Twenty

By D. T. Kane

Temporal Operations Militia, Field Report #002

Author’s Note and Trigger Warnings: On September 11, 2001, the unthinkable happened when four American jet airliners were hijacked by terrorists and used as weapons of mass destruction in utter disregard for the lives of the innocent passengers aboard them. Three of those planes crashed into buildings—two into the Twin Towers in New York City, the third into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. A fourth plane, due to the heroism of its passengers, crashed into a field in Somerset County, Pennsylvania, rather than its likely intended target, the U.S. Capitol. Despite the bravery of the men and women on that aircraft, their story is often overshadowed each year on September 11 by the tributes to those lost in the collapse of the Twin Towers and Pentagon. While this is understandable in some ways—so many lives were lost in New York and Washington that day—it is also a shame.

I hope readers accept this story in the light I intend it: a tribute to the men and women on the plane that crashed in Somerset County. They chose the ultimate act of selflessness—giving their lives to save others—and yet so many don’t know their tale. One of the many beauties of fiction is that it permits us to face difficult topics through a filter of fantasy. If this story brings to light the bravery of the men and women on that plane to only a single person, then I will be more than satisfied.

That said, I understand there may be some who simply can’t accept a science-fiction story based on the events of September 11. That is an entirely valid opinion, but if you are of such a mind, then the words that follow might not be for you. Also, if you lost a loved one on September 11, or you are frightened of flying, you may similarly wish to look elsewhere for reading material. Though I just referred to what follows as science fiction, when you realize that much of the dialogue and circumstances are based on historical research into the real-life events of that tragic day, including transcripts of actual phone calls placed from the hijacked plane, the tale also takes on an aspect of horror. 

Finally, for those of you familiar with my novels, which rarely use curse words, please note that this story contains foul language.

Regardless of how you ultimately feel about this story, I would love to hear your thoughts about it. Please email me, dtkane@dtkane.com. I respond to all emails personally. And if this story has brought you a new appreciation for the bravery of the men and women on that plane, consider donating to their memorial: https://www.flight93friends.org/donate/. (Note that I have no association with the Flight 93 Memorial.)

Twenty

By D. T. Kane

Temporal Operations Militia, Field Report #002

“Come on lucky twenty.”

Sherwood splashed cold water over his face, got some up his nose, and hacked spittle across the bathroom mirror. The man at the sink beside him glared and sidestepped to the next faucet over. 

“Your mother know you dress like that, son?” The man asked, tone decidedly unfriendly. 

Sherwood glanced down. He was wearing his favorite piece of clothing, a leather duster. His mother said it made him look like one of those kids from Columbine, the ones who’d shot up the school a couple years back. But Sherwood did his best to ignore whatever his mom said. The things she criticized were often his favorites. Besides, he was twenty-five. He could dress how he liked.

His mom was one thing. But a random stranger in an airport bathroom? Sherwood shrugged at the man in reply, face reddening in the mirror.

“Looks like a goddamn terrorist,” the man muttered, quickly drying his hands and exiting the bathroom, pointedly not meeting Sherwood’s eyes.

Sherwood shook his head. The guy was obviously an asshole, but he seemed to attract that type. Ridicule found its way to him like ants to fallen crumbs. Sighing, he grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped his face, pushing long hair from his eyes. The fact that he’d dyed it purple a few months ago didn’t help the odd looks and comments he often received. But he liked it. Fuck everyone else and their opinions. The next moment, though, he grimaced as his hand passed over wispy facial hair. He ought to have shaved. His older brother still took every opportunity to point out that eleven year olds could grow better beards than him. 

He crumpled up the paper towel and tossed it toward the wastepaper basket. It missed, of course. Sports had never been his strong suit. He much preferred books; video games; movies; guitars. Really, anything that could help him forget about the actual world around him. 

Sherwood moved to exit the bathroom before realizing his shirt was wet. It was his lucky one, green cotton displaying seven dice in white outline, each with a different number of sides—a tetrahedron, cube, octahedron, two pentagonal trapezohedrons, dodecahedron, and, his personal favorite, an icosahedron. Twenty sides. The Decider, master of the dice used to play Dungeons & Dragons. 

He’d been nervous this morning—he hated flying—and the shirt made him feel better. The cheap airport paper towels were doing little to dry it, though, so he buttoned up his duster to cover the wet spot. 

Oof.

A man entering the bathroom bumped right into Sherwood. He had dark hair, wore glasses with circular frames, and was clean shaven, though the shadow along his jawline suggested he could probably grow an impressive beard. The man shouldered past Sherwood without looking at him. He was murmuring under his breath in a language Sherwood was pretty certain wasn’t English, and there was perspiration on his brow, though if anything Sherwood thought the airport was too cold. The man went to the bathroom’s farthest stall and shut the door.

Sherwood glowered at the closed door for a minute, but then shrugged. More of the same rudeness he was used to. Most people seemed to believe that anyone who liked reading and video games didn’t have feelings. He turned to go.

Gagging. Coming from the stall that the man with glasses had just entered. Sherwood looked back, glancing around the bathroom, but there was no one else there. 

“Uh, hey man? You, um, okay in there?”

Silence for several moments, then a sort of wet sliding sound followed by a thump that rattled the stall, as if something had struck one of the walls. A moment later, the door swung outward.

At first, Sherwood thought the man had changed clothes. The figure who had opened the stall door was dressed all in red—tight-fitting pants and a leather jacket trimmed in white to match. Sherwood assumed it was a man. They were, after all, in the men’s restroom. But he couldn’t tell for sure, since the figure also wore a red helmet with a dark visor covering the face, like it was ready for some sort of motorcycle convention. 

Red took another step forward, revealing that it couldn’t be the same man who had entered the stall moments before. The man in the glasses was still in there, sitting on the toilet, pants around his ankles. His head was tilted back against the tiled wall, mouth open. His glasses had fallen to the floor, one of the lenses cracked. The figure stepped fully out of the stall, again blocking Sherwood’s view of the unmoving man on the toilet.

“Is that guy all right?” Sherwood asked. “You some sort of…”

His voice trailed off as he noticed for the first time what Red was holding. It was slender, and glowed like a… Like a freaking lightsaber.

“What the fuck is that?” Sherwood shouted.

Red froze, seeming for the first time to have noticed Sherwood. No face was visible through the helmet’s vizor, but Sherwood could nonetheless tell the figure was staring right at him. In a moment of poor judgment that Sherwood would later realize could have proved fatal, he took a step toward Red.

“What’d you do to that guy?” he demanded. 

