Final Call, page 6
‘I need to stand up,’ she said. ‘Get some energy out.’ She stood and walked over to the window. The hospital was surrounded by forest, a long driveway leading from the main road and branching off to the various car parks and departments.
She saw the lights of an ambulance through the trees and watched as it appeared and headed for the entrance to the emergency room.
It drew to a halt. The rear doors opened, and two paramedics jumped down, then pulled out a ramp. Two more pushed a stretcher onto the tarmac and into the hospital.
Someone else, she thought. Someone else having the worst day of their lives.
The paramedics were getting back into the ambulance, the patient no longer visible, already hustled into the hospital. They pulled away, and behind them a car slowed to a halt and the passenger door opened.
The car was a dark blue Toyota RAV4. It had roof bars and a Thule box on top.
She knew someone with a car like that.
Behind her a door opened.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Evanston? You can come through now.’
She turned away from the window. A nurse was holding the door to the consulting rooms open. Dan was already by the door and he beckoned her to join him.
‘One minute,’ she said.
She recognized the car. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. There were a lot of dark blue RAV4s around. They were practical. Safe, and good in the snow.
Still, it was a coincidence.
A figure emerged from the passenger door and her blood ran cold.
‘Stacy?’ Dan said. ‘Are you coming?’
She ignored him and leaned forward, peering out of the window, unable to believe what she was seeing.
A woman in dark jeans and a black quilted jacket got out of the car. It was a Patagonia jacket and it was only a few days old.
She knew it was a Patagonia jacket, and she knew it was new, because she had been with the woman when she bought it at a sale in Freeport.
The woman in the car – the woman behind the ambulance – was Nicole Farmer, the mom of Cherry’s best friend, Ella.
December 23rd, 2022
Jill Stearns
She felt all eyes turn to her, felt the shock – and worry – at what they had heard.
That little laugh, then the pilot’s soft voice.
I hope you don’t mind, but we’re going to play a little game.
What the hell did that mean? She felt a flare of anger. It was partly based in fear, but also indignation. She was not the kind of person who would have expected deference, but part of her was pissed that whoever this was thought they could treat her, Jill Stearns, like this. She was not someone who you played games with.
And what did she mean, a game?
Was this maybe some kind of Christmas joke, and after she and the others were caught in the trap the pilot would start playing a Christmas song, or open the door and come out in a Santa suit? If that did happen, she would not be very forgiving. The pilot was going to find herself out of a job. Not expecting deference was one thing, but there were limits.
And this was clearly one of them.
This was not funny. Nothing at this altitude was funny. Some people were nervous flyers, and this could tip them over the edge. It was downright irresponsible.
Although perhaps she was overreacting. She was on edge because of the email, but the two things were unlikely to be related. The email was almost certainly an attempt by some activist to provoke Varun and her, and maybe waste some of their time. This was something else.
Probably.
It better had be. If it wasn’t – if they were related and the pilot was not joking around – well, that was something she did not want to contemplate.
She reached for her phone. It was a reflex reaction; a quick check to see if there were any notifications. She’d read that people checked their phones over a hundred times a day – when they got in an elevator, when they sat at their desk, when they stood up from their desk. All day long people were checking their phones, and most of the time there was nothing to see. But once they had picked it up, they started to scroll through their Facebook or Twitter or Instagram feed and before they knew it, five or ten or twenty minutes had disappeared. She had set her phone to lock when she reached fifty pickups; the first day it had locked by two in the afternoon. She was shocked – and appalled – so she had started to limit herself. When she reached for the phone she made herself pause and ask: Do I really need to look at it now?
Often enough, the answer was no, and she left it untouched.
It happened this time, too. She paused, and thought, Do I really need to look at it now?
And then she remembered. She couldn’t.
There was no Wi-Fi.
Was that a coincidence, too? Or was it something else? She pictured the pilot, pressing some button or other in the cockpit to disable it, then speaking into the intercom.
I hope you don’t mind, but we’re going to play a little game.
The more she thought about it, the more concerned she was. So it turned out she did need to look at her phone after all. She needed to check if the Wi-Fi was back. If it was, then it hadn’t been disabled, which meant there weren’t three weird things happening at the same time. If it wasn’t back, then yes, it could be a coincidence, but it left open the possibility that it wasn’t.
She checked her phone.
There were no notifications.
There was no Wi-Fi.
Everyone was still looking at her. She had to say something, but she had no idea what.
Jeff Ramos
Stearns was staring at them, open-mouthed. Ramos caught her eye.
‘What the hell does she mean, we’re going to play a game?’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ Stearns said.
Jeff knew when something was amiss, and something was amiss now. They were flying the wrong route, the Wi-Fi was down – both of which may have been nothing other than unusual coincidences – and now the pilot had said they were going to play a game.
Pilots didn’t play games.
They didn’t change routes. And they didn’t switch off the Wi-Fi, which was what he was now sure had happened.
‘I don’t know either,’ Chip Markham said. ‘But whatever it is, it’s going to stop.’
