by Les Abend
“It does not matter to us as long as our mission is accomplished.”
“And what exactly is your mission?”
“It is not your concern.”
Hart frowned and said, “Good talking with you, dude. I’ve got an investigation to help organize. Thanks for the warning. I’ll make sure to let the appropriate authorities know your concerns. Have a great day.”
Hart pressed the End button. He shook his head. Should he or shouldn’t he call the cops? Other than a frustrating act of vandalism, nothing had really happened. But he was threatened…again. Were the rest of his investigative team members at risk? He couldn’t take the chance. He picked up his phone and began to press the buttons for 911.
The end of this day would require a very cool beer in a very tall glass.
13:15 EDT
As the Tiara motored up the Intracoastal Waterway, Kim and Ashley peered out the porthole windows. Arms folded across their chests, they were seated opposite each other on the salon couches down below. The door that separated the cockpit from the cabin had been locked from the outside. The girls were trapped--prisoners in a luxury yacht.
“I bet they have Cokes or something,” Kim said, gesturing at the three-quarter-size refrigerator.
“I’m not thirsty,” Ashley replied. She glanced out a porthole. “Where do you think we are?”
“I’m pretty sure that we turned south. Thought I saw us go under the Commercial Street Bridge.”
Ashley’s lower lip protruded. She looked at the refrigerator. “All right…I’ll have something. Doesn’t matter what it is.”
Kim nodded, slid off the couch, and opened the refrigerator door. She surveyed the shelves. Every rack was jammed with either a food item or a beverage. Sliced sandwich meats. Cold chicken. Pasta salads. Coke. Sprite. Beer. Wine.
Kim reached in and grabbed two Cokes. She shook her head and looked at Ashley. “They packed all sorts of crap in here.”
“That’s good. We won’t starve.”
“Ash, you don’t get it.” Kim handed a Coke to her sister and pulled back the tab on her can. It popped and hissed.
“Wha’ d’ya mean?”
“Think about it, sis.” Kim pointed at the open refrigerator. “When does Dad ever load up with food on the boat unless we’re headed out somewhere for more than a day or two?”
Ashley stared at her sister for a moment, lowered her head, and said, “Oh…”
“Yeah…exactly.” Kim took a sip from her Coke and swallowed with a gurgle. “They plan on keeping us for a while.
“How long?”
“I’m not a mind reader, sis.” Kim gestured out past the tinted cockpit door. “I’m sure that Thelma and Louise out there have never sold Girl Scout cookies. I don’t think they give a rat’s ass. We’re being ransomed for something. And I think it has to do with Dad.”
“Ransomed? Why? Mom’s always complaining that we don’t have enough money.”
Kim said, “Well, maybe Dad isn’t telling us everything.”
Ashley rested her elbows on her thighs and cupped her chin. She shook her head. “Make me a sandwich. I’m too hungry to think.”
Kim sighed. “Why not? Nothing else to do.” She reached into the refrigerator and began to pull out the wrapped plastic bags of sliced meats marked with the Publix grocery store logo. She flung the bags on the salon counter.
Ashley swiveled on the couch and peered out a starboard side porthole. The bow of a sleek center console boat slid into view. The boat was gliding its way past them. Ashley’s eyes widened. She recognized the distinctive green lettering on the side of the boat. It read: “SHERIFF.”
“Kim!” Ashley shouted in a high-pitched whisper.
“What, Ash?”
The younger sister pointed at the Marine Patrol boat.
“Shit!” Kim said spitting out the word. “Well…don’t just point. Yell.”
Tentative at first, the girls began to shriek. “Hey! Help us! Help!”
Kim began to slap her hands on the inside of the hull. The decorative padding of the sidewalls muffled her efforts. Ashley soon followed with her own random slapping.
The sisters stared out the porthole windows as they continued their unorganized symphony of noise. They waited for the uniformed officers to draw their weapons and order their crazy female captors to shut down the yacht. The guns, however, remained at the officers’ sides. The cops smiled and waved.
