time.”
“Oh, God.” She made the dash back into the newsroom with Joe on her heels. Bursting through the pandemonium, she snatched a fresh notebook from her desk. “Marshall, I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“I’ve already gathered that. Do you want me to wait?”
“No.” She dragged a hand through her hair, grabbed her jacket. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ll call you. Delaney!” she called out.
The stout assignment editor waved the stub of his unlit cigar in her direction. “Take off, Reynolds. Keep in touch on the two-way. We’ll be patching you in live. Get me a goddamn scoop.”
“Sorry,” she called to Marshall. “Where’s the plane coming in from?” she shouted to Joe as they raced up the stairs. His motorcycle boots clattered on the metal like gunfire.
“London. They’ll be feeding us the rest of the information as we go.” He shoved open the outside door and then plunged out into a torrent of rain. His Chicago Bulls sweatshirt was immediately plastered to his chest. He shouted over the storm while he unlocked the van. “It’s a 747. More than two hundred passengers. Left engine failure, some problem with the radar. Might have taken a hit of lightning.” To punctuate his words, a spear of lightning cracked the black sky, shattering the dark.
Already drenched, Deanna climbed into the van. “What’s the ETA?” Out of habit, she switched on the police scanner under the dash.
“Don’t know. Let’s just hope we get there before they do.” He’d hate to miss getting a shot of the crash. He gunned the engine, glanced at her. The gleam in his eyes promised a wild ride. “Here’s the kicker, Dee. Finn Riley’s on board. The crazy son of a bitch called in the story himself.”
Chapter Four
S itting in the forward cabin of the beleaguered 747 was like riding in the belly of a dyspeptic bronco. The plane bucked, kicked, shuddered and shook as if it were struggling mightily to disgorge its complement of passengers. Some of the people on board were praying, some were weeping, still others had their faces buried in air-sickness bags, too weak to do anything but moan.
Finn Riley didn’t give much thought to prayer. In his own way he was religious. He could, if the need arose in him, recite the Act of Contrition just as he had through all those shadowy sessions in the confessional as a child. At the moment, atonement wasn’t on the top of his list.
Time was running out—on his battery pack on his laptop computer. He’d have to switch to his tape recorder soon. Finn much preferred writing copy as the words flowed from his mind to his fingers.
He glanced out the window. The black sky exploded again and again with spears of lightning. Like lances of the gods—nope, he decided, deleting the phrase. Too corny. A battleground, nature against man’s technology. The sounds were definitely warlike, he mused. The prayers, the weeping, the groans, the occasionally hysterical laugh. He’d heard themin trenches before. And the echoing boom of thunder that shook the plane like a toy.
He used the last moments of his dying battery playing that angle.
Once he’d shut down, he secured the disk and the computer in his heavy metal case. He’d have to hope for the best there, Finn mused, as he slipped his mini-recorder from his briefcase. He’d seen the aftermath of plane crashes often enough to know what survived was pure luck.
“It’s May fifth, seven-oh-two Central time,” Finn recited into the recorder. “We’re aboard flight 1129 approaching O’Hare, though it’s impossible to see any lights through the storm. Lightning struck the port engine about twenty minutes ago. And from what I could squeeze out of the first-class flight attendant, there’s some problem with the radar, possibly storm-related. There are two hundred and fifty-two passengers on board, and twelve crew.”
“You’re crazy.” The man sitting next to Finn finally lifted his head from between his knees.
“Oh, God.” She made the dash back into the newsroom with Joe on her heels. Bursting through the pandemonium, she snatched a fresh notebook from her desk. “Marshall, I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“I’ve already gathered that. Do you want me to wait?”
“No.” She dragged a hand through her hair, grabbed her jacket. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ll call you. Delaney!” she called out.
The stout assignment editor waved the stub of his unlit cigar in her direction. “Take off, Reynolds. Keep in touch on the two-way. We’ll be patching you in live. Get me a goddamn scoop.”
“Sorry,” she called to Marshall. “Where’s the plane coming in from?” she shouted to Joe as they raced up the stairs. His motorcycle boots clattered on the metal like gunfire.
“London. They’ll be feeding us the rest of the information as we go.” He shoved open the outside door and then plunged out into a torrent of rain. His Chicago Bulls sweatshirt was immediately plastered to his chest. He shouted over the storm while he unlocked the van. “It’s a 747. More than two hundred passengers. Left engine failure, some problem with the radar. Might have taken a hit of lightning.” To punctuate his words, a spear of lightning cracked the black sky, shattering the dark.
Already drenched, Deanna climbed into the van. “What’s the ETA?” Out of habit, she switched on the police scanner under the dash.
“Don’t know. Let’s just hope we get there before they do.” He’d hate to miss getting a shot of the crash. He gunned the engine, glanced at her. The gleam in his eyes promised a wild ride. “Here’s the kicker, Dee. Finn Riley’s on board. The crazy son of a bitch called in the story himself.”
Chapter Four
S itting in the forward cabin of the beleaguered 747 was like riding in the belly of a dyspeptic bronco. The plane bucked, kicked, shuddered and shook as if it were struggling mightily to disgorge its complement of passengers. Some of the people on board were praying, some were weeping, still others had their faces buried in air-sickness bags, too weak to do anything but moan.
Finn Riley didn’t give much thought to prayer. In his own way he was religious. He could, if the need arose in him, recite the Act of Contrition just as he had through all those shadowy sessions in the confessional as a child. At the moment, atonement wasn’t on the top of his list.
Time was running out—on his battery pack on his laptop computer. He’d have to switch to his tape recorder soon. Finn much preferred writing copy as the words flowed from his mind to his fingers.
He glanced out the window. The black sky exploded again and again with spears of lightning. Like lances of the gods—nope, he decided, deleting the phrase. Too corny. A battleground, nature against man’s technology. The sounds were definitely warlike, he mused. The prayers, the weeping, the groans, the occasionally hysterical laugh. He’d heard themin trenches before. And the echoing boom of thunder that shook the plane like a toy.
He used the last moments of his dying battery playing that angle.
Once he’d shut down, he secured the disk and the computer in his heavy metal case. He’d have to hope for the best there, Finn mused, as he slipped his mini-recorder from his briefcase. He’d seen the aftermath of plane crashes often enough to know what survived was pure luck.
“It’s May fifth, seven-oh-two Central time,” Finn recited into the recorder. “We’re aboard flight 1129 approaching O’Hare, though it’s impossible to see any lights through the storm. Lightning struck the port engine about twenty minutes ago. And from what I could squeeze out of the first-class flight attendant, there’s some problem with the radar, possibly storm-related. There are two hundred and fifty-two passengers on board, and twelve crew.”
“You’re crazy.” The man sitting next to Finn finally lifted his head from between his knees.
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