Red didn’t move. Sherwood took another step toward it and, to Sherwood’s surprise, it retreated back into the stall.

“Um, excuse me?” a voice said from behind Sherwood. He nearly jumped out of his duster, spinning to face the newcomer. It was an older man, expression like he’d just sucked a lemon. 

“Outta the way, kid. I gotta take a piss.”

Sherwood realized he was standing in the bathroom’s sole entryway, his gangly frame blocking it entirely. Still, he spun back toward the red figure without acknowledging the old man. The stall door was now closed, no sign of Red anywhere. Sherwood looked left, then right, then even up for good measure. Gone. He considered going to the stall and looking in but decided he didn’t want to know. 

“You deaf, boy?” the old man grated. “I said I gotta—”

Sherwood turned and pushed past the man without a backward glance.

* * *

Coffee. That was all he’d needed. A nice, steaming cup o’ joe. He put his feet up on his duffle bag and closed his eyes. 

Never check luggage, Sherwood’s father had always said when they packed for the yearly family trip to Disney World. Damn airlines always lose something, or else security rifles through your stuff. Keep your property where you can see it. Maybe that’s why flying made him feel so anxious. Traveling with his father had always felt more like going to war than heading toward what was supposedly a good time.

Sherwood wasn’t nearly as cynical as his father, but he had to agree with him about airport security. The TSA officers had apparently been of one mind with the man at the restroom sinks regarding his appearance. It’d taken the better part of ten minutes for them to wand him over and search the various pockets of his duster. They’d nearly confiscated his multitool, a gift from Sherwood’s father when he’d still been a kid. But Sherwood knew the rules—blades up to 4 inches were permitted on commercial flights, and he’d been sure to measure before leaving that morning. The security guard had glared at him, then brought out a ruler of his own to verify. After confirming that the blade was, indeed, just 3 inches long, the officer took extra long checking the rest of Sherwood’s pockets. Overall, he’d lost at least twenty minutes of his life.

Thankfully, it hadn’t mattered. He’d actually arrived early for his flight, which was a minor miracle. Eight AM was closer to the time he usually went to bed than when he got up in the mornings, but he’d slept poorly last night, so when the clock had rolled over to four AM, he’d thought, screw it, and called a taxi. The crumby airport hotel had been a waste of $150. Between that and the gas, he might as well have just paid for a connecting flight from Rochester rather than drive down here a day early to get the direct flight out of Newark. 

He was chalking up what he’d seen in the bathroom to exhaustion. Or, more likely, what he hadn’t seen. Maybe he’d just fallen asleep on his feet for a moment. A man in a red jumpsuit carrying a lightsaber? That was out there, even for Sherwood. Likely, he’d watched Phantom Menace one too many times recently, getting ready for Attack of the Clones next May. But who could blame him? He’d practically spent his whole life waiting for those movies!

The coffee had warmed him considerably, and Sherwood was starting to sweat beneath his heavy jacket, so he took it off and crumpled it up for a pillow. Truth be told, the weather was too hot this time of year for it. He’d worn the coat more out of spite for his mother than anything else. That, and because it was bad ass, no matter the season. He tried to block out some of the waiting area’s bright light and take a nap.

Bang.

Sherwood opened his eyes. A service door beside the gate desk was swinging on its hinges, a woman with a small, rolling suitcase coming out from the hallway within looking slightly embarrassed . She had straight, black hair and thin lips painted scarlet with lipstick. Her skin was olive, though not like the girls back home who went to the tanning booths. Hers appeared natural. Exocitc. Iranian, maybe?

Stop it. Don’t be racist, Sherwood. His hometown wasn’t exactly known for its ethnic diversity. The most exposure he’d ever had to someone from the Middle East was the news coverage of the siege at the Iranian embassy in 1980 when he’d been little. That was the only reason he’d thought of that nationality. 

The woman seemed to be having trouble with her bag, as if unaccustomed to using a suitcase with wheels. She kept trying to turn in sideways even though it only had two rollers, not the four spinners that more expensive models had. Sherwood smiled to himself. She was sort of cute.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” a voice over the loudspeaker announced, drawing his attention away from the woman. “We’ll now begin boarding your flight to San Francisco. Please have your ticket and photo ID ready.”

* * *

Sherwood walked down the plane’s single aisle, stooping as he went, glancing at the seat numbers printed on the overhead bins. 

13E. A middle seat. He glanced at his boarding pass. This was it. Trying to ignore the acid burning in his stomach at the number’s unlucky implications, he shoved his duffle bag into the overhead and sat down, immediately buckling his seatbelt. He’d overheard a flight attendant say there were only 38 ticketed passengers. Hopefully, that meant the seats to his right and left would remain vacant.

Looking for something to take his mind off the fact that he’d soon be thirty-thousand feet in the air, Sherwood thumbed through the pamphlets in his seatback pocket, pulling out the plane’s information card.

This Boeing 757 aircraft is equipped with underseat life jackets in case of a water…

He shoved the paper back into the seatback. He really should have brought a novel or something. And… bah. Now he was cold again. Why did flying have to be so uncomfortable? He wrapped his duster tightly about himself, closed his eyes, and tried to shut out the drone of the engines and chatter of passengers around him. He began to relax. That lasted all of twenty seconds.

“Excuse me.”

Sherwood cracked an eye, then opened the other and sat up straight when he recognized the speaker. It was the same woman he’d seen a few minutes before. The one who’d come through that service doorway. He gave her a friendly smile. She didn’t return it.

“I’m in 13F,” she said, motioning at the window seat to Sherwood’s right. “But I’m just going to sit on the aisle unless someone else shows up.”

“Sure,” he replied, smile fading. She hadn’t really phrased it as a question and her expression said as much. Suddenly, his mouth was dry.

The woman settled into the seat next to him without another word. Sherwood tried not to look at her, but found himself failing. Sitting so close to a member of the opposite sex—particularly a pretty one—wasn’t exactly typical fare for Sherwood. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that she kept glancing up the aisle, into first class, as if she was looking for someone.

“Want me to hit the call button?” he asked, trying to sound helpful.

The woman started as if she’d forgotten he was there.

“What?”

Sherwood winced. He couldn’t even offer help without a woman flinching away from him.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just looked like you needed something. If you press the button up there, it’ll let the flight attendants know you need something.”

“I don’t need anything.” She continued to stare up into first class.

“Oh,” said Sherwood. Did she really need to sound so rude about it? “Well,” he continued aloud, “my name’s Sherwood if you do.”

