So, we waited at the gate while circumstances beyond our control caused a minor delay in our plans. On the wall was a tourist poster showing a night view of the illuminated Statue of Liberty. Beneath the photo in about a dozen languages were Emma Lazarus' words, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

I learned that by heart in grade school. It still gave me goose bumps.

I looked at Kate, and we made eye contact. She smiled, and I smiled back. All things considered, this was better than lying in Columbia Presbyterian Hospital on life support systems. One of the docs told me later that if it weren't for a great ambulance driver and a great paramedic, I'd be wearing a toe tag instead of an ID bracelet. It was that close.

It does change your life. Not outwardly, but deep inside. Like friends of mine who saw combat in Vietnam, I sometimes feel like my lease ran out, and I'm on a month-to-month contract with God.

I realized that this was about the time of day I'd taken three bullets on West 102nd Street, and the first-year anniversary was three days ago. The day would have passed unmarked by me, but my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli, insisted on taking me out for drinks. To get into the spirit of the occasion, he'd taken me to a bar on West 102nd Street, a block from the happy incident. There were a dozen of my old buds there, and they had this big pistol range target of an outlined man labeled JOHN COREY, with three bullet holes in it. Cops are weird.

Andy McGill knew that everything he did or failed to do would come under microscopic scrutiny in the weeks and months ahead. He'd probably spend the next month or two testifying in front of a dozen state and Federal agencies, not to mention his own bosses. This disaster would become firehouse legend, and he wanted to be certain that he was the hero of that legend.

His mind went from the unknown future to the problematic present. What next?

He knew that with the engines shut down, they could be started again only by using the onboard auxiliary power unit, which was beyond his training, or by using an external auxiliary power unit that would have to be trucked out to the aircraft. But with no pilots to start the engines and taxi the airliner, what they actually needed was a Trans-Continental tug vehicle to get this aircraft off the runway and into the security area, out of sight of the public and the media. McGill put his radio to his face mask and called Sorentino. "Rescue One, this is Rescue Eight-One."

McGill could barely hear Sorentino's "Roger" through his head gear. McGill said, "Get a company tug here, ASAP. Copy?"

"Copy Trans-Continental tug. What's up?"

"Do it. Out."

McGill exited the cockpit, walked quickly through the dome and down the spiral staircase to the lower deck, then opened the second exit door across the fuselage from the one he'd entered.

He then pulled back the curtain to the Coach section and stared down the long, wide body of the 747. Facing him were hundreds of people, sitting up or reclining, perfectly still, as though it were a photograph. He kept staring, waiting for someone to move or to make a sound. But there was no movement, no response to his presence, no reaction to this alien in a silver space suit and mask.

He turned away, crossed the open area, and tore open the curtain to the First Class compartment and walked quickly through, touching a few faces, even slapping a few people to see if he could get a response. There were absolutely no signs of life among these people, and a totally irrelevant thought popped into his head, which was that First Class round-trip tickets, Paris to New York, cost about ten thousand dollars. What difference did it make? They all breathed the same air, and now they were just as dead as the people in Economy Class.

McGill walked quickly out of the First Class compartment and back into the open space, which held the galley, the spiral staircase, and the two open doors. He went to the starboard side door and pulled his mask and headgear off.

Sorentino was standing on the running board of their RIV, and he called out to McGill, "What's up?"

McGill took a deep breath and called down, "Bad. Real bad."

Sorentino never saw his boss look like that, and he assumed that real bad meant the worst.

McGill said, "Call the Command Center… tell them everyone on board Flight One-Seven-Five is dead. Suspect toxic fumes-"

"Jesus Christ."

"Yeah. Have a Tour Commander respond to your call. Also, get a company rep over to the security area." He added, "In fact, get everyone over to the security area. Customs, Baggage, the whole nine yards."

"Will do." Sorentino disappeared inside the cab of the RIV.

McGill turned toward the Coach section. He was fairly certain he didn't need his Scott pack, but he carried it with him, though he left his crash ax against a bulkhead. He didn't smell anything that seemed caustic or dangerous, but he did smell a faint odor-it smelled familiar, then he placed it-almonds.

He parted the curtain, and trying not to look at the people facing him, he moved down the right aisle and popped open the two exit doors, then crossed the aircraft and opened the two left doors. He could feel a cross-breeze on his sweat-dampened face.

His radio crackled, and he heard a voice say, "Unit One, this is Lieutenant Pierce. Situation report."

McGill unhooked his handheld radio and responded to his Tour Commander, "Unit One. I'm aboard the subject aircraft. All souls aboard are dead."

There was a long silence, then Pierce replied, "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Again, a long silence, then, "Fumes? Smoke? What?"

"Negative smoke. Toxic fumes. I don't know the source. Aircraft is vented, and I'm not using oxygen."

"Roger."

Again, a long silence.

McGill felt queasy, but he thought it was more the result of shock than of any lingering fumes. He had no intention of volunteering anything and he waited. He could picture a bunch of people in the Command Center all speaking at once in hushed tones.

Finally, Lieutenant Pierce came on and said, "Okay… you've called for a company tug."

"Affirmative."

"Do we need… the mobile hospital?"

"Negative. And the mobile morgue won't handle this."

"Roger. Okay… let's move this whole operation to the security area. Let's clear that runway and get that aircraft out of sight."

"Roger. I'm waiting for the tug."

"Yeah… okay… uh… stay on board."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Do you want anyone else on board? Medical?"

McGill let out an exasperated breath. These idiots in the Command Center couldn't seem to comprehend that everyone was dead. McGill said, "Negative."

"Okay… so I… I guess the autopilot landed it."

"I guess. The autopilot or God. It wasn't me, and it wasn't the pilot or the copilot."

"Roger. I guess… I mean, the autopilot was probably programmed-"

"No 'probably' about it, Lieutenant. The pilots are cold."

"Roger… no evidence of fire?"

"Again, negative."

"Decompression?"

"Negative, no oxygen masks hanging. Fumes. Toxic fucking fumes."

"Okay, take it easy."

"Yeah."

"I'll meet you at the security area."

"Roger." McGill put his radio back on his hook.

With nothing left to do, he examined a few of the passengers, and again assured himself that there were no signs of life aboard. "Nightmare."

He felt claustrophobic in the crowded Coach compartment, creepy with all the dead. He realized he'd rather be in the relatively light and open space in the dome where he could better see what was happening around the aircraft.

He made his way out of Coach, up the spiral staircase, and into the dome. Through the port windows he saw a tug vehicle approaching. Through the starboard windows, he saw a line of Emergency Service vehicles heading back to the firehouse, and some heading toward the security area.