His face, under its sheen of sweat, was pale green. His upper-class British voice was slurred more than a little with a combination of scotch and terror. “We could be dead in a few minutes and you’re talking into some bloody machine.”
“We could be alive in a few minutes, too. Either way, it’s news.” Sympathetic, Finn dragged a handkerchief out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Mumbling, the man dabbed at his face. As the plane shuddered again, he laid his head weakly against the seat and closed his eyes. “You must have ice water for blood.”
Finn only smiled. His blood wasn’t icy, it was hot, pumping hot, but there was no use in trying to explain that to a layman. It wasn’t that he wasn’t afraid, or that he was particularly fatalistic. But he did have the reporter’s unique sense of tunnel vision. He had his recorder, his notebook, his laptop. These were shields that gave the illusion of indestructibility.
Why else did a cameraman continue to roll tape when bullets were flying? Why did a reporter jab a mike into theface of a psychopath, or run in instead of out of a building during a bomb threat? Because he was blinded by the shields of the Fourth Estate.
Or maybe, Finn mused with a grin, they were just crazy.
“Hey.” He shifted in his seat and aimed the recorder. “Want to be my last interview?”
His companion opened red-rimmed eyes. What he saw was a man only a few years younger than himself, with clear, pale skin shadowed by a hint of a beard shades darker than the tousled mane of wavy bronze hair that swept the collar of a leather bomber’s jacket. Sharp, angular features were softened by a mouth spread in an engaging grin that featured a crooked eyetooth. The grin brought out dimples that should have softened the face, yet only made it tougher. Like dents in rock.
But it was the eyes that held the onlooker’s attention. Just now they were a deep, misty blue, like a lake dappled in fog, and they were filled with amusement, self-deprecation and recklessness.
The man heard a sound bubble in his own throat and was stunned to realize it was a laugh. “Fuck you,” he said, grinning back.
“Even if we buy it on this run, I don’t think they’ll air that. Network standards. Is this your first trip to the States?”
“Jesus, you are crazy.” But some of his fear was ebbing. “No, I make the trip about twice a year.”
“What’s the first thing you want to do if we land in one piece?”
“Call my wife. We had a row before I left. Silly business.” He mopped his clammy face again. “I want to talk to my wife and kids.”
The plane lost altitude. The PA crackled under the sounds of screams and sobs.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats, with your seat belts fastened. We will be landing momentarily. For your own safety, please put your head between your knees, grasp your ankles firmly. Once we land, we’ll begin emergency evacuation procedures.”
Or they’ll scrape us up with shovels, Finn mused. The vision of the wreck of Pan Am flight 103 spread over Scotland played uneasily in his mind. He remembered too well what he’d seen, what he’d smelled, what he’d felt when he’d broadcast that report.
He wondered, fatalistically, who would stand in front of twisted, smoking metal and tell the world about the fate of flight 1129.
“What’s your wife’s name?” Finn asked as he leaned forward.
“Anna.”
“Kids?”
“Brad and Susan. Oh God, oh God, I don’t want to die.”
“Think about Anna and Brad and Susan,” Finn told him. “Pull them right into your head. It’ll help.” Cool-eyed, he studied the Celtic cross that had worked its way out from under his sweater to dangle on its chain. He had people to think about, as well. He closed his hand over the cross, held it warm in his hand.
“It’s seven-oh-nine, Central time. The pilot’s taking us in.”
“Can you see it yet? Joe, can you see it?”
“Can’t
“We could be alive in a few minutes, too. Either way, it’s news.” Sympathetic, Finn dragged a handkerchief out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Mumbling, the man dabbed at his face. As the plane shuddered again, he laid his head weakly against the seat and closed his eyes. “You must have ice water for blood.”
Finn only smiled. His blood wasn’t icy, it was hot, pumping hot, but there was no use in trying to explain that to a layman. It wasn’t that he wasn’t afraid, or that he was particularly fatalistic. But he did have the reporter’s unique sense of tunnel vision. He had his recorder, his notebook, his laptop. These were shields that gave the illusion of indestructibility.
Why else did a cameraman continue to roll tape when bullets were flying? Why did a reporter jab a mike into theface of a psychopath, or run in instead of out of a building during a bomb threat? Because he was blinded by the shields of the Fourth Estate.
Or maybe, Finn mused with a grin, they were just crazy.
“Hey.” He shifted in his seat and aimed the recorder. “Want to be my last interview?”
His companion opened red-rimmed eyes. What he saw was a man only a few years younger than himself, with clear, pale skin shadowed by a hint of a beard shades darker than the tousled mane of wavy bronze hair that swept the collar of a leather bomber’s jacket. Sharp, angular features were softened by a mouth spread in an engaging grin that featured a crooked eyetooth. The grin brought out dimples that should have softened the face, yet only made it tougher. Like dents in rock.
But it was the eyes that held the onlooker’s attention. Just now they were a deep, misty blue, like a lake dappled in fog, and they were filled with amusement, self-deprecation and recklessness.
The man heard a sound bubble in his own throat and was stunned to realize it was a laugh. “Fuck you,” he said, grinning back.
“Even if we buy it on this run, I don’t think they’ll air that. Network standards. Is this your first trip to the States?”
“Jesus, you are crazy.” But some of his fear was ebbing. “No, I make the trip about twice a year.”
“What’s the first thing you want to do if we land in one piece?”
“Call my wife. We had a row before I left. Silly business.” He mopped his clammy face again. “I want to talk to my wife and kids.”
The plane lost altitude. The PA crackled under the sounds of screams and sobs.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats, with your seat belts fastened. We will be landing momentarily. For your own safety, please put your head between your knees, grasp your ankles firmly. Once we land, we’ll begin emergency evacuation procedures.”
Or they’ll scrape us up with shovels, Finn mused. The vision of the wreck of Pan Am flight 103 spread over Scotland played uneasily in his mind. He remembered too well what he’d seen, what he’d smelled, what he’d felt when he’d broadcast that report.
He wondered, fatalistically, who would stand in front of twisted, smoking metal and tell the world about the fate of flight 1129.
“What’s your wife’s name?” Finn asked as he leaned forward.
“Anna.”
“Kids?”
“Brad and Susan. Oh God, oh God, I don’t want to die.”
“Think about Anna and Brad and Susan,” Finn told him. “Pull them right into your head. It’ll help.” Cool-eyed, he studied the Celtic cross that had worked its way out from under his sweater to dangle on its chain. He had people to think about, as well. He closed his hand over the cross, held it warm in his hand.
“It’s seven-oh-nine, Central time. The pilot’s taking us in.”
“Can you see it yet? Joe, can you see it?”
“Can’t
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