Flight 702 Has Been Circling Since Before Our Airport Existed

That set had been disconnected since the renovation. Its frequency card still read 118.1, used by the temporary tower that operated when the airport opened in 1958.

A man spoke through the static.

“Bellwether Tower, Aster seven-zero-two, holding at marker Lazarus, request landing Runway Three.”

We had no Runway Three. Our only pavement was 18/36. There was no marker named Lazarus. Aster Airlines had ceased operating before I was born.

I assumed a pilot was joking on the old frequency.

“Aster seven-zero-two, say position and altitude.”

The reply arrived before I released the transmit switch.

“Position unchanged. Altitude unavailable. We have been instructed not to descend until the field exists.”

My radar showed nothing.

Then a pale return appeared inside the terminal building.

It moved in a slow oval through the walls, crossed the runway, and returned to Gate 4 every ninety seconds. The system labeled it AST702. Its altitude read minus twelve feet.

I called my supervisor, Lena Orr, from the break room. She watched one circuit and told me to record everything without responding.

The old radio crackled.

“Bellwether, confirm Miss Orr is present.”

Lena stopped beside my chair.

Neither of us had said her name on frequency.

The pilot continued. “Passenger Orr requests connection.”

An arrival appeared on the terminal board below us.

ASTER 702 — DELAYED

Under PASSENGERS, a single name scrolled past.

LENA ORR

She was standing beside me.

We locked the frequency and contacted airport security. While we waited, I searched the aviation archive. Aster Flight 702 had existed briefly in 1957, one year before Bellwether Regional opened. It was a mail-and-passenger route between two cities west of us.

On November 3, it vanished with twenty-one people aboard. No wreckage was found. The last transmission said the crew could see runway lights in dense cloud and was descending toward an airport not marked on their charts.

The recording ended with the controller giving landing clearance.

The controller's voice was mine.

Not similar. Mine. I heard my clipped breathing and the faint click my jaw makes when I speak under stress.

The timestamp was 1957.

At 2:14, the flight called again.

“Tower, our passengers are becoming impatient. Gate assignments requested.”

Lena reached for the microphone, but the speaker played her answer before she touched it.

“Aster seven-zero-two, remain outside the field.”

Her future voice was followed by a burst of screaming.

Then Lena said the words herself. She tried not to. Her mouth tightened. Her hand covered her lips. The sentence forced its way through her fingers in perfect rhythm with the recording.

The terminal board added another passenger.

MARC DALL — SECURITY

Our security officer entered the tower elevator at that exact moment. The camera showed him alone, staring at his phone. When the doors opened, the car was empty. His badge and radio lay on the floor.

The passenger count changed from 21 to 22.

Lena no longer remembered calling him.

I wrote his name on my arm.

The radar return widened. Each circuit through the terminal took less time. Ninety seconds. Sixty. Thirty. The target was not moving faster; the building was becoming smaller around its path. Camera feeds showed corridors shortening between gates. Gate 6 appeared beside Gate 2. Baggage belts emerged from walls where restrooms had been.

The airport was rearranging itself to fit the flight's holding pattern.

Below us, a cleaning crew noticed runway lights glowing across the grass east of the terminal. They formed two parallel rows aimed directly at the lobby doors.

Runway Three.

It existed only when viewed through glass. On the security monitors, the field was dark. Through the tower windows, blue edge lights stretched into the fog farther than the airport boundary.

Something enormous circled beyond them.

We never saw the aircraft directly. We saw its absence: a plane-shaped region where fog stopped moving and stars vanished. Each pass shook the tower without making a sound. The radio produced the echo of engines several seconds before the shape arrived.

“Aster seven-zero-two,” the pilot said. “We have twenty-three aboard. Confirm one seat remaining.”

The board displayed my name.

Lena tore the radio from its mount. No wires connected it. The speaker continued talking in my voice.

“Runway Three cleared to land.”

I had not said it yet.

The words waited in my throat.

I bit my tongue. Lena pressed both hands over my mouth. The old radio repeated the clearance, louder. Every working radio in the tower joined it. Then the phones, the fire alarms, the elevator speaker. My own voice filled the airport.

Runway Three cleared to land.

Runway Three cleared to land.

Below us, everyone in the terminal stopped moving. Travelers rose from seats. Gate agents left their counters. Cleaners abandoned their carts. They formed a line facing Gate 4.

The passenger count began climbing.

Twenty-four. Thirty. Fifty-two.

Each name that appeared on the board vanished from the security cameras. Luggage remained. Coffee cups fell. A stroller rolled empty across the floor.

The invisible aircraft turned onto final approach.

I could see it reflected in the tower glass behind us: a narrow silver plane with four propellers, windows glowing yellow. Faces filled every window, stacked two and three deep. Marc Dall pressed his palms to the last pane.

Lena was beside him.

I turned around.

She was gone.

Her handwriting remained on my arm where she had added her own name beneath Marc's.

The flight crossed the airport fence without touching it. The runway lights bent upward to meet the wheels. Gate 4 expanded across the terminal facade like an opening mouth.

The pilot asked for clearance one final time.

I refused.

My recorded voice answered yes.

The aircraft landed.

There was no impact. It passed through the terminal in absolute silence. For three seconds, every window showed passengers sitting in rows inside rooms they had occupied moments earlier. Then the plane continued through the west wall and vanished into fog.

The airport was empty.

The board read:

ASTER 702 — HOLDING

PASSENGERS: 186

SEATS AVAILABLE: 1

Officially, Bellwether Regional closed for an electrical failure. Records say no passengers or employees were present overnight. Security footage shows me alone in the tower speaking to a dead radio.

But Flight 702 still calls every ninety seconds.

The pilot says they cannot reach the gate because one passenger has not boarded. He addresses me by name. Sometimes Lena speaks behind him. Sometimes Marc. They say the cabin lights are failing and the passengers have begun opening the windows.

I left the airport before sunrise. The radio came with me. I hear it in car speakers, phones, ventilation fans. Any machine that can move air repeats the same request.

Tonight, an arrival board appeared on my apartment television.

ASTER 702 — FINAL BOARDING

My name is still the last one listed.

Beneath it is a new line:

GATE LOCATION: NEAREST OPEN DOOR

There are runway lights outside my building now, visible only in the windows.

If you hear a pilot request Runway Three, do not answer. Do not repeat the flight number. Most importantly, do not tell them where you are.

They have been circling since before our airport existed.

They can wait until your door becomes the gate.