by Les Abend
The twenty-something kid with the tattoos obliterating his arms strutted into the free weight room. He grunted his usual unintelligible greeting to Hart. Hart nodded. The brief interruption took Hart away from his thoughts.
It was time to work up a good sweat. He took a couple of steps toward the flat bench, bent down, and then gripped a dumbbell in each hand.
09:30 EDT
Jim sighed and looked at Mike. They had just been towed to a gate stand. The airplane’s nose faced the pastel orange terminal building as though it had been scheduled to arrive like any other Patriot Airlines flight. Despite the circumstances, the two pilots remained professional. They completed the parking checklist as they had done thousands of times before.
“I hope this is really Bermuda, because if it’s not, then we have other problems,” Jim said with a wry smile. “I guess it’s time to face the music.” He rotated the clasp of his seat-belt harness and began to rise. Jim extended a hand toward his copilot. “Thanks for the help. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Nice job, boss.”
“Thanks, Mike. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not have to do this again.”
As Jim slid away from his seat, he glanced out the left side window. Ground personnel were scurrying about the ramp area. One of the fire trucks that had responded on the runway was parked a few yards away. Portable air stairs were being driven to the forward entry door.
“The welcoming committee is about to board. I hope our agents have organized a game plan for the passengers that go beyond ten-dollar meal vouchers,” Jim remarked.
“We’ll see...,” Mike said with a doubtful tone.
Jim opened the cockpit door, stepped down, and walked out to the space between the forward galley and the entry door. He surveyed the cabin. To his surprise, many people were still seated. Expressions varied from wide eyes to weariness. Many just stared.
And then amidst a few long seconds of awkward silence, a handful of passengers began to clap. Initially the sound was random and unorganized. But within a few moments the entire airplane became a symphony of applause.
Jim’s face felt flush. He nodded with a reluctant smile. Jim turned back toward the cockpit and motioned for Mike to step forward. Mike shook his head and remained within the safety of the flight deck, his trim physique framed by the door opening. Jim glanced to the left and locked eyes with Jackie, standing only a foot away. As she attempted to form a smile, water began to fill her eyes. Jim clasped her shoulder.
The awkwardness was soon broken up by a familiar whooshing sound. The forward entry door was being opened by the agents outside. Jim was grateful for the interruption. When the door locked into its upward position, a small crowd of people in various uniforms, suits, and IDs flowed onto the airplane.
A young man in a crisp, tan suit spoke first. “Nice job, Captain. We can only imagine other outcomes.”
“Thanks, but two fatalities are enough.”
“I understand, sir.” The young suit paused for a moment. “In that regard, we will need your passengers to remain seated in order for our medical examiner to make a determination of death. And then we will have to remove the deceased.”
Jim felt a surge of blood and adrenalin flow into his veins. He peered over the head of the young man. He exchanged glances with the two uniformed Patriot Airlines gate agents standing behind the man. He recognized them from some of his flights that they had worked over the years. The agents shrugged their shoulders.
“And who might I have the pleasure of talking with?” Jim asked.
The young man looked down at the blue carpet and then shuffled his feet. He smiled at Jim and said, “Michael Brown, assistant airport authority manager.”
“Mr. Brown...,” Jim clenched his teeth for a moment and tried to grin, “…these passengers have not only been through hell they have lived it. Forcing them to remain on the airplane while your M.E. verifies the carnage seems counterproductive...especially if you want cooperation from these folks.”
“I’m sorry, Captain. But it’s procedure.”
It was the first time that the melodic island accent of Bahamas residents sounded abrasive to Jim.
“I see. Well, I have procedures too.” Jim clasped his hands behind the small of his back and rocked on his heels. “One of my procedures is not to torture passengers unnecessarily. So…your choice is either to allow them to deplane in an orderly fashion to a safe area of your choosing in the terminal, or…they can deplane right now onto the ramp willy-nilly style. I’m certain that neither your boss nor your Customs officials would enjoy the chaos.”
