But he wasn’t interested in GPS information.
He was thrilled by the browns and grays and greens and white clouds and the endless blue — every shade far richer and bolder than when viewed by landlocked pedestrians below.
From a young age, Garry had known he wanted to build skyscrapers. That’s what he had made with his Legos. That’s what he had begged his parents to take him to visit, even when his mother and father blanched at the idea of standing on observation decks. He only liked the open ones. “You know,” his father had said, “sometimes people go crazy and throw themselves off the edge of high places. The fear takes them.”
Naw, probably not. There was nothing to fear from heights. The higher he got, the calmer he became. Whether it was rock climbing, mountaineering, or building skyscrapers, heights comforted him.
He was, he told Peggy, “in heaven” when he was far, far aboveground.
Back to baby names.
Kierkegaard, Bashilda...
What would they really pick? Neither wanted a Junior. And they didn’t want any names currently in vogue, which you could find easily in the tiny booklets on the Gristedes checkout lane.
He reached for his coffee cup.
No!
The level had changed again. The front jib was dipping once more.
— 4
A moment later, the duo of warning signs burst on again, and the alarm, which had defaulted back on, blared.
The balance indicator jumped to –1.2.
He hit Transmit. “Dan. She’s moving again. Big-time.”
“Shit. What’s going on?”
“Can’t reel the load any farther. I’m dropping it. Clear the zone. Tell me when.”
“Yeah, okay.”
He couldn’t hear the command from here, but he had a view through the Plexiglas straight down between his legs and saw the workers scatter quickly as the ground foreman told them to get out of the way.
Of course, “dropping” the load didn’t mean that literally — yanking the release and letting the seventeen tons of steel free-fall to the ground. He eased the down lever and the bundle dropped fast. He could see, on his indicators and visually through the Plexiglas, exactly where it was on descent. At about thirty feet above the ground, he braked, and the bundle settled onto the concrete. Maybe some damage.
Too bad.
He adjusted the counterweights, hit the hook release and detached the load.
But this had no effect.
The word “impossible” came to his mind yet again.
He cranked the counterweights backward once more.
This had to arrest the forward tilt.
No load and the counterweights were at the far end of the back jib.
And still...
“Dan,” he radioed, “we’re five degrees down, forward jib. Counterweights’re back.”
— 6.1
A crane is not meant to lean more than five degrees. Beyond that, the complicated skeletons of steel tubes and rods and plates begin to buckle and bend. The slewing plate — the huge turntable that swung the jib horizontally — was groaning.
He heard a distant but loud crack. Then another.
— 7
Into the radio: “I’m losing it, Dan. Hit the siren.”
Just moments later came the piercing emergency cry. This was not associated with a crane disaster specifically. It just meant some bad shit was going to happen. Instructions would be coming from the loudspeaker and on the radio.
“Garry, get out. Down the mast.”
“In a minute...”
If Big Blue was going down, he was going to make sure she landed with as few injuries to those on the ground as possible.
He scanned the surroundings. There were buildings almost everywhere.
But fifty feet to the right of the jib was a gap between the office building in front of him and an apartment complex. Through the gap, he could see a street and a park. On this temperate day, there would be people outside, but they had most likely heard the siren and would be looking toward the akilter crane.
Cars and trucks, with windows rolled up?
“I’m aiming away from the buildings. Have somebody clear that park on Eighty-Ninth. And get a flagman into the street, stop traffic.”
“Garry, get outta there while you can!”
“The park! Clear it!”
Creaking, groaning, the wind...
Another explosive snap.
He operated the swivel control and the slewing plate cried from binding against the bearings. The electric motor was laboring. Then, slowly, the jib responded.
“Come on, come on...”
Thirty feet from the gap.
Any minute now. He could feel it. Any minute she was going to drop.
Cars continued to stream past.
His decision was logical, but nonetheless stabbed his heart.
People were about to die because of him. Maybe fewer than if he didn’t move the jib, but still...
The numbers rolled through his frantic mind.
Distance to the gap: twenty feet.
LMI: –8.2
“Come on,” he whispered.
“Garry...”
“Clear the goddamn park! The street!” He tore the headset off as if the distraction of transmissions was gumming the mechanism further.
Twelve feet from the gap, nine degrees down.
The joystick was all the way to the right and the jib should have been swinging madly. But the binding metal of the slewing plate had slowed it to a crawl.
Slowed, but not stopped.
A sudden squeal. Nails on a chalkboard...
He jammed his teeth together at the sound.
Ten feet, ten degrees down.
Eight feet from the gap.
Please... A little farther...
Close. But if Big Blue failed now, the jib would slice through four or five floors of offices, all open design, hundreds of workers at desks and in cubicles, at coffee stations, in conference rooms. He could see them. A few were on their feet, staring at the tilting mast. No one was running. They were taking videos. Jesus...
Seven feet.
The motion stalled momentarily, then resumed, with the squeal and grinding even louder.
He nudged the stick to the left and it responded, swinging back a foot or two, then he shoved it to the right. The plate resumed its rotation in that direction, past the sticking point.
Six feet from the gap, down twelve degrees...
Crack...
The loud sound from behind made him jump.
What was it?
Ah, of course.
The exit door in the floor that led down to the mast, to the ladder, to safety, had buckled. He climbed from his seat briefly and tugged. Useless.
There was only one other exit — above him. But that gave no access to the mast.
Forget it now. Just get another five feet and she’ll be clear.
The jib was still tilting down, but the LMI indicator had stopped at –13. The engineers, of course, had known that there was no point in going farther. A jib would never tilt that far forward.
Six feet away from the lifesaving gap, the mast suddenly pitched forward a few feet. Garry slipped from the seat and fell. He landed face-first on the bulb of the window. From here, he found himself looking straight downward, twenty-two stories, to the jobsite. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, leaving a design of condensation on the glass in front of him. It was, curiously, almost in the shape of a heart.
He thought of his wife.
And of their child, soon to be born.
Kierkegaard or Bashilda...
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