The Great Forgetting (41 page)

5
    “Wake up, old man.”

It was Jack, standing above the Captain's bed in the unforgiving light of the stale motel room. There was gray in his son's hair now, but still, whenever he heard his voice, he pictured the child first, the five-year-old who used to sit on his lap watching
Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp
. He could remember how his hair had smelled: like the sunlight and the grass and the wind and the rain.

With effort, the Captain sat up and glanced at the clock. Five minutes till four. They should leave soon—some of them had connecting flights.

“It's oh-dark-hundred,” he grumbled. “What the hell are you so chipper about? Goddamn, I hate morning people.”

“Dad,” said Jack. “Cole figured something out. I think we can all talk to each other up there.”

The Captain found his clothes: a Hawaiian shirt and khakis. “Well? Stop chewing cud and tell me.”

“You said we shouldn't use the radio to communicate with each other. But Cole, he got to thinking last night. What if we all just called into the same place?”

“I'm not following, brainiac.”

“A conference call. We can use disposable cell phones to call into a designated line. Cole already put it together. And he bought four phones to spread around.”

“Not bad,” he said. “And the other stuff?”

“What other stuff?”

“The box cutters?”

Jack tensed and looked away. “He got those, too.”

The Captain waited until Jack met his gaze. “You understand what's at stake, don't you?”

“Of course. But nobody has to die.”

“We can plan all we want and something could still go wrong. The more complicated the plan, the easier it is for something to fuck it up. And this is a damned complicated plan we have here.”

“I can't kill anybody,” said Jack.

“You might have to. And if things go wrong…”

“Nothing will.”

“If something happens, you owe it to the rest of us to keep going. If we don't finish it today, you may have to try again.”

Jack didn't say anything. He sat on the bed and watched his father gather his things. “Dad?” he asked after a while.

“Huh?”

“After everything you saw in Vietnam, why did you have kids?”

The Captain laughed. “You and Jean helped me forget Vietnam,” he said. “You were the only way I could put it behind me.”

6
    Becky's job was relatively easy, but she was still scared. You could tell. She stood in the middle of Jean's motel room, jumping up and down on her toes a little, watching Cole nervously. Her father was there, too. And Jack. Jack helped her with the belt, making sure both belts were secured tightly around her hips. Only one of the belts was missing a buckle.

“How many pounds can it carry?” asked D.B.

“Nils is three-eighty,” said Jack. “It worked on him.”

“But will it still work so far away?”

“Of course it will.”

But of course nobody knew, not for sure. That's what Becky's whole job was about. She was the guinea pig, even though they didn't say so. There were eight pilots, all too important to risk. But her? They could risk her.

“Let me go,” D.B. said.

“No,” the Captain barked. “Stop it. It's too late to change the plan.”

“It's okay,” Becky said, nodding her head. “I'm ready.”

Jack pushed the button where the missing buckle was. Then he removed the remaining buckle on her second belt. He passed it to her father.

“Back in a sec,” Becky said.

One … two … three …

Suddenly she was falling. Down. Up. Slantways. Falling everywhere at once and inside herself. It was dark and cold wherever she was, but Becky had the distinct impression that she wasn't alone, that there were things in the dark here, in the void of distance, the in-between. The Everywhen. Mindless old monsters floating in the ether …

And then she was back in the hangar in Mu. It was very dark there, still the middle of the night. Though she wasn't keen on falling back into that void, Becky did as instructed and unclasped the buckle from the belt and left it revolving in midair with the other ones. Then she pushed the button on her second belt. Already, her head was buzzing the way it sometimes did when she spun around and around on the beach too fast. How many times was a person supposed to use these things? Could it hurt her if she did this more than once a day?

In a minute she was back in the motel room, the return belt snapping into the buckle her father had placed above the bed. She landed softly atop the mattress and sighed with relief. D.B. went to her and stroked her hair.

“You okay, darling?” he asked.