The assistant airport manager opened his mouth to speak, but Jim halted his comments with a raised index finger. One of the gate agents nodded at Jim. On cue, she took a few steps toward the forward bulkhead and unsnapped an intercom handset from its cradle. She pressed the PA button. Her voice amplified itself throughout the cabin. Passengers began to sigh in response to the agent’s deplaning instructions. They gathered their belongings from the overhead bins and from underneath seats. They shuffled into the aisles, anxious to exit the bad B-movie in which they had unwillingly become actors.
The young suit shook his head. He stepped back onto the landing of the portable air stairs to await the parade of passengers. An older man with nappy graying temples and a crisp, open-collar shirt stood beside the assistant airport manager. Jim could only assume that the gentleman was the M.E.
With carry-on bags gripped in their hands or strapped across their shoulders, the passengers began to deplane. Some nodded. Some shook Jim’s hands. Some offered words of thanks. Some wiped tears from their eyes with the back of their hands. Some just inhaled the fresh sea air that flowed into the cabin.
As the last passenger walked out the door, Jim gestured his head toward the young Mr. Brown, inviting him back inside the airplane. The older man with the graying hair accompanied him. The older man nodded at Jim and followed the assistant airport manager down the right side aisle toward Row 19.
Jim felt compelled to assess the damage also. He was the captain after all. And passengers had died on his flight. Jim drew in a deep breath and began to walk down the aisle. The images of Row 19 would haunt him long past his retirement.
09:45 EDT
The whop-whop sound of helicopter blades beating the air overhead was distracting. Mike pressed the End button on his cell phone, terminating the call. Fortunately, the conversation was brief. The noise would have made further reception impossible anyhow.
Mike had taken the opportunity to assess the damage outside the airplane. He peered up from his position on the ramp. A royal blue Jet Ranger hovered less than a hundred feet above the airplane. The insignia of a local TV station was circled on the side. Mike could see the figure of a man seated sideways inside an open door. The man’s legs were slung just over the skids. A video camera was perched on one shoulder.
The thought of displaying a lone middle finger in the direction of the helicopter was a brief consideration. Instead, Mike opted for a quick salute. That would make a nice video clip for the networks. His family would enjoy the vision of him standing by the airplane that he had heroically helped to land. Well…maybe.
Mike had dropped a bombshell the night before he left on the trip. Despite the frustrating hormonal mood swings of his two teenage daughters, they had taken the news better than anticipated. His wife was another story. She had reacted with anger and bitterness. It didn’t matter. Their relationship had been drifting apart for years. Now she knew why. But the why wasn’t what she had expected. Frankly, it wasn’t what Mike would have expected either.
Mike exhaled in a slow and deliberate fashion. He wiped the thoughts from his head. For the moment, he had more immediate concerns. He continued his pace around the front of the nosewheel and over to the right side of the fuselage.
When Mike looked at the right wing, he stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t prepared himself for the scene. He felt his eyes grow wide and his mouth open. Holy shi
t! Except for the basic shape, the big GE engine barely resembled the same power plant that he had seen during his preflight walk-around inspection in Port of Spain.
The inlet was a black hole of soot. It oozed fire retardant spray. The symmetrical mosaic of crafted titanium fan blades was an obliterated mess. The scattered few blades that remained were twisted and contorted. Most of the blades were broken like shards of a sliding glass window. It was as if a rock had been thrown at a smiling row of teeth.
The inboard side of the engine cowl was split and shattered. The composite material was sliced and fractured. Pieces of compressor blades and assorted engine parts must have blasted through and then pierced the fuselage where the passengers were killed.
Mike’s brain was having difficulty absorbing the catastrophic damage. His eyes were downloading visual information faster than the images could be processed. He narrowed his focus and scanned the impact area of the fuselage. The impact area was just forward of the wing root. It was peppered with dents and slices. The aluminum was warped in places, wrinkled in others. It was a miracle that they had been able to maintain pressurization at all.