The woman didn’t reply. Lovely. A six-hour flight ahead of him, he’d forgotten to bring a book, and now the pretty woman sitting beside him thought he was an imbecile. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but Sherwood decided he wasn’t going to put up with it. It wasn’t like the woman could go anywhere. 

“What’s in San Francisco?” he asked her.

Finally, the woman glanced his way again. She looked as tired as he felt, and lines at the edges of her eyes suggested worry. Suddenly, he felt like an idiot for getting angry at her. For all he knew, she was flying to a funeral or something. 

“San Francisco?” she asked, sounding genuinely confused. 

“Uh, yeah,” he replied. “You know, where this plane’s headed?”

“Oh,” she said. She turned away from him, again appearing to search the seats ahead of them for someone. 

“Right,” Sherwood said. Maybe if he offered something interesting about himself first, then she’d talk to him? His mother kept telling him he needed to assert himself more when it came to ladies. Personally, he’d have preferred to stick to instant messenger, but he supposed he had to learn how to speak to people in person eventually.

“I’m headed to a martial arts convention,” he said. “One of the biggest ones in the country.”

The woman’s head snapped back around toward him so quickly that Sherwood started back. 

“You’re a black belt?” she demanded, as if the answer held serious implications for her.

“Oh,” Sherwood said, face heating. “Er, well, not yet. I’m an orange right now.”

“Orange?” she asked, voice still hard. “Is that good?”

“Um, well…” Sherwood dropped his eyes. “Not really. I’ve only been practicing for like six months. Actually, the real reason I picked this convention was it’s happening right next door to Fantasy Con, and one of my favorite authors is going to be there. But I couldn’t get my mother to pay for me to go to a Con, so I…”

He trailed off, realizing not only he was rambling, but that he’d given the woman multiple reasons to think he was a complete loser. Whether she actually did or not was unclear, but the intense interest his mention of martial arts had sparked in her moments before was gone. She’d gone back to ignoring his existence.

“Attention passengers,” said a flight attendant over the intercom. “There will be a slight delay in closing the cabin doors, as we’re waiting for one of our first-class passengers who has yet to arrive at the gate. Rest assured, we’ll depart as soon as possible and do whatever we can to minimize the delay.”

“Where is he?” the woman beside Sherwood muttered. 

This time, he ignored her. See how she likes it, he thought. Turning his head away from the woman and toward the window, Sherwood buried the right side of his face into the seat rest and tried to find some sleep.

* * *

Whoever it was they’d been waiting for didn’t show up, and after 20 minutes past their scheduled departure time, the cabin crew shut the door and they pulled away from the gate. Another 40 minutes waiting on the tarmac in a traffic jam of jetliners, and finally they were airborne, climbing to cruising altitude. 

Sherwood had once again failed at falling asleep. Why did so many passengers insist on keeping their window shades open? Who could possibly want to look down and see how high up they were?

His neighbor was doing nothing to ease his anxiety, either. In fact, she was becoming increasingly agitated, muttering to herself and scribbling notes on the back of the airplane information card in characters that resembled no alphabet Sherwood had ever seen. Looked like a made up language out of one of his video games.

The pen she was using was eye catching, though. It was far fancier than an ordinary writing implement, with a sharp, fountain tip, and a golden body wide around as a cigar. Its barrel ended in a flat circle stamped with a detailed logo, a man striding through a door. Or, was he exiting the doorway? Sherwood couldn’t tell.

“Four planes,” she said under her breath. “Where does this one end up? Fuck. How can they expect me to remember all these True-His details?”

Sherwood couldn’t take the strain on his nerves any longer and turned to face the dark-haired woman again.

“What’s it like, traveling for a living?” He had to take his mind off the fact that he was thirty-thousand feet in the air with nothing but a few layers of sheet metal between himself and death. Maybe getting the woman to talk about herself would calm her as well.

She abruptly stopped writing and looked at him with an expression that was somewhere between fury and fear. Well, that showed how much he knew about women. 

“What did you say?” she asked in a voice that frightened him almost as much as their altitude.

“Um,” he stammered. “Sorry, I didn’t mean… It’s just… Well… You’re a flight attendant or something, aren’t you? I saw you come out from one of the airport’s back rooms before we boarded.”

The woman’s expression softened, and for the first time she gave him a hesitant smile. Some angst remained in her eyes, though, and despite how pretty she looked with lips turned upward, her gaze sent a chill through Sherwood.

A ding from the intercom interrupted the moment. One of the flight attendants announced they’d reached cruising altitude and the captain was turning off the seatbelt sign. Sherwood kept his securely fastened.

“Look,” the woman beside him said once the announcement had concluded. Her smile was gone. “You seem nice, so just keep out of my way, yeah? Sorry you had to get caught up in this. If it makes you feel any better, though, I think I’ve finally figured it out. You’re going to help save a lot of lives today.”

“Um…” said Sherwood. “Huh?” Surely she was joking, or being sarcastic. But she’d spoken with such sincerity. 

She looked away from him, returning her eyes to the seatback card, which she’d covered in scribbles. Her pen hovered over it with uncertainty, quavering in her fingertips. Then she stuffed it back into the seatback pocket with apparent disgust and capped her pen. 

“What’s the point?” she muttered, unclipping her seatbelt and standing.

“What’s your name?” Sherwood blurted. He’d no idea why he asked the question, but there was a sense of finality in her movements that seemed to demand he say something. 

She was already several steps down the aisle toward the front of the plane when she stopped and looked over her shoulder. Her dark eyes regarded him curiously, then she replied, “Sumaira.” She walked away without further comment, into the first class section of the cabin.

Sherwood found that, if anything, his stomach felt worse than before. Like Starfleet and the Klingons were doing battle inside it. A portion of the woman’s scribbled notes were still visible from where she’d stuffed them in the seatback pocket. Most of the writing was still foreign to him, but a few characters toward the top were English, or at least the letters were familiar. “Tandy,” they spelled out.

Maybe it was just one of his many neuroses, but his mind immediately keyed on the comma that followed the characters. What? Had she been writing a letter? That seemed an odd thing to scribble on the back of the instructions for abandoning an airplane. Not sure why he was doing it, he reached out and grabbed the placard, turning it over in his hands. The woman had scrawled on the reverse side, too. Aside from that name at the top, though—he assumed “Tandy” was a name—it was gibberish to Sherwood. The characters had an angular, aggressive tilt that sent a shiver up his spine. He folded the card in half, glanced around as if he was about to break the law, stuffed the note into a pocket of his duster, then looked around again. No one was watching him, of course. 

