747

Without traces & like a whisper
We’re seeing visions now again
This is something
That hasn’t even happened...

You’d think they would’ve changed the lock, Harlan thought last night, as he sneaked past the hangar’s gate. Even if they had, he would’ve found his way around it. It was easy for an employee. Getting a job in one of the airline’s main airports was fairly easy; you just have to keep a low profile. Talk the necessary. Keep your eyes in the floor. The kind of shy insecurity corporations love in petty worker ants. The hard part was waiting for all those months, lurking behind the shady louver. He waved the orange flags for Brooks once. Even with the considerable distance between them, he wasn’t comfortable until he lowered his cap so the rage wouldn’t betray his face.

How many screws to take? Not too many, runway crew could stop the plane if they see anything too obvious. Just seven. That will do it, especially if you choose the ones closest to the hydraulic lines. You don’t want to give them time to fix anything. He picked them up from the floor and into his pocket, one by one. On his way back, after leaving through the backdoor, a coworker greeted him, admired to see him so early, since his shift began at 5 in the morning, and it was barely past midnight now.

“What’re you doing up, morning bird?”
“Quite the opposite”
“What?”
“I’m not early. I’m a year late, actually”
The coworker paused. “You’re wasted, aren’t you? Go get some sleep, mate”, he laughed.
“No, still some hours to go for me”, Harlan grinned. “You’ll see”

As the man tried to puzzle together the lawless words runway controller West had just spoken, he could do nothing but watch him walk away into the sprawl of orange lights. After crossing the terminal, he took off the yellow overall and threw it away in a garbage container on some nameless alley. That was it for him. He was no longer a pilot, a controller, or even a man. He was, from this moment on, an outlaw, even before anyone knew it. It can be observed that the most dangerous kind of outlaws are that ones who don’t run away, because this means they’ve done what they had to. There’s no light in their eyes, and all the future days in their calendars are marked with bright red X’s. This is Harlan. Walking the streets slowly, taking the subway as a normal citizen would, and stepping into his house like on any other dull day.

Now he just sits quietly in his couch, and waits for the storm to pour.

∞

Jon Hill can’t bend his elbow all the way back. There’s no pain now, except for the coldest days of January. Fortunately, his job doesn’t require a lot of physical movement, although that’s true of almost all jobs these days. The root of Jon’s affectation lies on a sunny April, many years back, when a reckless driver almost killed a little girl on Harper Boulevard. He pushed her out of the way, despite not knowing her, and his mother screaming for him not to. 4 Days and several shattered bones later, he woke up a hero, but without much desire to be one ever again. This is why he became a flight controller instead of a pilot. When you see your arm pierced by three iron rods, your mind loses if only a little taste for risk taking.

And it was fine, for the most part. It was a quiet life, just the way he wanted it. It’s true, the responsibilities are there, but air traffic has become so evolved that the chance of danger is minimal. Even then, no one in their senses would blame the controller. Poor guy, he just gives out numbers, it’s not his fault the wings fell off, is what everyone would think. So he sits, sipping out of numberless coffee cups, as his life elapses between radars. He’s become good at it with the years, and the airport decided it was time he got his control of the tower. He was the youngest ever to earn this spot in this airport, at 33. The city wasn’t too big, but not too shabby either, so he could consider himself somewhat honored. He wasn’t a happy man, but he truly believed he was, which is a trap so many of us fall into.

That’s why he surprised himself when DFL-589 reported back with trouble. He was scared, sure, but he could feel his own heartbeat for the first time in years. A force he didn’t even consider lost. The hero was back, right there in his ribcage. With a sore elbow and a glance that spoke: Did you miss me? Yes, Hill thought. I don’t know why, but I think I did.

Control! Mayday, mayday, this is DFL-589 positio- (inaudible) -rth, 114 West. Problem, emergency. Request to land in Boise. Over.

Hill raced to the radio, forcing one of his subordinates out of his seat. They are trained to handle stress situations, but by the sounds of the transmission, which swam in alarm buzzers and throat groans, this appears to be much larger.

“Roger. DFL-589, this is BAC. Do you copy? Over”
Clear. Over.
“Approved as you requested. Over”
Descending. 30 degrees left. Over.
“Roger that”

He asked the people around him, all and none of them in particular, to notify the situation to ground control so that a runway could be cleared. One of them, a girl, faces are lost at this point, picked up the phone and screamed into the auricular. She came back asking for details. What details could a man in free fall give? Not much, if any at all. But he knew he had to do it. Quickly, yes, but painfully as a poisoned arrow.

“DFL-589, confirm. You’re in state of emergency, is that correct? Over”
Roger, that’s correct.
“Could you please describe it? Roughly. Over”
Rear end bulkhead decompressed. Vertical stabilizer damaged. Two hydraulic lines c- (silence) over.
“Is the plane controllable? Over”
Not by normal means, no. We’re at full power. Over.
“So, you’re flying with the electric system? Over” Hill was in disbelief. Very few could pull power control off.
Trying to, anyways. We’re afraid to Dutch Roll. Over.
“Do you think you can hold for long? Over”
(Silence)
“Pilot?”
No.
“Roger”

At this point, Hill remembered an accident many years back, that sounded scarily like this one. If his assumptions were correct, even a blunt crash landing on a runway could be considered a miracle. The only thing left to hope for. He sprinted out of the chair, toppling it down to the side in the process.

“Ground control’s still on the phone?”
“Yes”, the girl said.
He snatched it from her hand. “Ground?”
Yes. Ground control.
“Call back when you clear a fucking runway! ASAP” He hung up.

Activities on the booth had stopped. The staff seemed to be frightened, stalled. All of their eyes were stuck on Hill’s brow, as if they had never seen him before. And in a way, they’d never had. But there were other planes to land, for the world moves on despite one man’s distress.

“Get back to work”, he said with a stiff tone. As they wouldn’t listen, he clapped his hands twice, and raised his eyebrows, in a gesture that seemed to indicate two things. This will be taken care of and there’s nothing here to see. Two lies without a single word.

Then he stared outside for a moment. He roamed the gray horizon that filled his window. All sorts of aircrafts dashed to and from, until a white fence cut off the yard. Beyond, there was a forest, and a pack of hills riding the nascent morning. And then there was a 747 which he couldn’t see, somewhere in the heavy fog. As if in a metaphor. Clouding the future, ignoring his efforts.

Slowly feeding off of hope.