It was
Christmas Eve. Fog Stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh Field. All was calm, except
for a single marshaller, awaiting a plane to direct. He sat and waited
impatiently, the cool night air blowing against his face. He pulled out his
phone to check the time, 12:45am. As he slipped his phone back into his pocket,
he saw a huge flash followed by an alarmingly loud noise.
“Did y’all
hear that?” he nervously murmured into his walkie-talkie. A minute passed, with
no response, so he thought he’d go back to the tower to check out what was
going on. He climbed into his truck and began to drive toward the tower. He stopped
his truck about 100 yards away from the building, and reached for the door
handle.
BAM! As
he came back to his senses, the man realized what had just happened. An
aircraft tail stuck from the rubble of the tower, sticking out like a flaming
flag pole, contrasting against the night sky. It was then he noticed it.
He
scrambled through his pockets, frantically trying to find his cell phone to
disprove the idea he had in his head. In a panic he reads the last message out
loud, “Flying into Lindbergh at 1am, I’m on flight 187. Love you, see you there…”
As he finishes the last words, he slowly picks his head up, looking towards the
conflagration. As the last bits of the airplane burned up, he could distinguish
only one marking on the plane, the big black numbers across the tail, the
numbers “187’.
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