What the hell? Kim stopped slapping. She raised an index finger at Ashley, signaling her sister to stop also. A deep throaty noise was reverberating through the upper deck and down to the salon. It took only a moment to realize the source. Very expensive Sony speakers were emitting a high fidelity bass tone in synchronization to a deafening Pearl Jam song. Their cries for help had been drowned out by the on-deck entertainment system.
Kim scampered up the three steps that led to the cockpit and peered through the tinted glass door. Crap! Of course! The bitch that called herself Amber had shed herself of every piece of clothing except for a red, string bikini that didn’t even have enough material to be used as a dish towel. At the aft end of the cockpit deck, Amber was artfully swaying to the music. The only object missing from her impromptu dancing act was a chrome pole.
“We got screwed by fake tits and fucking Pearl Jam, Ash,” Kim said shaking her head. “Pearl Jam! That crap is so old even Grandpa knows the words!” Kim turned away from the cockpit door and sat down on the upper step. “Remind me not to smile at the Marine Patrol anymore. They’re not as cute as I thought,” she grumbled.
Ashley glanced out a porthole and said, “I can’t see the Marine Patrol anymore.”
The rumbling bass sound above their heads stopped, replaced by the soft thudding of footsteps. Behind Kim’s back, a metallic clack signaled that the latch was being slid open. Kim jumped off the steps and back into the main area of the cabin.
Amber ducked her head as she walked down the steps into the salon. Her feet were bare, her toenails glossed with jet black polish. Her bikini-clad body was now covered by a man’s long cotton dress shirt. Amber’s right hand clenched a semiautomatic handgun. She directed the open barrel at Kim.
“You think you’re smart don’t you, you little shit?” Amber said, sneering at Kim.
Kim slithered next to Ashley, now sitting cross-legged on the couch. Kim kept silent, drawing her lips tight.
Amber shifted the aim of the gun at Ashley. She looked at Kim and said, “Okay, big sister, you want to live with the fact that you were responsible for the bullet in your little sister’s head?” Amber stared at Kim, waiting for a response. Kim stared back but her lips remained closed. “I know what you’re thinking, smart-ass. You’re thinking that you guys are too valuable.” Amber glared. “Well, you’re only half right. I just need one of you.”
Kim brought her arms across her chest.
“I suggest that you reconsider that fact before you attempt another little escape,” Amber said, emphasizing every word. She scanned the salon and gestured at the unopened sandwich meat bags on the counter. “Good, I see that you little princesses were being resourceful. Make yourselves something to eat. Don’t expect me and my blond-haired girlfriend to be your bitches.”
Kim glared.
Amber smirked and said, “Remember, Big Brother is always watching…and listening.” She shrugged her shoulders and twirled on her toes. Amber climbed up the steps and out the cabin door. The door snapped closed and the latch thwacked into place.
The girls remained silent for one long minute. With glistening eyes, Kim slid off the couch and walked over to the counter. She began to unwrap a plastic sandwich bag. She drew in a long breath. Being brave was getting harder.
Kim cleared her throat and said, “They’ve thought of everything. Somewhere hidden in the salon they rigged a video camera and microphone.”
“We’re going to be okay, Kim. I just know it. Mom and Dad won’t let anything happen to us,” Ashley said from across the salon with the
same glistening eyes.
Kim nodded and said, “You’d better be right, Ash.”
13:45 EDT
TSA at the employee checkpoint was especially annoying. Of all days, he had been randomly selected for the standard security screening rather than being allowed to use the authorized flight crew member access point. Hart expressed his appreciation for having to remove his shoes and his belt with an unabashed rolling of the eyes. When he questioned the agent that motioned him forward through the magnetometer arch, the cryptic answer was simply that he was not in uniform. The fact that the terrorism risk increased when he was not wearing pilot garb despite his ID credentials, made no rational sense. Knowing that pressing the issue for a logical explanation was futile, Hart simply shook his head and collected his belongings at the end of the X-ray belt. TSA was just doing their job.