No one cares about you, Sherwood. Nervously, he fidgeted with the bezel on his watch, a Seiko SKX007. The tactile clicks as he turned it provided a small bit of calm and he took a deep breath. It was 9:27 AM. Perhaps it was finally time to get some—

“Hey!” someone shouted from the direction of the cockpit. “What are you doing in here? Get out!”

From his middle seat, Sherwood didn’t have a view into first class. The voice’s urgency temporarily overrode his fear of heights and he undid his seatbelt. He scooted over to the aisle seat the woman had vacated moments before to see what was the matter. Scuffling sounds, followed by a surprised gasp. Sherwood glanced down the aisle in time to see a man in first class falling to his knees. Another man wearing a red bandanna over his face, stood over him. He was holding… 

Holy fuck. He was holding a knife. It was dripping blood. 

“Son of a…” Sherwood began.

Before he could finish the curse, Sherwood was thrown forward, spilling out of his seat and into the aisle. His stomach convulsed and he vomited before he could even put together what was happening.

“God help us!” a woman from one of the rows behind him shouted.

“Mayday!” Sherwood thought he heard someone cry from up front.

The plane was plummeting downward. It felt like being on a roller coaster, and Sherwood hated roller coasters. He clenched his eyes shut and squeezed the leg of a nearby seat with white knuckles, keeping himself from sliding further down the aisle. Alarms sounded from the cockpit. All around him, people were screaming.

A sudden jolt. The plane seemed to level out, though it continued to buck up and down every few moments. Sherwood heard someone else throw up. He’d been thrown onto his stomach, face smushed into the carpet of the aisle. Groaning, he rolled himself over and pushed up to his knees.

Sumaira was coming back down the aisle. She looked shaken, but also resigned, and slightly determined. There were flecks of red on her white blouse. Belatedly, Sherwood realized she was also holding a knife, though whereas the one the man up front had held had been little more than a boy scout’s pocket knife, this one was full military issue. It had to be nearly a foot long, straight edged for most of its length, with a serrated portion near the hilt. Christ, she’d gotten through security with that? She seemed to be walking right toward Sherwood, preparing to say something.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said a man from a few rows up. He was a few years older than Sherwood, shorter but obviously much stronger, judging by the way his blue oxford shirt hugged his broad shoulders. There was a bee embroidered on the left breast pocket.

Sumaira turned, expression darkening. Before she could address Yellowjacket, though, he grabbed her wrist, the one holding the knife. Immediately, she lashed out with her other hand, like she knew what she was doing, driving her palm toward his solar plexus. Yellowjacket, however, was apparently also no stranger to combat. He blocked Sumaira’s attack and pinned her other hand against a seat back. She struggled, but the man was clearly far stronger than her.

Sumaira growled, the sound so feral that Yellowjacket must have been startled. Sherwood certainly was, still kneeling there in the aisle, disbelieving that he was witnessing a knife fight on an airplane. She didn’t manage to wriggle free of Yellowjacket’s grip completely, but she regained enough freedom of movement to shrug her shoulders and twist her torso. The golden pen she’d been using earlier slipped free of her blazer, falling to the floor not far from Sherwood. Sumaira raised a foot and stomped down on it with her heel, sending blue ink splattering. A few drops splashed against Sherwood’s cheek.

He thought he was going to be ill again. The plane bucked once more, drawing several cries from passengers and nearly knocking Sherwood over again. He shut his eyes, taking several deep breaths, trying to control his stomach. When he opened them again, he thought his eyes must have been deceiving him. Sumaira was gone, as was any trace of her pen. What in the…

Sudden cold against his neck.

“Let’s try this again, yes?” Said a voice behind Sherwood. He glanced down and nearly screamed when he saw the knife held to his throat. Even though he was on his knees, Sumaira was so much shorter than him that she was only slightly taller than him even now. Yellowjacket was still standing in front of Sherwood, but the challenge in his eyes quickly faded when he looked over Sherwood’s shoulder at Sumaira. Everyone else in the cabin grew eerily quiet. 

“Good,” she said. “Now, you all listen. We’ve taken over this plane. Ahmed, come here!”

A clean shaven young man with a red cloth wrapped around his forehead looked out from the cockpit, then approached. Christ’s sake! He was just a kid, bushy dark hair and a slender build. He looked a bit nervous, and Sherwood could see why. 

“As you see, we have a bomb,” Sumaira announced, motioning at Ahmed. Around the boy’s waist was a red belt with a dark box strapped to it. Several colored wires poked out of it. Somewhere behind Sherwood, a woman moaned.

“Now, we’ll be moving you all to the rear, where you’ll remain seated. Any of you try to attack one of us again, we’ll blow up the plane. But if you all stay seated, you’ll be safe. We’re headed back to the airport. We have our demands. Got it?”

No one responded, which Sumaira apparently took as acceptance. 

“Ahmed,” she said. “Get them all to the back. I’ve got a plane to fly.”

The boy nodded and took a small knife out of his pocket, motioning at the passengers around him to rise.

“See if you can’t talk some sense into them, all right?” the woman whispered into Sherwood’s ear. “Don’t think I won’t kill you all. I owe a duty to a higher power.”

Sherwood tried to nod, but he was already shaking so badly that he doubted Sumaira could have distinguished the gesture. Still, she released him and let Ahmed herd him to the back of the plane with the rest of the passengers. Sherwood stumbled down the aisle in a daze, extremities numb and hazy with the shock of it all.

* * *

Airfone.

Sherwood stared in a daze at the device installed on the seatback in front of him. He’d heard a few others using them to call loved ones on the ground, speaking in hushed, frightened tones. Surprisingly, the hijackers had made no move to prevent anyone from making calls. In fact, Sherwood had barely seen them at all. There were four, he thought. But three—two men and Sumaira—hadn’t left the cockpit since herding them to the plane’s back rows, and the fourth—the kid with the bomb—had drawn the curtains dividing the economy seats from first class.

Sherwood had considered making a call himself. But to whom? Dad was dead. His mother was at work—a grade school teacher—and wouldn’t be reachable. He hated his older brother. 

A friend, maybe? No. Calling one of the guys with whom he spent Friday nights playing D&D and drinking cheap beer didn’t seem a good way to spend his final minutes. Sure, Sumaira had said they were returning to the airport. But he was old enough to remember Pan Am 103. Several people from his hometown had been on board when it exploded over Lockerbie. 

“Hey,” someone said from the row behind him. Sherwood didn’t think they were talking to him, but when the male voice repeated, he glanced over his shoulder. The speaker was the same muscular man who’d grabbed Sumaira earlier. He had short, curly hair and one of those airfones braced between his ear and shoulder.