‘Damn right it is,’ Jeff said, aware, even as he spoke, of the hollowness of his words. What he – or anyone else – said made no difference. They were in the pilot’s hands. The truth was that she could do whatever she liked.
The thought gave him a chill. He had never stopped to think about it before, but there were some situations in which you put your life in someone else’s hands. Not many, but there were some. When you were under a general anesthetic, for example, you were completely powerless. The surgeon might be struck off or prosecuted if they deliberately harmed you, but they could. They could do whatever they wanted.
Likewise on a plane. The pilot had total control over your fate for the duration of the flight. If they decided to fly into the side of a mountain or East over the ocean they could. You had trusted them to take you safely to your destination, but they didn’t have to. There’d been that German pilot who deliberately crashed his plane. What could you do to stop him?
So why trust them? You didn’t know them. There were safeguards in place, but they could be easily circumvented. So was it wise to put your life in their hands, just to get somewhere quickly?
Right now, it seemed a foolish thing to do.
‘This isn’t funny,’ Jill Stearns said. ‘If it’s meant to be a joke, I’m not laughing.’
‘No,’ Varun said. ‘It isn’t. There’s nothing funny about being on a runaway plane with a rogue pilot.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Marcia said. Jeff thought there was a slur in her voice, and wondered again where she had got the booze. ‘And there’s two of them in there. We always have two pilots. If one dies or falls ill, the other can step in.’
‘The other one’s not doing much,’ Kevin Anderson said. ‘In fact, did anyone see another pilot?’
Ramos had not; no one else said they had.
‘The door was closed,’ Marcia said. ‘Normally it’s open. So maybe—’ she paused. ‘Maybe there’s only one.’
‘Look,’ Jeff said. ‘This is ridiculous. They can’t just start flying whatever route they want. I’ll go and talk to them.’
Jill shook her head.
‘That’s fine. I’ll go.’
She stood up and walked through the galley to the cockpit door. She knocked three times.
The door did not open.
‘Hello?’ she called.
She knocked again. ‘Hello?’
‘Try the door,’ Chip Markham said.
She grasped the handle and tried to turn it. It did not move.
‘Hello!’ She shouted this time and rattled the door, trying to shake it open.
There was no reply. Not even a message to please step back from the cockpit door.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ Jeff said.
Jill turned to face the cabin. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
She took a deep breath.
‘Can you hear me?’ she said. ‘Is anyone there?’
The Pilot
Is anyone there?
Of course someone is there.
They are working it out, bits of it, slowly.
Something is wrong.
The pilot is misbehaving. She is – what was it they called her? A rogue pilot? It was rather a flattering description, in some ways.
But there are two, they remember. That is the safeguard.
But there are not two. Not this time.
There is just her.
The two that are supposed to be here are probably just waking now, in the pilots’ room at the rear of the hangar, to discover the door is locked, the barrel taken from the handle. They will be angry, their tongues furry and their heads aching.
Jill Stearns has tried the door, to see if she can talk to her. That shows they have not yet realized quite how serious this is. If they had, they would know there is no reasoning with her. She will not change her mind because they have persuasive arguments.
She has her own arguments. Her own reasons.
The door, of course, is locked. Perhaps they could force it, if they really tried. Perhaps they will. But it won’t change anything. They need her, whatever happens. What exactly would they do without her? Attempt a landing?
They might as well jump from the plane and take their chances that way.
Can you hear me?
Yes, I can hear you.
But you don’t need to know that. Not yet.
Chip Markham
This was pathetic. Stearns was supposedly a calm-headed CEO, but there she was, banging on the door like a toddler trying to get its mother’s attention. What was next? Begging?
Yes, it was clear something was happening that shouldn’t have been, but this kind of behavior was not going to help. They needed to be calm and think this through, and Chip had an idea where to start. In Chip’s experience, people always wanted something, and once you knew what it was you could start negotiating.
So the question was what did the pilot want, and how could they give it to her so they could get out of here? Stearns whimpering at their feet was hardly going to do it.
And then there was what Miller had said, about an email. He needed to know what that was about.
‘Jill.’ Stearns looked back at him. ‘The email he’ – he pointed a thumb at Miller – ‘mentioned. What is it?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘A hoax of some kind.’
Chip’s chest tightened. It was a sharp, uncomfortable feeling. He’d have to visit his doctor when they got back.
‘What kind of a hoax?’ he said.
‘I can share it,’ Varun said. He opened his laptop and touched the screen. ‘It was sent as we boarded, just before the Wi-Fi went out.’
‘What does it say?’ Kevin Anderson said. ‘Read it out.’
Miller caught his eye and held it for a moment. Those two didn’t like each other, Chip saw. He didn’t know why, but it was interesting to note.
Varun began to read. ‘Dear Mr. Miller. Your company is in dire legal trouble. I hope you read this email promptly, as the reasons will become clear shortly. Certainly before you land.’ He looked around the cabin. ‘That’s it. There’s no signature.’