Hart walked into the concourse and scanned the departure video screen. His gate was miles away. He glanced at the array of people standing on the escalator that led upstairs to the terminal’s air train. Forget it. He wasn’t in the mood to merge with crowds on a jammed train. He had time to walk. He could use the exercise.
Unfortunately, the brief relaxation that he achieved during his fast-paced stride dissipated as he approached the boarding area. He stiffened.
Standing among the scattered crowd of passengers and lounge chairs, the recognizable barrel-chested profile of Rod Moretti was unmistakable. Rod’s salt-and-pepper hair contrasted with his pale blue shirt and striped tie. Why the hell was he here now? The chief pilot turned toward Hart, nodding with a perfunctory smile.
Rod reached out a hand and said, “Captain Lindy, how are you?”
Hart grasped Rod’s hand and replied, “Not bad, Captain Moretti. What brings you out of the Batcave today? Surely you’re not here to give me a goodbye kiss.”
“Hadn’t thought of that. But then people will talk.” Both men grinned awkwardly. Rod took a deep breath and shifted his stance to the other leg. “Listen…got a call from Sammy. He told me that you were the guy for this investigation. I saw that you had listed for this Bermuda departure.” Rod gestured his head at the gate podium. “Anyhow, we have a crisis brewing with the first officer. I wanted you to be aware of it.”
“You mean Mike Townsend?”
Rod nodded and said, “It may interfere with your investigation.”
Hart crossed his arms in front of his chest and asked, “Okay…what’s up?”
As Rod explained the circumstances behind the abduction of the first officer’s daughters, Hart remained motionless.
When the chief pilot finished, Hart looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. “The poor guy must be freaking out. Have you given him the news?” Hart asked.
“Not yet. I was just about to when I noticed that you were taking this flight. A few extra minutes won’t change things. I wanted you to be aware of the situation first.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I’ll figure something out regarding his testimony with the NTSB,” Hart said. “I may have to run interference with the IIC, but I’ll deal with that later. The important thing is that we get him home ASAP…hopefully, the first flight in the morning.”
“I agree,” Rod said.
A brief moment of static crackled over the PA speakers. With a Latin accent, the agent at the gate announced a short list of stand-by passengers. Hart heard his name. He looked at Rod and motioned toward the gate.
“Let me get my boarding pass, and I’ll be right back,” Hart said.
As Hart walked down an aisle of chairs toward the gate agent, a thin man with curly, jet black hair and a day’s growth of dark beard stubble rose from his seat. He stared at Hart as he walked past. With a wary eye, Hart stared back. A prickly uncomfortable feeling entered his gut. He continued his walk to the gate agent.
With his boarding pass in hand, Hart strode back toward Rod. His eyes swept the crowd. The thin guy had disappeared. Had he boarded the flight or just walked away? Paranoia. Great. Just what Hart needed.
“You didn’t happen to see a creepy looking thin guy pass your way, did you?” Hart asked.
“It’s Miami. When don’t you see a creepy thin guy?” Rod remarked.
“You’re right.” Hart sighed. “But let’s just say I woke up in a parallel universe this morning.”
“Bad beer from last night?”
“Technically, no beer is a bad beer.”
“Got me on that one.” Rod raised his eyebrows. “What then?”
Hart explained the threatening phone calls and the paintball assault while driving on I-95.
Rod said, “You must have really pissed somebody off.”
Hart smirked for an instant and then his expression became serious. “Somebody wants this investigation to go away. Whoever it is has inside information. And they have help from some unfriendly people.”
“I can make some calls,” Rod said.
“I’ve already started that ball rolling.” Hart cleared his throat. “Are you still friends with that cop in Lauderdale?”
“Yeah, we play golf and have a beer every once in a while. His youngest son keeps saying that when he grows up, he wants to be an airline pilot. Of course, I tell him that he can’t do both.”
Hart and Rod chuckled for a moment.
