LOSS OF REASON Page 2

  Mile High Club? Hell—five miles!

  Unbearably romantic, so intense. Linked together—stars above—more alone than two people could ever be on the planet’s surface. Andréa Buer proved to be a wild, insatiable, undeniable woman.

  A quarter hour later he thought, Whew!

  Unlike the man who smokes or watches cable TV after sex, Everon needed to recover in his own way. Once every muscle in his body had released its tension, he craved something more to cap things off.

  They were over Pennsylvania when he let loose of Andréa and took control of the plane. He decided to take the Lear up to thirty thousand feet, near its altitude of maximum efficiency—see what the damned thing would do.

  But her sexual aggression had misled him. Believing she would be more adventurous after such a great lay, Andréa surprised him by becoming a real whiner. Now he regretted screwing her, and he was beginning to regret even flying with her too. Shit! Does sex give all women the emotional confidence to whine? He’d never thought so. He leveled out to the tinkling crash of a glass breaking somewhere back in the cabin.

  Shit, he frowned at her, “You okay?”

  She nodded and gulped, glaring at him, “Please don’t do that again—sir.”

  “Hey! What’s this sir stuff?”

  Before she could answer, the right wing dipped hard. She shot him an angry glance, thinking what an asshole he was for ignoring her feelings. But the yoke was still level. He had a death grip on it and hadn’t done a damn thing.

  “What the hell!” he said as the plane continued to nose over, bucking violently. Everon twisted, pulled at the yoke, trying to bring the nose up.

  It appeared to be completely out of his control.

  Into The Dirt

  His hand beat hers by a second pulling the turbines’ power back to zero. The airspeed indicator was already in the red.

  Andréa, seeing his reaction, added her strength to his, pulling back on her own yoke from the right seat.

  But the controls seemed to have their own idea. Hurling them vertically toward the ground, now down to twenty-eight thousand feet—pulling on the controls face down, hanging against seat straps that cut into her body—only preferable to being thrown against a windshield a foot from her face.

  Neither of them said anything as they struggled together against gravity.

  “I think it’s coming up!” she gasped. The plane’s nose slowly rose, its violent bucking smoothing out. Five degrees, ten . . .

  And then another wave knocked them right over the falls. The jet’s nose continuing past vertical.

  Everon thought the wings would be ripped from the fuselage. The blood rushed to his face. He clamped his teeth against the terror flowing into his skull, pushed it away with one word: PULL! While the plane raced toward an impact that would spell their deaths in the dirt.

  Eighteen thousand feet . . . fifteen thousand . . . and the Lear began to respond . . . slowly, much too slowly to suit Everon, but still, the nose came forward.

  Air screamed outside over the cabin. How much can the wings take?

  Extreme pressure on his arms, pushed against his legs—flight angle changing at a snail’s pace, they rushed downward past nine thousand feet.

  Ten degrees, twenty, forty-five . . .

  At five thousand two hundred feet they finally regained the horizon.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace . . . ” Andréa muttered. She took a deep breath, grabbed a look at the flashing console lights. Reached up to shut off the high-pitched alarm still pinging from their sudden altitude loss.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I hate to say it, Everon . . . ” she admitted shakily, massaging her stomach, “it’s a good thing you insisted we buckle these belts, preceding your aerobatic unruliness.”

  “I guess that sir stuff went out the window a couple miles higher.”

  She smiled weakly, “I guess so.”

  “See what you can find out on the radio, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, picking up her headset off the floor.

  “One-Oscar-Mike—New York Center do you read?”

  Static.

  She repeated the call. “Nothing.” The jet’s displays flickered.

  “Cleveland?” he suggested.

  “We’re probably too low now.” She switched frequencies.

  “One-Oscar-Mike—Cleveland Center, do you read?”

  “Oscar-Mike, Cleveland Center.” The voice was weak and broken.

  “We were just hit by extreme clear air turbulence, Center.”

  “We’re receiving reports of same from all over the area. Say altitude and position.”

  “Level at five thousand. We took a sudden dive from flight level three-zero-zero. Systems functional. Do you have any more on what caused that air we went through over middle Pennsylvania?”

  “No information on anything like that yet. No storms on radar. Wait . . . hold on . . . word is . . . Something in New York . . . stand by—”

  New York? While Andréa scanned the instruments, Everon frowned into the night. Exhaled.

  “Breathe, Andréa,” he reminded her.

  She let out a long blast of air. “I wonder what—? I’ve never felt clear air turbulence like that.”

  “Once in a hang glider,” he muttered. “Stupid flying below a thunderstorm in Telluride. Nothing ever in powered craft—”

  “One-Oscar-Mike,” the controller radioed. “All flight plans to the New York, New Jersey, Connecticut area are being re-routed . . . more information coming in—stand by!”

  She looked over at him.

  “There are only two possibilities I can think of,” Everon said, “neither of them good. The more likely, and the one I’m most afraid of, is a nuclear attack.”

  “Nuclear? Could there be radiation?” she asked.

  “Probably not here,” he said. “Predominant winds across New York State are west to east, right?

