Ray Gorham: 77 Days in September

Kyle saw his seatmate lean forward and wrap his arms tightly around his legs. Ed’s face was turned towards Kyle, the terror evident in his eyes.

Frozen with fear, Kyle tried to remember the instructions the flight attendants had given just minutes earlier.

“Grab your legs!” Ed shouted.

Ed’s voice was barely discernable over the uproar, but Kyle picked out the words and did as Ed instructed.

“Please, God, don’t let me die,” Kyle whispered as he thought of his wife and three kids. The idea that he might never see them again raced through his mind, and he again repeated the words of his abbreviated prayer.

Kyle could feel the plane slowing, but it wasn’t like a typical landing. The engines weren’t thrusting, and it didn’t feel like there was any actual braking. He wondered how much of the runway was left and what might be at the end of it, then wrapped his arms even tighter around his legs.

The chorus of sobs and shouts blending with the roar of the airplane was deafening. The plane had barely slowed when it ran out of runway. The front wheels bit into the soft ground where the asphalt ended, causing the plane to shudder as the landing gear snapped and the airplane collapsed onto its belly. With no perceptible slowing, the airplane continued its forward rush, tearing a deep furrow in the ground and throwing clouds of dirt high into the air.

Traveling at nearly 140 miles an hour, Flight 17 struck a large, earthen berm a hundred yards from the end of the runway and launched awkwardly into the air. The crippled airplane made a feeble attempt at flight, hanging in the air for a moment, then twisted and fell defeated back towards earth. The tip of the right wing contacted first and pitched the plane to the right where the body of the plane struck with an earsplitting crash. The fuselage bounced and skidded another 200 yards, finally coming to a stop in a cloud of dirt and smoke, the nose of the broken airplane protruding through a chain-link fence that marked the boundary between the airport and an empty two-lane road.

The screaming inside the cabin ceased briefly, and for a moment, all that could be heard was the twisting, scraping and groaning of metal as the airplane settled into the dirt.

A baby’s cry was the first sound that Kyle heard and was quickly followed by a chorus of wails and moans. Soon there were dozens of voices, some calling for help while others cried out in panic, pain, and fear. Above the din, a single, authoritative voice yelled instructions to open the exits.

Stunned and disoriented Kyle sat up and looked around, noticing that most of the overhead bins were open and their contents were strewn haphazardly around the cabin. He caressed a spot on the back of his head where he’d been struck but didn’t feel any blood. Ed was hunched forward with his head on his knees, but wasn’t moving. A thin trickle of blood ran down the side of Ed’s face

“Ed! You alright?” Kyle shouted as he reached out and pushed against him.

There was no response.

Kyle clawed at his own seatbelt and managed to unhook it, then slid to the middle seat and grabbed Ed by the shoulder and shook him. “Ed! Ed! You all right?” he shouted, straining to be heard over the chaos that surrounded him.

He looked for someone to help, but people were fighting their way to the exits, shoving the slower ones out of the way, desperate to save their own lives. Kyle could smell smoke and his eyes began to sting. Glancing quickly out his window, he noticed that the wing had been sheered off, and the stump that remained was engulfed in flames. There was also an orange glow towards the rear of the plane, and flames licked around the windows a few rows back.

A shrill voice rose over the chaos of the cabin, and Kyle looked up to see the flight attendant who had welcomed him onto the flight pushing her way to the back. “Someone open the rear exit!!” she hollered, trying to be heard. Gone was the pleasant smile and perfect grooming. Instead, her face was bruised and swollen, and strands of hair hung limply in front of her eyes. The right sleeve of her uniform was torn and a crimson stain was spreading around a gash. “People! Let me past!” she yelled, desperately fighting her way to the back, her eyes wide with panic and determination.

Kyle watched her as he continued to try and rouse Ed. When the flight attendant reached the back, she helped a man force the door open. Kyle watched the proceedings and could make out the rush of air as the slide deployed.

“We need to get out of here!” Kyle shouted at Ed. Receiving no response, Kyle pushed Ed up and felt for the seatbelt. His fingers found the steel of the latch and he yanked it open. Thick smoke made it hard to breath, and Kyle gagged as he called for help. One man stumbled by carrying a child. Across the aisle an older woman sat in a daze, dabbing at blood running from her mouth and watching the scene around her through glassy, distant eyes.

As flames danced outside the windows, Kyle continued to shake Ed to no effect. With no one to help him, Kyle stepped past Ed and hurried towards the exit at the rear of the airplane. Three rows back the aisle was blocked by on older woman struggling with a girl about the same age as his daughter. The girl was screaming and holding onto the unconscious body of the man beside her. “Daddy!” she screamed. “Daddy!”

“Come on, sweetie. We need to go!” the woman shouted, pulling on the girl’s arm. “Your dad will have to come later. Let’s go find your mom.”

Watching the scene unfold, Kyle could see the light of the exit marking his way to life, and he fought the urge to force his way past the woman and child. Kyle reached forward and pried the girl’s hands loose from the lifeless man and pulled her into the aisle. He took a deep breath and again choked on the thickening smoke. “Get off the airplane!” he ordered, shoving the girl down the aisle.

Boston, Massachusetts 16:12 EST

Senator Christine George stood behind her mahogany desk and stared out the office window. Her staff was gone, most having left at lunchtime in order to get a jump on the last weekend of summer. She had stayed to contact a few more donors and review some committee reports, but was now anxiously waiting for the power to come back on. Irritated by the delay and worried about what she might have lost on her computer, Senator George noticed that traffic forty floors below had come to a stop and people were getting out of their cars in the middle of Hanover Street. It was a puzzling sight — motorists wandering through the knot of vehicles, not at all concerned about the traffic. As she reached for her cell phone, one of the telephones on the desk rang, the shrillness of its ring in her silent office causing her to jump. She reached for the receiver, then realized the ringing wasn’t coming from the office phone, but from the secure line that had been installed four years before when she had become head of the Senate Intelligence Committee. This black, ugly paperweight didn’t ring often, but when it did, it usually meant the CIA was calling to warn her about some crisis before the reporters started calling.

She stared at the phone, trying to decide whether to answer it now or put the headache off for a couple of hours. Curiosity won out, and she picked the receiver up on the fifth ring. “Senator George,” she said, using her most official tone. She recognized the voice on the other end of the line instantly. “Yes. Hello, General Fletcher. What’s so urgent?” She checked her reflection in the mirror on the wall and adjusted her hair while the general spoke.

“Senator, I’m required to inform you that we have an extremely serious situation. America has been attacked.” His tone was even more sober than usual, if that was possible.