An excerpt from TRACON

Sitting in the main cabin of Atlantic Airlines flight 59, a small boy wearing a cowboy shirt and jeans repeatedly flipped a baseball into his mitt. Suddenly, the plane lurched into a steep dive and the ball tumbled out of his glove, rolling against the foot of a passenger in the row ahead. The man scooped up the ball and twisted against his safety belt to turn around.

“Here you are.”

“Thanks, mister. My name’s Matt. What’s yours?”

The man smiled kindly and shook the boy’s hand. He wished he had a son like Matt. “I’m Kevin. Nice to meet you, Matt. Better hang on to that.”

Matt tucked the ball securely in his mitt and Kevin turned back around.

Forward in the Atlantic cockpit, the first officer saw the Coastal Airlines 757 burst out of the clouds from the left. He yanked on the control yoke and jammed one rudder pedal to the floor in a desperate attempt to steer above and behind the other plane. The 727 was starting to respond when the outboard edge of its port wing grazed the top of the 757’s starboard wing. Then the Jurassic jet shook violently from a sickening crunch of metal as the wing slashed through the vertical stabilizer on Coastal’s tail, ripping half of it away.

The horrendous jolt back in the cabin shook Carla Szemasko to the bone and pulled her painfully against the seat belt. Horrified, she watched a flight attendant who’d been collecting cups and napkins catapult off her feet and thud against the overhead bins. The woman hung briefly in the air before falling backward across the lap of a startled passenger. She spilled over the armrest of his seat in a twisted heap, her head bent against the floor at an unnatural angle.

The airliner shuddered and plunged to the left.

Carla and everyone else in window seats on that side of the plane slammed against the cabin wall. With her face plastered to the cold Plexiglas, she peered out and caught her breath. Half the wing was gone in a jagged tear. She flailed an arm across the empty seat between them and managed to grab her husband’s wrist, but it was torn away when the plane spiraled and they were suspended upside down, held only by their safety belts. The flight attendant’s body was flung against the ceiling of the cabin like a rag doll, then back to the floor again as the plane kept rotating. Kevin managed to smile at Carla while clutching the armrests of his seat.

“Hang on, baby. The pilots will pull out of this.”

She longed to believe him, but obviously he hadn’t seen the missing wing. When she opened her mouth to tell him, only a whimper trickled out. Terrified of looking outside, she was unable to resist. Vertigo quickly consumed her from the water and clouds and Chicago skyline that spun dizzyingly into view as if she were riding on a Ferris wheel gone berserk.

Several overhead bins broke open and carry-on bags pummeled disoriented passengers unable to protect themselves with their hands and arms. Galleys fore and aft erupted in a din of clanging metal and shattering glass. Matt cried hysterically and clung to his mother’s arm, too scared to notice when the ball and mitt sailed out of his hand. More and more panic-stricken people screamed as it became clear they were powerless to do anything except sit and hang on and wait for the inevitable as their mortally wounded airliner plummeted out of the sky.

Carla forced herself to ignore the maelstrom and focus on a small patch of blue and gold fabric in the seat in front of her. Think of something else, anything but what’s really happening. That secluded beach came to mind, a silver crescent moon hanging overhead amid twinkling stars. The undulating sand had been soft and warm beneath their blanket with Kevin on top, his tender whispers hot on her neck. She let out a soft cry, remembering the night they’d left the ship for a few romantic hours ashore during an idyllic twelve-day cruise in which she’d lost count of the number of times they’d made love.

Tears dribbled down her cheeks over the sweet memory clashing with the macabre reality of the present. She saw Jason’s cute dimples and Christy’s warm smile when they were at the house the other weekend, and remembered telling her sister that she finally hoped to get pregnant on this trip. Now she’d never know.

Carla turned to Kevin and their eyes met in a haunting exchange of fear and affection. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too, baby.” Then he looked beyond her, wide-eyed, past the window.

Flames were fanning the ragged edges of the wing stump.

Color drained from Kevin’s face. He grabbed her hand and squeezed so hard it hurt. His mouth began moving, but his halting utterances were incoherent. Carla could tell he knew now that they weren’t going to make it. She breathed heavily, wanting to scream, desperately wanting to do something other than just sit here, waiting, watching it happen.

Oh, gentle Jesus, there’s so much more of life to live. Please don’t let me die.

Larry Lindstrand eased the wheel back to center, aiming the bow of his thirty-five-foot Beneteau at a skyscraper along the shoreline. It felt great to be sailing again after hibernating through another insufferable Chicago winter. As the owner of Lindstrand Motors, he didn’t have to ask for permission to take the afternoon off when the urge struck and he decided to put No Wheel Drive through its first sea trial of the year. Cindy, the blonde receptionist he’d hired for reasons beyond her telephone skills, squealed in delight when he asked her along. The wind whipped up her dress again while she clung to the lifeline on the bow and he caught a generous flash of thigh before she matted it down. Cindy didn’t appear too embarrassed.

