Cloud Nine, One, One

Turbines roared as Flight 1107 for Boston nosed into the clear sky and pressed my body into the passenger seat. The rattle of the Boeing 757's retracting gears vibrated beneath my loafers. I cut my eyes to the port window as the elevators rumbled, retracting and reshaping the wing. My ears popped, and I closed my eyes as we jetted toward thirty-five thousand feet.

They say take-offs are the most dangerous moments in flight, but once you hear my story, you may disagree. My wife, Natalie, rested her head against my shoulder with her ballpoint pen in hand and notebook on her lap. Comfortable the airline Captain had succeeded in not making us the latest casualty, I relaxed and fell asleep.

***

A drink cart bumped my arm and woke me. The flight attendant peered down and asked me, "Would you like a beverage and snack, Mr. Karnes?" The cabin clock displayed 11:10 a.m.

I requested a black coffee, a water bottle, and a peanut snack. Natalie declined refreshment and stared out the window at the scattered cirrus clouds below. Washington, D.C., in the distance, was the halfway point to our destination. A man with a full black beard bumped my arm without apology as he hurried up the aisle toward the forward lavatory. My suspicions were raised. The suspect turned toward the passengers like he was being followed but looked away when our eyes made contact. Why is he so nervous? I thought.

Five minutes passed, then ten, and my paranoia grew that this man might be a terrorist. Fifteen minutes passed, and I buzzed the flight attendant to express my concern. "Did he have a bomb?" sprinted through my mind. We all are responsible for being aware of safety, and I was determined to do my duty. I followed the flight attendant to the lavatory, and she knocked. There was no response. She knocked again. "Are you okay Sir? Do you need assistance?" Twenty minutes had passed when she utilized her pass key, unlocked the door, and slid the accordion folds open. The man was on his knees, vomiting.

"My apologies," he said, "I did not mean to cause a distraction."

With obvious disdain, the attendant said, "Mr. Karnes, please return to your seat," as she moved ahead of me. The explosion was deafening as the plane's port side exploded outward to create a massive breach in the fuselage.

The 757 lurched at the force of the bomb, and the flight attendant was swept through the opening like a monster vacuum cleaner had claimed her. Her body bounced off the wing and disappeared. Oxygen masks dropped over the seats, triggered by the sudden depressurization. The plane rolled left into a slow death spiral. Loose debris, books, cups, papers, and purses, streamed out of the gaping hole, and I was thrown into a young couple's lap at the emergency exit door. Their faces displayed horror, shock, and disbelief that in minutes they would die.

Acrid smoke burned my lungs as the white fog of burning fabric swirled around the cabin. My ears roared from the blast and the wounded screams of the plane spiraling toward the ground. In a microsecond, I sensed a flash of pain and then absolute blackness.

***

The drink cart bumped my arm and woke me. The flight attendant peered down and asked me, "Would you like a beverage, Mr. Karnes?" The cabin clock displayed 11:10 a.m.

Startled, I heaved air into my lungs and tried to rise, but my seatbelt restrained me.

"Where are we? Is the plane okay?" I said. My heart pounded in my chest.

Natalie clutched my arm. "Are you okay dear? You were sleeping and must have had a bad dream."

The flight attendant smiled and said, "It's okay Mr. Karnes. We all have nightmares from time to time."

The plane was intact, flying level, and the turbines hummed in solidarity. I took a deep breath and relaxed.

"I think I will have a vodka and tonic please. I had a nightmare the plane exploded and we all died," I said.

Natalie apologized to the attendant, "He has a very active imagination and is a bit of a conspiracy theorist," she turned back toward the window with Washington D.C. far below in the distance.

Sipping my drink, I struggled to separate the nightmare from reality. The explosion, the acrid smoke, and the impact were vivid. Was it a premonition, or had I been given a second chance to stop an act of terror?

A man with a full black beard bumped my arm without apology as he hurried up the aisle toward the forward lavatory. My suspicions were raised when he turned toward the passengers like he was being followed but looked away when our eyes made contact. Why is he so nervous? I thought. He's air sick. If not him, then who? If a nightmare, how do I know this?

Natalie tapped my arm with her pen, "If I knew you were going to embarrass me, I would have left you at home. But I know you love the Writer's Convention as much as I do. Please try and control yourself."

I scanned the cabin forward and aft, determined to resolve the firm belief that we were in danger.

Seated ahead of us, a long-haired hippy raised his head and half-stood with his knee in his aisle seat. He made eye contact with someone behind me and signed a thumbs-up. Stenciled on his blue t-shirt was Greenpeace, Save the Planet. Was he the terrorist? Had he just signaled to an accomplice that the time had come to act? Ecoterrorists had escalated their war on society with ever-increasing acts of violence.

I moved forward and stopped at his seat. "You don't have to do this," I said. "There must be a better way. Where's the bomb?"

"What are you doing Frank?" said Natalie from her seat.

Alarmed at the accusation and encroachment of his space, the hippy shoved me in the chest. "Get off me, Boomer," and I fell against the opposite seats.

The flight attendant rushed up the aisle, "Mr. Karnes, Please return to your…."

