“Richard Walker. Dean’s supervisor.”
I reached for the remote control and switched on the television, then flipped channels from Good Morning America to the local morning news. After a while, the words breaking news appeared on the bottom of the screen, and a publicity shot of Mike Mitchell caught my attention.
“Here’s something.” I fumbled with the remote to increase the volume.
The anchorwoman read the report: “Last night, a charter plane out of Miami went missing off the coast of Puerto Rico. It was returning from Saint Thomas after flying musician Mike Mitchell to his private home there. The plane belonged to Gibson Air, which operates a fleet of private luxury aircraft all over the world. A representative from Gibson has confirmed that Mitchell was not on board when the plane went down. A search is being conducted for the pilot. We will continue to follow this story as it unfolds.”
She transitioned to another news item, so I sat back against the couch cushions and hit the mute button.
“They’re saying his plane went down,” I mumbled in a low voice. “Richard didn’t use those words. He just said he ‘disappeared.’”
Mom reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Maybe he didn’t want to upset you.”
I knew she was trying to be helpful, but nothing she said made me feel any better. “Maybe.” We sat in grim silence.
“Either way,” Mom said, “no news is good news, right? If they haven’t found any wreckage yet, you can still have hope. He could still be out there. Maybe he landed safely somewhere.”
I stared blankly at the television screen. “He can’t be dead, Mom. Wouldn’t I feel it? Wouldn’t I know?” I turned to her. “Did you feel it when Dad died?”
“Well, of course I did,” she replied. “But I was in the room with him.” She squeezed my hand tighter and turned her attention back to the TV.
A short while later, Richard called back. My stomach dropped as soon as I answered the telephone and recognized his voice. “What’s happening? Have they found anything?”
“Not yet,” he replied. “They’re still searching, but I just got off the phone with the air traffic controller in San Juan, and he read me a transcript of Dean’s radio communications before he disappeared from radar. I had them fax it over.”
“What does it say?” My blood was now burning hotly with adrenaline.
“It’s a bit strange,” Richard replied, “and I hope we can find the black box to know exactly what was happening.”
“What do you mean, strange?” I wished he would hurry up and spit it out, but it sounded like he was flipping through pages of notes. I tried to be patient.
“Before I read it to you,” he said, “you should know that the controller mentioned a lot of radio interference—hazy reception and static that came and went—so it was difficult to decipher what Dean was saying, if he was actually calling for help. If it was a Mayday call, other stations or planes would have picked it up, but so far nothing has been reported about any distress signals. So that’s a bit unusual.”
“Go on,” I said as I paced the length of the condo along the windows. Mom was still seated on the sofa, watching me intently.
Richard continued. “First, Dean identified himself and reported his location. He was about fifteen miles off the coast of Puerto Rico, flying at four thousand feet, when he requested a higher altitude. The controller sensed an urgency and granted it, then waited for a response, but there was no roger from Dean. The controller continued to try and make contact, then Dean finally responded. This is what he said, and I’ll read it to you, exactly as it’s written: ‘Flight Seven Five Eight at six thousand feet. I’m inside a strange cloud. I don’t know how to describe it. It rose up from the ocean. Very fast. I couldn’t climb fast enough to avoid it, but everything is clear where I am now. It’s like a tunnel. I can see for miles ahead of me, due north. Clear skies ahead. Maintaining speed of one hundred ninety miles per hour.’”
Richard paused and turned a page. “There was some more interference, and Dean was cutting in and out. Then he said: ‘Compass is spinning. The cloud is swirling around me counterclockwise. I’m increasing speed to two hundred twenty miles per hour to make it out. Clear skies ahead . . . about a mile out.’ Then the controller asked: ‘Are you experiencing any turbulence?’ Dean replied: ‘No turbulence. No wind.’ Then there was more static while the controller attempted to regain radio contact. Dean said: ‘The tunnel is shrinking around me, but I can still see a door out of it. Maintaining current speed.’”
Richard paused again. “That was his last radio contact. After that, the controller continued to track him on radar for about a mile. The last sweep of the scope showed him heading northwest at one twenty-eight a.m. On the next sweep, the scope was blank.”
My heart throbbed with grief and disbelief as I stood at the window, looking out at the vast ocean. There was a container ship in the distance, heading out to sea, and a number of small sailboats. I tried to take slow, deep, calming breaths as I considered what I’d just heard.
“Did he sound flustered to the controller?” I asked. “Did he act like he was in trouble or losing control of the aircraft?”
“No. The controller described him as calm and collected, totally at ease, which was why he was so surprised when the plane vanished.”
My mother called out to me from the couch. “Olivia! There’s something else on the news.”
“Hang on a second,” I said to Richard as I moved closer to the TV and increased the volume. “Richard, turn on Good Morning America, then call me right back.”
I hung up and stood on the area rug, staring with wide eyes at the images displayed on the screen. There were photographs of the type of plane Dean had been flying, followed by a view of the luxurious interior with white leather seats and an attractive flight attendant in uniform. She held a tray of drinks. Then they switched to another photo of Mike Mitchell. The anchorwoman said she had him on the phone.
“How are you doing?” she asked. “We’re all glad you’re safe.”
“Yes,” Mitchell replied. “I feel very fortunate this morning.”
“I’m sure you do. Can you describe to us what the flight was like on the way to Saint Thomas?”
“Yeah. The weather was perfect. Clear skies the whole way. Very smooth flight with no issues. And I’ve flown with that pilot many times. He’s a real pro, so you can’t help but wonder if something else was going on.”
“What do you mean by ‘something else’?” the anchorwoman pressed.
“Well, it’s the Bermuda Triangle,” Mitchell replied. “This certainly isn’t the first plane to go missing, and it makes you wonder what’s really going on out there. People have been reporting seeing strange lights in the skies, time warps, and all sorts of things. You should look into Flight Nineteen in 1945. Five US Navy planes went missing during a routine training exercise, and no trace was ever found. A lot of really weird stuff happened during the search too. I’m telling you, there’s something going on out there, and no one seems able to explain it.”