Andrew Klavan - The Final Hour

He laughed again, fondly now. “Everyone thinks he’s very important and has something very important to do. That’s what makes it New York.”

I nodded, smiling, but I wasn’t thinking about New York. I was thinking about Spring Hill, my hometown. I remembered those quick flashing scenes I’d seen last night in the falling panic of my memory attack. Scenes of my life back home, of being a kid. My mom driving me to the mall for my karate lessons. The baseball field in Oak Street Park where I played with Alex when we were still good friends. The path by the river where I walked with Beth when we were just getting to know each other… No one rushing around very much or looking very serious or feeling very important. A different kind of place.

“I guess it’s all about what you’re used to,” I said.

“I guess so,” said Patel.

We had reached the river now. Patel banked the plane to the right and started flying over the water, following its flow. The lowering sun sent its pale light pouring in through my window. I could feel the warmth of it on the side of my face. I looked ahead, watching the city skyline growing larger and larger, more and more lights coming on in the windows. Below us, too, and to the left, city streets sprang up on the riverbank, stores and apartment towers, their lights also coming on. To the right, great surging brown cliffs sprang up darkly beside the water. As we flew toward the city, another small plane came toward us, flying just above us and to the left. It passed overhead, not far away at all.

“Almost there,” Patel said after a while. And then-as if he’d been thinking about it all this time-he said, “To me, no matter where I go, New York is always home. When I’m away from sidewalks and tall buildings, I feel like I’m nowhere.”

I smiled, but it was hard for me to imagine feeling that way about such a big city. I had been on the run so long, been trying so hard to get back to my old life, that it felt to me no one could want to be anywhere besides Spring Hill.

“For the last three years, I’ve had to live in Virginia for my job,” Patel went on. “It just about drives me crazy. As soon as I can, I’m planning to bring my wife…”

My wife…

Those were the last words Patel ever spoke in this world. The next instant, the plane’s side window shattered. The windshield went scarlet with Patel’s blood and he was dead.

I could only sit there staring as he fell toward me, held in place by his shoulder-strap seat belt, his right hand still convulsively gripping the yoke.

I heard Rose roar out something in my ear. Dazed and horrified, I had only one second to look up and see the chopper that had pulled up alongside us in the darkening sky. A gunman sat balanced in its open door, his automatic rifle trained at our cockpit.

Milton One’s words came back to me:

Prince will know you escaped. You’re the one person who might know enough to catch up to him, so even though he hasn’t got a lot of manpower left, he’s sure to be looking out for you, waiting for a chance to send someone after you.

The Homelanders had found us. They were here.

The wind rushed in through Patel’s broken window.

Then, the next moment, Patel’s body fell forward in his harness, pushing the yoke in. The plane pitched down.

We plunged, engine screaming, toward the river below.

There was nothing but noise and motion then, the seconds telescoping together into one endless instant of panic and terror. The roar of the plane’s engine became a shriek. Beneath that shriek, I could hear both Rose and Mike shouting in my ear. The wind through the shattered window battered me as the airplane streaked downward like a meteor. With every endless instant, the river loomed larger and larger in the windshield. I had read once somewhere that hitting water hard from a great height was the same as hitting concrete. That was the thought-the one thought-that was flashing like a warning beacon in my mind.

I was moving before I thought to move. Grabbing Patel’s limp bloody body and pushing him back as I pried his hand off the pilot’s stick, I forced myself upright in my own seat as the plane started to turn into a sickening spiral. I had read a lot about planes while dreaming about being in the Air Force. I’d even read about how to pull one out of spins and dives. It was tricky stuff. You had to get it right or you could lose control completely, drop helplessly out of the sky like a stone.

But there was no choice. I had to do something, try something.

I grabbed the copilot’s stick in front of me. A hundred different ideas flashed through my head, all of them jumbled together with the screaming engine and the confused, jumbled shouts in my headset from Mike and Rose. There was nothing in the windshield now but water, closer and closer with every instant we dove.

I acted on instinct. I pulled the throttle back, bringing the engine to idle so that it wasn’t thrusting us toward the earth. I rolled the wings over level. Patel’s corpse shifted and fell toward me. I had to reach out with one hand and push him away again.

Now I drew up on the stick. It took some muscle to lift the heavy nose of the plane. The Cessna lost speed rapidly as it lifted, the river sinking out of the windshield, the dark blue of the sky and the lights of the city skyline reappearing.

Only at the last second did it occur to me that if we lost any more speed the wings would stall and we would drop again. We were now only a couple of hundred feet above the earth. If the wings stalled at this point, we would never be able to recover in time.

I leveled the plane, hit the throttle, and gunned the engine back to full. The engine started its stuttering roar again. The plane seemed to hover in the air a second, as if deciding whether or not to fall.

Then the engine’s power took hold and pushed the plane forward. The Cessna steadied and began to climb away from the river. I started breathing again. I’d done it. I’d pulled us out of the dive.

My headset filled with the sound of Mike and Rose cheering and shouting my name. The nose of the plane lifted, pointing up toward the sky. I felt a thrill of achievement and relief.

Then the chopper-and the gunman-pulled up alongside us again.

I caught sight of the helicopter in the corner of my eye. I looked over, the wind through the broken window whipping my face. I saw the small two-seater whirlybird hovering beside us, the gunman sitting in the open door. I saw him lift his automatic rifle once again. This time, it was pointing directly at me.

In pure wild fear, I turned the yoke in my hand, hit the rudder with my foot. The Cessna gave a loud groaning buzz and swung to the right, away from the chopper. Over that noise and the shouts from Mike and Rose, I heard no gunshots. But I saw a spark fly off the plane’s nose cone and I knew we were under fire. My stomach rolled as I pushed the plane into a sharp circle.

“Here he comes again, Charlie!” Mike shouted.

I looked around, but for a long, long moment as the plane turned, I could not find the chopper. Then I saw it again as we came around. The whirling machine had lifted up above us. The shooter was trying to reposition himself in the doorway so he could fire down at us. I had to get away from him. Fast. Now.

There was no time to think-and that was a good thing. Because if I’d had time to think, I’d have realized we had no chance to survive. I had only the most basic flying skills. I could guide a plane in flight-which is pretty easy if you don’t have to do anything too fancy. And I could land-at least I had landed a few times when I had an instructor sitting in the seat beside me telling me what to do. But to take evasive action-to outmaneuver an expert pilot in a chopper-to stay away from a hail of automatic weapon bullets while keeping out of a stall-that was way beyond me. There was no chance I could pull it off.