Free Fall

Eighty-Two

Colorado

At fourteen minutes to impact, a serene calm washed over Major Tom Garland as his life blazed before his eyes.

From his dream to be a pilot while growing up in Toledo, to his marriage to Angie, then having Troy; then to enlistment, training and combat missions over Libya and Syria, to his time flying some of the most dangerous maneuvers ever with the aerobatic demonstration team.

It all passed before him in a heartbeat, culminating in a single, crystalline revelation: all that he’d learned, all that he’d done, all that he’d become, had been in preparation for this defining moment.

Garland knew what they had to do.

“Ryan, you know I flew with the Thunderbirds?”

“Yes, sir, but what’s that got to do with-”

“We’ve got one god-awful, long-shot chance to save this plane.”

“Our orders are to engage, sir.”

“I know our orders, but we’re going to get under each of his wings and lift him.”

“Sir, with all due respect, that’s crazy! With the upward flow, the weight, the speed, we just can’t lift him! It’s impossible and it’s too dangerous!”

“Ryan, we have to try. Together we can do it. Look at our data. Both jetliners are at thirty-six thousand two hundred, exactly. Our opposing jet’s tail height is sixty-three feet, and allow twenty feet for us. We’ve got nothing on our wingtip rail launchers. If we can get our guy up one hundred and twenty feet that should clear him and us.”

“That’s a big ‘if,’ sir, and a shave close enough to draw blood. We’d be disobeying orders. We’d face a court-martial if this went bad.”

“That’s the least of our worries. If this goes bad we pull back at the five-minute mark and engage. If it really goes bad, Ryan, we can eject. Look ahead. There are five hundred and nine people who can’t. They’re going to die in about thirteen minutes. We have to do what we can to save them.”

Garland looked at his instruments and timer.

“Are you with me?”

Garland could hear Taft swallow hard.

“Yes, sir.”

The F-16s throttled ahead to Flight 2230.