situation on their hands.
Coach Burton screamed from his seat in 1A, “Knock it off, Covington!”
But Riley was on a roll. “Hey, Captain, when the elevation thingy says twelve thousand feet, is that from sea level or from the top of the mountains?” As he said that, he reached up and hit a button while keeping the mic on. A computerized voice came over the intercom: “WARNING; WARNING; TERRAIN; PULL UP. . . . WARNING; WARNING; TERRAIN; PULL UP!”
A collective gasp and a few screams could be heard throughout the cabin. With almost perfect timing, the plane hit another air pocket. It rolled a bit left and dropped. After a long, uncomfortable pause, Riley keyed the mic again. “This is Captain Covington. We are now leveling off at thirty-four thousand feet, and I am passing the controls back to Captain Flores. Please enjoy the remainder of your flight.”
As the plane began its descent, the aircraft’s FMS computer system printed out a message to the pilots. Captain Flores ripped the small white paper from the printer, scanned the message, and then read it again more slowly. “Take a look at this, Steve.”
Davis skimmed it and looked at Flores, speechless. He then handed the paper back to Riley, who read the message:
U.S. hit by terrorists at Mall of America
Casualties unknown at this time
All flights proceed as scheduled
Riley leaned back in the jump seat and stared at the words, hardly able to comprehend them. Another terrorist attack on U.S. soil. He knew from his air force intelligence briefings that another attack had been inevitable. But now that it had actually happened, reality just wouldn’t sink in.
“We’d better check with OPs to see how this is going to play out,” Flores told Davis.
Riley stood up, still clutching the paper. “Gentlemen, I know things may get busy up here, so I’m gonna head back to my seat. Thanks for letting me hang out with you.”
They both wished him well. As Riley exited the cockpit, Davis was already pecking away on the flight computer.
Riley walked back to his seat, getting a fairly even mixture of high fives and glares for his little prank. As he passed Gorkowski’s seat, he saw that the veteran had an enormous gravy stain down the front of his tailored yellow shirt and his Emilio Pucci silk tie. “A little baking soda might get that out,” Riley suggested with a smile.
“You’re a dead man, Covington,” the fuming offensive lineman replied.
Riley found his row and fell back into his seat. A few guys came up to him wanting to relive his little joke, but Riley was not in the mood anymore. The military man in him overshadowed the football player. It was times like these that he wondered if he had made the right choice giving up the air force for the PFL.
The Mustangs charter landed without incident at 3:16 p.m. PST in San Francisco. The plane taxied to the four luxury buses and stopped. The players, coaching staff, and guests transferred from their air transportation to their land transportation and were off.
On bus one, Riley was surprised no one had mentioned the attack yet. Several guys had their BlackBerries out and were checking the college football scores. Finally Robert Taylor, the PR man, shouted, “Unbelievable! The Mall of America was bombed!”
A few of the guys at the front of the bus spun around in their seats.
Taylor read the headline from his BlackBerry: “‘Suspected Terrorists Attack Crowded Mall of America.’ It doesn’t seem like they have a lot of information yet.”
Sal Ricci made his way to Taylor’s row and said, “That’s Minneapolis, isn’t it? My wife has some old friends there. Can you check a different Web site?”
“That’s all I’m seeing on these sites. We’ll be at the Hyatt in a few minutes; you can check the news there. In the meantime, let me call some of my network sources.” Taylor immediately started dialing numbers, while Ricci stood in the aisle leaning over his shoulder.
Ten minutes later, the
Coach Burton screamed from his seat in 1A, “Knock it off, Covington!”
But Riley was on a roll. “Hey, Captain, when the elevation thingy says twelve thousand feet, is that from sea level or from the top of the mountains?” As he said that, he reached up and hit a button while keeping the mic on. A computerized voice came over the intercom: “WARNING; WARNING; TERRAIN; PULL UP. . . . WARNING; WARNING; TERRAIN; PULL UP!”
A collective gasp and a few screams could be heard throughout the cabin. With almost perfect timing, the plane hit another air pocket. It rolled a bit left and dropped. After a long, uncomfortable pause, Riley keyed the mic again. “This is Captain Covington. We are now leveling off at thirty-four thousand feet, and I am passing the controls back to Captain Flores. Please enjoy the remainder of your flight.”
As the plane began its descent, the aircraft’s FMS computer system printed out a message to the pilots. Captain Flores ripped the small white paper from the printer, scanned the message, and then read it again more slowly. “Take a look at this, Steve.”
Davis skimmed it and looked at Flores, speechless. He then handed the paper back to Riley, who read the message:
U.S. hit by terrorists at Mall of America
Casualties unknown at this time
All flights proceed as scheduled
Riley leaned back in the jump seat and stared at the words, hardly able to comprehend them. Another terrorist attack on U.S. soil. He knew from his air force intelligence briefings that another attack had been inevitable. But now that it had actually happened, reality just wouldn’t sink in.
“We’d better check with OPs to see how this is going to play out,” Flores told Davis.
Riley stood up, still clutching the paper. “Gentlemen, I know things may get busy up here, so I’m gonna head back to my seat. Thanks for letting me hang out with you.”
They both wished him well. As Riley exited the cockpit, Davis was already pecking away on the flight computer.
Riley walked back to his seat, getting a fairly even mixture of high fives and glares for his little prank. As he passed Gorkowski’s seat, he saw that the veteran had an enormous gravy stain down the front of his tailored yellow shirt and his Emilio Pucci silk tie. “A little baking soda might get that out,” Riley suggested with a smile.
“You’re a dead man, Covington,” the fuming offensive lineman replied.
Riley found his row and fell back into his seat. A few guys came up to him wanting to relive his little joke, but Riley was not in the mood anymore. The military man in him overshadowed the football player. It was times like these that he wondered if he had made the right choice giving up the air force for the PFL.
The Mustangs charter landed without incident at 3:16 p.m. PST in San Francisco. The plane taxied to the four luxury buses and stopped. The players, coaching staff, and guests transferred from their air transportation to their land transportation and were off.
On bus one, Riley was surprised no one had mentioned the attack yet. Several guys had their BlackBerries out and were checking the college football scores. Finally Robert Taylor, the PR man, shouted, “Unbelievable! The Mall of America was bombed!”
A few of the guys at the front of the bus spun around in their seats.
Taylor read the headline from his BlackBerry: “‘Suspected Terrorists Attack Crowded Mall of America.’ It doesn’t seem like they have a lot of information yet.”
Sal Ricci made his way to Taylor’s row and said, “That’s Minneapolis, isn’t it? My wife has some old friends there. Can you check a different Web site?”
“That’s all I’m seeing on these sites. We’ll be at the Hyatt in a few minutes; you can check the news there. In the meantime, let me call some of my network sources.” Taylor immediately started dialing numbers, while Ricci stood in the aisle leaning over his shoulder.
Ten minutes later, the
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