“You’re a tall dude,” Yellowjacket said. “Any good in a fight?”

“A… fight?” Sherwod said. His voice sounded like it was coming from far away. His mind still didn’t want to believe this was actually happening. Surely it was just all some bad dream.

“Sure, a fight,” Yellowjacket replied. “We can’t just sit here waiting for those guys to kill us.”

Sherwood just stared back at the man with his mouth open. He had to be joking. But no. His dark eyes were deadly serious, brows lowering the longer Sherwood remained silent. He glanced at his watch to avoid having to meet Yellowjacket’s continued stare. 9:38 AM. Who’d this guy think he was? Indiana Fucking Jones?

“You heard that lady,” Sherwood finally replied, eyes still on his watch. “They’re flying back to Newark to make their demands. And they’ve got a bomb. They’ll blow it up if we don’t stay put.”

Yellowjacket scoffed. “That’s just a trick to keep us here. There’s no bomb. I’ve been on the phone with my wife. They’re crashing planes into buildings all over the eastern seaboard. Those terrorists aren’t planning on landing.”

Blood rushed to Sherwood’s head, and he’d have fallen over if he hadn’t already been seated. He squeezed his armrest as if it was the only thing that was keeping him from breaking into a thousand pieces. 

“Yeah, man,” Yellowjacket said, voice not unkind, but steady and sure. “So you in?”

Sherwood stared at him vacantly for another second, then turned back round, practically deflating into his chair. Yellowjacket said something else, but the words didn’t penetrate the dread filling Sherwood’s soul. Abruptly, thoughts of all the video games he’d ever played that involved guns, killing, or blowing stuff up flooded his mind. How had he possibly found any entertainment in that? He bowed his head until it rested on the seatback in front of him.

A hand on his right arm made him jump.

“Easy, kid,” said a scratchy voice beside him. Its owner was a grandmotherly lady sitting beside him, probably in her late seventies. Her hair was all white and her face suggested she knew how to smile. 

“Here,” she said, holding out the phone that was installed in the seat in front of her. “You look like you could use a nice chat with someone. Why don’t you make a call? I’m sure your loved ones would enjoy hearing from you right now.”

“I don’t have any loved ones,” Sherwood mumbled.

“No loved ones?” Grandma said. “Don’t be silly. We all love somebody.”

 “Why don’t you make a call?” Sherwood snapped, suddenly angry. This wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to die.

Instead of being taken aback, the old woman chuckled to herself and hung up the phone. “My husband’s long gone and my girls? Well, I love them, true. But I’ve already said everything to them that needs saying. And besides, I’d likely just mess up the call anyway. Too many buttons. Damn technology. And do you see how much these things cost? I’d waste a bunch of money on nothing.”

“A joke?” Sherwood stammered. “At a time like this?”

“Honey?” Grandma said. “All the cryin’ in the world isn’t going to change a thing. And besides, who wants to spend their last minutes all teary eyed?”

Whatever he’d been about to say next died away. The old woman’s expression was so… reassuring. He nearly smiled before snapping his head away from her, toward a voice a couple rows up.

“Two guys on the floor up in first class,” a man in a suit was saying. “They weren’t moving. I think they were the pilots. They’ve closed the curtains to the cabin now, though. Don’t know what they’re doing.”

“I don’t think we’re going to make it out of here,” said another voice from behind Sherwood. It might have been the same guy he’d just been talking to. Yellowjacket.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Sherwood said, turning back to Grandma. “Are they really just going to crash us into a skyscraper or something?” A thought suddenly struck him. “They said they have demands. I know, we ought to go around and collect all the money everyone’s got.” Sherwood half rose to go do just that.

“Kid,” Grandma said. “Those Arabs up there aren’t after your pocket change. They might have knives, but their real weapon is one you can’t see.”

“What’s that?” Sherwood asked, the image of his earlier waking dream—the red figure with the lightsaber—coming to his mind.

“They’re all willing to die.”

Sherwood slumped back into his seat.

“I always knew there was a reason I hated flying.”

Grandma patted him on the arm. Sherwood wrapped his coat more tightly around himself.

“Don’t worry,” said someone speaking on a seatback phone, “I’ll be home for dinner.”

“I love you,” whispered someone else several rows back.

Sherwood wiped at his eyes.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said.

Searching desperately for a distraction, he noticed that, beside him, Grandma was now resting with her head back, expression content.

“I think it’s inspiring,” she said.

“What’s inspiring?”

Grandma opened her eyes. “Everything. All around us.”

Sherwood glanced around, wondering if the old woman might not be all there. He looked back to her questioningly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the old woman said. “It’s my hair that’s white, not my eyes.”

Sherwood grimaced, but she just patted his arm again.

“It’s all right. I know you’re frightened. But look again. No one’s screaming, or crying, or yelling. I’ve heard a dozen different conversations, and nearly all of them have been calm, asking after loved ones. Thinking of others. If that’s not proof of humanity’s spirit, I don’t know what is.”

Again, Sherwood looked around. She did have a point. There was no sobbing or shouting. A flight attendant in one of the backmost rows was speaking calmly into a phone. What little he could hear over the engines made it clear she was reporting to someone on the ground what was happening on the plane. She sounded so… professional. Sherwood felt ashamed. All he felt was afraid to die. If only…

His stomach was in his throat. The plane lurched downward. Sherwood’s head slammed back, the edges of his vision darkening from the g-forces that abruptly struck him.

“We’re going down!” A male voice behind Sherwood cried.

Now there were screams! Men and women both, whimpering, crying for help that wasn’t coming. Sherwood grabbed the old lady’s hand beside him. She squeezed his fingers tight. The cabin began to rattle. Even this far back, he could hear sirens blaring from up in the cockpit.

Then it was over. Sherwood’s stomach returned to a semblance of normality, though he still felt ill. His hands were shaking so violently that the clasp of his watch audibly clanged against the armrest. Grandma beside him had to touch his arm to get him to stop crushing her hand, which he still grasped. All around, people were panting. There were a few desolate sobs, though not as many as Sherwood would have expected. 

“I think we’re okay now,” said the same man behind Sherwood who’d shouted out a few moments before. “We’ve leveled out.” It sounded as if he was narrating events to someone over the phone.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherwood said, turning to the old woman beside him. He was still shaking, but another feeling was beginning to compete with the abject horror that had consumed him since seeing that hijacker’s bloody knife. “You’re right.”