“This is great, Larry. Thanks for inviting me.”

Lindstrand grinned lewdly. You can thank me later, honey. “We’d better get back. That storm’ll be here soon.”

Cindy looked up at the clouds, which were whiter and more scattered than the thunderheads clustered threateningly over the city skyline. She heard the whine of a jet and cocked her head, searching for it. Something odd about the sound piqued her senses. Suddenly, the Atlantic Airlines 727 plunged out of the clouds upside down and rolling clockwise.

Cindy gasped and a hand flew to her mouth. Lindstrand followed her gaze and stared in stunned silence at the fire burning furiously on what remained of the left wing. The silver and blue T-tailed jet spiraled several times more before a series of blasts rippled across to the other wing and in both directions along the fuselage.

Screaming, Cindy scurried along the deck to Lindstrand. He hugged her briefly, then jumped below to fetch a camera. Scrambling back on deck, he madly jabbed his finger on the shutter while pointing the camera at sections of the cabin that broke away in flaming pyres and tumbled toward them, bathing the sky and water in an eerie orange glow. Pieces of wreckage began raining on Lake Michigan and a sizable section of wing crashed off the port bow, rocking the boat.

“Shit! Get below!”

They scampered down the companionway and Lindstrand prayed the boat wouldn’t take a direct hit, but there were several thumps on deck. Each one made him duck and wrenched another shriek from Cindy. Through the companionway, he saw the nose and cockpit falling, and he raised his camera again to click a few more shots. Splintered from the rest of the fuselage with entrails of wiring and cables dangling out the open end, the wreckage splashed down barely ten yards away and threw a wave over the stern before sinking. The torrent of debris slowly subsided and Lindstrand crept unsteadily back on deck.

The sky above was strangely serene again. The only sound came from the familiar slapping of waves against the hull and this unnerved him. Wreckage bobbed in the water, some of it still alive with flames, and the acrid odor of burning jet fuel saturated the air. Lindstrand surveyed the debris and gave himself time to comprehend what he’d just seen.

“C’mere, Cindy. It’s all over,” he said soothingly, more to reassure himself than his companion.

Several pieces of aluminum with torn jagged edges littered the cockpit deck—he hadn’t bothered putting up the bimini before today’s sail. Near the wheel was something else that appeared sickeningly familiar. He refused to believe it at first and tried not to look again. Unable to contain his curiosity, he turned back and edged closer until he could no longer deny that it was definitely the bloodied and charred stump of a human arm. He heard Cindy cry out. Then his stomach roiled and he lunged for the lifeline, vomiting over the side.

In the TRACON at O’Hare Airport, Ryan Kelly’s earphone crackled alive while he stared at the scope in astonishment. The pilot’s voice was controlled, but laced with fear.

“Mayday, mayday. Coastal 276 is declaring an emergency. We’re losing altitude and we’ve got no hydraulic power.”

He whirled in his chair—“Bosko!”—and fixed his eyes on Bear, who was turned in his direction. Pepperidge ran a hand through the few strands of hair on his head, looking confused and shocked. Kelly felt cold and nauseous, and wanted to run from the scope. Leadenly, he turned back.

“Coastal 276, do you want the equipment?”

“Yes . . . uh, stand by.” The copilot kept his mike keyed and Kelly could hear the captain shouting orders over the blaring of an alarm bell.

“They won’t want to land here.” It was Boskovich. The supervisor was sneering and puffing his chest in vindication over catching something the star had missed.

Kelly glanced up at the Systems Atlanta. The storm had cut the runway visual range to minimums. Good point. He should have noticed that before making the call. Don’t lose it. Not now.

“Coastal 276, the RVR here is four hundred feet. Midway is eight miles directly behind. Do you want to go there?”

While they waited for a response, Boskovich nervously studied the scope. “What happened?”

Kelly struggled, unable to find the willpower to say what he couldn’t imagine saying. He saw Sanchez hovering behind Boskovich and J.J. walking into the TRACON. When he finally spoke, he sounded disembodied. “I just ran a couple together over the pond.”

“What do you mean?”

On reflection, he supposed it was natural that others would find it hard to accept the nightmare they strove every second to avoid. But right now, he was taken aback by the question. It was perfectly, appallingly clear to him. He turned to the haughty supe with a carefully knotted silk tie in his button-down collar and stared at him contemptuously.

“Are you fucking blind?” He jabbed his finger at the data block for Atlantic 59. When the radar swept past, the three blips fragmented into five.