Noah Hawley - Before the Fall

A daisy chain of phone calls were made, a Go Team assembled. In daylight, telephones rang in offices and cars. In the middle hours of the night, they rang in bedrooms, shattering sleep.

By the time he was in the car, a passenger manifest had been assembled. Projections were made— this much fuel × maximum speed = our potential search radius . At his command the Coast Guard and navy were contacted, helicopters and frigates deployed. And so, by the time Gus reached Teterboro, a nautical search was already under way, everyone still hoping for a radio malfunction and a safe landing somewhere off the grid, but knowing better.

It would be twenty-two hours before the first wreckage was found.

For all the drama of its descent, the helicopter lands gently, like a toe testing the water. They jump out, rotors rotating overhead. Ahead, Scott can see dozens of seamen and technicians at their posts.

“How long after we went missing—” he starts to say, but before he can finish, Gus is already answering.

“I’ll be honest. ATC at Teterboro fucked up. For six minutes after your flight dropped off radar, nobody noticed. Now, that’s a dog’s age in flight control time. It opens up a huge search grid in every direction. Because maybe the plane crashed instantly, or maybe it just dropped below radar and flew on. Over water anything below eleven hundred feet is off radar, so a plane could easily drop below that and keep going. Then there’s what if the plane changed direction? Where should we look? So the controller realizes the plane is missing and first he tries to raise it on the radio. That’s ninety seconds. Then he starts calling other planes in the area to see — maybe they have a visual. Because maybe your plane just has an antenna problem or the radio’s broke. But he can’t find anyone who sees your plane. So he calls the Coast Guard and says, I’ve got a plane off radar for eight minutes. Last location was this, heading in so-and-so direction at such-and-such speed . And the Coast Guard scrambles a ship and launches a helicopter.”

“And when did they call you?”

“Your flight went into the water at approximately ten eighteen p.m. on Sunday. By eleven thirty I was on my way to Teterboro with the Go Team.”

An air force HC-130 plane roars past above him. Scott ducks reflexively, covering his head. The plane is a lumbering beast with four propellers.

“He’s listening for transponder signals,” says Gus, of the plane. “Basically, what we’re doing is using all these ships, helicopters, and planes to do a visual search in an ever-expanding grid. And we’re bouncing sonar off the seabed, looking for wreckage. We want to recover everything we can, but especially the plane’s black box. Because that plus the cockpit voice recorder will tell us second by second what happened aboard the plane.”

Scott watches the plane bank and maneuver into a new search approach.

“And there wasn’t any radio contact?” he asks. “No mayday? Nothing.”

Gus pockets his notebook.

“The last thing the pilot said was GullWing Six Thirteen, thanks much, a couple of minutes after takeoff.”

The ship rises on the back of a wave. Scott grabs the rail to steady himself. In the distance he can see the NOAA ship moving slowly.

“So I landed at Teterboro at eleven forty-six,” says Gus, “and downloaded the facts from ATC. I’ve got a private plane with no flight plan and an unknown number of passengers missing over water for an hour and twenty minutes.”

“They didn’t file a flight plan?”

“It’s not mandatory for private flights within the US, and there was a passenger roster, but it was just for the family. So crew plus four. But then I hear from Martha’s Vineyard that they think at least seven were on board, so now I have to figure out who else was on the plane, and did that have anything to do with what happened — which at this point we still don’t know what that is — did you change course, fly to Jamaica? Or land at a different airport in New York or Massachusetts?”

“I was swimming at that point, me and the boy.”

“Yes, you were. And by now there are three Coast Guard helicopters in the air, and maybe even one from the navy, because five minutes before I walk into ATC I get a call from my boss who got a call from his boss saying David Bateman is a very important person — which I know — and the president is already monitoring the situation — which means no fuckups under any circumstances — and there’s an FBI team meeting me and potentially someone high up in Homeland Security.”

“And when did you find out about Kipling?”

“So the Office of Foreign Assets Control calls me while I’m in the air between Teterboro and Martha’s Vineyard and says they had a tap on Ben Kipling’s phone and they think he was on the flight. Which means, in addition to the FBI and Homeland Security, I’ve got two agents from the Treasury joining the team and now I’m gonna need a bigger helicopter.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Scott asks.

“You asked.”

“And is that why you brought me out here? Because I asked?”

Gus thinks about that, human truth versus strategic truth.

“You said it might help you remember,” he says.

Scott shakes his head.

“No. I know I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t how you work.”

Gus thinks about that.

“Do you know how many people survive most plane crashes? None. Maybe being here will help you remember something. Or maybe I’m just tired of going to funerals. Maybe I wanted you to know that I appreciate what you did.”

“Don’t say for the boy .”

“Why not? You saved his life.”

“I…was swimming. He called out. Anybody would have done what I did.”

“They might have tried.”

Scott looks out over the water, chewing his lip.

“So because I was on the high school swim team I’m some kind of hero?”

“No. You’re a hero because you acted heroically. And I brought you out here because that means something to me. To all of us.”

Scott tries to remember the last time he ate.

“Hey, what did he mean?”

“Who?”

“In the hospital. When the guy from the feds said Boston played last night. The guy from OSPRY said something about baseball.”

“Right. Dworkin’s at bat. He’s a catcher for the Red Sox.”

“And?”

“And on Sunday night he broke the record for the longest at bat in baseball history.”

“So?”

Gus smiles.

“He did it while you were in the air. Twenty-two pitches in just over eighteen minutes starting the moment you took off and ending within seconds of the crash.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Longest at bat in baseball history, and it lasted the exact length of your flight.”

Scott’s eyes return to the water. Heavy gray clouds are massing on the horizon. He remembers a game being on, that something remarkable seemed to be happening — at least the two other guys on board were getting worked up about it. Take a look at this, hon , and Can you believe this fucking guy? But Scott was never one for sports and he barely looked over. Now, though, hearing the story — the coincidence of it — he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand. Two things happen at the same time. By mentioning them together they become connected. Convergence. It’s one of those things that feels meaningful, but isn’t. At least he doesn’t think it is. How could it be? A batter in Boston fouling pitches into the stands while a small plane struggles through low coastal fog. How many millions of other activities begin and end at the same time? How many other “facts” converge in just the right way, creating symbolic connectivity?