“About what?” Grandma asked. Now even her face showed some of the anxiety that Sherwood felt. That brought the anger on full force. This wasn’t right. This poor woman, no, all these poor people had just been trying to go about their normal lives. Now they’d been thrust unwillingly into a terror no living person ought to ever experience. The whole situation bore a sense of violation that left Sherwood seething.

“We need to do something,” he said.

Grandma looked at him quizzically. But Sherwood’s attention was drawn away from her. At nearly the exact same time he’d spoken, the man in the suit two rows in front of Sherwood said into his phone, “Don’t worry. We’re going to do something.” His eyes met Sherwood’s as he spoke, obviously having heard what he’d said. Then he glanced over Sherwood’s shoulder, to Yellowjacket sitting behind him. The broad-shouldered man gave a dark chuckle.

“Well, this is America, isn’t it?” Yellowjacket said. Then, raising his voice loud enough that those of them packed into the back few rows could hear, “Let’s put it to a vote. You’ve all either spoken to someone on the ground by now, or talked to one of us who has. These terrorists aren’t looking for a ransom. They aren’t planning to ever land this plane, except maybe in the side of a building.”

Someone gave a choked sob at hearing that devastating truth spoken aloud. But many more of the faces around the cabin were determined, if not outright angry. Sure, there was plenty of fear in their eyes too, but Sherwood sat up a bit straighter at seeing the courage in all these people.

“I’m not going to sit here and wait,” Yellowjacket said. “Who’s willing to join me and fight back?”

Suit immediately raised his hand, as did a guy sitting right behind him who looked like he could be a linebacker for the Buffalo Bills. He was wearing a black t-shirt with fraternity letters.

“Cubs Hat, you in?” Yellowjacket asked. Sherwood turned back. A well-built man with a friendly face wearing a Chicago Cubs baseball cap with a phone held to his ear gave a thumbs up. 

“All right,” Yellowjacket said. “Let’s—”

“First though,” Cubs Hat interrupted, “will you pray with me?” 

Sherwood thought he’d directed the question into his phone, but several people in the cabin also nodded and bowed their heads. Sherwood bowed his as well, though he felt like an imposter. He’d never been a religious type. But if there had ever been a good time to pray, it was certainly now.

Cubs Hat spoke in a low voice, the plane’s engines drowning out most of what he said, though many others were mouthing along with him. The only line Sherwood caught sent chills through him.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

All was quiet after Cubs Hat finished. A unifying energy was in the air now, mixing with the ozone of the plane’s recycled air. They’d been in this together from the start whether they liked it or not. But Cubs Hat’s solemn prayer had bound them together in a way that shared fear could not. Religious or no, Sherwood now felt a kinship with those around him. A kinship that fueled his outrage at their present circumstances. The wordless moments that followed the prayer’s end weren’t full of fear, but rather hope. It was as if they’d released an enormous, collective sigh, and no one wished to break the peace.

The silence stretched on until Suit finally asked, “Anyone got ideas for how we take the plane back?”

The calming silence turned to an awkward one. Nervous glances were exchanged. Finally, Yellowjacket offered, “I’ve still got my butterknife from breakfast.”

Suit gave him a strained smile. Sherwood was surprised to find himself opening his mouth next.

“I’ve got this,” he said, holding up his multitool that security had almost confiscated earlier. 

Yellowjacket clapped his hands together, startling Sherwood. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about, Dungeon Master.”

Sherwood glanced down at his lucky t-shirt, then shook his head. “I just roll characters. I don’t write the campaigns or anything.”

Yellowjacket stared at him blankly.

“Nevermind,” Sherwod muttered, feeling his face heat. “Here, you take it.” He held out the tool. Yellowjacket hesitated a moment, but then took it from Sherwood’s hand. After looking it over a few moments, he found the knife and flipped it open.

“I’ve got some water heating in the coffee maker,” one of the flight attendants sitting by Cubs Hat said. “Maybe we can, I don’t know. Throw it at them or something.” Suit and Fraternity Letters nodded at her encouragingly. 

“And I’ve got one of the service carts back here,” said another flight attendant. “I’m sure they’ll have the cockpit door locked. We’ll need to break it down somehow.”

“Yeah, that’s good,” Yellowjacket said.

“Excuse me,” said Grandma from beside Sherwood. “But has anyone considered what you’re going to do if you win?”

“What do you mean?” Yellowjacket asked.

Grandma tsked. 

“She means,” Suit said, “is there anyone here who knows how to fly a plane?”

When no one immediately replied, Sherwood mumbled, “I used to play Air Warrior on my old P.C.”

“Guess that means you’re on the cockpit team, Dungeon Master,” Yellowjacket said. 

“Me?” Sherwood exclaimed. “But I can’t—”

“I can fly,” said a man in maybe his early 50s who was wearing hiking boots. “Nothing larger than a Cessna, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

“You’ll be great,” Suit said to Hiking Boots. “But we can’t risk you getting hurt, so hang back until we call for you.”

Hiking Boots nodded and seemed about to say something else when the plane lurched again, drawing several startled cries. This time, though, it quickly leveled out again.

“Guys,” said someone toward the rear, “we’re getting pretty low. I can see the ground through the clouds in spots.”

“Okay,” Yellowjacket said. “I think this is as good as we’re going to get. You three are with me.” He motioned at Suit, Fraternity Letters, and Cubs Hat. “I think that young guy with the bomb—well, hopefully fake bomb—is still outside the cockpit. Someone’s been moving around up there behind the curtains. We’ll take him first.”

The other men gave Yellowjacket grim nods.

“Ladies,” he glanced back at the flight attendants. “You hang back with that hot water, look for an opportunity to use it. Burn some of us if you’ve got to if you have a chance to get one of those assholes up there.”

The two flight attendants now had steaming carafes of water in hand and raised them in acknowledgement. 

“And Dungeon Master?” Yellowjacket asked. “You’re on battering ram duty. They use those in Dungeons and Dragons, yeah?”

“Uh, I guess?” Sherwood said. How had he become part of this plan again?

Yellowjacket slapped him on the shoulder, hard enough that it hurt. “You’ll be great.” His wry smile only lasted a moment before he expression turned somber. “Everyone ready?”

Suit and Fraternity Letters nodded, as did the flight attendants. After looking at Grandma and getting a reassuring nod, Sherwood rose on unsteady legs and let one of the flight attendants lead him to the service cart. It was piled high with glassware still and rattled as he gave it an experimental push.

“Cubs Hat?” Yellowjacket asked.

The guy in the baseball cap was still on the phone, but when Yellowjacket addressed him, he asked whoever was on the line to hold on and looked up. “Are you ready?” he asked. Yellowjacket nodded.

