are cold.”
“Roger ... no evidence of fire?”
“Again, negative.”
“Decompression?”
“Negative, no oxygen masks hanging.
Fumes
. Toxic fucking fumes.”
“Okay, take it easy.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll meet you at the security area.”
“Roger.” McGill put his radio back on his hook.
With nothing left to do, he examined a few of the passengers, and again assured himself that there were no signs of life aboard. “Nightmare.”
He felt claustrophobic in the crowded Coach compartment, creepy with all the dead. He realized he’d rather be in the relatively light and open space in the dome where he could better see what was happening around the aircraft.
He made his way out of Coach, up the spiral staircase, and into the dome. Through the port windows he saw a tug vehicle approaching. Through the starboard windows, he saw a line of Emergency Service vehicles heading back to the firehouse, and some heading toward the security area.
He tried to ignore the bodies around him. At least there were fewer of them up here, and none of them were children or babies. But no matter where he was on this aircraft, he thought, he was the only living, breathing soul aboard.
This wasn’t precisely true, but Andy McGill didn’t know he had company.
Tony Sorentino watched the Trans-Continental tug vehicle drive up to the nose wheels. The vehicle was a sort of big platform with a driver’s cab at each end so that the driver could pull up to the nose wheel and not have to back up and chance causing damage. When the hookup was made, the driver would change cabs and drive off.
Sorentino thought this was clever, and he was fascinated by the vehicle. He wondered why Guns and Hoses didn’t have one of these, then remembered that someone told him it had to do with insurance. Each airline had its own tugs and if they snapped off the nose wheel of a hundred-fifty-million-dollar aircraft, it was their problem. Made sense. Still, Guns and Hoses should have at least one tug. The more toys the better.
He watched as the Trans-Continental driver hooked a fork-like towbar to each side of the nose wheel assembly. Sorentino walked over to him and said, “Need a hand?”
“Nope. Don’t touch nothing.”
“Hey, I’m insured.”
“Not for this you’re not.”
The hitch was complete, and the driver said, “Where we headed?”
“The hijack area,” Sorentino said, using the more dramatic but still correct name for the security area.
The driver’s eyes darted to Sorentino, as Sorentino knew they would. The driver glanced up at the huge aircraft towering above them, then back to Sorentino. “What’s up?”
“Well, what’s up is your insurance rates, pal.”
“Whadda ya mean?”
“You got a big, expensive hearse here, buddy. They’re all dead. Toxic fumes.”
“Jesus Christ Almighty.”
“Right. Let’s get rolling. As fast as you can. I lead, you follow. I have a vehicle in trail. Don’t stop until you’re in the security pen.”
The driver moved to the front cab as if he were in a daze. He climbed in, engaged the huge diesel, and began moving off.
Sorentino got into the cab of his RIV and moved off ahead of the tug vehicle, leading it to a taxiway that in turn led to the security area, not far from Runway Four-Right.
Sorentino could hear all kinds of chatter on his radio frequencies. No one sounded very happy. He broadcast, “Unit One moving, tug and aircraft in tow, Unit Four in trail.”
Sorentino maintained a fifteen-mile-per-hour speed, which was all that the tug could do pulling a 750,000-pound aircraft behind it. He checked his sideview mirrors to make sure he wasn’t too close or too far from the aircraft. The view in his mirrors was very strange, he thought. He was being followed by a weird vehicle that didn’t know its ass from its dick, and behind the vehicle was this monster silver aircraft, being pulled along like a string toy.
Jesus, what a day this turned out to be
.
* * *
Inaction is
“Roger ... no evidence of fire?”
“Again, negative.”
“Decompression?”
“Negative, no oxygen masks hanging.
Fumes
. Toxic fucking fumes.”
“Okay, take it easy.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll meet you at the security area.”
“Roger.” McGill put his radio back on his hook.
With nothing left to do, he examined a few of the passengers, and again assured himself that there were no signs of life aboard. “Nightmare.”
He felt claustrophobic in the crowded Coach compartment, creepy with all the dead. He realized he’d rather be in the relatively light and open space in the dome where he could better see what was happening around the aircraft.
He made his way out of Coach, up the spiral staircase, and into the dome. Through the port windows he saw a tug vehicle approaching. Through the starboard windows, he saw a line of Emergency Service vehicles heading back to the firehouse, and some heading toward the security area.
He tried to ignore the bodies around him. At least there were fewer of them up here, and none of them were children or babies. But no matter where he was on this aircraft, he thought, he was the only living, breathing soul aboard.
This wasn’t precisely true, but Andy McGill didn’t know he had company.
Tony Sorentino watched the Trans-Continental tug vehicle drive up to the nose wheels. The vehicle was a sort of big platform with a driver’s cab at each end so that the driver could pull up to the nose wheel and not have to back up and chance causing damage. When the hookup was made, the driver would change cabs and drive off.
Sorentino thought this was clever, and he was fascinated by the vehicle. He wondered why Guns and Hoses didn’t have one of these, then remembered that someone told him it had to do with insurance. Each airline had its own tugs and if they snapped off the nose wheel of a hundred-fifty-million-dollar aircraft, it was their problem. Made sense. Still, Guns and Hoses should have at least one tug. The more toys the better.
He watched as the Trans-Continental driver hooked a fork-like towbar to each side of the nose wheel assembly. Sorentino walked over to him and said, “Need a hand?”
“Nope. Don’t touch nothing.”
“Hey, I’m insured.”
“Not for this you’re not.”
The hitch was complete, and the driver said, “Where we headed?”
“The hijack area,” Sorentino said, using the more dramatic but still correct name for the security area.
The driver’s eyes darted to Sorentino, as Sorentino knew they would. The driver glanced up at the huge aircraft towering above them, then back to Sorentino. “What’s up?”
“Well, what’s up is your insurance rates, pal.”
“Whadda ya mean?”
“You got a big, expensive hearse here, buddy. They’re all dead. Toxic fumes.”
“Jesus Christ Almighty.”
“Right. Let’s get rolling. As fast as you can. I lead, you follow. I have a vehicle in trail. Don’t stop until you’re in the security pen.”
The driver moved to the front cab as if he were in a daze. He climbed in, engaged the huge diesel, and began moving off.
Sorentino got into the cab of his RIV and moved off ahead of the tug vehicle, leading it to a taxiway that in turn led to the security area, not far from Runway Four-Right.
Sorentino could hear all kinds of chatter on his radio frequencies. No one sounded very happy. He broadcast, “Unit One moving, tug and aircraft in tow, Unit Four in trail.”
Sorentino maintained a fifteen-mile-per-hour speed, which was all that the tug could do pulling a 750,000-pound aircraft behind it. He checked his sideview mirrors to make sure he wasn’t too close or too far from the aircraft. The view in his mirrors was very strange, he thought. He was being followed by a weird vehicle that didn’t know its ass from its dick, and behind the vehicle was this monster silver aircraft, being pulled along like a string toy.
Jesus, what a day this turned out to be
.
* * *
Inaction is
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