We interrupt this broadcast to bring you the following news bulletin. Flight 903 has disappeared in route from New York to Paris. All 53 passengers and crew are feared lost.
Lighting danced erratically from cloud top to cloud top. It had been an unusually brutal winter and the spring storms had continued to pummel the land well into June. Another flash flickered toward the Delta, illuminating the airport’s runway. A storm was coming. And it would be bad.
Mike Branch looked at his watch — 9:55 p.m. It was about time for him to shut down for the night. The small field didn’t have a tower per se, but did have Mike manning the radio and the beacon. It was easy work for him– not many planes came in this time of night. The old airport had been an Army Air Corps training base during the great war. Now it was home to a few Cessnas, a corporate jet and a crop-duster.
Another bolt of lightning. This one was closer. Too close if you asked Mike.
The metal trailer shook with the rumble of thunder. There were at least a hundred other places Mike would rather be than in a trailer during a thunderstorm. At the airport, there were a couple of trailers and three metal hangers left over from the war. The Army had left in 1946. The crop-dusters moved in right after the last T-6 Texan left. Rumble. The gods were obviously angry. Mike nervously looked at his watch. He hoped he could beat the storm.
The NOAA weather radio squawked. Mike looked at the screen — It was a severe thunderstorm warning for Warren and Madison Counties in Mississippi. The lightning had taken on a strobe-like quality. The blackness of the night turned into day. This was an electrical storm.
“Ground control, this is Flight 903 declaring an emergency. Number four engine is on fire and we need to land immediately.”
Mike blinked and looked at the radio.
“I repeat. This is Flight 903. We have an inflight emergency and need to land immediately.”
Mike picked up the microphone and said, “Roger Flight 903. This is KMBO. We are a small field — but have a 5,000 ft. runway. A fire station is next door. I can have them on standby. Will that do?”
The voice on the other end sounded rattled. “Roger KMBO. Fire is now extinguished. Have had a bumpy flight. Encountered severe turbulence. Was stuck by lightning.”
Mike couldn’t remember a pilot being so chatty.
“KMBO, coming out of storm now. Light up your field.”
Mike flipped back on the runway lights. Lightning illuminated a plane on approach.
But something seemed weird.
First, it was a large plane. Mike had thought it was a regional jet.
Second, it was a prop plane. A prop plane with four engines. A prop plane with four engines and a tri-tail.
Mike had seen one of these before. His father-in-law had flown one in Vietnam.
It was a Lockheed L-1409G Super Constellation — and airliner that had last carried passengers years ago.
“Flight 903, could you identify yourself again.”
The pilot said, “This is TWA Flight 903. We are flying from New York to Paris and got into a freak electrical storm. All my instruments were fried and we are off course.”
TWA? TWA — Trans World Airways had gone out of business in 2001 when it merged with American Airlines.
“Come again, Flight 903. Did you say TWA?”
“Roger.”
Mike thought for a second and then keyed the mic. “This is an official channel. I really don’t have time for games.”
“And I don’t have much more time in the air. I need to land and I need to land now. I have injured passengers and need assistance on the ground.”
Mike pulled out his iPhone and Googled TWA 903. What he read made his jaw drop.
Flight 903 had disappeared over the Atlantic in 1955. No trace of the airliner was ever found. Mike knew he was being screwed with.
“Um, I don’t know who you are, but the FAA will have your license.”
But the roar of three Wright radial engines drowned him out.
A white and red plane roared past the field and turned back into the wind for an approach. It looked like a graceful raptor as it touched down on the runway. The giant plane used every inch of asphalt before taxing to the the hangers.
Mike ran to the hanger and pulled old stairs out. The Army had used them for transport planes that would come into the base 70 years ago.
The engines sputtered to a stop and the door cracked open. Another flicker of lightning was followed by the roar of thunder. A face came out. It was the Captain.
“I am so glad to see you. Didn’t think we were going to make it.” Mike looked at the engine’s burnt cowling.
The Captain then noticed Mike’s Corvette parked next the hanger.
“Um, what kind of car is that?”
“A Chevrolet Corvette.”
“Um, no. I own a Chevrolet Corvette. A brand-new 1955 Chevrolet Corvette. That isn’t a Corvette.”
Mike pulled out his phone to call the police.
“WHAT IS THAT?” The pilot almost screamed.
“A phone.”
The pilot looked around at the planes. He notice a small corporate jet sitting 50 yards from his plane.
“I flew a jet in the military. That looks more like a space plane.”
The co-pilot and flight engineer stepped out on the stairs. Rain began to fall as a gust of wind blew the flight engineer’s hat off his head.
“What day is this?”
“June 5, 2014.”
“Not funny. What day is this?”
“The fifth of June in the year 2014.”
The flight crew grew noticeably pale.
“Ralph. This is Mike. We have a situation here. Either it’s the best hoax ever or I’ve just stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone.” He turned off his phone and looked back at the plane.
He could see the passengers starting to mull around. For nearly 60 years, these men and women had been in some kind of limbo. Now, they would see their children and grandchildren grown old. BOOM! Thunder rattled the earth. The storm started blowing harder as rain pelted the ghost plane and its passengers. Mike climbed up the stairs to meet relics from the past.
Front page of The National World News: Ghost plane lands in Mississippi. All passengers perfectly preserved for over 50 years. Elvis seen in downtown Memphis. Bigfoot found with D.B. Cooper’s parachute.
So you’ve had a professional disappointment. You hit a rock. You were fired, laid off, called on the carpet, cutback, smacked down, humiliated or worse. Your ego still stings as you walk out of the office or hang up the phone. First, there’s the temptation to make it personal. Your lip pokes out and you start to whine. “Nobody likes me. It’s fair! I’m no good!”