“Okay,” Cubs Hat replied, standing. “Let’s roll.”

“Come on lucky twenty,” Sherwood murmured like a prayer under his breath.

The four larger men went first, led by Yellowjacket. The two flight attendants with their steaming pots of hot water followed. Behind them, Sherwood rolled the cart, plates and bottles clanging as he went. 

Yellowjacket threw open the curtain to first class. The door to the cockpit was open. Sumaira and another man were seated in the pilots’ seats, backs to them. A third, dark-haired man was standing behind the pilots’ seats, bent over so he could talk to Sumaira and the other terrorist over the noise of the engines. The final attacker, the young guy with the red bandana around his neck and alleged bomb was standing outside the cockpit. His eyes widened when he saw them and he shouted something in Arabic back into the cockpit. The standing terrorist turned, lips curling into a snarl when he saw their approaching group. Striding forward, he slammed the cockpit door shut. Bandana pounded on the door, shouting, but got no reply. When it became apparent his friends had abandoned him, he spun back around. Instead of the fear Sherwood expected, there was ardor in his eyes. Fear reasserted its icy grip around Sherwood’s heart. Grandma had been right—a willingness to die was just as dangerous as any firearm or blade.

“Bomb!” the young hijacker said in heavily accented English, waving at the box strapped to his belt. “Bomb,” he repeated. “You sit. Now. Or boom!”

Sherwood paused in rolling his cart, but Yellowjacket pressed onward without slowing. 

“Bomb! Bomb! Bomb” shouted the terrorist. “You sit or I—”

In a swift motion that was nearly too fast for Sherwood to register, Yellowjacket swept Bandana’s legs out from under him, slamming him to the floor. The other three men leapt atop him, raining a flurry of punches on the young man. Bandana tried to shield his face, but to little effect. He screamed. 

Sherwood thought of telling the others to stop, but then he noticed the bodies. The corpse of the man who’d been knifed at the beginning had been tossed unceremoniously across the seats in Row 3. Just ahead, in Row 2, was a dead flight attendant, her neck twisted at a grotesque angle. Two more men in white shirts were on the floor of Row 1. Gold epaulets on their shoulders marked them as the pilots. Sherwood held back his objections. Bandana and the other hijackers deserved all the pain Yellowjacket, Cubs Hat, and the others could give them.

It wasn’t long before Bandana’s screams ceased and the only sound remaining in the cabin other than that of the engines was the heavy breathing of the three men stooped over him. They rose, all of them pale as they regarded what they’d done. Bandana’s face was more blood than flesh now. His right cheek had collapsed in on itself and the eye above it seemed at risk of falling from the socket. The three men exchanged uncertain glances with Yellowjacket.

“You had to do it,” Sherwood said. They all looked back at him and suddenly he felt embarrassed, hiding at the rear behind his cart. But then Yellowjacket nodded and without a word grasped Bandana beneath the arms and moved him out of the aisle, depositing him in the row opposite the pilots. Sherwood couldn’t tell if he was still breathing or not, and was startled to find he didn’t really care.

Sherwood’s feet flew out from beneath him, sending him sprawling onto the body of the dead flight attendant. He didn’t even have time to yell in surprise before the plane jerked the other direction, throwing him off the corpse and back into the aisle. Glasses fell from the cart and shattered. It seemed Sumaira was rocking the plane back and forth to keep them off balance.

“In the cockpit!” Suit shouted, somehow having kept his feet. “If we don’t, we die!”

“Dungeon Master!” Yellowjacket called. He was still on the floor, bleeding from a cut along his hairline. “The cart! Roll it!”

Sherwood had hit his head. Dazed, his thoughts were scattered like fruits in a cake. He’d just watched a man beaten to death, then tripped and fallen on a corpse. He was on a plane that bad men were planning to fly into a building, an unwilling soldier in a religious war he hadn’t even known was being fought. Everything pointed to this being just some crazy nightmare.

“Dungeon Master!” Yellowjacket shouted again. “Roll it!”

Sherwood shook his head. It was the fear in Yellowjacket’s voice that got through to him. The man had possessed the courage to propose they attack a cell of Islamic terrorists armed with nothing more than a boy scout’s multi-tool and a food cart. Hearing him scared was a jolt to Sherwood’s senses. It fortified his resolve, realizing he wasn’t alone in his terror. With a deep breath, Sherwood grasped the cart’s handle and sprinted forward. The others jumped out of his way as he rocketed down the aisle.

He struck the cockpit door with such force he nearly went flying over the cart at the impact. Pain flared in his mouth as the sudden shock of impact caused him to bite his tongue. The door was surprisingly flimsy considering what lay on the other side, and the cart had put a substantial dent in it. But it hadn’t opened.

The plane pitched forward. Sherwood heard the others cry out behind him, loud thuds suggesting several had fallen. Braced against the cart, Sherwood managed to keep his feet. Alarms blared from the other side of the still closed cockpit door.

“Again!” bellowed Fraternity Letters. “Roll it again!”

Sherwood didn’t need any more urging. This time, the plane didn’t seem to be leveling out. This might be it. Get in now or hit the ground at 500 miles per hour. 

He had to lift himself back up the aisle, grasping the cart in one hand, grabbing seatbacks with the other. Once at row 4, Sherwood decided he couldn’t wait any longer and let the gravity of the plane’s sudden dive rush him back down the aisle.

Again the cart crashed into the cockpit door and this time Sherwood went stumbling off to the side, banging into the metal countertop of the first class galley. It was a good thing, too. This time the cart had broken through the door, and the terrorists on the other side had been ready. The one who’d been standing had retrieved the plane’s fire ax and as the door flew open, he brought it down on the cart, sending an explosion of glass shards and jagged ceramic into the air.

“Go! Go!” Cubs Hat shouted. Sherwood was still trying to regain his senses as the other men blurred past him into the cockpit. There was a gasp, followed by several shouts. Guttural sounds of struggle. One of the passengers cried out in pain. A loud thud. A body collapsed out of the cockpit, crashing to the floor and not moving. Sherwood was relieved to see it was the hijacker who’d had the ax.

“She’s got a knife!” someone shouted, maybe Suit. Another of the passengers yelled, this time in obvious agony. The next moment, Yellowjacket backed out of the cabin, followed quickly by Cubs Hat, a bloody gash on his arm. Sherwood didn’t see Suit or Fraternity Letters.

Sumaira emerged from the cockpit, her long knife held out before her, tip slick with blood.

