Chapter II ☯ Disintegration
Kansas City Metropolitan Airport, Aug. 6, 1966, 22:55
As we taxi, I glance at my watch. It’s almost 11. There’s a hold as we wait for an arriving flight and then I see a new Delta DC-9 move down the runway, gather speed and disappear into the darkness, its blinking strobes outlining its turn to the south toward Atlanta as it leaves the ground. We hold a bit, then move out onto the runway and, without a pause, rumble down the strip and get airborne quickly. We’re light and it doesn’t take long, the Rolls Royce Spey turbojets providing a big kick in the pants.
We turn northwest and I can see the lights of the city recede behind us. It’s smooth so far, but we suddenly level off. We’re not that high. A chime rings and Samantha reaches for the interphone. She talks for a few seconds, hangs up, then picks up the intercom and announces that we’ll be diverting a bit for weather to keep the ride smooth and that for everyone’s safety, they should stay seated with their seatbelts on until they get the word from the cockpit. She goes to the galley, starts some coffee brewing.
The woman across the aisle is still staring out the window. The businessman takes off his seatbelt and reclines his seat a bit. He’s reading a company memo and his lips are moving. He calls for Samantha, yells a demand for another whiskey sour without waiting for her to come down the aisle.
We’ll be in Omaha pretty quick, so I decide not to nap. I’ve also had enough vodka. I’ll need to be sober enough to drive home, since I left my car at the airport. I look at my watch again and pick up a magazine. It’s 10 after 11.
A sudden jolt gets my attention. Samantha is still in the galley, making the whiskey sour. I look outside. There are flashes of lightning up ahead. We’re still pretty low. Another jolt, then a continuous shudder. We start an up and down motion, the engine noise rising and falling with the plane’s motion. This is beginning to be uncomfortable.
A chime sounds. Samantha appears and answers the interphone. She’s not smiling, not looking at my direction. She hangs up and I hear some rattling around in the galley. She comes down the aisle, checking seatbelts. The businessman argues with her a bit, still wanting the drink. She stands firm, he petulantly buckles up. She glances at me, checks my belt, manages a smile, then disappears into the back. Couple of minutes later, couple more jolts, she’s back. Goes forward, lowers her jumpseat, sits down and buckles in. Very tightly. I’m not particularly worried; this is, after all, a very new, modern jetliner and I’ve been in turbulence before. What could happen?
We bounce again, this time much harder, and then the intercom comes to life.
‘Uh, folks, this is Captain Pauly from the cockpit. We’re experiencing a short stretch of rough weather right now, so we’d like you to stay seated with your seatbelts securely fastened until we’re through it. There’s a gust front coming down from Canada, but the good news is that we don’t expect it to last too long. Then we’ll go ahead and move on up to our regular cruising altitude of 20,000 feet and things will smooth out. Currently, we’re going to fly a little to the west into southern Nebraska a bit. We might be just a few minutes late for arrival in Omaha, but sit back and relax and we’ll have you on the ground soon. I’ve asked our flight attendants to be seated for the next few minutes while we fly through this, but Samantha and Jeannie will be back up to serve you very shortly. We’ll talk to you again in a few minutes. Thanks for flying Braniff International today.’
The bouncing gets worse. We drop a bit, then rise up very fast. My stomach is beginning to regret the vodka. I’m not a nervous flier, like I said. But within a couple of minutes it gets bad enough to make me change my mind. I grip the armrest. It seems to go on forever. It gets darker outside, the clouds lit by flashes of lightning. Inside the plane, it’s dead quiet with just the noise of the slipstream rushing past outside, the engines beginning to strain, the noise and pitch from them rising and falling. The woman still stares outside, but she’s now gripping her armrests tightly. The businessman has actually put his memo on the aisle seat and is staring outside too.
My eyes meet Samantha’s. She’s looking a little white. I smile at her. She manages a brave smile back. I’m thinking it’s a little odd that a veteran stewardess like her would be looking worried. She said she’d been flying for over five years. It’s right about then that things get interesting.
We’re suddenly wobbling side to side. Engines are straining and then backing off even more. I look at my watch. 11:11. It’s an odd time to die, I think, all ones. Wait, what? This is getting a bit surreal.
We suddenly get straightened up and it’s smooth for a couple of seconds. But then it happens.
It’s like a giant is standing there in a Nebraska corn field and is highly annoyed that we’re trying to get by him. Lightning flashes violently from his eyes and he draws back his hand and swats us from the sky with a huge undercut. He hits us from below and the right. Hard, very hard. It stuns us. Samantha’s eyes get very big and they’re locked on mine, her face very white. I don’t know what my own face looks like but I’m sure it’s not attractive. My brain feels scrambled.
The plane rolls and yaws to the left and then we hear this terrible, gut-wrenching metallic sound. The plane shudders, the engines are screaming. We’re freakin’ coming apart. I feel it. It’s in my bowels, my spine. My heart is pounding, adrenaline is coursing through my veins. My head is bursting, I suddenly have a massive headache.
My vision is fogged, but my eyes are still locked on Samantha’s. Her mouth is open like she’s screaming, but I can’t hear anything but the roaring of the engines. I glance sideways at the business guy; he’s got his eyes screwed shut, hanging on tightly to the tray table. His memos are flying all over the place. I don’t even see the lady ahead of him since her head has disappeared; I guess she’s put her head between her knees. I look back at Samantha. Samantha is, momentarily, my rock, my sanity.
About two seconds. That’s all it takes. Metal wrenching, everything vibrating. Another big jolt and the breath is knocked out of me. I suddenly grin; I shit my pants. It’s funny. The plane is coming apart, I’ve shit my pants, we’re crashing and I start laughing. I lose Samantha’s eyes. She shuts them tight and screams. I can’t hear anything but the loud roaring of wind. We’re decompressing.
We start nosing over towards the ground and we’re inside a tornado. Everything fogs over and paper, magazines, blankets, clothes, bags, dust, all kinds of crap start flying around. I’m hit on the head by a bag from the overhead bin, but I don’t even feel it. I start bleeding from the ears. I can taste blood on my tongue. My heart pounds away and I can feel the pulse in my head, in my ears; it’s pushing my blood, my life out of my ears. I can barely see, but Samantha is still there in her seat, her face a mask of blood.
My eardrums burst and suddenly it’s quiet and peaceful.
We start corkscrewing to the ground. There’s a sudden bang inside my head and Samantha and the cabin in front of me disappear in an explosion of stars and white light.
My last conscious thought?
‘Nebraska?! Aw, crap!’ ★
• 1405 Words written by Steve @ 21:54 | 23-Apr-06 in Departure •
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