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Authors: Nora Roberts
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see a goddamn thing through this goddamn rain.” He squinted, hefting his camera. Rain ran off the bill of his fielder’s cap and waterfalled in front of his face. “Can’t believe there’s no other crews here yet. It’s just like Finn to call the son-of-a-bitching story in so we’d get an exclusive.”
“They’ll have heard about it by now.” Straining to see through the gloom, Deanna shoved sopping hair from her eyes. In the lights of the runway, the rain looked like a hail of silver bullets. “We won’t be alone out here for long. I hope we’re right about them using this runway.”
“We’re right. Wait. Did you hear that? I don’t think that was thunder.”
“No, it sounded like—there!” She stabbed a finger toward the sky. “Look. That’s got to be it.”
The lights were barely visible through the slashing rain. Faintly, she heard the mutter of an engine, then the answering wail of emergency vehicles. Her stomach flipped over.
“Benny? Are you copying this?” She lifted her voice over the storm, satisfied when she heard her producer’s voice come through her earpiece. “It’s coming down now. Yes?” She nodded to Joe. “We’re set. We’re going live,” she told Joe, and stood with her back to the runway. “Go from me, then follow the plane in. Keep on the plane. They’ve got us,” she murmured, listening to the madhouse of the control room through her earpiece. “In five, Joe.”
She listened to the lead-in from the anchor, and her cue. “We’ve just spotted the lights from flight 1129. As you can see, the storm has become very violent, rain is washing over the runways in sheets. Airport officials have refused to comment on the exact nature of the problem with flight 1129, but emergency vehicles are standing ready.”
“What can you see, Deanna?” This from the anchor desk back in the studio.
“The lights, and we can hear the engine as the plane descends.” She turned as Joe angled the camera skyward. “There!” In the lightning flash, the plane was visible, a bright silver missile hurtling groundward. “There are two-hundred and sixty-four passengers and crew aboard flight 1129.” She shouted over the scream of storm, engines and sirens. “Including Finn Riley, CBC’s foreign correspondent returning to Chicago from his post in London. Please God,” she murmured, then fell silent, letting the pictures tell the story as the plane came into clear view.
It was laboring. She imagined herself inside as the pilot fought to keep the nose up and level. The sound must have been deafening.
“Almost,” she whispered, forgetting the camera, the mike, the viewers as she kept her gaze riveted on the plane. She saw the landing gear, then the bright red, white and blue logo of the airline slashed on the side of the plane. There was only static in her earpiece.
“I can’t hear you, Martin. Stand by.”
She held her breath as the wheels hit, skidded, bounced off the tarmac. Held it still as the plane slid and swayed, chased down the runway by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.
“It’s skidding,” she called out. “There’s smoke. I can see what looks like smoke under the left wing. I can hear the brakes screaming, and it’s slowing. It’s definitely slowing, but there’s a problem with control.”
The wing dipped, skimming the tarmac and shooting up a shower of sparks. Deanna watched them sizzle and die in the wet as the plane swerved. Then, with a shuddering bump, it stopped, diagonally across the runway.
“It’s down. Flight 1129 is on the ground.”
“Deanna, is it possible for you to assess the damage?”
“Not from here. Just the smoke I spotted at the left wing, which corroborates our unofficial reports of left-engine failure. Emergency crews are soaking down the area with foam. Ambulances are standing by. The door’s opening, Martin. The chute’s coming out. I can see—yes, the first passengers being evacuated.”
“Get closer,” the
“They’ll have heard about it by now.” Straining to see through the gloom, Deanna shoved sopping hair from her eyes. In the lights of the runway, the rain looked like a hail of silver bullets. “We won’t be alone out here for long. I hope we’re right about them using this runway.”
“We’re right. Wait. Did you hear that? I don’t think that was thunder.”
“No, it sounded like—there!” She stabbed a finger toward the sky. “Look. That’s got to be it.”
The lights were barely visible through the slashing rain. Faintly, she heard the mutter of an engine, then the answering wail of emergency vehicles. Her stomach flipped over.
“Benny? Are you copying this?” She lifted her voice over the storm, satisfied when she heard her producer’s voice come through her earpiece. “It’s coming down now. Yes?” She nodded to Joe. “We’re set. We’re going live,” she told Joe, and stood with her back to the runway. “Go from me, then follow the plane in. Keep on the plane. They’ve got us,” she murmured, listening to the madhouse of the control room through her earpiece. “In five, Joe.”
She listened to the lead-in from the anchor, and her cue. “We’ve just spotted the lights from flight 1129. As you can see, the storm has become very violent, rain is washing over the runways in sheets. Airport officials have refused to comment on the exact nature of the problem with flight 1129, but emergency vehicles are standing ready.”
“What can you see, Deanna?” This from the anchor desk back in the studio.
“The lights, and we can hear the engine as the plane descends.” She turned as Joe angled the camera skyward. “There!” In the lightning flash, the plane was visible, a bright silver missile hurtling groundward. “There are two-hundred and sixty-four passengers and crew aboard flight 1129.” She shouted over the scream of storm, engines and sirens. “Including Finn Riley, CBC’s foreign correspondent returning to Chicago from his post in London. Please God,” she murmured, then fell silent, letting the pictures tell the story as the plane came into clear view.
It was laboring. She imagined herself inside as the pilot fought to keep the nose up and level. The sound must have been deafening.
“Almost,” she whispered, forgetting the camera, the mike, the viewers as she kept her gaze riveted on the plane. She saw the landing gear, then the bright red, white and blue logo of the airline slashed on the side of the plane. There was only static in her earpiece.
“I can’t hear you, Martin. Stand by.”
She held her breath as the wheels hit, skidded, bounced off the tarmac. Held it still as the plane slid and swayed, chased down the runway by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.
“It’s skidding,” she called out. “There’s smoke. I can see what looks like smoke under the left wing. I can hear the brakes screaming, and it’s slowing. It’s definitely slowing, but there’s a problem with control.”
The wing dipped, skimming the tarmac and shooting up a shower of sparks. Deanna watched them sizzle and die in the wet as the plane swerved. Then, with a shuddering bump, it stopped, diagonally across the runway.
“It’s down. Flight 1129 is on the ground.”
“Deanna, is it possible for you to assess the damage?”
“Not from here. Just the smoke I spotted at the left wing, which corroborates our unofficial reports of left-engine failure. Emergency crews are soaking down the area with foam. Ambulances are standing by. The door’s opening, Martin. The chute’s coming out. I can see—yes, the first passengers being evacuated.”
“Get closer,” the
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