  “On the other hand, EMP and a nuclear shockwave would extend pretty much in all directions—in terms of air turbulence much farther, much sooner. I’m betting that’s what we hit, or should I say—hit us. I’m not going jumping to any conclusions though . . . ”

  “We’re pretty far from New York!” she said.

  “I know. That’s what worries me most.”

  Illegal to use in a plane or not, Everon pulled out a phone and tried to call his sister.

  Nothing! “Lines must be down to New York,” he said softly. No! As long as—maybe— Franklin!

  He tried another number. No response. The signal level flickered up and down on the phone’s display. He glanced at the instruments. They were still traveling west at five thousand feet across Pennsylvania. “Maybe if we can lock onto a ground station somewhere farther out.”

  Ten minutes later he tried again. This time it rang.

  “Hello?” his brother’s crackling voice responded.

  “Hello?” Everon shouted back. “Hello?”

  “Hello? Hello?”

  Franklin couldn’t hear him.

  On The Edge Of Reason

  Franklin Reveal’s cobalt-blue eyes followed the slender blue thread which held his life. It disappeared into the darkness above, illuminated only by the beam of his pocket light.

  He held his hook knife against the blue thread.

  One quick cut, he thought.

  A long fall would be a good way to end your life, wouldn’t it? If you had the will, the presence of mind, the clarity—you might actually enjoy the ride down before the splat.

  Then again, you might not.

  The blue thread was Maxim ten-millimeter dry twill climbing rope; Franklin felt the straps biting into his legs, the payout rope in his left hand as he hung suspended a hundred feet in the air, off the lip of his favorite rappelling site in southeast Ohio. Ash Cave.

  A mile walk from a quiet road. Alone in th
e dark park, flouting regulations, Franklin came to Ash Cave because he wanted a break from people.

  He wanted to silence all the voices.

  Huge dark trees below, his rope was tied off to three of the larger ones beyond the edge up top. Animals growled and hooted. Maybe one of them will just chew through it.

  A gigantic shadow of unknown origin fluttered across the remaining half-dome walls.

  It’s not a cave—not really, he’d thought first time he’d seen it. Eons ago, it was, before the cave’s dome collapsed onto the valley floor. It was now only an overhang before a background of twinkling constellations.

  Like his life.

  Above the cliff edge, a thousand points of light glittered, more stars than anywhere else in the world—well, maybe not more, but more clear.

  Bold rectangle of Orion, sword hanging down from the three-star belt at his narrow waist. Never afraid. Never conflicted about anything. Big Dipper. Primitive man drew an angry bear. Franklin saw only a giant ladle. Its three-star handle, front lip pointing at the North Star.

  What will it pour next into my life? He looked from his knife, to the rope, again to the sky.

  He knew why he felt so drawn to the stars tonight. February Seven. Today would have been his mother’s birthday.

  In the cold still air, a crazed bat fluttered past his head in search of a midnight snack. With a gloved hand, he pushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead, watched the bat dive down like some spastic fighter plane through the lighted circle on the ground around his Coleman lantern.

  Bats? Like they don’t know it’s too cold to be out here?

  Weird night.

  Franklin rubbed a painful spot in his right shoulder, breath hanging before his face as he looked at the knife again, its lanyard hanging loosely against his vest.

  One cut.

  Why do I think of things like that? I do a great job. Help a lot of people at the church—

  He chuckled darkly. I ought to use my methods on myself.

  Where did it start? The seminary? Before? He couldn’t pinpoint it.

  Tonight’s depression was nothing like those guys on the air transports. Talking up that death-riding-on-their-shoulder thing—trying to prove how brave they are.

  This was new. This was gray. Not even the mission that led to his leaving the Rangers behind had caused him to feel so bad.

  He’d joined the military to get away from the memory of a girl. He’d entered the seminary to get away from the thing he’d been party to in the military. Maybe he hadn’t pulled the trigger. But he hadn’t done anything to stop it either.

  Now look at me—he looked up the rope again—thinking about killing myself.

  The guilt still cut through him like a hot knife. Thank God for Cynthia. Sometimes family is all you have.

  Part of it, he knew, was the warning he’d received this week from his superior, the church’s senior minister. He rubbed a hand across his jaw. A dull ache in his rear teeth, just lately for some reason, when he spent an entire day at the church. It doesn’t matter—maybe nothing will ever matter.

  As he hung there, his neck relaxed, the ache in his teeth began to go away. The bad feeling slowly drained and left him.

  “Too quiet,” he sighed aloud into the chill air.

  He peeled off the headphones velcroed to his fanny pack. They began to slip from the fingertips of his gloved right hand. Without conscious effort, his lanky frame kept itself upright while he switched the rope to his right hand, caught the edge of an ear cup with his left, pushed the headset comfortably over his ears. He searched out a local station.

  “Ugh—talk!” There ought to be jazz or classical somewhere, he thought, twisting the dial. Tonight he needed something mindless.

  “Talk—again?”

  But the speaker’s words shot out rapid-fire. “Bomb . . . New York City . . . All communications out . . .”

