Private Scandals

were filled with amusement, self-deprecation and recklessness.
    The man heard a sound bubble in his own throat and was stunned to realize it was a laugh. “Fuck you,” he said, grinning back.
    “Even if we buy it on this run, I don’t think they’ll air that. Network standards. Is this your first trip to the States?”
    “Jesus, you are crazy.” But some of his fear was ebbing. “No, I make the trip about twice a year.”
    “What’s the first thing you want to do if we land in one piece?”
    “Call my wife. We had a row before I left. Silly business.” He mopped his clammy face again. “I want to talk to my wife and kids.”
    The plane lost altitude. The PA crackled under the sounds of screams and sobs.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats, with your seat belts fastened. We will be landing momentarily. For your own safety, please put your head between your knees, grasp your ankles firmly. Once we land, we’ll begin emergency evacuation procedures.”
    Or they’ll scrape us up with shovels, Finn mused. The vision of the wreck of Pan Am flight 103 spread over Scotland played uneasily in his mind. He remembered too well what he’d seen, what he’d smelled, what he’d felt when he’d broadcast that report.
    He wondered, fatalistically, who would stand in front of twisted, smoking metal and tell the world about the fate of flight 1129.
    “What’s your wife’s name?” Finn asked as he leaned forward.
    “Anna.”
    “Kids?”
    “Brad and Susan. Oh God, oh God, I don’t want to die.”
    “Think about Anna and Brad and Susan,” Finn told him. “Pull them right into your head. It’ll help.” Cool-eyed, he studied the Celtic cross that had worked its way out from under his sweater to dangle on its chain. He had people to think about, as well. He closed his hand over the cross, held it warm in his hand.
    “It’s seven-oh-nine, Central time. The pilot’s taking us in.”
     
    “Can you see it yet? Joe, can you see it?”
    “Can’t see a goddamn thing through this goddamn rain.” He squinted, hefting his camera. Rain ran off the bill of his fielder’s cap and waterfalled in front of his face. “Can’t believe there’s no other crews here yet. It’s just like Finn to call the son-of-a-bitching story in so we’d get an exclusive.”
    “They’ll have heard about it by now.” Straining to see through the gloom, Deanna shoved sopping hair from her eyes. In the lights of the runway, the rain looked like a hail of silver bullets. “We won’t be alone out here for long. I hope we’re right about them using this runway.”
    “We’re right. Wait. Did you hear that? I don’t think that was thunder.”
    “No, it sounded like—there!” She stabbed a finger toward the sky. “Look. That’s got to be it.”
    The lights were barely visible through the slashing rain. Faintly, she heard the mutter of an engine, then the answering wail of emergency vehicles. Her stomach flipped over.
    “Benny? Are you copying this?” She lifted her voice over the storm, satisfied when she heard her producer’s voice come through her earpiece. “It’s coming down now. Yes?” She nodded to Joe. “We’re set. We’re going live,” she told Joe, and stood with her back to the runway. “Go from me, then follow the plane in. Keep on the plane. They’ve got us,” she murmured, listening to the madhouse of the control room through her earpiece. “In five, Joe.”
    She listened to the lead-in from the anchor, and her cue. “We’ve just spotted the lights from flight 1129. As you can see, the storm has become very violent, rain is washing over the runways in sheets. Airport officials have refused to comment on the exact nature of the problem with flight 1129, but emergency vehicles are standing ready.”
    “What can you see, Deanna?” This from the anchor desk back in the studio.
    “The lights, and we can hear the engine as the plane descends.” She turned as Joe angled the camera skyward. “There!” In the lightning flash, the plane was visible, a bright silver missile hurtling groundward. “There are two-hundred and sixty-four passengers and crew aboard flight 1129.” She shouted over the scream of storm, engines and sirens. “Including Finn Riley, CBC’s foreign correspondent returning to Chicago from his post in London. Please God,” she murmured, then fell silent, letting the pictures tell the story as the plane came into clear view.
    It was laboring. She imagined herself