“You bet,” she said.

They brought Paige in then. Becky held her close and Jack tied the belt that would take them both to Mu tightly around them. Jean kissed her daughter.

“I'll see you soon,” she said.

“Mom!” said Paige, but they were already falling and falling and Becky held the girl still and shushed her so that the things in the void couldn't hear, and soon they were back on Mu, where they could do nothing but wait for the others to return.

7
    The lights of Boston Logan were grim beacons on the horizon, will-o'-the-wisps by the water. They abandoned the van at long-term parking and took the shuttle to the arrivals entrance for American Airlines. There they separated for a few minutes as D.B., Sam, Nils, Jack, and Tony walked to the United Airlines kiosk.

Tony knew as soon as he saw the security guard that his carry-on was going to be searched. He tried to lower his heart rate. He thought of his father and a trip they had taken to a carnival when he was very little. “Sir, step over here, please,” said the guard, motioning to a cubicle beyond the metal detector.

Jack pretended not to notice as he put his new phone into a doggie dish.

“May I have permission to search your luggage?”

“Sure,” said Tony.

The guard unzipped his suitcase. Secured to the inside lining were sixteen boomerang belts and four box cutters. “What's this?” she asked.

“I'm a contractor,” he said. “The belts are presents for my crew.”

She touched a belt, fingering the place where the buckle snapped into the front. “Oh, these are nice,” she said. Then she zipped the suitcase closed and passed it back to Tony. “Have a safe trip.”

Five minutes later they met in the food court and had a light breakfast. The mood was oddly upbeat, teammates before a big game. There were no tears shed. Tears came later.

8
    “We gotta do something about Newtown,” the man said to Scopes over the phone. “I can't get the Maestro on the phone. Why isn't he answering his phone?”

Scopes sighed. He was back in his office at Area 51, recoding the algorithm as best he could. It was slow going.

“The Maestro is dead,” said Scopes. “But I can patch it up. Just give me a couple days.”

“While you're dicking around, our stock is tanking. It had to be a Halliburton guy, didn't it? Fuckin' contractor shooting up kids because of all that PTSD he brought back from Iraq. It's all the news cares about. That it's Halliburton. Oil futures all skittish now. What we need is a story about some nut kid went crazy. That's what you need to write into their memories. Make the debate about gun control. That'll get the right fired up again, make the NRA stronger, fill out their rosters for the year. Do that. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” said Scopes. These guys. They had a way of finding the evil before he could even walk them over to it. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Finish the Deepwater story while you're at it.”

Scopes hung up. Not a moment later, his cell phone rang. He looked at the screen. It was Nikko, a lieutenant Hound back east.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Tony Sanders's passport just popped up at Boston Logan,” the Hound said. “Thought you should know.”

He clicked on the television he kept in the corner and found CNN. It was happening. Just like he'd been told.

9
    D.B. and Zaharie handed their tickets to the attendant and walked to the waiting 767 jumbo jet at precisely 7:26 a.m. They placed their bags in the overhead bins and sat in seats 2A and 2B, in first class. The air inside was cold and stale and made D.B.'s nose run. He wiped it on the sleeve of his shirt and looked out his window into the lightening morning. The last time he'd hijacked a plane, it was a morning just like this.

“Empty plane,” Zaharie whispered as a flight attendant closed and locked the door.

D.B. peered down the aisles. About half the seats were vacant.

At 7:59, American Airlines Flight 11 pushed away from the gate and rolled toward runway 4R.

“It's time,” Zaharie said.

D.B. nodded and pulled the box cutter from his pocket.

“On three. One, two…”

10
    “Mimosa?” the flight attendant asked, leaning over Tony.

“Yes, please,” he said, taking a flute from her tray.

Jack shook his head. “I don't think we should be drinking,” he whispered when she left. They had barely made it to Gate A17 after their connecting flight landed at Newark International twenty minutes late. They needed to focus.

