Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

He taps his breast pocket. “This document is not a conspiracy theory. It is real. Verifiable. I do not even have to release it publicly – just pass it to my friends in Israel, or in the Kremlin. That is what your government is truly scared of. As I say, the list is my insurance policy, and what it buys me is not just my life. It buys me time. Time to find concrete proof of these things, so they will no longer be secret.”

“Why tell me all this? Why not just kill me yourself? Or toss me off the plane in New York and just go?”

That sad smile again, the crinkling around the eyes. “You will laugh at me.”

“Buddy, I think your whole story is pretty fucking hysterical.” But is it? Waco is true. It all happened. What about the rest of it? What if he really does want to protect himself from the government?

“I am not very good at being rich,” he says slowly. “I am too curious. Others will invest in things, and not ask about where they come from – or if they do, they do not care. If I did the same, I would be much richer. But I ask too many questions, and the things I find out…”

He takes another slug of his beer, wipes his mouth. “It is wrong to stay silent when others are being hurt. That is why I tell you all this. I look into your eyes, and I do not see a killer. An assassin. No. I see someone who may understand.”

“So you’re the good guy in all this, huh?”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer. There’s a burst of German from behind him, loud and urgent. Rodrigo, the flight attendant, is looking out one of the windows, his mouth open in horror.

“ Was ist es? ” Schmidt says, just as the pilot comes over the intercom, spitting another barrage of hurried German.

Mikhail and Gerhard scramble, keeping their guns on me as they drop into leather chairs of their own. I raise an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

“ Mein Gott .”

Schmidt has a face to the window. He’s gone a bloodless white.

The plane banks hard. We’re high up, but haven’t hit cruising altitude yet, so we can still see the ground below.

At first, I think someone is letting off fireworks. Big, crackling, white ones.

But they aren’t fireworks. They’re power lines, ripping apart. It’s happening everywhere, every place I look. The traffic on the roads has stopped, the ant-like cars coming to a shaking halt.

That’s not all. There’s something wrong with the ground. It’s hard to see at first, but when I catch it, my stomach drops three inches. It’s vibrating. No: shaking . Buildings swaying from side to side. Then, as I watch, they start to collapse, exploding in tiny puffs of dust. Fires bloom, explosions joining the white sparks of the power lines.

“ Erdbeden .” Gerhard says slowly, his voice low. “ Das grosse Erdbeben .”

I don’t have speak German to know that one. Earthquake.

The Big One.

I can’t move. Can’t look away from the window. Directly below us, a freeway collapses – just falls apart, sending cars tumbling. There’s smoke everywhere, billowing in huge clouds.

As I watch, a street cracks down the middle – slowly, like a loaf of bread being pulled apart. An entire house crashes into the abyss. It’s not the only one – everywhere I look, buildings are being torn apart, cloaked in fire and ash.

My people are down there. Reggie. Annie. Paul. Even Africa. Holy fuck – Nic . Where will he be now? He’ll be at work, which means the courthouse in Inglewood. That’s to our southwest… but how far? Where does this thing reach?

A taller building, not quite a skyscraper but close to it, shakes itself to pieces. It happens in silence. There should be a roar, a crack, a volcano of sound. There’s nothing but the plane’s engines, rumbling away.

I’m going to throw up.

The words from the earthquake preacher, from two nights ago: Did you know the San Andreas fault maxes out at 8.3 ? This is it. The 8.3. The biggest earthquake possible. There’s no way I can know that for sure, but I’m certain. And I’m in a metal tube in the sky, forced to watch it all.

“…unconfirmed reports of a massive seismic event in California.” Someone has turned the plane’s TV on. The news anchor’s head is bent, her finger to her earpiece. It makes me think of Paul, on the roof of the hangar. God , I think. Keep them safe. I know I don’t believe in you, and if you are real this is probably all your fault, but please please please keep my people safe . It’s not much of a prayer, but it’s better than nothing.

Schmidt pushes himself away from the window, starts barking at his guards in rapid-fire German. I can’t even begin to follow the exchange. Nobody’s looking at me. They’ve forgotten I exist. Gerhard is arguing with Schmidt, his face taut and pale. I could take the list. Right now. Just reach out and…

And what? Fuck the list. It doesn’t matter any more. It’s just my brain hunting for something familiar, some semblance of order. And the list is in Schmidt’s pocket, so there’s no way I’m getting it – not if I don’t want Gerhard to break my face.

Do something . But what? What in the world of blue fuck am I supposed to do?

The window draws my gaze again. I can’t help it. There’s more smoke now, a lot more, blanketing the city. Has the shaking stopped? Impossible to tell. Behind me, the news anchor’s voice catches. “We’re just getting reports that… yes, a magnitude eight or higher earthquake has hit the city of Los Angeles. We’re told it’s emanating from the part of the San Andreas fault north of the city, somewhere in the Angeles National Forest.”

Something is poking into my hip. My phone – my phone ! I nearly rip my stupid uniform pants pulling it out, shaking fingers tapping at it. The phone’s clock reads 11:42. There are messages from Paul, a dozen of them – but they’re all old, stopping ten minutes ago. Most of them are just him shouting at me, telling me to contact him ASAP. None of them mention the quake.

I write a quick Are you OK??? , hit send. Nothing. No signal at all.

“Come on, you piece of shit .” I try again, same result. It’s all I can do not to hurl the phone across the plane. No point even trying my comms earpiece – we’ll be way out of range.

“You are going to need to strap in.” Schmidt, buckling himself into his seat. Gerhard, Mikhail and Rodrigo are doing the same. The plane has banked even harder than before, turning in a tight circle.

My brain is having trouble catching up. The plane levels out, engines rising to a high whine. It might just be my imagination, but I could swear we’ve turned around completely, which means…

“We’re going back?”

“We have to.” He tightens his belt, fingers shaking. “We have some basic medical supplies, food, satellite communications. The plane will have power. It will not be a large amount of help, but even a small amount is good, yes?”

It’s all I can do not to leap out of my seat and hug him. We’re going back. Forget whatever humanitarian mission he’s on – I can find the others, make sure they’re safe.

My ears pop as I fumble with my belt. I haven’t been on many planes in my life, but I remember the popping. It means we’re descending. Before long, we’ll be on the ground, and we can—

“Wait, wait, wait,” I say to Schmidt. “We can land, right? There’ll be a runway for us to land on?”

“Well, in theory…”

“What do you mean, in theory ?”

“We will be able to see when we get close. My pilot is very good – very highly paid. He will be able to see the condition—”