Fear of Flying
Long before terrorists hijacked four airliners and crashed one into the Pentagon, two into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center and one into a field in rural Pennsylvania, Roland Stephenson had a fear of flying. Recalling every newscast he had ever seen of smoking wreckages—from the Pan Am 747 that crashed in Lockerbie, Scotland, to the Air France Concorde that burst into flames shortly after taking off from a Paris airport—for thirty years Roland managed to avoid travel by air. When it was impractical for him to drive, he took the train, and when the railroad was not an option, he traveled by bus. Thankfully, he had never been in so great a rush to reach his destination that he was forced to take to the skies. However, when he received word that his father had passed away, all that changed.
"The viewings are scheduled for tomorrow at two and seven," his sister, Joan Hannager, tearfully informed him. "The funeral will be held at ten the day after."
"But I can't get there until Wednesday," Roland protested. "Tuesday night at the earliest."
"I'm sure you could book a flight, even if it is at the last minute."
"You know I never fly."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Rollie! It's our father's funeral. Surely you can get up the courage to fly this one time."
"I don't see what the big rush is. Why a one-day viewing? If it's a question of money, I'll pay for the extra days."
"It's not the expense. Father O'Dowd is going to Rome on a four-week sabbatical. As it is, he's delaying his departure two days so that he can perform the service."
"Why not just get another priest?"
"I can't believe you would suggest such a thing. Father O'Dowd has been watching over our family for years. He married Mom and Dad, and he baptized us. I wouldn't dream of having another priest conduct Dad's funeral."
"But, Joan, I can't fly."
"Give it one chance. All you have to do is get on the airplane, eat your complimentary meal, maybe even order a drink and then watch a movie, listen to music or read a book. Within a few hours, you'll be here on the West Coast."
"I can't," Roland insisted pitifully.
"All right, then. Miss your own father's funeral," Joan snapped as she angrily slammed the receiver down on its cradle.
* * *
The taxi driver pulled up to the passenger unloading zone at Boston's Logan Airport, opened the trunk and took out Roland's luggage.
"That'll be $48.50," the cabby announced as he handed over the suitcase.
Roland took three twenties out of his wallet, gave them to the driver and instructed him to keep the change.
"Thanks. You have a good flight, okay?"
Roland nodded, grasped the handles of his American Tourister bag and walked inside the airport's main terminal.
Of the one hundred and twelve people waiting to board Flight 154, only Roland Stephenson did not object to the increased airport precautions and the resulting delay.
"Do I look like a terrorist?" an elderly white woman protested as she was searched by an airport security guard.
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am, but we can't be too careful these days."
The airport employee eyed Roland suspiciously. Why did the man look so jumpy? the security guard wondered.
"What's this?" he asked, pulling an unmarked vial of pills from Roland's jacket pocket.
"Xanax. They're tranquilizers to help calm me down," Roland stammered. "You see, I've got a deep-rooted fear of flying, and I don't want to have an anxiety attack."
The guard had been on the alert for terrorists since 9/11 and had all but forgotten that there were people who still feared pilot error, an overworked air traffic controller or a mechanical malfunction. Plane crashes happened with or without the planning of political dissidents or religious fanatics.
As soon as Roland found his seat—a window seat, no less—he popped the top off the pill bottle and shook a Xanax out of the amber plastic container. He swallowed it without water, wishing that he had taken the tranquilizer while in the taxi so that it would already have begun working.
Roland anxiously strummed his fingertips on the armrest while the remaining passengers boarded the plane, stored their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments and took their seats. When he heard the "last call for boarding Flight 154" announcement, Roland's pulse quickened. A few minutes later, the flight attendant closed the hatch, and a voice on the public address system told the passengers to buckle their seat belts.
Perspiration beaded on Roland's brow, and he quickly downed another Xanax. He wondered, fleetingly, how many he could safely take.
"Are you feeling all right?" one of the attendants asked.
"It's just nerves. I've never flown before."
The young woman smiled sweetly but secretly hoped that Roland would not be a problem. On a coast-to-coast flight, the last thing anyone needed was a guy who insisted on behaving like William Shatner on The Twilight Zone, seeing goblins out on the wings of the plane.
Despite Roland's fears, the Boeing 767 made a smooth takeoff.