Boom!

An explosion cut off her last words and ripped a hole in the fuselage, and she was sucked out of the plane ahead of loose debris from the cabin. Flames raged on the port side, and the aircraft rotated into a nosedive. The centrifugal force threw me onto the aisle floor. My lungs burned from the stringent smoke as the 757 shuttered violently and accelerated toward the ground. I was given a second chance, but I failed, was my last thought before a flash, searing pain, and total darkness.

***

The drink cart bumped my arm and woke me. The flight attendant peered down and asked me, "Would you like a beverage, Mr. Karnes?" The cabin clock displayed 11:10 a.m.

Startled, I lurched forward and gasped for air like a newborn's first breath. I read the flight attendant's name tag.

"No thank you, Emily," and Natalie declined as well. She turned to the port window where Washington, D.C., gleamed in the distance.

Twice, the nightmare had seemed genuine, and the memory of the smoke, fire, and impact reeled in my mind. I had been given a third chance to stop this act of terror. What am I missing?

A man with a full black beard bumped my arm without apology as he hurried up the aisle toward the forward lavatory. I ignored him. I craned my neck forward and aft, but the seats blocked my view of the other passengers. The Greenpeace man gave a thumbs up. I ignored him. Natalie stared out the port window while finger-dancing with her pen.

"I'm going to stretch my legs for a minute," I said. She nodded without making eye contact.

"Don't bother the other passengers, Frank," she said.

I toddled down the aisle with the swaying motion of the airliner. As I walked the aisle, passengers napped, tended to children, or read books. They didn't show a care in the world or acknowledge my presence as I slipped by.

In the last row, I spied a stern blonde-haired man who could have been the model for a militia type. His short crew-cut hair, tattooed arms, and bulky chest reminded me of someone from the warrior class. I challenged him with eye contact, and he didn't blink but returned my stare. As I approached, he sat up straight and unbuckled his seat belt. If I confront him, the other passengers may help me subdue him enough to stop him from detonating the bomb.

I stopped at his seat.

"I know what you are about to do. It doesn't have to be this way," I said.

Emily came down the aisle, "Mr. Karnes, please return to your seat," she said.

"What am I about to do?" the warrior said and stood.

"I know about the bomb," I said.

In one motion, the man punched me in the mouth and spun me to the floor. My lip ruptured with the force of his blow and splattered my blood on the carpeted floor.

"U.S. Air Marshal, and you are under arrest," as he zipped-tied my hands behind my back.

The nearby passengers gaped while one held up his phone to record the takedown. I pleaded, "Sir, I may be mistaken about you, but there is a bomb on board. Please listen.

"Frank, what have you done?" cried Natalie from the front of the plane. Emily turned to calm the passengers at the disruption.

Boom!

The explosion threw the Air Marshal into his seat. Emily was pulled from the cabin through the rippled hole in the fuselage. Screams of panic erupted from the passengers like the drop of a monster roller coaster. The emergency oxygen masks deployed, and the plane rolled into a dive toward the ground. The high-speed wind whipped through the cabin with the prayers, whimpers, and cries of the passengers until, minutes later, sudden impact and total darkness.

***

The drink cart bumped my arm and woke me. Emily peered down and asked me, "Would you like a beverage, Mr. Karnes?" The cabin clock displayed 11:10 a.m.

'No, thank you, Emily. I'm fine," I said, taking a deep breath to clear my mind.

The nightmarish memories all merged. I ignored the man who bumped my arm and the Greenpeace hippy when he signaled his friend. In twenty minutes, either I would stop this act of terror, or we would perish. How many more chances will I get? What am I missing?

Natalie stared out the port window as we cruised above the scattered cirrus clouds with the pen clutched in her hand. Could it be her? We had been married for six months, and I was still learning about her past. She had immigrated from Ireland, and our marriage had extended her visa indefinitely. She was a noted speaker and historical fiction writer who had insisted we travel to Boston for an Irish Writers convention. Her father had formerly been with the Irish Republican Army.

She turned to me, "Are you okay? You look pale. Airsick?" Before she turned away, I saw a coldness in her eyes I had never seen before. Had she just been using our romance and marriage to use me?

Her black graphite briefcase lay under the seat in front of her. Where was the worn leather bag she had always carried since I had known her? How did I miss this? The pen in her hand was new. I've never seen it before, and it's been in her hand the entire flight. The cabin clock displayed 11:29 a.m. Oh my God, it's her. Natalie turned to me with a fatalistic stare.

"Frank, you're a pain in the ass, but you've served your purpose." She clicked the pen with a cold, contemptuous grin, and I was cast into absolute darkness.

***

The drink cart bumped my arm and woke me. Emily peered down and asked me, "Would you like a beverage, Mr. Karnes?" The cabin clock displayed 11:10 a.m.

***

Flight 1107 to Logan Air Control.

Go ahead, Flight 1107.

This is Captain James McConnell declaring an emergency. Flight crew and passengers have restrained a demented passenger who is convinced there is a bomb on board the plane. Requesting ground security and instructions. Over.

*** *** *** ***