all my failings, all my lies – everything flashed before him. He knew exactly what I was.
“One more question,” I said. “I’ve seen you on those long-haul flights you do on TV – the 24 hour one from Singapore to wherever it was—”
“New York.”
“Right. Then the one where you guys went over the Arctic Circle. It’s none of my business and you obviously don’t have to answer if you don’t want but…”
“But?”
“Why are you on this flight? Is it… business or… Are you like… doing a story?”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Blake.”
“You’re a very perceptive man, Blake. I’ll let you in on a little secret – a secret only one other person on this plane is aware of. You’re not… squeamish, are you?”
“Not really.”
“Not a nervous flyer either?”
“No,” I lied.
“Your instincts are correct…” He leaned in close and began whispering. His breath smelled like stale chewing gum. “The reason I’m on this flight is because I sensed there was a story here, but… it wasn’t a story anyone else seemed particularly interested in telling.”
“What kind of story?”
“Not the Federal Aviation Association; not the pilots union; not Boeing – though they’ve had enough bad press lately to last a lifetime – and certainly not our embattled Aloha Air, whom, as you may or may not know, is already insolvent again and currently teetering on the edge of bankruptcy following the last incident.”
He was referring to the 2019 crash of Aloha Air Flight 961 that went down in the Java Sea 16 minutes after takeoff from Jakarta killing all 168 onboard.
“I thought that was Boeing’s fault, not the airline. And I thought they fixed all that?”
“Maybe they have. But that wasn’t the angle I was interested in pursuing anyway… Let’s just say not everyone was pleased with how the airline handled things afterward.”
“After the crash?”
“If you’re with Kendall Ross, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“I don’t know anything about it. We represented the airline in their settlement negotiations, but that was a long time ago. I probably did some doc review but… I was low on the totem. I wasn’t in a great place at the time either. I actually left the firm a few years ago.”
“You left?”
“More of an involuntary resignation.”
He studied me a moment.
“It was a muddled response by Aloha, to put it politely. But we’ve seen things like that before. But the refurbishment and restoration in a case so extreme, that… was a first.”
“I’m not following.”
“Never before has an airline set out to repair an aircraft with such structural damage let alone one in which there was a fatality, much less several. 168 to be exact.”
“You’re saying this plane is similar to the one that crashed a few years ago?”
“No, I’m saying it’s the exact plane as the one that crashed. Same fuselage anyway. The bulk of the damage to Aloha 961 was all back here, in the tail section. It was replaced.”
“I thought it crashed into the ocean.”
“It landed in the ocean. It was a very small debris field and, remarkably, most of the aircraft remained intact. Ironically, it was a rather soft landing, all things considered.”
“I thought you said 160 people died.”
“They did. Everyone on board was killed. All 168 souls. 161 passengers and 7 crew. Though my sources inside the NTSB tell me they suspect several people expired long before impact. The sheer hell those people went through. The flight data recorder shows the plane pitched and dove for nearly 15 minutes, passengers experiencing G forces and discomfort I won’t allow myself to imagine. Those who survived the ride were killed upon impact and found in a single mass at the front of the plane.”
“At the front of the plane?”
“It’s common in cases of severe impact, especially when they ditch in water. All the seats are ripped from their bolts and shot to the front. It’s usually a mess of mangled steel. You can probably imagine what the human remains look like.”
“That’s horrible.”
“That’s physics. What’s horrible, is the way the airline handled it. Dealing with the families, investigators afterwards. The airline’s shoddy – some say non-existent – efforts to identify the remains. The technology exists, you know that. It’s not perfect but–”
“Why didn’t they do it then?”
“It’s expensive. It was with the help of your firm they managed to deflect liability to Boeing and avoid trial. Not bad since internal documents proved the airline knew full well the aircraft they were flying was a timebomb; they settled with the families for less than two million a head, not to be crass. You of all people would know that’s a pretty good deal.”
“For the airline maybe.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“No one, anymore.”
“You got fired, eh? Nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve been fired lots of times. What happened?”
“I got burnt out,” I said.
“I imagine the work was… soul crushing.”
I nodded yes. I could feel my face getting red.
“That happened to me too when I was about your age. We all have our demons.”
“You’re serious though? About this plane being—”
“961? Yep. It’s the very same Boeing 737-800. You can check the serial numbers.”
“They can really do that?”
“Pass all the inspections. Get your Approval for Return to Service. But it makes you wonder, if everyone is so fine with it, why won’t anyone discuss it – on or off the record?”
I could feel my undershirt was now soaked with sweat from my armpits.
“But if the general public knew this was happening—”
“Like I said, besides me – and now you – only one other person on this plane knows about it.”
“The pilot?”
He shook his head no.
“Who then?”
He looked at the woman beside me.
“She saw something. She claims to have seen a man dressed in a pilot’s uniform slip into the cockpit. The man, she said, was ‘not of this earth.’ Hence the scream.”
“What do you mean, like a ghost?”
“That’s a bit more benevolent than the thing she described seeing. But… that’s not what concerns me the most.”
“What’s that?”
“She said the man she saw… was not alone.”
I felt a sudden surge of acid reflux in my throat, but I swallowed it.
“I’m sorry… I’m not feeling very well.”
“Personally, I’ve always been dismissive of the supernatural including organized religion, but I must admit, I’ve always had a soft spot for evil.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“If I had been bucked around like those poor souls on 961, I’d want revenge too.”
“Revenge against who?”
“The airline, for starters. They knew the plane was unsafe and they allowed it to remain in service anyway. Like Boeing, they placed profits ahead of human life. Now they’re on life support. One more crash will bury them for good. It serves them right, in a way. Obviously, they haven’t learned their lesson.”
“So they’re going to take it out against us? A bunch of innocent people?”
“Are we all innocent, Blake?”
I looked up at Terrence, but I couldn’t look him in the eye.
“It makes sense,” he said. “Code of Hammurabi. An eye for an eye. The manifest says there are 161 passengers and 7 crew on board. 168 souls. Same as the other flight.”
I still felt like I was going to be puke but now my heart felt out of rhythm.
“You’re sure you’re alright? You don’t look good, mate. You look pale. You’re perspiring. Your hand is trembling… I can see if there’s a doctor on board. I’ll get you something to drink… maybe a beer or something?”
“I’m fine,” I said, which obviously wasn’t true, but he had already disappeared.
I looked at my seatmates. In the seat pocket in front of the girl was the image of the headless man on the Pessoa book staring back at me.
I looked at the woman beside me. She had turned around in her seat and she was staring at the back of the plane where Terrence Toast was speaking with the flight crew.
I knew they were all looking at me, but I was too afraid to look.
My throat was dry and scratchy, and it was painful, but I managed to swallow. I turned around and that’s when I saw them – they were gathered in the back galley. There must have been a dozen of them. They were air crash victims, living and breathing. Many of them were bloodied with torn clothing and some with missing limbs. Some were angry but they didn’t scare me as much as the other ones – the ones whose faces were frozen with expressions of terror and fear.
I could see that they were gathering behind the drink cart, preparing for their next charge of the cockpit.
Like the scared bystander on the cover of the Pessoa book, I wanted to run away.
But now there was nowhere to go.