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Lazaroff’s voice cracked when he said, “Those are Navy SEALs, my friends. That’s the United States Navy.”
CHAPTER 98
IT WAS EVENING, in the thick of rush hour. Joe and I were in his Mercedes, heading out to San Francisco International Airport, as the sky turned a rich cobalt-blue. Two black SUVs with government plates and flashers bracketed us in front and behind, helping to speed our way.
After a news blackout of two full days, word had exploded over all media channels at once: The surviving passengers of the FinStar were returning home.
Yuki and Brady, along with about a dozen other San Francisco residents who had been aboard, were arriving by Air Canada at a yet to be disclosed time and I definitely wanted to be there when that plane landed.
Naturally, traffic didn’t know or care what I wanted, and I swore at the vehicular knots and snarls, tried to drive from the passenger seat, jammin
g on the imaginary gas pedal whenever Joe had to take his foot off the real one.
I stared ahead at the highway and thought about the last time I saw Yuki, a pale night-blooming flower in her après-wedding dress as Brady twirled his new bride around the dance floor.
Then another memory pushed the party right out. It was the ten seconds of unfocused autumn colors on my iPhone accompanied by Yuki’s frightened whispered voice—“Lindsay. Our ship was attacked”—before her phone was snatched and the lights went out.
The car swerved as we took the exit, and Joe said, “Hon. Lock up your gun.”
I stowed my Glock in the glove box as we turned up the airport access road and swooped to the curb fronting the magnificent winged entrance to the international terminal’s arrival hall.
Homeland Security agents jumped out of their SUVs, opened our doors, and turned us over to a pair of Air Canada’s security officers. We were taken through the wide-open terminal with its soaring ceilings and oversize spaces, past gangs of press seeking a glimpse of FinStar passengers’ loved ones for a fresh clip or maybe a quote.
Our security escort led us through metal doors, down a corridor, and into a small elevator, before we finally disembarked in a private buff-colored lounge. There was food and coffee, cushy upholstered furnishings, and dense carpeting. I knew that this lounge was generally used by the grieving families of passengers involved in airline fatalities.
As we waited, the lounge filled with babies and grannies and moms and pops, all red-eyed from crying, holding on to toys and blankets and handmade signs, and to one another.
The three TVs were turned to CNN.
Wolf Blitzer was telling his viewers that some of the terrorists were in detention and others were at the Alaska State Medical Examiner’s Office in Anchorage.
Next he showed a satellite image of little stars bursting, blooming, and winking out—the big firefight aboard the FinStar. Then Blitzer introduced a live guest, a former admiral who said, “The SEALs couldn’t board until they mapped out where the shooters were. If they’d gone in too soon, there would have been many more casualties. But when the firefight started, they just went in balls to the walls and took the ship back.”
A tight-faced man who had been sitting with his large weeping family got up and switched off the television sets one after the other.
“I can’t take any more,” he said.
No one protested.
I looked around at the friends and families of FinStar survivors and at the pain on their faces.
I know my face was radiating the same kind of pain.
How was Yuki holding up emotionally? Was Brady more badly injured than we knew? Would the two of them want to come home with us? Or would they want to be alone? What did my friends need? What could we do for them?
I couldn’t know a damned thing until I saw them come through the door.
CHAPTER 99
IT FELT LIKE ball bearings were rolling around inside my guts. I couldn’t sit still. I ate food that I didn’t want and paced the floor, texting friends and searching the Web for any tidbits that might be leaking out around the edges of legitimate news.
I was taking a lap around the lounge when I glimpsed the small Air Canada jet with wheels down, rolling toward the gate.
I shouted the completely obvious “They’re here,” then pressed my hands against the windows as the plane was waved in. Joe joined me, and then everyone in the lounge found a few square inches of glass that they could claim as their own.
People bounced on their toes, shouting, and thanked God.
But then nothing happened. Time crawled on its hands and knees one slow second at a time. Cranky babies were shushed. An elderly man in a yellow Windbreaker began repeating, “God damn it. God damn it.”
