Reaching up, Bill flicked the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign off. The plane had leveled off and now floated eastward, a mass of humanity hanging in limbo.
“Coastal four-one-six, contact LA center one-two-niner-point-five-zero,” the squawk of the air traffic controller rang throughout the cockpit.
“Coastal four-one-six,” Bill identified, “LA on one-two-niner point-five-oh. Good day.”
Ben reached to his left and pushed a knob on the lower console control panel. Turning it counterclockwise, yellow digital numbers descended toward the new frequency. The controller who would answer the other end of the line would guide them through his jurisdiction before handing the plane off to the next sector’s en route controller.
Like that, all the way across the country, the plane’s communication to ground would be passed off like a baton…
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