As Mike continued to stare, he was oblivious to the smattering of airport personnel that were doing the same. Fingers pointed in various directions. Heads shook. Feet shuffled.
“Not much you can say, except, ‘Holy shit!’” a strained voice said over the noise of the APU and the helicopter.
Mike turned to see Jim standing behind him. The captain was peering directly into the inlet of the deformed right engine. Jim’s tie was drawn tight. His white uniform shirt had barely a wrinkle. His hat was perched on his head in perfect alignment.
Jim said, “It could have been worse.” He gestured his head at the damaged area of the fuselage. “Boeing knows how to build an airplane.”
10:00 EDT
The armored car drove through the perimeter gate and toward the Patriot Airlines 767. Although the unexpected stop would add another half-hour to his route, the driver didn’t mind. He loved airplanes. He loved the St. George airport. He would make the pick-up from the cargo hold and take the opportunity to chat with his airline friends. Expecting the usual nods and greetings as he approached the ramp, he soon realized that today would be anything but routine.
Instead of the typical baggage cart vehicles and fuel trucks, the 767 was engulfed by fire trucks, official airport cars, and police units. The sooty, black mess of one engine told most of the story.
Shit! What the hell!? And how was he going to get anywhere near the airplane? He slowed the armored car to a crawl. He recognized the smiling white teeth of Patriot Airline’s crew chief. The crew chief didn’t have much of a smile today. The driver waved at him through the windshield. The crew chief nodded and motioned him forward toward an open cargo compartment.
The driver maneuvered the car in position, backing toward the open cargo door in the fuselage. He parked and stepped out onto the ramp. He exchanged greetings with the crew chief. The driver gestured his head at the deformed engine.
“Engine exploded,” the crew chief yelled above the noise. “Stuff went through the cabin, mon. Two people dead.” The crew chief sighed and shook his head. “Fucking mess, mon.”
With a sympathetic nod, the driver acknowledged the explanation. He surveyed the scene again and then turned his attention toward the cargo compartment. He peered in.
The crew chief pointed at a box wrapped in clear plastic about the size of a small file cabinet and said, “I tink dat’s your pick-up, mon.”
“Tanks,” the driver said as he walked over to the rear of the armored car. He swung open the double doors and then turned toward the cargo compartment of the airplane. He slid the wrapped box across the floor of the compartment and into his arms. He wrestled the box into the back of the armored car and closed the heavy doors with two thwacks.
Somebody always had a reason to move money. A bank. A business. A rich guy. He never really knew the reasons. It was better not to know. At least that’s what his boss always told him. It didn’t matter. He shrugged inwardly and handed a clipboard to the crew chief. The crew chief signed the release form attached to the clipboard and handed it back. The two men shook hands. The driver climbed back into the armored car. He put the car in gear and rolled away from the airplane as slowly as he had arrived.
Chapter Four
Friday
10:15 EDT
Kim opened the glass door of the vice principal’s office. She shifted the straps of her knapsack to the other shoulder and walked with a reluctant gait toward the secretary who sat behind the tall counter. The thirty-something secretary had big hair and big boobs. Mom said that the boobs were probably as fake as the silvery blond hair. It was all the more reason why Kim hated a trip to see the VP.
As Kim approached, the secretary looked up from her computer screen. She smiled, rolled her chair backwards, and rose to her feet. On most occasions, Kim got an eyebrow raise at best. Depending upon the severity of her visit, Kim would get advice on her mascara or maybe her inappropriate attire. And then she would be escorted into the vice principal’s office for a dose of discipline on whatever crime she had committed.
Usually the crime was a knee assault to some boy’s groin. Boys just seemed to like Kim; unfortunately, not the right ones. Rather than offer a coy and giggly “No” to their inappropriate touching like the other girls, Kim just drew her knee back and fired. Problem solved. Unfortunately, the boys fabricated their own stories.
