There’s Fear in the Air

The voice blared over the intercom about three hours into the flight.

“Folks, this is your captain.”

I sat up in my seat, and my heart began to pound. So far the United flight from Newark to Los Angeles on Monday night had been smooth. Too smooth. The calm was unnerving.

There was a report almost every day of a plane making an emergency landing because of a threatening passenger. The FBI just warned about an imminent terrorist attack. Throw that all in with the anthrax cases popping up around the country, and I knew this couldn’t be good. Was a deranged passenger going to force us to land somewhere in Indiana? Did LAX get bombed? Was there someone in the cockpit pressing a gun to the captain’s head?

I looked around, trying to catch the eye of another passenger, but the plane was nearly empty, and I was alone in Row 10. I gripped the armrests and braced myself.

The voice crackled on again. “I know some of you are interested in the baseball games going on,” the captain continued mildly. “I just thought I’d let you know that Seattle is ahead of Cleveland, 3-1, and at the bottom of the second, between Oakland and New York, Oakland is up, 2-1. We’ll try to keep you informed.”

Several passengers around me began chatting, digesting the news. I sat back in my seat, my breath slowly returning.

I thought I could travel to New York for the weekend without being jumpy. But the once-ordinary has been infused with the ominous. The mundane seems threatening. Everywhere I went, I felt surrounded by signs of our fragility and fear.

It began at Parking Lot B at LAX, where I waited to board a shuttle to the airport Friday night. Harsh spotlights glared down on people huddled together waiting for friends and relatives, giving the asphalt lot the look of a displaced-persons camp. Families scanned the incoming buses for familiar faces. Flimsy, white folding chairs were scattered behind a row of barricades, looking forlorn and abandoned.

On the overcrowded shuttle on the way to the airport, passengers jostled one another as they strained to keep their balance. Couples argued in urgent whispers. A woman in front of me wearily wiped the sweat off her brow.

“This is exactly what Bin Laden wants,” said a man next to me bitterly. “To make us all miserable.”

Turbulence plagued the flight to New York. The plane rattled and shook as we plunged through the dark sky. I turned up the music loudly on my headphones, willing away the tension that hung over the plane.

Every few minutes, the man sitting in front of me turned around, urgently scanning the cabin. What was he looking for? Was he waiting for a terrorist to jump up? I forced myself to keep my eyes shut, unable to bear his anxious face. Later, when we landed at JFK, I saw him make his way several rows back and help an elderly woman down the aisle.

On Monday, in a taxi on the way to the airport, the radio blared. “Once again, anthrax has been detected in mail sent to Senate Majority Leader Tom Daschle. Daschle said Monday he contacted other congressional leaders ... “

At Newark Airport, a long line snaked through the lobby as people slowly made their way through the security gate. I noticed two men leaning against a podium at the front of the line, waving at an elderly man as he shuffled toward the X-ray machine.

A police officer came up behind the two men. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” he asked harshly, his New Jersey accent thick. The men gestured to the line, answering him in defensive tones. “OK, how ‘bout when you’re done watching him, you get outta here?” the officer retorted. A soldier in camouflage holding an M-16 stepped toward them. The men mumbled and shook their heads.

I settled on the near-empty plane, determined to relax. The captain’s voice came over the intercom. “Well, folks, you may have noticed that our departure time has come and gone. The delay is due to the fact that we are taking off several bags belonging to passengers who didn’t show up. We’ll take care of that, and be on our way.”

A murmur rushed through the cabin. I peered out the window and saw a black duffle bag rolling down a conveyor belt out of the plane. “That’s not their M.O.,” said a man behind me, trying to sound confident. “If they wanted to do it, they’d be in the plane.”

As we rolled down the runway, a pink glow spread over the horizon, darkening buildings into silhouettes. I watched a plane climb above. It looked intent and fragile at the same time, as if attached to an invisible line that could yank it back to Earth at any second. It curved away as it gained height, its taillights beacons of optimism in the purpling sky.

Up in the air, everything felt unpredictable. I longed for the boredom that used to set in during cross-country hauls. Instead, I found myself nervously clocking each hour that went by without a disturbance.

At about 8:20 p.m., the captain’s voice blared once again.

“We’re about 200 miles from L.A., and closing in fast, so please buckle your seat belts and prepare for landing,” he said calmly.

“As for the ballgame,” he added, “New York is currently 5, Oakland 3, and that’s bottom of the ninth.”

Behind me, a woman let out a hoot of delight. Others groaned.

I smiled, and looked at the window, searching for the spread of lights that would signal our arrival. The dark land rushed underneath us, unseen, unknowable.