Flight 219: Open Frequency
Flight 219 was hijacked. Not by terrorists. By Bubba, Jethro, and Ricky—armed only with beer cans and poor judgment.
“Tower, uh… we’re flyin’ the plane now.”
That was the first transmission. No demands. No threats. Just a casual announcement, like they’d borrowed a lawnmower.
“This is Tower. Who exactly is flying Flight 219?”
“Bubba’s on the wheel, Jethro’s on the pedals, Ricky’s got a Rand McNally road atlas open to Arkansas.”
“…And the pilots?”
“They’re fine. We tied ’em up in the jumpseat. Ain’t right to work folks this hard.”
Within ten minutes, the plane had veered off its airway. I had five other flights screaming for vectors while the hijackers narrated whatever they saw out the window.
“Tower, is that the Mississippi?”
“No, that’s St. Louis.”
“Roger that, we’re gon’ scrape her belly on that chrome wishbone lookin’ thing.”
Radar lit up like a Christmas tree.
FBI patched in.
“This is Special Agent Morris. Gentlemen, what are your demands?”
“Peanuts. And a flyover at Talladega. Ricky’s mama’s waitin’ with her camera.”
“…We can’t authorize that.”
“Too late, already turnin’.”
The jet swung thirty degrees south. Passenger screaming spiked on the background mic.
“Tower, them levers in the middle here? We usin’ those for Coors storage. Real convenient.”
A pause. The sound of cans cracking.
“Throttle’s a little sticky now, though. Jethro’s cleanin’ it with his shirt.”
The plane dipped 400 feet, and three other flights called me at once.
NORAD reported visual.
“Tower, Eagle Flight on intercept. They are weaving, altitude unstable.”
From the cockpit: “Tower, them jets are tailgatin’ us. Ricky says flash ’em.”
“Do not—”
“We’re flashin’.”
Eagle One: “Tower, be advised, all three hijackers have mooned us. Pants fully down. One is pressing cheeks against the glass.”
Eagle Two: “Request permission to fire.”
Meanwhile, the sheriff at Talladega called in.
“Tower, we’re attemptin’ to clear the infield. Folks ain’t budgin’. They paid fifty bucks to see wrecks and by god they think this counts.”
“This is not an approved runway.”
“Yeah, well, neither was the county fairgrounds. Didn’t stop Earl from landin’ a Piper Cub on the Tilt-a-Whirl in ’89.”
Then the fuel warnings began.
“Tower, what’s that beepy light mean?”
“That’s low fuel. You need to land immediately.”
“We’re good. Bubba says we can glide.”
“You are a 737, you cannot glide.”
“Negative, tower. Ricky once coasted his ATV half a mile in neutral. Same thing.”
Idiot.
Delta 443 called in: “Tower, they just passed us at 500 feet, upside down.”
Eagle One: “Tower, they are attempting to light fireworks out the cockpit window.”
FBI: “Tower, can you confirm reports of a banjo on board?”
Tower: “Affirmative.”
FBI: “Jesus Christ.”
At last the inevitable:
“Tower, we’re outta gas.”
“You must land immediately. Closest airfield is Maxwell Air Force Base.”
“…They sell beer?”
“No.”
“Negative. Divertin’ Talladega.”
Radar pulsed like a heartbeat. The FBI screamed in my headset. The Air Force swore. NASCAR officials cleared pit lane.
The sheriff came back, frantic.
“Tower, they’re lined up on turn three. Crowd’s on their feet, chantin’ ‘LAND THE PLANE.’ This is may be a felony but it's the best finish we ever had.”
Then, silence. The blip vanished. No impact, no debris — just gone.
After a pause, Eagle Two radioed in.
“Tower, uh… they appear to have… landed in the infield. Intact.”
“…Intact?”
“Affirm. Engines dead. Momentum carried them straight into turn three. They are currently waving a rebel flag out the cockpit window.”
The crowd at Talladega erupted. Cheering. Actual cheering.
And so, against physics, federal law, and common sense, the fellas did it.
Flight 219: wheels down, beers up.