has never seen as a tragedy but rather as an encomium to a life of disciplined service. Vorstenbosch sometimes wishes he were British. He recognized Veronica D’Arcy in business right off, but his professionalism requires him to resist acknowledging her celebrity in any overt way.
When he has composed himself, he exits the head and begins making his way to the cockpit to tell Captain Waters they will require airport security upon landing. He pauses in business to tend to a woman who is hyperventilating. When Vorstenbosch takes her hand, he is reminded of the last time he held his grandmother’s hand—she was in her coffin, and her fingers were just as cold and lifeless. Vorstenbosch feels a quavering indignation when he thinks about the bombers—those idiotic hot dogs—blasting by so close to the plane. The lack of simple human consideration sickens him. He practices deep breathing with the woman, assures her they’ll be on the ground soon.
The cockpit is filled with sunshine and calm. He isn’t surprised. Everything about the work is designed to make even a crisis—and this is a crisis, albeit one they never practiced in the flight simulators—a matter of routine, of checklists and proper procedure.
The first officer is a scamp of a girl who brought a brown-bag lunch onto the plane with her. When her left sleeve was hiked up, Vorstenbosch glimpsed part of a tattoo, a white lion, just above the wrist. He looks at her and sees in her past a trailer park, a brother hooked on opioids, divorced parents, a first job in Walmart, a desperate escape to the military. He likes her immensely—how can he not? His own childhood was much the same, only instead of escaping to the army, he went to New York to be queer. When she let him into the cockpit last time, she was trying to hide tears, a fact that twists Vorstenbosch’s heart. Nothing distresses him quite like the distress of others.
“What’s happening?” Vorstenbosch asks.
“On the ground in ten,” says Bronson.
“Maybe,” Waters says. “They’ve got half a dozen planes stacked up ahead of us.”
“Any word from the other side of the world?” Vorstenbosch wants to know.
For a moment neither replies. Then, in a stilted, distracted voice, Waters says, “The U.S. Geological Survey reports a seismic event in Guam that registered about six-point-three on the Richter scale.”
“That would correspond to two hundred and fifty kilotons,” Bronson says.
“It was a warhead,” Vorstenbosch says. It’s not quite a question.
“Something happened in Pyongyang, too,” Bronson says. “An hour before Guam, state television switched over to color bars. There’s intelligence about a whole bunch of high-ranking officials being killed within minutes of one another. So we’re either talking a palace coup or we tried to bring down the leadership with some surgical assassinations and they didn’t take it too well.”
“What can we do for you, Vorstenbosch?” says Waters.
“There was a fight in coach. One man poured beer on another—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Waters says.
“—and they’ve been warned, but we might want Fargo PD on hand when we put down. I believe the victim is going to want to file charges.”
“I’ll radio Fargo, but no promises. I get the feeling the airport is going to be a madhouse. Security might have their hands full.”
“There’s also a woman in business having a panic attack. She’s trying not to scare her daughter, but she’s having trouble breathing. I have her huffing into an airsickness bag. But I’d like emergency services to meet her with an oxygen tank when we get down.”
“Done. Anything else?”
“There are a dozen other mini-crises unfolding, but the team has it in hand. There is one other thing, I suppose. Would either of you like a glass of beer or wine in violation of all regulations?”
They glance back at him. Bronson grins.
“I want to have your baby, Vorstenbosch,” she says. “We would make a lovely child.”
Waters says, “Ditto.”
“That’s a yes?”
Waters and Bronson look at each other.
“Better not,” Bronson decides, and Waters nods.
Then the captain adds, “But I’ll have the coldest Dos Equis you can find as soon as we’re parked.”
“You know what my favorite thing about flying is?” Bronson asks. “It’s always a sunny day up this high. It seems impossible anything so awful could be happening on such a sunny day.”
They are all admiring the cloudscape when the white and fluffy floor beneath them is lanced through a hundred times. A hundred pillars of white smoke thrust themselves into the sky, rising from all around. It’s like a magic trick,