Chip paused. There was something odd about it, something he could not put his finger on. ‘Read it again,’ he said.
Miller nodded and, repeated what he had said.
It came to him, and Chip nodded. ‘They knew about the flight?’ he said.
‘Maybe,’ Anderson said. ‘But so what? Anyone can track a flight, even a private jet.’
‘But how would they know Miller is on it?’ Jeff Ramos said. He stood up, almost aggressive, and folded his arms. His shirtsleeves were rolled up – that was new, Chip noticed – and the muscles in his forearms rippled. He was in good shape for a man in his fifties.
‘They might be able to figure it out,’ Miller said. ‘If they knew the date of the board meeting, they could assume I’d attend and then travel back on the jet.’
‘But what if you’d stayed on for another meeting?’ Chip said. ‘Or gone to New York for the holidays? If you’d decided not to take the jet, they’d have no credibility. They had to be sure you were on the plane, which means that one hour ago, they knew for certain that you were on this plane and would read their email.’
‘So they were watching me?’ Miller said.
Chip shrugged. ‘Possibly. Or they’re close to you, in a position to know your movements.’
‘Who fits that profile?’ Miller said. ‘Someone who works for us?’
‘That’s one option,’ Ramos said. ‘There could be others.’
‘Maybe,’ Kevin Anderson said, ‘it’s someone who wants to play a game?’
Chip looked at him sharply. ‘The pilot?’ he said. ‘Is that what you’re suggesting?’
‘Yeah. Makes sense, no? Send a sinister email to add to the tension. And that’s what she said: she wants to play a game. Whatever the fuck that means.’
The prickle in Markham’s spine came back. It was accompanied by a tightness in his chest. There was something going on here, something that was not good.
And they were trapped on a plane.
Which was, he was now sure, no accident.
Mary Jo Fernandez
This could not be happening. She should never have come on this flight. She should have used her return ticket and gone home the way she had originally planned. Then she would have been fine. She would have made it home to take care of her husband.
But they had brought her on this plane, and now she was trapped. Why and by whom she had no idea. There was an email saying something about legal trouble; the pilot was flying them in the wrong direction; there was no Wi-Fi: it was a mess.
She didn’t know what was going on, but she did know it was nothing to do with her. If the company had a legal problem it was not her problem. She just wanted to get home. Ray needed her.
It had been hard enough to leave him for one night. His cancer – first diagnosed way back when he was forty-four – had come back early in 2020. He had felt some pain early in the lockdown, but had not been able to go to the doctor. By the time he did, it was too late. The cancer was in his spine, and it was not treatable. The oncologist had told them it would have been the same had he come in March, instead of May, but Mary Jo couldn’t shake the feeling that if they had got the diagnosis earlier there might have been a treatment. She couldn’t stop thinking that they had missed their chance, and it tortured her.
The prognosis was two to three years, and they were nearly two years in. Since the end of summer, his health had deteriorated sharply, and he was in constant pain. He found it hard to walk unassisted, which left him largely bed-bound, but even then he was not comfortable. He said the only time he was pain-free was when Mary Jo lay beside him.
Never mind all these pills, he said. You’re the best medicine.
Corny, yes, but no less true for that. She knew exactly what he meant. She had felt the same way since the early days of their relationship. They had met in junior high: she was in sixth grade, and he was in eighth. He had his problems: his dad had died in a car crash when he was ten, and his mum struggled to make ends meet for him and his two sisters, but they were a loving, warm family. Her situation was a mirror image. Her mom had died of lung cancer, leaving her and her brothers in the tender care of her father, Bernie.
Big Bernie – as he was known – did not struggle to make ends meet. He would have, if he’d tried, but he didn’t bother. As long as there was enough for him to pay his bar tab – and sometimes he didn’t even do that, because how could the owner of the bar throw him out – he was fine.
Big Bernie. A character. Feared, a little, but loved. Tolerated, at least, because he didn’t have that name for no reason. He had it because he had earned it, because from time to time he lost his temper, and no one wanted to see him do that again. So if he was late on his bar tab it was better to give him a few days to pay, or maybe even to wipe the slate clean.
That didn’t work with his children. The rages and bellowing and slaps and insults stayed with Mary Jo. Sometimes he’d hug her, sober and remorseful, and tell her he loved her, but the slate stayed marked. It could be not erased that easily. And as for her brothers: well, it wasn’t slaps and insults. It was fists and boots and bruised and broken ribs.
And no hugs and apologies, either. He saved those for his daughter, although she wished he wouldn’t. The guilt – that she was not being beaten like her brothers so maybe what they got was worse than it would have been if she took her share – was worse than the pain he would have inflicted.
She escaped to Ray’s family. Vinnie, her older brother, escaped to the army. Tommy, her younger brother, escaped into the same bars that Big Bernie drank in. He became his dad’s shadow. Little Bern, they called him. Or sometimes Baby Bern. He’d confessed to her once that he hated the name – he wasn’t like their dad, not at all – but what could he do? Who could stop them, if Big Bernie allowed it?
