Something is very, very wrong.
I whip around, my pulse skipping erratically, but I can’t see what the pilot’s pointing toward.
Someone bumps me from behind. “Excuse me, honey.”
I stumble. “Did you hear that?”
The elderly lady stares blankly, focused on clutching her purse close. Her skin is so paper-thin and pale her veins shine through. “Hear what?”
Obviously not.
We exit the plane into blinding sunlight. The metal railing of the airstairs is scorching hot. The people on the ground—who still look wrong—stare at me with wide, unblinking eyes as if I’m a freak.
Many of the people wear uniforms like I’d expect to see on ground crews, sort of like jumpsuits, bright yellow. But others are in black pants and blue button-down shirts with gold badges. I don’t think they’re police officers, so they must be airport security. I can’t make out the letters on the shoulders of their uniforms before I’m herded onto a bus, the sort you use to get to long-term parking. I search for plane groupie so I can ask him more about what exactly he overheard on the radio, but he’s not on this shuttle.
I move to the back and sit beside a window, removing my backpack and stuffing it between my feet. The bus is stiflingly hot, a sharp contrast to the plane. I dig in my purse for a scrunchy and pull my hair into a ponytail. I’m sure my cheeks are flushed. My fingers itch to pull out my notebook and start writing everything down, to record it all. Facts aren’t real to me when they’re only in my head. I need them on paper, etched onto those pale blue lines with my ballpoint pen, but it’s crowded here, and by the time I get it out I’d be packing it back up.
The passengers seated to my right murmur about how odd it is they didn’t take us to a jetway. I glance out the window and see the pilot and copilot talking to the man who confiscated the calculator-looking thing, as well as one of the uniformed security men. The bus pulls away without the pilots. Too bad. They’re the key primary sources. I could have gotten some additional facts and written about it for the Press. But I guess this is all about to be over anyway. Soon we’ll be in the terminal, and I can go home.
Except instead of taking us to a gate or baggage claim, the bus stops in front of a door that says “Authorized Personnel Only.” We all get off and line up at the door, murmuring amongst ourselves. The second bus unloads behind us, and then the door opens. A blond woman and a hulking Mr. T–looking security guard usher us inside, and I can finally read the letters on the guard’s shoulder: TSA. I’m about to ask what that is, but the woman’s unnerving gaze stops me. She opens her mouth like she intends to single me out. I pause, but her eyes slide past me, and I move into a large meeting room with everyone else. A dry-erase board covers a whole wall, and a projector hangs from the ceiling. Blinds are closed over the windows, shutting out the light.
The door clicks shut behind us, and the woman leans against it. She’s dressed quite casually for someone I assume works in the airport, in clingy knit pants and a loose top that hangs almost to her knees. It looks like an outfit you’d wear to kick back on the couch and watch soaps.
“What are we doing here?” says the businessman I saw reading files on the plane. He glances at his watch. “I have a meeting in one hour.”
The woman bites her lip. She steps away from the door. I can’t tell if she’s intimidated or worried.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she says. “Mr. Fernandez, the airport director, will be here shortly to explain.”
The businessman looks around the room. “Do you have a phone I can use to call and let them know I’ll be late?”
She pales. “Not in here, sir. If you can please be patient.”
“No phone in a conference room?” He bends down, peering under the table. He reaches underneath and pulls out a wire with an empty phone plug at the end. “What are you trying to pull?”
He’s a domino, toppling the other passengers into action.
“Why are we being held in this room?”
“Who were those TSA guys? Some sort of private security?”
Private security? Maybe there’s a dignitary visiting the airport. I eye the door. My parents must be out there somewhere, waiting for me.
“Where’s our luggage?” demands a man behind me.
“Why aren’t we at our gate?” asks another.
Every question is spot-on. The airport woman shakes her head, silent, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
I feel sorry for her, but I want answers too, and they’re not in this room. So instead of standing around making noise like everyone else, I look for a way out.
I’m close to the door, and I reach it in about three seconds. I push down on the handle and swing it open. There’s a collective gasp behind me, as if to say, Why didn’t we think of that?
But my victory is short-lived. As soon as I edge the door open, a muscled wall of chest blocks my path. I forgot about Mr. T.
“Miss, you’re gonna have to stay in the room for now, please.” He’s a foot taller than me, and there’s a long stick hanging from his waist, so I back up. So do the couple of dozen people who’ve crowded behind me.
We’re not getting out of this room.
I whirl back to the woman. “Where are my parents? This is, like, kidnapping or something.”
“I assure you, Miss Waters,” a new voice says, “we do not intend to hold you here much longer.”
I jolt at my name and turn; the man who took the calculator from the other guy out on the tarmac has entered the room behind me, along with the uniformed man and the pilots and flight attendants. The crew all look as if they’ve been run over by their own plane. Strands of hair hang loose from the flight attendants’ twisted chignons, and the pilots’ ties and jackets have been discarded. Their faces are shell-shocked. I retreat farther into the room, scenarios running through my mind:
They couldn’t find our plane because the pilot took a wrong turn and we landed at the wrong airport.
They couldn’t find our plane because our pilots are criminals and changed the squawk thingy.
They couldn’t find our plane because it’s part of a secret government experiment.
“I demand to know why you’re detaining us in this room,” the businessman says. “I have an important meeting. If I don’t make it, you could cost me millions of dollars.”
