on rudeness. Conversations with her nearly became confrontations. Reeka had embraced the staff efficiency process even though it was killing morale.
Last month twenty people were let go from headquarters. Some were news veterans like Liz Cochrane, who’d covered wars, interviewed Mexican drug lords and escaped being kidnapped by terrorists in Iraq. Liz had sat near Kate and that day had been horrible.
She’d seen Liz falling apart at her desk while reading her severance letter then tenderly placing her belongings in a box for printing paper—A cardboard coffin for my career, she’d joked while saying goodbye.
Even though Kate had made it through the latest round of terminations, watching the funereal march of dismissed colleagues had been heart-wrenching. She’d been in their shoes; she was familiar with that soul-shattering feeling, for she’d struggled much of her life.
She was a thirty-two-year-old single mom with a nine-year-old daughter and she was living with her sister, Vanessa. There were days when Kate felt like she was hanging on by her fingertips but she was still here, doing the best that she could because she was a fighter who never gave up.
The cab left the tunnel and passed through the toll gates. As it accelerated on the Long Island Expressway, Kate’s phone rang.
It was Reeka. “What’re you doing, Kate?”
“Heading to LaGuardia. We’ve got a plane in trouble.”
“You’re not on today. Who assigned you to go to LaGuardia?”
“No one. I was in the newsroom working on my subway crime feat—”
“I just spoke with Sloane. He’s on duty and he assures me that this Buffalo jet thing is minor. He’s been listening to the scanners all day.”
“No, he wasn’t there when I was there, when things were popping!”
Sloane’s trying to cover his ass by hanging me out to dry—
“Kate, were you in today hoping to collect overtime?”
“No. Reeka, listen, I was there on my own time working on my feature when this broke on the scanners. Sloane was out buying scones.”
“I don’t think so. I know Sloane and if he says—”
Anger bubbled in Kate just as her phone chimed with a news alert. The Associated Press had issued a bulletin: “Commuter jet with multiple injuries on board declares emergency landing at LaGuardia.”
“Reeka, did you see what AP’s just put out?”
A moment passed before Reeka responded.
“I see it. Okay, get to the airport and file as soon as you can.”
Four
Queens, New York
Sirens wailed and emergency lights flashed as two ambulances sped by Kate’s cab on the Grand Central Parkway near the airport.
“We need Terminal C, arrivals pickup area.”
She directed the driver while keeping her phone to her ear. After four attempts, she’d finally reached Dwayne, somebody with EastCloud’s public affairs. He’d put her on hold.
She’d already left messages with the National Transportation Safety Board, the Federal Aviation Administration, LaGuardia Airport, the Port Authority and several other agencies. No responses. Her taxi was on the ramp to the airport when the line clicked and Dwayne returned.
“Sorry, who’ve I got here?”
“Kate Page with Newslead. What happened to Flight Forty-nine Ninety? Why did it declare an emergency?”
“We’re still assessing matters. We’ll put out a statement soon.”
“Are there fatalities? How many injur—?”
“I have to go.”
“Can you estimate the number of injuries?”
“We’ll put out a statement. I really have to go.”
The call ended as Kate’s cab slowed on the edge of havoc.
Red, white, orange and blue lights blinked from the police, fire and paramedic vehicles that were jammed outside the Terminal C arrivals area, backing up traffic. Kate paid her driver, who hastily scrawled a receipt.
Her phone was chiming with news alerts. She saw two news vans parked to the side. Up ahead, TV crews with shoulder-held cameras were shooting footage of people on stretchers being loaded into ambulances. Kate arrived to see one woman, her back raised on a gurney, her head bandaged and tears in her eyes. Microphones hovered near her and reporters hurled questions at her as paramedics placed her in an ambulance.
“Can you describe the flight?”
“It was horrible!” the woman said. “Just horrible!”
A cop inserted himself between the paramedics and cameras.
“Back off guys, back off!”
Kate’s phone continued chiming with alerts. Bloomberg and Reuters had issued bulletins on Flight 4990. Finally, she saw one from Newslead. Someone on the desk must have woken up, Kate thought. It sure as hell couldn’t have been Sloane.
Things were buzzing online, too.
Pictures were popping up everywhere. Twitter had images of the aftermath in the cabin. Luggage, clothes, books, laptops, food containers and other items were strewn about the interior. In one clear photo she was certain she’d seen streaks of blood.
Kate scanned the crowd for a Newslead photographer. Not finding one, she went inside to the busy baggage-claim area where more news cameras had encircled passengers who were recounting their ordeal for reporters. She joined one group and extended her recorder.
“Could you please take us through it again?” someone asked.
“It was right after they’d served us drinks,” a man with bloodied scrapes on his cheeks began. “Then bam, the plane tilts like we’re going to roll upside down. Like this.” He extended his arms, one hand pointed to the floor, the other to the ceiling as the woman beside him nodded.
“Everybody and everything not belted or bolted down flew,” the woman said, her eyes still wide with shock.
“People were hurled like rag dolls. The service trolley smashed around. We were hanging on with all we had,” the man said. “Then the plane rolled the opposite way, tossing people and things around like we were in a clothes drier. People were screaming and praying.”
“The luggage bins opened,” the woman said. “Suitcases and bags crashed on everyone. Then the jet just dropped and we were plunging, diving down. My stomach was in my mouth.”
“What went through your mind at this point?” a reporter asked.
“That we weren’t going to survive.