"That wasn't too bad," he admitted to himself.
After giving the attendant his meal choice card, Roland reached for the headphones, put them in his ears, lay back on the seat and closed his eyes. Smooth takeoff or not, he didn't want to see the ground underneath him from this high up.
The music was soothing, and, due in large part to the three tranquilizers he had taken, Roland soon relaxed enough to fall asleep.
* * *
The gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach woke him. Slowly, he opened his eyes. The woman who had been sitting next to him was gone—probably to the restroom. Roland smiled wryly. Where else would she go at 18,000 feet?
The Xanax had apparently done its job, for Roland was no longer terrified to look out the window. When he did, there was no ground to see. The plane was surrounded by clouds and scattered patches of sunny blue sky.
Roland looked at his watch. It was past ten. It should be dark outside. Then he remembered that they were flying west, and he was probably in another time zone by now. Still, it was awfully bright out there, even taking the time difference into account.
His empty stomach growled, and he wondered where the flight attendant was with his chicken parmigiana. He craned his head and looked over the high seats in front of him. No one was there! The seats in front, to the side and behind him were all empty.
"Stewardess!" he shouted, forgetting to use the more politically correct term "flight attendant."
He got up from his seat and walked toward the front of the plane. His fear turned to panic when he saw that the first class section was also empty.
"Stewardess!" he called again.
Roland's voice echoed back in the stillness of the plane.
"Is anyone here?"
Trembling, he walked toward the cockpit. He hesitated outside its door. Was some member of Al-Qaeda inside holding the passengers and crew hostage? No, that was impossible. How could one hundred and eleven passengers, a flight crew and terrorists all squeeze into such a small space?
Bravely, he knocked on the door.
"Hello? Is anyone in there?"
There was no reply.
The cockpit door, which had not been locked, yielded to the pressure of his shoulder. There were no terrorists in the cockpit, no hostages and, most terrifying of all, no pilot or flight crew. Like the first class and tourist sections of the 767, the cockpit was empty.
Roland had not been born yesterday. He was well aware that computers were very adept at flying a plane. But how good were they at landing one? he wondered fearfully.
The plane's sole occupant was torn between his curiosity concerning the whereabouts of the other passengers and flight crew and fear for his own survival. The instinct for self-preservation won out.
He vaguely remembered seeing the Airport sequel years earlier in which stewardess Karen Black had to land a jumbo jet with the help of the tower personnel—or had an experienced pilot been airlifted into the cockpit to save the day? Perhaps that was a different sequel. He couldn't remember. Either way, Roland knew he had to tell someone on the ground of his dire situation in the air.
He sat down in the captain's seat and stared in awe at the controls: the myriad of dials, buttons and gauges meant absolutely nothing to him.
"Where's the radio?"
At last, he found a headset on the floor near the co-pilot's seat. He put it on, adjusted the mouthpiece and looked for the radio switch.
"Come in, tower," he said, hoping someone—anyone—would answer. "Hello? Can anyone hear me? Is anyone out there?"
Nearly half an hour later, Roland ripped off the headset and swore under his breath, even though there was no one within earshot to hear him.
Outside, he could still see nothing except clouds. Roland had always enjoyed looking at those billowy formations from the ground, but seeing them from the plane was unsettling. He had no way of knowing what was beneath him or, infinitely worse, what might be directly ahead of him. He might be flying over the Mojave Desert or through the Rocky Mountains. Hell, for all he knew, he might be over the Pacific Ocean by now. And that was assuming the plane was still on course.
Roland forced himself to remain calm. Like Mr. Spock, he had to submerge his emotions and think logically. He concluded that without radio contact with someone on the ground, he could not fly or land the plane. What was he to do then? Logically, all he could do was let the air traffic controllers and the FAA worry about Flight 154.
Feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Roland walked back to the galley area of the plane. He rifled through the compartments and found a sandwich, a bag of roasted peanuts and a can of Diet Coke, which he took with him back to his seat. After satisfying his hunger, he took another Xanax, lay back and closed his eyes.
Que sera sera, he thought. Whatever will be will be.
After a few moments, he once again fell asleep.
* * *
As Roland's eyes slowly opened, he expected to see the interior of the plane. Instead, he found himself inside a hospital room. He tried to turn his head, but he discovered to his amazement that it was wrapped in bandages.