“This is a hopeless fucking plan, man,” said Tony. “We're going to end up in Guantánamo by the end of the day. Have a drink.”

The attendant appeared again, crossing the cabin to secure the door.

“Where's everyone else?” asked Jack.

Tony followed his gaze and looked down the aisle. He estimated the 757 had about 180 seats, but he counted only forty passengers.

“It's weird, right?” said Jack.

“I read an article once,” Tony said. “Some statistician looked at a bunch of plane crashes, found out how many people were on them compared to planes that didn't crash. Turns out, full airplanes crash less often. It's like people feel an accident coming and for one reason or another find an excuse to skip the flight.”

Their seats rocked a bit as United Airlines Flight 93 pulled away from the gate. Tony reached under his seat and pulled out a box cutter.

“I don't want one,” said Jack.

“Suit yourself,” said Tony. He downed the rest of his drink and wiped his mouth. “Let's roll.”

11
    The Captain and Cole jogged toward Gate D26 at Washington Dulles International as the attendant announced final boarding.

“Wait!” yelled Cole.

The attendant took their tickets. “Just made it,” she said.

They were the last two passengers on American Airlines Flight 77 that morning. The stewardess closed the door behind them as they entered.

“Creepy,” said Cole, pointing at the empty seats. Less than half of them were filled. He sat in 12A and the Captain slid into 12B after him.

“Ready for this?” the Captain asked as the plane pulled away from the gate with a rough jerk.

Cole nodded, but his stomach was a tight knot and he felt lightheaded, as if he wasn't getting enough oxygen.

“Stay with me.”

12
    Sam and Nils were seated in the second row of the first-class compartment on United Airlines Flight 175, which was also mostly empty that morning. When the airplane pulled away from Gate 19 at Logan International at 8:00 a.m., Sam's mind was on the baby inside her womb. Was it a girl? She hoped it was.

“Samantha,” said Nils. “We gotta do this right now.”

She nodded and gripped the box cutter tightly.

Then Nils jumped out of his seat and ran toward the cockpit door.

13
    “Listen to me, damn it,” Jean yelled into the pay phone. “There are bombs in the World Trade Center. Both towers. And the Pentagon. Set to explode in a half hour. You have to evacuate everyone. Get them out of there, now!”

“Calm down, ma'am,” said the voice on the other end, which she mistook for a woman's.

But Jean was not calm. She could see the Twin Towers ten blocks down Church Street and nobody was running out. This was her third call to the police. The buildings were filling with people on their way to work. Her job was supposed to be the easiest part of the plan. And nothing was happening.

“I'll calm down when you get those people out of there.”

“Ma'am, I assure you the World Trade Center is in no danger today,” the voice said, calm, self-assured.

“Listen to me. If you don't get everyone out of there in thirty minutes…”

“Jean.”

Jean froze. This wasn't the police. “Who is this?”

“Jean, I commend your altruism,” said Scopes. “But you can go home now. Go home and get ready to forget this terrible day. We know what Jack is up to. Steps have been taken to prevent the attack. You needn't worry. Nothing will bring these buildings down today. Now, please, go home and leave the rest to us.”

The phone clicked as the call disconnected. Jean looked around. Was she being watched? It didn't matter. They could lock her up in prison, an asylum if they wished, but she was going to get those people out of the towers.

She hailed a taxi. “World Trade Center,” she said. “Fast as you can.”

14
    “Stop the plane,” the Captain said, his voice a calm tenor. He held the box cutter to the pilot's neck, a gaunt man with white hair. There was a drop of scarlet at its tip where it had punctured the man's skin. “Call for air stairs. Get the passengers off. Now.”

Cole held another knife to the back of the first officer's neck. He willed himself not to faint.

“What are you doing?” the pilot asked.

“I'm hijacking your goddamn plane and I will put this thing in your heart if you don't do exactly as I say.”