16 Souls

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Seven Months before — January 21^st

Newsroom, The Denver Post

With the post-deadline newsroom all but deserted in a major blizzard, there was essentially no one for a part-timer like Scott Bogosian to check with on his way out the door. Scott had fulfilled his duty to call the paper’s aviation beat reporter and hand off the breaking news, but she was engaged in mortal combat with a nasty version of the flu and her obviously worried husband was stiff-arming any interference.

“I wouldn’t wake her up for an interview with Jesus,” he snapped. “Whatever the story is, it’s yours.”

Scott grabbed his parka and lifted the beat reporter’s handheld scanner from her desk before heading for the parking structure, unclear where he was racing to. The Broomfield police — in fact the entire matrix of police and fire departments in the Denver-Boulder area — had picked up no trace of a fallen airliner, and the bits and pieces of radio communication he’d heard on the scanner were offering the alternate conclusion that there was no regional twin on the ground because it was somehow being carried on the wing of a larger jet. Not really possible, but…

The snow was blowing horizontally, at least in the downtown canyons, as he literally skidded his aging Volvo onto Colfax, already chiding himself for not replacing a set of slick tires that were far too low on tread. With money an increasingly rare commodity in his solitary life, tires that had the grace to just remain inflated automatically won his loyalty. Other things like food and rent and the occasional bottle of Jack Daniels came first.

Scott guided the Volvo gingerly up the slick ramp onto the Interstate, engaging his mental autopilot as he struggled to visualize what was happening overhead. With no other location logically competing for his presence, the course to Denver International Airport was a given. But precisely what should he do on arrival? That would take more thought, and there was the not-so-insignificant question of whether he could even make it there. The snow was piling up fast and there was only one plowed lane left to navigate on I-25 — and probably the same on I-70 leading to Pena Boulevard, the 10 mile highway from the Interstate to the terminal that was always spring-loaded for closure in a storm like this.

The handheld scanner, programmed for aviation frequencies, was spewing staccato bursts of radio traffic as Denver’s approach controllers worked to clear the skies for Regal 12.

Thanks to the warmth of the car’s interior, the storm beyond the windshield seemed completely surreal, and the other-worldly aspect of the snow streaking by horizontally just added to the disconnect from reality.

So far, there were no named individuals in peril in the frozen night, just flight numbers and evolving facts. And while his mind gave ritual voice to the prayer that all affected would get down safely, there was still a guilty rush associated with something like this. He hated to admit it, but it was true. The thrill of grabbing his hat — if he’d had one — and racing out to cover something big ahead of everyone else was, in truth, every reporter’s primordial wet dream.

Scott’s childhood image of newspapermen dated from the previous century. No matter that he didn’t own a trench coat or carry a hatband that said “PRESS” or have to find a pay phone to read his story to a copy desk, it all fit nicely into the old-school fantasy images he’d had as a kid of someday being a real newspaper reporter. Even classmates had rolled their eyes at him. They’d get into trouble doing something their parents had forbidden, and Marty would be there with a note pad to chronicle the whole thing. It was when he started actually publishing his reports in a makeshift mimeographed newspaper that life at Kennedy Elementary got really lonely, and no amount of claiming to be a reporter versus a snitch would repair things. Virtually no one was surprised when he landed his first real newspaper job.

True, the stereotyped image had faded — tattered, in fact — and the reality over the last forty years had been startlingly less magnificent than his starry-eyed dreams. But there had been the occasional victory, the occasional scoop as an investigative reporter who never quit — a reputation he valued. And the breaking news rush was still there when he launched on a mission that was his to complete. Tonight was such a moment.

Scott swerved suddenly to avoid a jackknifing semi, barely getting the old Volvo under control and back into the groves of previous tires after the trucker pulled off to the side.

The face of a firefighting acquaintance at Denver’s airport crossed his mind.Whatever happened at DIA in the next few hours, the firefighters would know about it and be there. If Josh Simmons by some stroke of luck was on duty tonight, it would be a great help.

The radio calls had quieted markedly as the airborne traffic diminished, but the Approach Control frequency suddenly came alive again.

“Regal Twelve, say your intentions.”

“To get everyone home alive, Approach,” was the immediate reply, somewhere between a curative attempt at humor and evidence of a distracted airman.

Several seconds elapsed before the pilot continued. “Denver, Regal Twelve should be ready for the approach in about twenty minutes. We’ve got to do some controllability checks up here.”

“Roger, Regal. Please be advised Denver International is doing their best to keep the runway open for you and they are currently plowing, so they need a five minute warning when you’re ready for the approach to get the equipment out of the way.

“Roger that, Denver.”

Another transmission filled the void, this one used for ground control at the airport.

“Airport Twenty, Denver Ground.”

“Airport Twenty.”

“What’s the runway status?”

“Ground, we’ve got six plows deployed and we’re two thirds down Runway Seven at this time, but it’s coming down too fast. Frankly, we’re losing the battle. We need to get that bird on the ground asap.”