Gutless little wimps! The frequency of these occurrences was such that her credibility was suspect no matter how logical her explanation. It wasn’t her fault that somebody gave her a Victoria’s Secrets figure and then stuffed it inside a seventeen-year-old body.
Despite the trips to the office, Kim had a feeling that the VP found her explanations reasonable and simply wanted an excuse to visit. No discipline of any consequence was ever administered anyhow. Well...maybe a study hall or two. And everybody knew that the VP was a rug-muncher. Why else would she want Kim in the office? Besides, the boys never got a visit to the VP’s office. They always ended up with the principal. And Mr. O’Malley didn’t waste time chatting. He handed out a three-day suspension at the blink of an eye.
The secretary walked around the counter and grasped Kim’s wrist with a gentle touch. Her head was cocked to one side, her smile soft and congenial. Her voice was bordering on a whisper.
“Kim, honey. Ms. Abbott would like to see you. Your sister is already in the office.” With Vanna White-poise, the secretary motioned her up-turned palm toward the half-opened door.
My sister? Shit! This is gonna be cool. My little sister never does anything wrong. “A+ Ashley” in the VP’s office? Hmm…this might be worth the visit.
As Kim swung the door open, Ms. Abbott stood up from behind her desk. The VP was wearing her standard Hillary Clinton pantsuit. If only her hair wasn’t so butch short, she might actually be considered pretty.
Ms. Abbott pointed at the open chair beside Ashley and said, “Kim. Please. Sit down.” Noticing the wary look, the vice principal smiled and added, “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble, Kim.”
This is really weird, Kim thought, glancing at her sister. Ashley was twirling a finger into a lock of her long, brown hair. Her sister tried to smile a greeting, but her lips never quite made it past a mild grimace. Ashley shifted her weight and squirmed to the other side of the seat.
Maybe this was about the news that Dad sprung on us the other night. That was something. Holy crap! Mom freaked out. It wasn’t that much of a surprise to Kim. Hadn’t Mom seen the signs? The weird phone calls? The late nights? Dad not coming home from his trips until the next day…
Please don’t make this a counseling session. My parents haven’t been talking like a married couple for years. I can’t remember the last time they kissed. Hell, they rarely even slept in the same bed. Dad’s announcement was a blessing. I don’t need counseling for this crap. Maybe Mom does…
&nbs
p; “There’s no real easy way to break the news to you two ladies,” Ms. Abbott said, jolting Kim out of her train of thought. “I guess the best way is to tell you the truth.” She paused.
“Oh, shit…here it comes,” Kim muttered under her breath.
Ms. Abbott leaned forward. The springs of her padded office chair squeaked. “Did you say something, young lady?”
“Uh…no, ma’am. Nothing.” Kim lowered her chin and shifted her gaze to the platform Uggs on her feet.
Ms. Abbott glanced at Kim for a brief moment and then cleared her throat. “Anyhow…it seems that your dad was a hero today. He helped to land an airplane that was on fire. The airplane diverted to Bermuda. He is safe and so are the passengers…well, two people were killed. Apparently one of the engines blew up. That’s all the information we have.”
“Cool!” Kim exclaimed. “If Dad’s okay, does this mean we get to visit Bermuda?”
“Are you sure my dad wasn’t hurt?” Ashley asked with wide eyes.
Always the angel! Kim glowered at her sister and rolled her eyes. In response, Ashley stuck out the tip of her tongue.
“I’m positive he wasn’t hurt, hon.” Ms. Abbott said. She peeled a pink message form from the top of a pad and scanned the note. “Your mom called about fifteen minutes ago. Because your dad has made the news, she is concerned that the local TV stations will try and interview you guys. She wants you to stay put for the moment. She is leaving work early. She’ll pick you up here at school. She’ll call when she’s on her way.”
TV cameras? National news? Way cool. Kim had only been on TV once…for like ten seconds. And that was for some stupid girls soccer thing. Now she would have a chance to actually say something. If her mom let her say something…probably not.
