Parallax View by Allan Leverone Page B

sister city, Brewer, shone in the distance, straddling the Penobscot
River a short distance from the airport. Centuries-old evergreens,
tightly-packed and massive, filled the wind screen, growing larger and larger
until Tracie was sure the plane would fly straight into the forest.

At what seemed
like the last possible moment, Wilczynski eased back on the yoke, lowering the
landing gear and the flaps, and the plane leveled off and slowed like someone
had stood on a set of brakes. The runway appeared again in the wind screen as if
by magic. Tracie marveled at the skill of the B-52’s only living crew member,
badly injured, maybe fatally injured, but still handling the gigantic craft
like the professional he was.
    The trees flashed
past under the wings as the B-52 descended steadily. They were maybe three
miles from the approach end when Wilczynski turned to Tracie and smiled. His
lips were white and so was his face, and blood flowed steadily down his left
cheek as if the gauze bandage had never been applied. He looked like death warmed
over but incredibly he was smiling.
    “I’ve got it
slowed as much as I dare. We’re going to make it,” he said, and then without
warning his eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped forward. His safety
harness kept him in his seat, but the force of the movement pushed the yoke
forward and the B-52 dropped like a rock. Tracie grabbed for the yoke
instinctively and missed, and the plane descended into the forest.
    The wings sheared
off trees. The interior rocked and bucked and the only sound Tracie could hear
over her own screams was sheet metal shrieking as the wings tore completely
clear of the fuselage. The cabin bounced hard, ricocheting off a treetop and
coming down onto another and then what was left of the plane rolled and tumbled
and dropped to the forest floor.
    And something
struck Tracie in the head and the world went black.
     
     
    17
    May 30, 1987
    11:49 p.m.
    Bangor, Maine
    Shane Rowley’s Volkswagen Beetle
bounced along the deserted country road toward Bangor International Airport.
Bob Seger’s amplified voice filled the car’s interior, drowning out the
eggbeater sound of the engine as it strained to keep up with Shane’s lead foot.
Seger was bragging about getting lucky in “Night Moves,” one of Shane’s
favorite songs, and singing along with the lyrics almost made Shane forget, if
only for a few minutes, the paralyzing fear and bitter disappointment he had
felt this afternoon.
    It had been a long
day at Northern Maine Medical Center, yet another in an endless string of
appointments with specialists to determine the cause of the debilitating
headaches he had been experiencing over the last few months.
    Today had been the
worst. “A brain tumor,” this specialist had said after examining X-rays and CAT
scans and the results of numerous tests. “I’m very sorry, but there’s nothing
we can do. The tumor is advanced and growing rapidly. We can make you
comfortable as the end draws near,” the man had said, and Shane had barely
heard him. He felt outside himself, like he was watching a bad TV movie of his
life.
    Shane had feared
the worst almost since the nasty headaches had begun. “How long do I have?” he
asked numbly, and the specialist, an older, officious-looking man, said, “Hard
to tell,” as if he were analyzing a theoretical concept instead of the end of
another human being’s life. “Anywhere from a few weeks to a couple of months.
Probably no longer than that.”
    And Shane had
thanked the man. He still didn’t know why, it just seemed like the thing to do.
Then he had stumbled out of the office and gone home, driving all the way on
auto-pilot, unable to remember a thing about the trip when he nosed into the
parking spot outside his apartment.
    He had so much to
think about, but he needed to sleep. As an air traffic controller at Bangor
International Airport, he was accustomed to working shifts at all hours of the
night and day, and tonight