When and how did I get hurt? he wondered.
At his side, his sister was dozing in the visitor's chair.
"Joan?" he called in a hoarse voice.
His sister woke with a start.
"Rollie?" she cried. "You're awake! Oh, thank God. You've been unconscious for days."
Tears of relief and happiness slid down her cheeks.
"I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I never should have talked you into taking a plane."
"It's okay, Joan. I'm alive and still in one piece—I think."
He quickly looked down to take inventory of his body parts—two arms, two legs, hands, feet—yes, everything was still there.
"Those tranquilizers I took must have been pretty strong. The last thing I remember was eating a sandwich and a bag of peanuts and then falling asleep. Imagine not being awake when I was rescued."
"You received quite a nasty blow to the head. You were knocked out."
"That explains it," he said. "What about the others? The passengers and the flight crew? Have they been found yet?"
Joan lowered her eyes to the floor and nodded her head.
"Rescuers found most of them. Of course, they'll need to use DNA to identify some of the victims."
"But what happened to them?" Roland asked. "Where were they?"
Confusion clouded Joan's tear-stained face.
"I don't understand what you're asking me. The victims' bodies were found in the wreckage of the plane."
"But there was no one in the plane except me. The other passengers, the flight attendants, the pilot and his cockpit crew had all disappeared."
Roland didn't need to see the look of disbelief on his sister's face to realize that what he was saying sounded ludicrous. How did over one hundred and twenty people disappear from a plane in midair? That would be a pretty impressive feat even for a group of terrorists armed with explosives, guns or box cutters. Not even David Copperfield could pull off such a trick.
"Why couldn't I find them? I searched first class. I went into the cockpit. I ...."
He fell back onto his pillow with sudden exhaustion.
"How soon after takeoff did the plane crash?" he asked.
"About twenty minutes or so."
"That was right about when I fell asleep the first time. That would mean that I only dreamed I was alone on the plane."
That had to be the answer. It all fit so neatly. Yet why had that period of solitude seemed so real?
* * *
Three days later Roland's doctor released him from the hospital. A nurse wheeled him out the main entrance where Joan was waiting to drive him back to Boston. Several reporters and cameramen converged on him when he stood up from the wheelchair.
"Mr. Stephenson, how does it feel being the only survivor of Flight 154?" a newscaster asked and shoved a microphone in his face.
"I'm terribly sorry the others died, but I'm very glad I lived."
More reporters pushed forward, each battering him with questions.
"I really have nothing else to say," he added helplessly. "I fell asleep on the plane and woke up in the hospital."
When the reporters finally realized there was no story to be had, they retreated to their cars and vans, and Roland followed his sister to her rented station wagon. He got inside and gingerly pulled the shoulder harness across his bandaged chest. While buckling the clip into his seat belt, he felt a bulge in his jacket. He put his hand in the outer pocket and pulled out the bottle of Xanax. As he did, he heard the unmistakable sound of crackling cellophane. Again, he put his hand into his pocket.
"I wasn't dreaming," he muttered.
"What did you say?" his sister asked.
"I was alone on that plane. When I woke up from my nap, there was no one there. I checked first class, went into the cockpit and even tried to contact someone on the radio."
"Rollie," his sister interrupted, "you only dreamed that."
"No. After leaving the cockpit, I went to the galley. I got a ham sandwich, a Diet Coke and a bag of salted peanuts."
"Stop it, Rollie."
"I went back to my seat, ate the sandwich and the peanuts, drank the Coke and then fell asleep again."
"That's impossible! You said so yourself. It didn't happen that way."
"Joan, listen to me. I had six pills in this bottle. I took one as soon as I got to my seat and another shortly after takeoff. If I had only imagined taking one more with the Diet Coke, why are there exactly three Xanax left?"
"People often lose count of how many pills they take. You were frightened at the idea of flying. You must have taken the third pill before the crash and not realized it."
"Possibly," he conceded. "But then how do you explain this?" he asked, holding out the waxed paper wrapping from the ham sandwich and the empty cellophane bag of peanuts.
Joan said nothing. Some questions, it seemed, defied logic.
Salem definitely has no fear of flying. He sneaks a ride on my broom whenever I'm not looking.