  “Is this real?” he mouthed, knowing instantly that it was—

  Everything stopped. “Cynthia?”

  “—this special report. At this point we have only scattered information . . .

  “Apparently, at 8:01 Eastern Standard Time, an explosion thought to be nuclear in nature originated near the city. It is unknown at this time whether this was a terrorist attack or something else. We are unable to obtain information from our affiliate in Manhattan itself . . .

  “Damage is most probably extensive. Communications are down. Power is out. We have attempted communication on cellphone and landline, but circuits simply do not respond . . .

  “Effects include all five boroughs of New York City, across Long Island and reach as far as parts of Connecticut, New Jersey and eastern Pennsylvania—”

  Franklin’s cellphone warbled. He pushed a spot on the phone’s face. “Hello?”

  No response.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  Static came back. Somewhere in there he made out a sound he recognized—

  “Everon?”

  The connection cleared.

  “Yes . . . on the radio just now. Yes . . . probably—I don’t know. Right . . . Upper East Side. Perhaps . . . I don’t know . . . alright. No, I’m in the middle of Ohio, camping . . . Yes. Okay. Bayne Airport’s close . . . it’s small, just a strip . . . in the dark? Okay . . . that’s it. I can be there in forty minutes. I can— Okay.” He disconnected.

  His heart pounded. Cynthia! The skin on Franklin’s arms grew cold. Strong scent of pine on the air. In his mind’s eye he saw the bomb exploding, the fireball expanding, buildings going down . . .

  Cynthia!

  Abruptly he lifted the trailing rope, let it pay through the cam, barely noticing the service on his phone dink out, dropping fast as he could manage toward the light below.

  Brothers Once Removed

  The runway was too short, the jet’s speed too great, its nose stayed up long after the snow burst from its tires. It plowed the air, struggling to stop before it hit the snow-covered trees.

  The nose dropped and Franklin could hear someone standing on the plane’s brakes as the trees came closer. From where his headlights barreled down the runway chasing the plane in his old jeep, it appeared the jet was already in the trees.

  At the very last moment, the little plane spun, its stubby right wing clipping branches.

  He left the jeep parked on slanted ground in the snowy brush, grabbed two duffels, threw a coil of rope over his right shoulder and rushed to the plane’s opening door.

  “Hi, Bro,” came Everon’s worried voice as Franklin climbed inside. “It’s definitely nuclear?” A young woman with long red hair pulled the door shut, then slid into the pilot’s seat next to Everon.

  “That’s what the radio said,” Franklin answered as he tossed his gear on the rear seat next to him and buckled in.

  “Do they say anything about any more bombs?” Everon called back.

  “Just speculation that it won’t be the last.”

  “Let’s not think about that. Cynthia and Steve and Melissa are all that matter.”

  Step-brothers, Franklin and Everon were related to Cynthia by one parent each. Once nearly inseparable, the brothers had seen each other rarely in the last fourteen years.

  Ninety seconds later the Lear’s wheels left the ground. While hundreds of thousands streamed away from New York, trying to escape, Franklin, Everon and Andréa headed east.

  Toward it.

  Far ahead through the cockpit window, Franklin could see a sickening glow.

  “Is this the beginning of the end?” he wondered softly.

  The city on fire.

  He closed his eyes. Balled up deep, as if his stomach were producing too much acid, he felt a sick knot of indefinable dread.

  And there went out a horse that burned red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword
to make war.

  “There’s no GPS signal at all,” a worried female voice intruded. Andréa.

  “Whatever satellites were above the blast zone must have been damaged by the bomb’s electromagnetic pulse,” Everon answered her.

  Beyond the fact that the explosion in New York was nuclear, they’d learned little on the jet’s radios.

  “Did you hear that?” Andréa asked.

  “Can’t make it out. Too weak,” Everon said.

  “It’s so dark, I can’t see a damned thing,” she said back. “Highways, that’s about it. Maybe we can get radar vectors.” She keyed her mic: “One-Oscar-Mike to Newark Airport?”

  Franklin opened his eyes.

  Everon glanced back and flicked a switch on the instrument panel. A voice came from an overhead speaker. “Newark Airport is now controlled by military personnel. All private and commercial aircraft are directed to find alternate landing facilities at this time.”

  Everon turned to Andréa. “La Guardia?”

  “Awfully close to Manhattan. I’d like to get the hell out of the whole area.”

  “Let’s see what they say, huh?” Everon pushed.

  Andréa called them.

  “Turn off!” La Guardia’s controller answered full of scratch and static. “All our runways are obstructed by debris.”

  Franklin wished he could just throw open the jet’s door and rappel right down onto the roof of Cynthia’s building.

  Just to know they’re okay.

  “Kennedy?” Andréa asked, already changing frequencies, smooth jaw muscles tightening into a small bulge.

  But Kennedy was being evacuated, already under a radioactive cloud.

  Franklin felt each denial as a physical blow. He leaned forward between the cockpit seats, picked up an aeronautical chart from the floor. Pointed to a spot in New Jersey. “Can we try over here? TEB’s an airport, isn’t it? Looks close to the city. If it’s not too close.”