The guy who knows my name—and seems to be in charge—nods. “I understand your concern. We are making every effort to expedite your departure from the airport. But there are some”—he glances at the uniformed man—“security concerns we must address.”
“Security concerns?” Oh, joy. It’s plane groupie.
“Does this have anything to do with air traffic control not recognizing our plane?” he presses eagerly.
The man purses his lips. The pilots exchange a loaded glance, and the younger flight attendant appears ready to burst into tears. If they’re that flustered, it can’t be good for us.
The man clears his throat. “My name is Antonio Fernandez, and I’m the airport director. If everyone could please have a seat—”
The businessman charges toward the door and the hulking guard. I take a half step forward, to do what I’m not sure. The guard raises a weapon and points it at the man. His back is to me, so I don’t see clearly what the guard hits him with, but I see him fall. A coiled wire stretches from the guard to the man, and there’s a tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick noise. He jerks on the ground, crying out. Ohmygosh, what is that thing? If I hadn’t backed off, would he have used it on me?
I retreat until the backs of my knees hit a chair.
People are yelling out curses, and I just want to hide. I don’t need answers if it means more of whatever they’re doing to that man. I tuck my feet up and curl into a ball. “Makeitstop, makeitstop.”
Someone rubs my back. “It’s over, honey.”
I peek up; it’s the old lady who was behind me exiting the plane. She pulls up a chair beside me. “I’m Agnes Spring. What’s your name?”
I wipe a tear off my cheek. “Jenny Waters.”
She hugs me, and her lily-scented perfume reminds me of Grandma Waters back in New York. “Thank you.”
“Of course, honey. Whatever’s happening here, we’ll get through it together.”
She gestures for an older gentleman to join us. He has a crazy mess of white hair that reminds me of Albert Einstein, and large square glasses. “This is Mr. Spring.”
“Hi.” I know they’re trying to distract me, but I can still see the paramedics taking the businessman away and hear other passengers shouting about what the guard did to him.
“Why did they hurt him?” I ask in a small voice. I’ll be eighteen in a few months, and I usually don’t like it when adults speak to me like I’m a child, but right now, I just want my parents beside me, telling me everything will be all right.
Mr. Spring glances toward the door and presses his lips together in a noncommittal hum.
I tell them what my seatmate heard over the radio and what the pilot said about the terminal. “What do you think it means?”
“It’s a mystery to me, honey,” Mrs. Spring says, “but Mr. Fernandez looks like a man with answers.”
He does. He’s wearing a smart suit, not a wrinkle in sight. His shoes are so shiny I could probably see my reflection if I looked close enough.
“I need my notebook.”
Mrs. Spring crinkles her eyebrows. “Your notebook?”
I plant my feet on the floor to steady myself and swipe a hand across my cheeks. “It helps me process.”
Mrs. Spring moves closer to her husband as I dig through my backpack. I’m reporting every word Mr. Fernandez says. And I need to record what they’ve already done here. I flip to a blank page.
ST. LOUIS, Aug. 2, 1995—Air traffic control was unable to identify Mid-States Airways (MSA) Flight 237 when the pilot radioed in for landing clearance this afternoon.
I continue to document the experience, Mr. and Mrs. Spring a comforting presence beside me. I already feel more in control.
I continue to write.
After unloading passengers on a remote runway, airport personnel guided them to a conference room and refused to let them leave.
Man, that sounds creepy. My palms start to sweat. I rub them against my shorts and refocus. When I glance up to gather details about the room (the markers for the whiteboard look different too), I notice Mr. Fernandez attaching a headset to his ear. Fancy.
“I’m so sorry for what just happened with Mr. Kostro,” he says, his voice now amplified over speakers throughout the room.
How does he know the man’s name? I turn the page in my notebook and jot down this question.
“As I stated, for security reasons, we cannot allow you to leave.”
“For how long?” someone shouts.
“Why?” another voice demands.
Both excellent questions.
“This is a delicate situation …” Mr. Fernandez looks toward the pilots, who are standing against the wall, staring at nothing. Whatever is going on here, they already know.
I click my pen, waiting for the bomb to drop.
A guy decked out in Mets gear steps forward. “Is there a fugitive aboard our plane?” He peers suspiciously at the crew. “Were the pilots running drugs?”
That would make an interesting story! Maybe I could get a byline for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, an insider’s perspective.
“No.” Mr. Fernandez shuts that down with a sharp jerk of his chin. “Nothing so simple.”
Fugitives and drugs are simple? I straighten.
“There’s no easy way to tell you this.” He starts to touch his hair and puts his hand back down, but it’s shaking, not so in control. “I’m not even sure I’m the right person for this conversation. MSA … maybe a priest or rabbi … or the governor …”
My palms get sticky again. If Mr. Fernandez is so afraid to talk he needs to bring in spiritual backup, this mess is beyond anything I can imagine.
The pilot pushes away from the wall. “Mr. Fernandez, either say what you need to say or release these people and let them discover it for themselves.”
Mr. Fernandez blinks and shakes his head, like he’s pulling himself together. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”
We hold our breaths for his next words.
Mr. Fernandez exhales. “Your plane disappeared between Kansas City Center and St. Louis Approach. Twenty-five years ago.”