“You’re too late,” she said. Unlike the other men, there was no fanatical edge to her tone. If anything, she sounded frightened. But whatever she’d done to Suit and Fraternity Letters in the cockpit had spooked Yellowjacket and Cubs Hat, as they weren’t making any move toward her.

“Too late,” she repeated, out of breath. “You’re not getting past me, and this plane will be buried in the ground in less than a minute.

Yellowjacket took a quick glance out a nearby window.

“But we’re in the middle of nowhere. Aren’t you planning to fly us into a skyscraper, or maybe a national monument, or something?”

“That’s not how this is meant to end,” Sumaira said, her knife hand wavering ever so slightly. No one seemed to notice except Sherwood. She hadn’t noticed that he was standing in the galley adjacent to her, just a few feet away. Her eyes were focused on Cubs Hat and Yellow Jacket, down the plane’s main aisle.

Cubs Hat released a long breath. “She’s right,” he said, looking at Yellowjacket. “We’re not going to get past her. But we saved a bunch of people, stopping her from hitting whatever target they intended. I can live with that, even if I’ve only got a minute left.”

Yellowjacket grimaced, but nodded. He wiped a tear from one eye with the back of his hand. Cubs Hat grasped his shoulder.

“Don’t do this!” Sherwood cried. Sumaira started. She quickly darted her eyes toward him, but didn’t turn away from the two men. It seemed Yellowjacket and Cubs Hat had momentarily forgotten about him, as they jumped at his voice as well. The fear vanished from Yellowjacket’s eyes. Replaced by… Hope? Sherwood gulped at the sudden realization that he was their last chance.

“You can stop this,” Sherwood insisted, then immediately grimaced. That sounded so lame. But what could he say to a terrorist that would get her to abandon a suicide mission? What could be more important to a fanatic than dying for the cause?

But that had been bothering Sherwood since this whole thing had begun. Sumaira didn’t seem fanatical at all. Anxious, yes. But she certainly didn’t have the arduous glow in her eyes that he’d seen in Bandana and the others. And maybe, just maybe, there was something she cared about more than this. 

“What about Tandy?” Sherwood asked. “Don’t you want to see her again?”

Sumaira’s head snapped around toward him, eyes wide.

“How do you—”

She screamed. One of the flight attendants had rushed forward. Somehow, despite all the turbulence, she still had a mostly full pitcher of scalding water, which she’d just thrown in Sumaira’s face. Yellowjacket was nearly as quick, lunging forward with Sherwood’s knife in hand, sinking it into Sumaira’s throat, turning her wail of pain into a choked gurgle. She collapsed to the galley floor at Sherwood’s feet. 

Cubs Hat immediately rushed back into the cockpit and a moment later the plane lurched, but this time upward. Alarms were still screeching out from the cockpit, though. The plane bucked to the side and Sherwood was nearly thrown off his feet. Yellowjacket shouted down the aisle and a few moments later Hiking Boots hurried past and into the cockpit.

“You alright, Dungeon Master?” Yellowjacket asked.

Sherwood nodded, though he certainly wasn’t. 

“That was good work there,” Yellowjacket said. “You probably saved us all. Holy shit! I think we might actually do this.”

With that, Yellowjacket disappeared into the cockpit with the others. Sherwood stared after him, unsure of what to do. One of the flight attendants smiled at him, then hurried back to the rear of the plane, saying something about getting a first aid kit for the others and that they’d be all right. The plane was still jittering up and down, alarms screeching from seemingly every direction, and Sherwood wasn’t so sure that he had saved them. Frightened questions were being shouted by the others at the plane’s rear.

A burbling sound caught Sherwood’s attention, causing him to look down.

Sumaira was still alive, though the pool of blood around her said she wouldn’t be for much longer. She was dragging herself along the galley floor, smearing blood across her blouse as she went. Sherwood crouched down.

“What is it?” he asked. 

Instead of responding, she reached up. At first, he thought she was grabbing for him. Seeking some comfort in her last moments, maybe? Quickly, though, he realized she wasn’t focused on him at all, but instead a small charm dangling from a cabinet handle on a black cord that Sherwood hadn’t noticed before.She reached with shaking fingers, but then her energy gave out, and her hand slapped back down to the floor. He thought she was dead, but then she mumbled two final words.

“Find her.”

Her eyes met Sherwood’s and for a moment he saw one of the strongest women he’d ever known. Then her pupils lost focus, dilating. Her head sagged to the side, eyelids sliding shut, and she moved no more.

Sherwood slumped against the galley counter, breathing hard even though he hadn’t moved a muscle since slamming the cart into the cockpit door a second time. Who had this woman been? How had she gotten mixed up with the other hijackers?

Startled, Sherwood suddenly looked up. It took him a moment to realize what had drawn his attention. Not a sound, but the absence of one. The alarms in the cockpit had silenced and the plane seemed to be leveling out.

“Um, hello?” came Hiking Boots’ voice from the cockpit. “Is anyone there?”

“This is Cleveland Center,” came a shocked voice from the plane’s radio. “We read you. Who is this?”

“Christ and dinosaurs,” Sherwood muttered to himself. “We’re still fucking alive.”

The plane pitched to one side, slamming him into the cabinets opposite him. 

“Shit, sorry back there!” Hiking Boots shouted.

Maybe Sherwood had spoken too soon. He reached out, grasping a handle for balance. He was surprised to find something pressing back against his palm. It was the necklace Sumaira had been reaching for. What had been so important about it that she’d used the last of her strength to try and retrieve it? Sherwood lifted it from the handle and slipped it around his own neck, tucking it beneath his shirt. The metal charm was cool against his chest and he shivered. A strong chill shot through him. He shook.

The chill didn’t stop. What in the…

Abruptly, his feet no longer held his weight and he crumpled to the floor. Except, he didn’t hit the floor. Frantic, Sherwood thrust his arms outward, but met nothing but air. Had there been a bomb after all? Christ, there had been, hadn’t there? It had detonated and now he was plummeting through the skies to his doom. He screamed, but no sound came out. His eyes had been clenched shut. Now he opened them in desperation.

And gasped.

The plane was gone. No sign of Yellow Jacket, Cubs Hat, or the rest of them. Instead, he was surrounded by darkness. And stars. Millions of them. They shone bright as he fell through space, toward an unknown destination. 

THE END of Temporal Operations Militia, Field Report #002. Tune in next time so see Tandy and Sherwood meet for the first time!

Consider donating to the Flight 93 Memorial: https://www.flight93friends.org/donate/ (no association with the author)

*AI Disclosure: The “T.O.M.” logo shown at the top of this story was created by the author using Midjourney.