he doesn’t want to be cold, formal, distant. He’s proud of his airline for employing more female pilots, wants to approve, to support. All gorgeous women are an affliction upon his soul. “Sydney. Taiwan. Not Guam, though.”
“Me and friends used to freedive off Fai Fai Beach. Once I got close enough to a blacktip shark to pet it. Freediving naked is the only thing better than flying.”
The word “naked” goes through him like a jolt from a joy buzzer. That’s his first reaction. His second reaction is that of course she knows Guam—she’s ex-navy, which is where she learned to fly. When he glances at her sidelong, he’s shocked to find tears in her eyelashes.
Kate Bronson catches his gaze and gives him a crooked, embarrassed grin that shows the slight gap between her two front teeth. He tries to imagine her with a shaved head and dog tags. It isn’t hard. For all her cover-girl looks, there is something slightly feral underneath, something wiry and reckless about her.
“I don’t know why I’m crying. I haven’t been there in ten years. It’s not like I have any friends there.”
Waters considers several possible reassuring statements and discards each in turn. There is no kindness in telling her it might not be as bad as she thinks, when in fact it is likely to be far worse.
There’s a rap at the door. Bronson hops up, wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, glances through the peephole, turns the bolts.
It’s Vorstenbosch, the senior flight attendant, a plump, effete man with wavy blond hair, a fussy manner, and small eyes behind his thick gold-framed glasses. He’s calm, professional, and pedantic when sober and a potty-mouthed swishy delight when drunk.
“Did someone nuke Guam?” he asks without preamble.
“I don’t have anything from the ground except we’ve lost contact,” Waters says.
“What’s that mean, specifically?” Vorstenbosch asks. “I’ve got a planeload of very frightened people and nothing to tell them.”
Bronson thumps her head, ducking behind the controls to sit back down. Waters pretends not to see. He pretends not to notice that her hands are shaking.
“It means—” Waters begins, but there’s an alert tone, and then the controller is on with a message for everyone in ZMP airspace. The voice from Minnesota is sandy, smooth, untroubled. He might be talking about nothing more important than a region of high pressure. They’re taught to sound that way.
“This is Minneapolis Center with high-priority instructions for all aircraft on this frequency. Be advised we have received instructions from U.S. Strategic Command to clear this airspace for operations from Ellsworth. We will begin directing all flights to the closest appropriate airport. Repeat, we are grounding all commercial and recreational aircraft in the ZMP. Please remain alert and ready to respond promptly to our instructions.” There is a momentary hiss, and then, with what sounds like real regret, Minneapolis adds, “Sorry about this, ladies and gents. Uncle Sam needs the sky this afternoon for an unscheduled world war.”
“Ellsworth Airport?” Vorstenbosch says. “What do they have at Ellsworth Airport?”
“The 28th Bomb Wing,” Bronson says, rubbing her head.
VERONICA D’ARCY IN BUSINESS
The plane banks steeply and Veronica D’Arcy looks straight down at the rumpled duvet of cloud beneath. Shafts of blinding sunshine stab through the windows on the other side of the cabin. The good-looking drunk beside her—he has a loose lock of dark hair on his brow that makes her think of Cary Grant, of Clark Kent—unconsciously squeezes his armrests. She wonders if he’s a white-knuckle flier or just a boozer. He had his first scotch as soon as they reached cruising altitude, three hours ago, just after 10:00 A.M.
The screens go black and another AN ANNOUNCEMENT IS IN PROGRESS. Veronica shuts her eyes to listen, focusing the way she might at a table read as another actor reads lines for the first time.
CAPTAIN WATERS (V.O.)
Hello, passengers, Captain Waters again. I’m afraid we’ve had an unexpected request from air traffic control to reroute to Fargo and put down at Hector International Airport. We’ve been asked to clear this airspace, effective immediately—
(uneasy beat)
—for military maneuvers. Obviously the situation in Guam has created . . . um, complications for everyone in the sky today. There’s no reason for alarm, but we are going to have to put down. We expect to be on the ground in Fargo in forty minutes. I’ll have more information for you as it comes in.
(beat)
My apologies, folks. This isn’t the afternoon any of us were hoping for.