“How can my cop buddy help?” Rod asked.
“With Cathy,” Hart said.
An uncomfortable silence passed.
Hart said, “The guy at the other end of the threatening phone call seemed to have knowledge of our relationship. Can you have your cop buddy find a way to keep an eye on her while I’m gone? But I don’t want her to know. She already suspects that something isn’t quite normal with this event in Bermuda.”
Rod’s eyes softened. His mind flashed to a sailing trip in the British Virgin Islands. He thought of Hart trying to keep his balance on the pitching trampoline deck of the catamaran they had leased for the week. Hart was attempting to deliver a tray of cocktail glasses overflowing with a frozen liquid concoction. Cathy and his ex-wife beamed with glee.
“Of course,” Rod said.
“Thanks.”
Rod nodded and said, “I’d appreciate any information regarding the investigation that you feel comfortable passing my way without risking PAPA’s third-party status with the NTSB.”
“Will do. We’ve got the organizational meeting tomorrow morning and if all goes well, the field investigation will begin later. I’ll see where we stand after a day or two and I’ll let you know.”
“That would be great. E-mail or call.”
“I am sure you are aware that the company has its own investigation team,” Hart stated. “They have the same third-party status. Aren’t you supposed to be wearing their hat now that you’re on the dark side?”
“In the end we wear the same hat.” Rod grinned. “But let’s just say that the dark side isn’t always prompt with their information. Besides, my primary concern is our pilots.”
Hart said, “Got it.” He held out his hand.
The two men shook and then walked away in opposite directions.
“Well…that didn’t go too bad,” Hart muttered to himself. He joined the line of passengers flowing into the barrier strap corridor that led to the jet bridge. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. On to the next crisis…
Chapter Eight
Friday
13:55 EDT
The clattering of dishware and glasses blended into the sound of steel drum music being pumped through speakers deftly camouflaged by the local foliage. The occasional deep-throated laugh or high-pitched giggle contrasted with the murmur of normal conversation. Wicker-bladed ceiling fans rotated in slow rhythmic circles above white linen cloth tables. The corners of the tablecloths flapped gently with the breeze from outside.
A haphazard line of T-shirt clad tourists grazed at the buffet island in the hotel restaurant. The tourists grinned and shoveled mounds of food onto white china plates. If i
t weren’t for the circumstances, the lunchtime scene would have been the routine of a typical sixteen-hour Bermuda layover. But not today.
Mike and Jim had found a table in the corner of the dining room nearest the open partition that led to the hotel gardens. They shuffled bits of food around on their almost empty plates. They sipped iced tea from tall, thin glasses. Periodically, one of them would look up from his plate and focus on some small aspect of the surroundings.
Jim reached for the napkin on his lap. He wiped the corners of his mouth. In a soft tone he said, “Still can’t understand why the damn thing threw itself into pieces.”
Mike reached for a lone black olive and popped it in his mouth. He chewed for a moment. He looked toward the garden and said, “It’s an old airplane. It’s an old engine. Sometimes shit just comes apart for no reason.”
“I suppose. But there was no warning. No high temps. No vibration.”
“This fucking airline is always trying to cut corners. Who knows what corner was cut where? Maybe stuff is getting pencil-whipped. Or maybe we’re buying cheap parts from the Chinese. Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Hope you’re not right, Mike.”
“Sorry. I know. I’m singing an old song. I gave up a captain’s bid and 25 percent of my paycheck to keep us away from the bankruptcy precipice. Now we’re hearing rumors about it again. And I’ve been wearing three stripes for almost twenty years.”
Jim nodded. He took a gulp from his glass of iced tea. “Hope that the NTSB interview isn’t painful. I’d like to get out of this paradise by tomorrow.”
Mike snorted and said, “I’m with you on that idea. Paradise or not, this place isn’t exactly cheap. I’m not holding my breath for the company to pick up the cocktail tab.”
“Gotta say, though, this island has class. The prices seem to keep the body-piercing, tattoo crowd away.”
